Robert Southey,
POET LAUREATE.
Born August 12, 1774. Died March 21, 1843.
lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from 1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems the best known are “The Cataract of Lodore,” “The Battle of Blenheim,” and “You are Old Father William,” of each of which there are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for instance the opening lines of “Thalaba the Destroyer”:—
“How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths,
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky,
How beautiful is night!”
Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing—
“How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!”
The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very unpoetical topics:—
Come listen to my lay,
While I the wild and wond’rous tale array,
How Fly-by-Night went down,
And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared,
And how the coast of cash he cleared,
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and jailed;
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner
Went without his Sunday dinner,
Because he had not metal bright,
And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight,
The promises of Fly-by-night.
And little Jackey Horner
Sate sulking in the corner,
And in default of Christmas pie
Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.
* * * * *
From The Works of Thomas Love Peacock.
R. Bentley & Son, London, 1875.
The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:—
Ode in Imitation of Southey.
How beautiful is green
Where grass has every colour but its own,
Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown.
Lo, the trees
Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze;
Black as the Devil,
Father of evil,
With soot and smoke,
Enough to choke
Any unfortunate who walks below,
When the winds blow;
So beautiful the trees,
How beautiful the Cods.[51]
Each one in chapel nods,
While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day,
And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away;
Till the organ’s thund’ring peal
Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal;
And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple,
They toddle out of chapel,
So beautiful are Cods.
Thou passer by,
Who traversed the famed Carthusian square,
Raise thy admiring eye,
And view the gloom which long inhabits there;
And as thou journeyest on thy way,
Do say,
Within that wall
How beautiful is all!
——:o:——
Of all the amusing poems in The Rejected Addresses perhaps the only one which can be truly styled a parody is The Rebuilding, which closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s Curse of Kehama. Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord Jeffrey, writing in The Edinburgh Review, said, “The Rebuilding is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the “Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751.
The Rebuilding.
——“Per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.” Horat.
[Spoken by a Glendoveer.]
I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52]
’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored!
Midnight, yet not a nose[53]
From Indra drew the essence of repose!
See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!
Tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord’s tread.
Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
Through streets and alleys pour’d—
All, all abroad to gaze,
And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
Mounted on roof and chimney,[54]
The mighty roost, the mighty stew
To see;
As if the dismal view
Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.
Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton
(By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55]
Hollow
Sounds from thy harp proceed;
Combustible as reed,
The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:
From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs,
Thou troublest,
Humblest,
Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high:
While, by thy somerset excited, fly
Ten million
Billion
Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.
Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:
To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run,
Hope gallops first, and second Sun;
On flying heel,
See Hand-in-Hand
O’ertake the band!
View with what glowing wheel
He nicks
Phœnix!
While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars—
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
They shout and they bellow again and again.
All, all in vain!
Water turns steam;
Each blazing beam
Hisses defiance to the eddying spout:
It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!
Drury Lane! Drury Lane!
See, Drury Lane expires!
Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,
Shorn of his ray,
Surya in durance lay:
The workmen heard him shout.
But thought it would not pay
To dig him out.
When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,
Solemn as lead,
Judge of the dead,
Sworn foe to witticism,
By men call’d criticism,
Came passing by that way:
Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!
Behold the rival theatre!
I’ve set O.P. at her,[56]
Who, like a bull-dog bold,
Growls and fastens on his hold.
The many-headed rabble roar in madness;
Thy rival staggers: come and spy her
Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.
So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,
And crossing Russell Street,
He placed him on his feet
’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound,
As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:
Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,
Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,
From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57]
Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards
Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;
A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit;
On paper wings O.P.’s
Reclined in lettered ease;
While shout and scoff,
Ya! ya! off! off!
Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell,
And seemed to paint
The savage oddities of Saint
Bartholomew in hell.
Tears dimm’d the god of light—
“Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;
Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick.
Oh! bury me again in brick;
Shall I on New Drury tremble,
To be O.P.’d like Kemble?
No,
Better remain by rubbish guarded,
Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;
Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,
And bury me again in brick.”
Obedient Yamen
Answered, “Amen,”
And did
As he was bid.
There lay the buried god, and Time
Seemed to decree eternity of lime;
But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest
Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast:
He, the preserver, ardent still
To do whate’er he says he will
From South-hill wing’d his way,
To raise the drooping lord of day.
All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d;
He treats with men of all conditions,
Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians;
Nay, even ventures
To attack the renters,
Old and new:
A list he gets
Of claims and debts,
And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.
Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight;
Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control,
For light was hateful to his soul:
“Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite;
“Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,
“Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen
I’ll toil to undo every night.”
Ye sons of song, rejoice!
Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements,
The spheres hymn music;
Again the god of day
Peeps forth with trembling ray,
Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,
And pours at intervals a strain divine.
“I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen;
“The vollied flame rides in my breath,
My blast is elemental death;
This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;
Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases,
My breath shall every line erase
Soon as I blow the blaze.”
The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,
And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker;
The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,
And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown:
Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;
The solicitor reads,
And, merit of merit!
Red wax and green ferret
Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!
Yamen beheld and shiver’d;
His finger and thumb were cramp’d;
His ear by the flea in’t was bitten,
When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written,
Sealed and delivered,
Being first duly stamped
“Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows
A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.
Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend
Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,
Is judged in his turn;
Parchment won’t burn!
His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air
Parchment wont tear!
Is it not written in the Himakoot book
(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)
“Who blows on pounce
Must the Swerga renounce?”
It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:
Like as an eagle claws an asp,
Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,
And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,
Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,
Three times as high as Meru Mountain,
Which is
Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s.
Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59]
Who a durable grave meant
To dig in the pavement
Of Monument-yard:
To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,
And he fell, and he fell
To the regions of hell;
Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,
And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,
Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.
Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet,
Array’d in blue and white and scarlet,
And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!
Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!”
He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;
When lo! upstarting into birth
A fabric, gorgeous to behold,
Outshone in elegance the old,
And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!”
Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:
“Soon as thy maiden sister Di
Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,
And through the fissures of her clouded fan
Peeps at the naughty monster man
Go mount yon edifice,
And show thy steady face
In renovated pride,
More bright, more glorious than before!”
But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,
Still smarted from his former singe;
And to Veshnoo replied,
In a tone rather gruff,
“No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”
——:o:——
Justice.
“She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried;
“She hath escaped - - - but thou art here.”
I.
It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s,
Outside the door a painted figure stood,
A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood;
’Twas new and rather good.
Now Tomkins bent upon a spree,
Walked down the street the various sights to see;
But when the painted image Tomkins view’d,
To this he sprung, to this he clung,
And ran like mad along the High with this
Across his shoulder swung.
II.
Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street,
Before he was aware;
He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet
Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare;
The angry bobbies baffled now,
Unto each other vow
To make it hot for any gownsmen there
They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun,
Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they
Seized him instead, and carried him away;
He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run,
Nor the least show of opposition made,
Although they grasped him with their dirty hands
Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid
When still their victim stands.
III.
Thus are they always bold when they have made
Some crippled beggar old,
Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey,
But somehow they are never in the way
If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones,
Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray,
For they are careful of their bones.
IV.
“The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried,
He hath escaped, but one is here,
Will do as well;
Now let us go and tell
The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went
And told their story well.
Next morning Wilkins gets a note,
Brought by the Proctor’s man,
To call upon the Proctor at his rooms
With all the haste he can.
V.
And when he came within the Proctor’s room,
Young Wilkins roused himself,
And told the Proctor ’twas a lie,
Invented by those blue-clad menials base;
That he was in the ‘High’
Walking alone, and never even saw
The wooden figure that they talked about.
And that these bobbies
Came and pounced on him as he walked about,
Because the real culprit they
Had been so baulked about.
VI.
The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply,
The narrow-minded man—his gooseberry eye
Looked idiotic: not the smallest part
Had right and justice in his foolish heart.
At last he uttered loud each measured word,
Long in his breast confined,
Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd—
The index of his mind.
VII.
“You must go down,
Away from this town,
For here you would
Never do any good.
You have made a row,
Which I cannot allow,
And so I must take you,
An example to make you;
You must pay me a fine
Of five pounds to-day,
And then go away;
For you must not stay,
At Oxford, lest others
Should follow your track;
And your caution-money
You’ll not get back.
And now Mr. Wilkins,
My words are plain,
You must never again,
Though it gives you pain,
Come up to Oxford.
If you think to do so,
You think it in vain,
You’ll have to obey me,
Mr. Wilkins, for ever:
You can go away now, Sir,
And return again never.”
VIII.
There with those bugbears of the town
Before him, stood the wretched man;
There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown.
Was it a dream? Ah! no,
He heard his sentence flow,
He heard the ready bobbies lie,
And felt all hope within him die.
Ah! who could have believed
That he the velvet-sleeved
Could have so small, so weak a mind,
And ever trust those worms of dust,
Those banes of student kind.
With indignation flashing from his eye,
He left the room, nor cast one look behind.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon.
London, Chapman & Hall, 1874
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
How does the Water come down at Lodore.
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Twining and twisting,
Around and around,
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.
Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,—
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
Robert Southey.
——:o:——
Before and After Marriage.
Before.
How do the Gentlemen do before marriage?
Oh! then they come flattering,
Soft nonsense chattering,
Praising your pickling.
Playing at tickling,
Love verses writing,
Acrostics inditing,
If your finger aches, fretting,
Fondling and petting,
“My loving,”—“my doving,”
“Petseying,”—“wetseying,”
Now sighing, now dying,
Now dear diamonds buying,
Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly,
Cashmere shawls—brandy balls,
Oranges, apples—gloves, Gros de Naples,
Sweet pretty “skuggies”—ugly pet puggies;
Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing,
Or squandering guineas upon Sevignés
Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing,
Bringing you bull’s eyes, casting you sheep’s eyes,
Looking in faces while working braces;
Never once heeding what they are reading,
But soiling one’s hose by pressing one’s toes;
Or else so zealous, and nice, and jealous of all the fellows,
Darting fierce glances, if ever one dances, with a son of France’s;
Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you “Valtz;”
Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your cousin;
Continually stopping, when out-a-shopping, and bank notes dropping,
Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin” money, and promising pin-money;
Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham and champagne to quicken ’em;
Detesting one’s walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent the men talking;
Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens,” and hate Crinolines;
Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear low-neck’d dresses;
Or when up the river, almost sure to diskiver that it beats all to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver;
Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches;
Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber’s a box, to see “Box and Cox,” or pilfer one’s locks to mark their new socks;
Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they’ll be swinging, or in serpentine springing, unless to them clinging your’ll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen.
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on before marriage.
After.
How do they do after marriage?
Oh, then nothing pleases ’em,
But everything teases ’em;
Then they’re grumbling and snarling—
You’re a “fool,” not a “darling”;
Though they’re rich as the Ingies,
They’re the stingiest of stingies;
And what is so funny,
They’ve never got money;
Only ask them for any
And they haven’t a penny;
But what passes all bounds,
On themselves they’ll spend pounds—
Give guineas for lunch
Off real turtle and punch;
Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about
Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing,
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,
To hear the door slam to, be called simple ma’am too:
(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;)
As a matter of course they’ll have a divorce;
Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends;
Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;
Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;
While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong;
“Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton;
They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one, or else they’re a-worrying one;
Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your big brother;
After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why “the house is in ruins!”
Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you’ve taken to drinking;
They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping;
So when they’ve been meated if with pies they’re not treated, they vow that they’re cheated;
Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces;
And they’ll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you’re quite brown;
For their wife, they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to stand a cap from a Milliner—e’en a paltry twelve shillinger;
And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers, of those bowers and scrapers the young linen drapers;
Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children’s clothes;
Though you strive and endeavour, they’re so mightily clever, that please them you’ll never, till you leave them for ever!—Yes! the hundredth time sever—“for ever and ever”!!
Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on after marriage.
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac, for 1850.
How the Daughters come down at Dunoon.
“There standyth on one side of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of
passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal;
whereupon, in gaye times, ye youths and ye
maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport
themselves and take their pleasaunce;
runnynge both uppe and downe
with great glee and joyous-
nesse, to the much en-
dangerment of their
fair nekkes.”
Kirke’s Memoirs.
How do the daughters
Come down at Dunoon?
Daintily, slidingly,
Gingerly, slippingly,
Tenderly, trippingly,
Fairily, skippingly,
Glidingly, clippingly,
Dashing and flying,
And clashing and shying,
And starting and bolting,
And darting and jolting,
And rushing and crushing,
And leaping and creeping.
Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all—
Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Balmorals dancing and glancing, entrancing all,
Feats of activity—
Nymphs on declivity—
Sweethearts in ecstacies—
Mothers in vexaties—
Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on
True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on,
Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on,
Any fine afternoon
About July or June
That’s how the daughters
Come down at Dunoon!
From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley Pennell—
London, Chatto and Windus.
How does the Drunkard go down to the Tomb?
Here he comes crawling,
And there he lies sprawling,
Here growling and muttering,
His gloomy thoughts uttering,
He totters along, with passions so strong,
Now striking and raging.
Or wordy war waging,
His drunken companions among.
Sitting and drinking, ogling and winking,
Rising and leaping, peering and peeping,
Humming and singing, swelling and flinging,
Turning and twisting, around and around,
Hallooing and cooing, with endless rebound;
Sparring and fighting,
Lewd pieces reciting,
Blundering, thundering,
Disgusting and deafening the ear with the sound.
Laughing and scoffing, sneering and jeering,
Hissing and kissing, sporting and courting,
Spouting and shouting, rhyming and chiming,
Smoking and joking, jesting, detesting,
Huffing and puffing, bouncing and pouncing,
Sweating and betting, winning and dinning,
Slapping and rapping, whipping and skipping,
Scuffling and shuffling, rattling and battling,
Ranting and panting, blustering and flustering,
Reading, receding,
With antic so frantic,
Conceited, pedantic.
Jumping and bumping and thumping,
Dancing and glancing and prancing,
Bawling and squalling and calling,
Chattering and shattering and battering,
Scaring and swearing and tearing,
Tiring, persevering,
The fumes are expiring;
Money gone, credit none,
Kicked about, bolted out.
Staggering, swaggering, whirling, twirling,
Wheeling, reeling, tumbling, grumbling,
Pondering, wandering, moping, groping,
Here he goes with broken nose,
Battered face, sad grimace,
Chairs he crashes, crockery smashes,
Wife he thrashes, children lashes,
Passions deadly, such a medley.
Sighing, crying, snoring, roaring,
Groaning, moaning, sleeping, weeping.
Screaming, dreaming, screeching, retching
All the night, till morning light;
Then on waking, head is aching,
Shaking, quaking, shivering, quivering,
Whining, pining, quailing, wailing,
He seems to see spirits dire,
With eyes of fire, and fiendish glee,
Mocking at his misery.
Yet spite of all his pain
And woes, he goes
And seeks it yet again.
To himself he’s a fool,
To liquor a slave,
To the landlord a tool,
To his friends he’s a knave,
And he makes his own winding-sheet, digs his own grave.
Cut down in his bloom,
He seals his own doom,
And this way the drunkard goes down to the tomb.
Anonymous.
All the Luxuries of the Season.
How do the jolly days
Pass in the holidays?
Joking, and smoking,
In Wales or at Woking,
And riding, and hunting,
And lazily punting,
Canoeing, and boating,
And swimming, and floating,
And using in bathing,
The sea as a plaything,
And watching with glasses
Each ship as she passes;
And punning, and rhyming,
And glacier-climbing,
And fishing and shooting:
New theories mooting
In desolate islands,
Or up in the Highlands;
And yachting, rope-knotting,
And random notes jotting,
And sailing and baling,
And picnic-regaling,
Deerstalking and walking,
And merrily talking,
And skipping and prancing,
And glancing and dancing,
And flirting, exerting
Each talent diverting;
And playing at racquets
In white flannel jackets;
Golf, cricket, and touring,
Hard labour enduring,
In quest of new pleasure,
And spending your leisure
In dicing and gambling,
And quietly rambling,
And trudging with trouble
O’er turf and o’er stubble,
Exploding your cartridge
At grouse or at partridge;
Returning to table,
And feeling well able
To eat a whole elk up
Washed down with moselle cup
And drinking, and eating,
At each merry meeting,
Beef, venison, and mutton,
Not caring a button,
Because indigestion
Is out of the question;
Or, better and better,
Avoiding a debtor.
(Perhaps growing pale, if
You think of a bailiff,)
And audience attracting
By Amateur acting,
And singing, and playing,
And modestly staying
At Ramsgate or Margate,
Destroying a target
By accurate aiming,
And sporting and gaming
And draining the bubbly can
Of beer-bearing publican,
Chastising a slow moke
With cudgel of holm-oak,
Your animal thrashing,
And beating and lashing,
To carry his master
A little bit faster;
At croquet excelling,
And tale of love telling
To charming young lady
With hair black and braidy;
Oh! sweetly the jolly days
Pass in the holidays!
From Banter, edited by G. A. Sala.
September 23, 1867
How the Horses come Round at the Corner.
How do the horses come round at The Corner?
When eyes are all straining,
To see which is gaining,
And far-distant humming
Grows louder and clearer,—Grows stronger and nearer.
“They’re off!” “They are coming!”
“Who leads?” “Black and red!”—“No! Green, by a head!”
“The Earl!” “No, the Lady!”—” Typhœus looks shady!”
“Orion! Orion,—To live or to die on!”
“Twenty pounds to a crown—On the little Blue Gown.”
“I’ll venture my whole in—That colt by Tom Bowline!”
“Paul Jones!” “Rosicrucian!”
“Green Sleeve!” “Restitution!”
“Le Sarrazin!” “Pace!”
“It’s Mercury’s race!”
Then on they come lashing, and slashing, and dashing,
Their colours all flashing like lightning-gleams gashing
The darkness, where, clashing, the thunder is crashing!
With whipping and thrashing,
With crowding and smashing,
With pressing and stirring,
With lifting and spurring,
With pulling and striving,
With pushing and driving,
With kicking and sporting,
With neighing and snorting,
With frisking and whisking,
With racing and chasing,
With straining and gaining,
With longing and thronging,
With plunging and lunging,
With fretting and sweating,
With bustling, and hustling, and justling,
With surging, and urging and scourging,
With rushing, and brushing, and crushing,
With scattering, and pattering, and clattering,
With hurrying, and scurrying, and flurrying, and worrying,
With sliding, and gliding, and riding, and striding,
With crying, and flying, and shying, and plying,
With tying, and vying, and trying, and hieing!
Till rapidly spinning,
The ranks quickly thinning,
The crowd is beginning
To see which is winning:—
Some faces grow brighter—and some grow forlorner:
And that’s how the horses come round at The Corner!
Fun, May 30, 1868.
May in Lincolnshire.
(After the manner of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore.)
What are the chief delights of May—
This season, verdant, sweet, and gay?
The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers,
The genial sun, the reviving showers,
The feathered songsters of the grove—
All nature redolent of love.
So poets write, and write it true;
Alas! there’s a prosaic view,
Dwellings are turned quite inside out;
The household madly rush about—
Cleaning and changing,
Counting and ranging,
Painting and lining,
Tinting and priming,
Stirring and mixing,
Glueing and fixing,
Mounting and glazing,
Hauling and raising,
Thatching and tiling,
Crowding and piling,
Dragging and trailing,
Sprigging and nailing,
Stitching and lining,
Twisting and twining,
Turning and clipping,
Sorting and ripping,
Fing’ring and thumbing,
Sticking and gumming,
Stretching and climbing,
Draining and griming,
Noising and clatting,[64]
Rightling and scratting,[65]
Sanding and grinding,
Fussing and finding,
From garret to ground
No peace to be found!
Slaving and laving,
Shoving and moving,
Working and shirking,
Lifting and shifting,
Soaping and groping,
Washing and splashing,
Routing and clouting,
Messing and pressing,
Bending and rending,
Greasing and squeezing,
Kneeling and wheeling,
Humming and drumming,
Pailing and baling,
Lugging and tugging,
Laughing and chaffing,
Dusting and thrusting,
Tripping and dripping,
Unbedding, blackleading,
Upsetting and wetting,
They come with their brooms,
Invading the rooms,
Carry off all the books,
In spite of black looks,
Such confusion and riot,
Destruction to quiet!
And filling, and swilling, and spilling;
And mopping, and flopping, and slopping;
And racing, and chasing, and placing;
And hustling, and rustling, and bustling;
And holding, and folding, and scolding;
And sudding, and flooding, and thudding;
And banging, and clanging, and hanging;
And clapping, and rapping, and frapping;
And pasting, and hasting, and wasting;
Inspecting, selecting, rejecting;
Varnishing, tarnishing, garnishing;
Hurrying, scurrying, flurrying;
Bothering, pothering, smothering;
Unrusting, adjusting, disgusting;
Clattering, spattering, chattering;
Whitening, tightening, brightening;
Ransacking, attacking, unpacking;
Reviewing, renewing, and doing.
Charing, and airing, hammering, and clamouring;
And mending, and sending, and spending, and ending;
And tacking, and blacking, and cracking, and packing;
And oiling, and soiling, and moiling, and toiling;
And creaking and squeaking, and reeking, and seeking;
And racking, and sacking, and smacking, and clacking;
And thumping, and bumping, and lumping, and pumping;
And wrapping, and strapping, and tapping, and clapping;
And heaping, and steeping, and creeping, and sweeping;
And wringing, and dinging, and bringing, and singing;
And knocking, and rocking, and flocking, and shocking;
And jamming, and cramming, and slamming, and ramming;
And rubbing, and scrubbing, and tubbing, and grubbing;
And huddling, and muddling, and puddling, and ruddling;[66]
And patching, and matching, and catching, and snatching;
And rushing, and gushing, and slushing, and brushing;
And rumbling, and jumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling;
Thus, in the manner that I have been telling,
May-fever spreads over the whole of the dwelling.
This clever parody appeared, anonymously, in Once a Week, June 8, 1872.
The Boat-race.
(A Retrospect.)
How do the ’Varsities come to the Race?—
All a-rowing, and knowing their pluck they are showing,
And blowing, and going the deuce of a pace;
With the ending depending on strong arms extending,
And bending oars rending the waves in the chase.
With a spurting, exerting their muscles, and hurting
Their hearts, say the Doctors (but that’s a rare case),
With too much book-making, and arms next day aching—
And that’s how the Varsities come to the Race?
How do the Ladies come down to the Race?—
With a rustle and bustle, and zest for the tussle,
With a hustle and jostle, and tearing of lace.
With a gushing and blushing, and little feet rushing,
And pushing and crushing to get a good place.
With a petting and getting the odds in the betting,
And letting their fretting be seen in their face:
With a swarming so charming, in toilettes alarming,
And that’s how the Ladies come down to the Race!
How do the Gentlemen come to the Race?—
With a walking and talking, and pleasant “dear”-stalking;
Uncorking and forking out “pegs” from a case.
With a smoking and joking, and badinage-poking,
Invoking the Stroke in the boat that they “place.”
With a laughing, Bass-quafting, and eke shandy-gaffing
And chaffing the cads till they’re black in the face,
And hurraying, and laying the odds—and then paying—
And that’s how the Gentlemen come to the Race!
How do the Roughs and Cads come to the Race?—
With a cheering and beering, and sneering and jeering;
“My dear”-ing and leering at each pretty face.
With a scowling, and fouling the air with their howling,
And prowling and growling, and grin and grimace,
With a swearing and tearing, and blue rosettes wearing,
And a daring uncaring what things they abase—
And a reeling, and feeling for fighting, and stealing—
And that’s how the Roughs and Cads come to the Race!
Punch, April 27, 1878.
Ready for the Start.
Here they come sparkling,
There they go darkling,
A tide that flows onward conflicting and strong:
Some betting, some fretting
At losing relations
At choked railway stations,
And storming and raging,
And hansoms engaging,
Or aught upon wheels that will drag them along;
While tramps, the path keeping,
Are running and leaping,
And slinking and creeping,
Eddying and whisking,
Panting and frisking,
Slouching and twisting,
Planning for trysting
When reaching the ground,
Collecting, expecting
Where flats may be found.
Smiting and fighting
Some crowds fun delighting,
Strong language abounding,
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound;
Feeding and speeding,
And shockingly mocking,
And tripping and skipping,
And sipping and whipping,
And nipping and slipping,
Quivering and shivering,
And vainly endeavouring
By pushing and rushing,
And craving and raving,
And waving and staving,
And tossing and crossing,
And working and jerking,
And wriggling and giggling,
And hugging and mugging,
And boring and roaring,
And thundering and blundering,
And hauling, and falling, and sprawling,
And frequently naughty names calling,
And striving and hiving and driving,
And sounding and rounding and bounding,
And grumbling and tumbling, much humbling,
And chattering and battering and shattering,
And thumping and bumping, and plumping and stumping,
And flashing and splashing, and dashing and crashing,
Such sounds and such motions for evermore blending,
Till at last, with a tumult that seems never ending,
By train, carriage, drag, coach, cab, wheelbarrow, cart,
The thousands reach Epsom in time for the start.
Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.
The Falls of Niagara.
(Lord Dufferin has suggested that Ontario and New York should combine to make a Public International Park at Niagara Falls. All visitors to the World’s Wonder must hope that his proposition may succeed.)
“How does the water
Come down at Niagara?”
Somebody asked me
Thus once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme
How the Rapids’ broad tracts
And the Falls might be seen.
So without hesitation
I made explanation
And gave him the facts,
For I feared he was green.
When you leave your hotel,
To enjoy the sight well,
And, in wonder
At the thunder,
To Goat Island go,
Fifty cents is the pittance
They charge for admittance
To gaze at the show.
Again you pay fifty
(Unless you are thrifty)
To take a not very
Smooth trip o’er the ferry;
And the victim soon finds
It is three times as much to the Cave of the Winds.
It is twenty cents here, and it’s forty cents there;
Half dollars and more when you’ve money to spare.
At all the good places
For seeing the way
In which the flood races,
There’s something to pay.
Wherever you walk,
As a bird by a hawk,
You are worried and flurried
By beggarly louts,
Importunate touts,
And hackmen who, swarming around,
Waylay you at starting,
And, never departing,
Keep stopping, confusing,
Annoying, abusing,
And plotting and scheming,
And often blaspheming,
And pumping and bumping,
And dunning and stunning,
And shouting and spouting,
And pressing and guessing,
And beckoning and reckoning,
And following and holloaing,
All over the ground;
Although so inviting,
Far, far from delighting,
Confounding, astounding,
Pestering and maddening the ear with their sound.
So with a sensation of great irritation,
Of native extortion quite out of proportion,
Of vanishing dollars and rather damp collars,
Of guides never ending, but always attending,
Wherever your fugitive footsteps are wending,
You may get, at a cost that will cause you to stagger, a
Precious dear sight of the Falls of Niagara.
Funny Folks, November 23, 1878.
How the Customers come to the Sandown Bazaar.
(The following parody was written for the programme of the Sandown Bazaar, Isle of Wight, in 1879. With a few verbal alterations it might easily be applied to a similar purpose in any other locality.)
If “Robert the Rhymer” were alive, I’d implore,
Forgiveness, for trying to copy “Lodore.”
“What things do you want
For the Sandown Bazaar?”
My kind friends have ask’d me
Thus, time after time.
Moreover some wish’d me
To tell them in rhyme,
So what with one friend,
And then with another,
Eagerly urging
The request of each other;
I promised to tell them
What things we required
For the Sandown Bazaar
From near and afar,
As many a time
We have had them before;
And to tell them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I have store;
Though ’tis not my vocation,
But their recreation
That makes me thus sing,
Because I am anxious
To please in this thing.
From sources which well
In the heart’s deepest cell;
From fountains
In the mountains
Of thought and good will.
Through post and through rail
We expect things to come;
Then rest for awhile
In some kind friends home;
And thence at departing
After effort at starting,
They will quickly proceed,
With a general stampede,
To the Hall of the Town.
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,
Every one seems
In a terrible flurry.
Hammering and clammering,
The tumult and banging,
Making a furious
Terrible roar.
’Mid all this confusion,
The boxes are placed
On the Town Hall floor.
Then arms which are strong
Drag them along
To the stalls, where there falls
On the faces of “graces”—
All found in their places,
A light of delight.
Laughing and talking,
Smiling and walking,
Turning and twisting,
Walking and frisking,
Soon all are agreed
That a sight to delight in,
At last is displayed,
As the stalls are arrayed
In articles useful and fancy,
As if by the aid of necromancy.
Tatting and platting,
Matting and blacking,
And crochet and croquet
And crewls and jewels,
And baskets and caskets,
And brackets and rackets,
And lustres and dusters,
And feathers and leathers,
And towels and trowels,
And cradles and ladles,
And sables and tables,
And mittens and kittens,
And dresses and presses,
And dishes and fishes,
And cases and braces,
And pencils and lentils,
And pictures and tinctures,
And bangles and mangles,
And brushes and thrushes,
And coffee and toffee,
And bonnets and sonnets,
And pickles and sickles,
And papers and scrapers,
And slippers and nippers,
And sashes and taches,
And money and honey.
And screens and machines,
And ferns and epergnes,
And coseys and poseys,
And lamps and stamps,
And games and frames,
And spoons and balloons,
And quilts and stilts,
And yachts and whatnots,
And telephones and microphones,
And phonographs and photographs,
And oleographs and chromographs,
And telescopes and stereoscopes,
And pinafores and battledores,
And lemonade and gingerade,
And cheffoniers and caffetiers,
And letter racks and knickknacks,
And cocoatina and farina,
And barometers and thermometers,
And refrigerators and perambulators,
And chrysanthemums and kettle-drums,
And pelargoniums and harmoniums,
And canaries and cassowaries,
And clocks and socks and frocks.
And stools and wools and tools,
And bibs and cribs and nibs.
And rugs and jugs and mugs,
And muffs and cuffs and stuffs,
And caps and maps and scraps,
And thus without ceasing and ever increasing,
I might go on telling what things we’ll be selling,
If they only come here, from near and afar,
To make most successful the Sandown Bazaar!
W. J. Craig. 1879.
In November, 1879, the Editor of The World selected Southey’s Cataract of Lodore as the original for a Parody Competition, on the subject of The Home Rulers, and the following parodies were printed:—
First Prize.
Is it how the Home Rulers,
Make spaches, me boys?
Whist! I’ll tell ye the tale
In a ‘three-cornered’ rhyme,
Wid the laste taste, iv brogue—
Be the mortial, its prime!
Where they riz thim quare clothes,
Sorra, one iv me knows!
Their wondherful ‘caubeens,’
Their illegant ‘dhudeens,’
Their rings and sich things,
But we saw them wid joy
Comin’ over the bogs,
In sich beautiful togs,
Each a broth iv a boy.
So they kem walking,
Chattering and talking,
Wid ivery long word
That iver ye heard,
Blarneying and fighting,
Dividing, uniting;
Wid the finest iv action
Explaining and proving,
All scruples removing,
To their own satisfaction.
Stamping, hurrahing,
Erin-go-bragh-ing,
Jumping and pushing,
Wildly ‘hoorooshing,’
Shaking shillalies,
Brandishing ‘dailies,’
Tearing their hair,
Sawing the air
(Be jabers, ’twas quare!)
Storming and raving,
Deluding, ‘desaving—’
Demosthenes would have been struck with despair.
Objecting, correcting,
Defying, denying,
Remarking and barking,
And shouting and spouting,
Rebelling and yelling and telling,
And growling and howling and scowling,
Deriding, deciding, and chiding and hiding,
Rejecting, reflecting, projecting, directing,
Refusing, abusing, confusing, amusing,
An’ taching and praching and shaking and spaking,
Wid the gift of the gab such a shindy awaking,
That the author of mischief might listen wid joy—
That’s the way the Home Rulers make spaches, me boy.
(Miss Story.) FABULA SED VERA.
Second Prize.
How do the Home Rulers behave in the House.
Here they come broguing,
Together colloquing,
Here jangling and wrangling,
The Queen’s English mangling,
Staircase and hall and lobby along:
Execrating, dilating,
On methods of baiting,
The Sassenach foe for their fancied wrong.
Then rising and bawling,
Caterwauling and squalling,
Perspiring, untiring,
And sputtering and spluttering,
With ceaseless outpour,
Blustering and flustering,
Explanation mistrusting,
A sight full disgusting,
Amazing, gorge-raising,
Half crazing the House by their senseless uproar.
For dry rot eternal
Commend me to Parnell:
For bosh by the gallon,
Go listen to Callan;
Like a train in a tunnel
Is the voice of O’Donnell;
For imbecile vigour
Unrivalled is Biggar.
Nagging and bragging,
And canting and ranting,
Speech-prolonging, sing-songing.
Face-contorting and snorting,
And stranger espying,
In gallery prying,
Mispronouncing and bouncing and flouncing,
Impeding Bill-reading proceeding,
And scorning the dawning of morning,
Rage inducing, time-losing, abusing,
Naught-revering but jeering and sneering.
Unremitting, late sitting, straw-splitting, and twitting,
Body-swaying, inveighing, and braying, and neighing;
Blue-book spouting and shouting, and doubting and pouting;
Ear-shattering, dirt-spattering, and clattering and smattering,
And so never stopping, but always upcropping,
Fresh batches in-dropping to keep up the ball,
Disloyal Obstructionist bores one and all;
From the start of the year till the shooting of grouse—
This is how the Home Rulers behave in the House.
(C. L. Graves.) TROT.
Here they come wrangling,
And there they go jangling,
Here mumbling and fumbling,
With tumult and grumbling,
They wander about in trouble and doubt;
Now calling and squalling,
As if they were brawling,
With many an angry shout.
Storming and groaning,
Scolding and moaning,
Their bad taste disowning,
With gibes and with jeers;
Fluttering and muttering
While uttering their sneers.
Now bouncing and flouncing,
And madly denouncing,
And filling the air with their wild Irish cheers.
Rebelling and yelling,
Haggling and naggling,
Jabbering and blabbering,
Sweating and fretting,
Exploding and goading,
Embarrassing, harrassing,
Chaffing and laughing,
And talking and balking,
Vapouring and capering,
Bewailing and railing,
And sparring and jarring,
And growling and howling,
Discussing and fussing,
Retorting and thwarting,
And thrashing and slashing,
Disquieting and rioting,
‘Bejaber’-ing and labouring,
And hustling and bustling and tussling,
And leaguing, fatiguing, and often intriguing,
Provoking and joking and choking and croaking,
And poking and prying, and ‘strangers espying,’
Delighting in smiting, inciting to fighting,
Interfering and jeering, domineering and sneering,
Exceeding good breeding by rudely impeding,
And figuring and sniggering, and Parnelling and Biggaring,
And always obstructing, and oft misconducting,
And flaring and daring and wearing and tearing,
And blundering and sundering and wondering and thundering,
And clustering and mustering and flustering and blustering;
Hindering and teasing, they bring without ceasing
Their ‘questions’ and ‘motions’ for ever increasing,
And rush to the fore with a mighty uproar,
These Irish Home Rulers whose freaks we deplore.
Pembroke.
Just out of one bother
Into another.
Gone is the Fenian—
Here comes his brother,
Worse than the other.
Whence is this fooling
Of Irish Home Ruling?
From English invasion,
At Irish persuasion,
Of Paddy’s first unity
In village community—
Not with impunity;
From his horror of digging,
From his habit of pigging,
From his love of things smooth
Better far than the truth;
From our law-codes too drastic,
From our treatment too plastic—
Neither elastic;
Generally speaking,
Without further seeking—
From Irish obliquities,
From English iniquities;
Of such-like antiquities
Eight centuries reckoned
From Henry II.
Thence come Home Rulers,
Both fools and befoolers,
Here they stand spouting
Our Parliament flouting;
There they go shouting,
At this silly season
To Irish unreason
Murder and treason;
Lunging of gunning,
Plotting at potting,
Mooting of looting,
Hooting of shooting,
Braying of slaying,
Rent-paying delaying,
Some of them hedging,
Scruples alleging, while treason is fledging,
Hoping to get the thin end of their wedge in!
Yet they cut a poor figure,
This Parnell and Biggar.
With all their pretension.
As they linger and linger
With a trembling finger
On the racketty trigger
Of their glorious National Irish Convention!
Hoyle.
The World, November 5, 1879.
How the Home Rulers Behave at St. Stephen’s.
Here they come shouting,
And there they sit pouting;
Here fuming and raging.
A wordy war waging,
They stand a most irate throng
Now fussing and fretting
As though much regretting
They cannot fight all night long!
Collecting, dispersing,
Rejecting and cursing,
Hurrying and flurrying,
Tormenting and worrying
Like some snarling bow-wow;
Taking delight in
Abusing and fighting,
Deafening all with their terrible row!
Vapouring and capering,
Grumbling and mumbling,
And wrangling and jangling,
And growling and scowling,
And squalling and bawling,
And jumping and thumping,
And roaring and boring,
And moaning and groaning,
And laughing and quaffing,
And hissing and missing,
And tearing and swearing,
And thundering and blundering,
And querying and wearying,
And hating, and prating, and rating,
And leering, and peering, and jeering,
And dancing, and glancing, and prancing,
And masking, and asking, and tasking,
And stammering, and hammering, and clamouring,
And teasing, and wheezing, and sneezing,
And stunning, and funning, and punning,
And stumping, and pumping, and jumping, and thumping,
And twitting, and hitting, and sitting, and flitting,
And hashing, and gnashing, and lashing, and slashing,
And mustering, and clustering, and flustering, and blustering,
Replying, denying, and eyeing, and crying,
Tallying, and dallying, and rallying, and sallying,
And staring, and glaring, and daring, and flaring,
And railing, and wailing, and quailing, and failing,
And therefore the House they can never have peace in,
The tumult unceasing, for ever increasing,
Rolls restlessly on like some huge tidal wave,
And this is the way the Home Rulers behave!]
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton.
Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.
The Shore.
How do Cheap Trippers
Come down to the shore?
* * * * *
From their sources they wend
In the squalid East-end;
From Whitechapel,
Surge and grapple
Its ’Arries and its Carries.
Through court and through lane
They run and they shout
For awhile, till they’re out
By their own special train,
And thence, at departing
All bawling at starting,
They drink and they feed;
And away they proceed
Through the dark tunnels,
’Mid smoke from the funnels,
Where they shriek in their flurry,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Now singing, now smoking,
Now practical joking,
Till, in this rapid ride
On which they are bent
They reach the sea-side
And make their descent.
* * * * *
The excursion crowd strong
Then plunges along,
Running and leaping
Over rocks creeping,
Kicking and flinging,
“Kiss-in-the-ring”-ing,
Pulls at the whisky,
Making them frisky.
Smiting and fightin’—
A thing they delight in—
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound.
* * * * *
Sea-weeding and feeding,
And mocking and shocking,
And kissing and missing,
And skipping and dipping,
And drinking and winking,
And wading and bathing,
Shell picking and sticking,
In mud-holes and kicking.
And going a rowing,
And fishing and wishing,
And roaming in gloaming,
Sight-seeing and teaing,
And larking and sparking,
Love-making and taking
To beering and jeering,
Donkey-riding and hiding,
And squeaking and seeking.
* * * * *
And galloping and walloping,
And wandering and maundering,
Uncoating and boating and floating,
Upsetting and getting a wetting,
And crying and drying and spying,
Immersing, dispersing, and cursing,
And meeting and greeting and seating and eating,
And fuddling and muddling and huddling and puddling;
And so never ending, but always descending,
The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending,
All at once and all o’er with a mighty uproar—
And this way Cheap-Trippers come down to the shore!
Punch, August 7, 1880.
The Meeting of the Medicinal “Waters.”
How do the Waters come down on the public?
Here they come bouncing,
All rivals denouncing,
“Untradesmanlike falsehoods” tremendously trouncing,
Swearing that hurt is meant
By foe’s advertisement;
Public ear stuffing,
And rubbish be-puffing.
Greek meeting Greek—in the crackjawish names of ’em;
Polyglot rot setting forth bogus claims of ’em.
Loquaciously gassing
Of merits surpassing,
Phosphates and carbonates, jargon empirical
Blazoning each pseudo-medical miracle,
Taunting and vaunting,
Their praises loud chanting,
And bothering and pothering
And boasting, and posting
On hoardings and boardings
Their pictures and strictures,
And much advertising,
And circularising;
Till one wishes the roar
Of these Waters were o’er,
And votes the whole business no end of a bore.
Punch, June 4, 1881.
A Legislative Cataract; or
how the Commons rush in through the Door.
“How do the members,
Rush in through the door?”
A curious friend asked me
Last year at this time;
And, furthermore, tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
So anon, thus possess’d
Of his wish in the matter,
My muse I entreated
To come when address’d
And describe how those seated
With clamour and clatter,
Rush in through the door,
And swarm over the floor
When so eager they are
To press to the bar
And to hear the Queen’s Speech
As they’ve heard it of yore!
The result of my prayer
To my Muse for her aid,
You will see in the rare
List of rhymes I have made.
Tho’ the strict truth to tell,
Robert Southey as well,
By writing before
Of the Falls of Lodore,
Has a prominent share,
In this little affair.
* * * * *
“From all parts of the town
Have the members come down,
To renew legislation—
For this favored nation;
From South, West, and North,
They have all issued forth;
Brought by brougham and train
They have mustered again;
And the signal awaiting
Are busy debating;
Excitement controlling,
And friends button-holing,
And some even napping,
Till Black-Rod comes rapping.
But, then, ere he’s done,
Off the nimble ones run
Up passages, stairs,
Four-a-breast, or in pairs,
Till some even swelter,
So fierce is their flurry;
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,
There they go rushing,
And here they come crushing,
And rudely rebuffing,
(But Warton is snuffing)
With a chorus of “oh’s,”
And much treading on toes,
Till increasing their pace,
For quite reckless they are,
They tear on in their race
To be at the Bar.
Some five hundred strong,
They hasten along,
Fuming and raging,
As though a war waging.
Slighting and smiting,
And old ones affrighting;
Dodging and darting,
With gouty feet smarting,
Limping and hustling,
And fussily bustling;
Talking whilst walking,
And punning whilst running,
Twisting and turning
Sharp corners around,
Selfishly spurning
The friends that abound;
Calling and bawling,
(Some actually sprawling),
And hooting and yelling,
With outcry so swelling,
That all who are near they completely astound.
Pressing, progressing,
Proceeding and speeding,
And threading and spreading,
And shocking and mocking,
And tattling and battling,
And coursing and forcing,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And going tip-toeing,
And hopping and stopping,
And gaining and straining,
And hieing and vieing,
And flouncing and bouncing,
And seizing and squeezing,
And catching and snatching,
And ambling and scrambling,
And stripping and slipping,
And singing and swinging,
And doubling and troubling,
And pining and whining,
And shifting and drifting,
And filing and smiling,
And dinning and winning,
And moaning and groaning;
And thundering and blundering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And quivering and shivering,
And parrying and harrying,
And hastening and chastening,
And cantering and bantering;
Dividing, and sliding, and striding,
And bumping, and lumping, and jumping,
And stumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling,
And chasing, and racing, and pacing,
And clattering, and battering, and chattering
And bounding, and rounding, and pounding,
And steering, and jeering, and fearing.
And contriving, and driving, and striving,
And stooping, and whooping, and trooping;
Retreating, and eating, and meeting, and greeting,
Delaying, and straying, and staying, and saying,
Advancing, and prancing, and chancing, and glancing,
Recoiling, embroiling, turmoiling, and toiling,
And steaming, and beaming, and scheming, and teaming,
And clapping, and slapping, and rapping, and tapping,
And crushing, and brushing, and gushing, and rushing,
And backing, and tracking, and hacking, and packing,
And dashing, and clashing, and smashing, and crashing,
And glaring, and daring, and pairing, and flaring,
So seeming ne’er ending, but always ascending,
These sounds and these motions are loudly contending,
As five hundred and more with a mighty uproar,
On their way to the Bar, hurry in through the door.”
Truth, February 9, 1882.
The Meeting of the Landlords.
How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act?
Here they come hurrying, there they come scurrying,
Their minds about destiny dreadfully worrying;
With big “Resolutions” and plaints against “Wrong,”
They hasten along, more sounding than strong.
Posing and glosing,
Dread dangers disclosing,
And hinting that Providence sure must be dozing.
Blaming, and shaming,
Declaiming, and flaming,
And large “Compensation” commandingly claiming.
Sobbing, and throbbing,
’Gainst Radical robbing,
Sighing and crying;
Rack-renting denying
With stinging jobation
Against confiscation,
And much botheration
About Valuation;
Spouting, and flouting, and doubting,
Denouncing, and bouncing, and flouncing;
And fluttering, and muttering, and sputtering;
And swearing repairing the past is uptearing,
Society’s self from its basis and bearing;
And flaring, and blaring, and simple souls scaring
By wild elocution
About Revolution;
Proclaiming that law is now putting a stopper
On Property’s game in a manner improper:
That Civilization is coming a cropper.
So the Landlords galore,
Like Cassandras, deplore,
And down on the Land Act like Cataracts pour,
O’er and o’er, o’er and o’er,
With a mighty uproar.
While the World says,—“We’ve heard all this Shindy before!”
Punch, January 14, 1882.
That’s How the Tourists come Down to the Shore.
Cheerily,
Wearily,
Warily,
Merrily,
Slidingly,
Glidingly,
Trippingly,
Skippingly,
Leaping and creeping,
At nymphs slyly peeping,
Mashing and dashing,
In salt water splashing,
Billing and cooing,
The wooed and the wooing,
Hobbies entrancing all, beauty enhancing all,
Laughter and jollity ruling and schooling all,
Neptune from ocean arising surprising all.
Ceaseless vivacity,
Reckless audacity,
Some in high ecstasies,
Others in vextasies.
Merry girls spooning and flirting and catching on,
Elderly matrons with schemes of love matching on,
Old gents asthmatical, wheezing and sneezing on,
Artists all sketching and etching and painting on,
Geologists searching and peering and diving on,
Climbers ascending and wearily wending on,
Activity endless with never an ending on.
When the season arrives,
And the big billows roar,
That’s how the tourists
Come down to the shore.
The Detroit Free Press, Summer Number, 1885.
In 1880, Mr. E. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne, published a long poem on the Falls of Niagara, it also was written in imitation of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore.
THE OLD MAN’S COMFORTS
AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“The few locks that are left you are grey:
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remember’d that youth would fly fast,
And abus’d not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.”
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.”
“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And life must be hast’ning away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me reason, I pray.”
“I am cheerful, young man,” father William replied,
“Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember’d my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age.”
Robert Southey.
Father William.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head,
Do you think at your age it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain,
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back sommersault in at the door,
Pray, what is the reason of that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple,
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box,
Allow me to sell you a couple.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet,
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak,
Pray how did you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife,
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose,
That your eye was as steady as ever,
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose,
What made you so awfully clever?”
“I have answered three questions and that is enough,”
Said his father. “don’t give yourself airs,
“Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”
From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.
(Macmillan and Co., London.)
The Old Man’s Cold, and how he got it.
By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey.
“You are cold, Father William,” the young man cried,
“You shake and you shiver, I say,
You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied—
(He was a dissembling old man),
“I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots,
And snowballed my aunt Mary Ann.”
“Go along! Father William.” the young man cried,
“You are trying it on, sir, to-day;
What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanettes?
Come, tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I went to the North Pole with Parry;
And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreux
Plays with this old man the Old Harry.”
“Get out! Father William,” the young man cried,
“Come you shouldn’t go on in this way;
You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold—
Now tell me the reason I pray.”
“I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied,
“I’ve a cold my impertinent son,
Because for some weeks my coals have been bought
At forty-eight shillings a ton!”
This parody appeared in The Figaro, (London,) March 1st, 1873, and seems to have been so much admired by the editor of that journal, that he served up a second edition of it, with some alterations, on July 15, 1874, as follows:—
You seem cold, Father William, the young man cried,
And chilblains are massed round your nose,
I rarely in all my experience before
Saw chilblains so broken as those.
You are right, my young man, Father William replied,
These chilblains you see are the fruits
Of the snowballs I put, when a youngster like you,
In my Aunt Mary Ann’s Sunday boots.
You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And if I may venture to say so,
You have influenza most awfully bad,
Come, why do you wheeze in that way so?
In the days of my youth, father William replied,
I found it uncommonly easy
To sit on the ice when I wanted to skate,
’Tis hence that I now am so wheezy.
You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And I see you incessantly shiver;
Do you think, aged pal, such a jellyish trick
Is good, at four score, for the liver?
I shiver, young man, father William replied,
Because, with your mirth bubbling o’er,
You slipped lumps of ice down the nape of my neck,
But I’m blowed if I stand any more!
O. P. Q. Philander Smiff, Esq., in his remarks on the Weather.
The Cause of Truth.
(Few are aware that Southey’s beautiful and much lauded Poem of “Old Father William,” is copied almost verbatim from an old American ballad. Far be it from us to comment upon the fact, but truth compels us to remark that a more barefaced piece of plagiarism has never come under our notice. In order to convince the public of the veracity of our statements, we subjoin the original ballad as found by us in an old MS. entitled “Wild Cat Warblings.”)
“You air old, Father William, an elderly cuss,
But I reckon you air real grit,
For the high handed way you sailed into that muss
Astonished creation a bit.”
“Waal, fact is,” said William, removing his quid,
“I allus was cheerful and spry;
And my motto is, ‘Do, or you’re sure to be did,’
And ‘Root little hog, or die.’”
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“Your fingers are stiff you’ll agree;
Yet you euchred the boys till they hadn’t a red,
And bust up the heathen Chinee.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I played on the square, you perceive;
But now I have let old integrity slide,
And I keep the best bower in my sleeve.”
“You are old, Father William, and whiskey took neat,
Unsettles the sight I opine;
Yet you wiped out the digger who called you a cheat,
In a way that was powerful fine.”
“Take the lead when you can,” was his father’s response,
“That’s a bully old rule you’ll allow;
Besides, if you settle a critter at once,
It saves you from having a row.”
“You are old, Father William, and soon I expect
To be taking you round in a hearse;
Yet somehow you never appear to reflect
That you’re goin’ from wicked to worse.”
“Go slow” said his father, replacing his chaw,
“You are getting too all fired proud;
I reckon we’ve had just enough of your jaw,
Let’s licker. Hi! drinks for the crowd.”
Zoz (Dublin), October, 1878.
Youth and Age.
“You are old, Father William,” the young men cried,
“A disciple of Fox and of Grey;
Yet you prattle of peace at a Palmerston Club;
Come tell me the reason, I pray.”
“Oh, what’s in a name?” Father William replied,
“Against Pam’s pet ideas I am planning;
But your Militant Tories are spouting next door,
’Neath the peaceable ægis of Canning.”
“While here, Father William,” the young men cried,
“At Benjamin’s baseness you rave;
But like Balaam when called on the Jew to confound,
At Westminster blessings you gave.”
“At Oxford, my sons,” Father William replied,
“I smote with my staff, I’m aware;
But I spoke to the Asses in Westminster Hall,
For I knew they could answer me there.”
“Oh, fie, Father William, you should not employ
Your talents in personal strife;
These picnic orations bad temper betray;
Is it seemly at your time of life?”
“In office and out,” Father William replied,
“Has Beaconsfield filled me with rage;
In the days of my youth I remember his sneers,
And I will not forget in my age.”
Mayfair, February 12, 1878.
The Old Man’s Sorrow, and how he caused it.
(A Ballad of the Future.)
“You are sad, People’s William,” the young man cried,
“And you seem to your years to succumb;
You are weak, People’s William, though not very old,
And have a large corn on your thumb.”
“In the years lately past,” People’s William replied.
“I weakly attempted too much;
I abused both my health and my vigour, and now
There is scarcely a task I dare touch.”
“Dearie me, People’s William,” the young man cried.
“It grieves me to hear you speak so,
But still I should like” (here he gazed at the corn)
“Something more of your history to know.”
“In the years lately pass’d,” People’s William replied,
“I knew not the meaning of rest;
For I cut down big trees by way of relief,
Then return’d to my desk with new zest.
I wrote, towards the end, for some six magazines,
“Every month several pamphlets likewise,
And of post cards and letters, some four score a day—
Ah, you listen, I see, with surprise.”
“That I do; People’s William,” the young man cried,
“As your various achievements you sum,
But ’tis not with wonder that longer I view
That well defined corn on your thumb.”
“Nor was this all I did,” People’s William replied,
“For I strove with my tongue, too, to teach,
And I lost ne’er a chance, howsoever it came,
Of making an à propos speech.”
“But, stay, People’s William!” the young man cried,
“You surely some holidays took,
When, flying from home to some district unknown,
You work for the moment forsook.”
“Nay, nay, ’twas not so!” People’s William replied;
“’Twas the same on my holiday trips;
Wheresoever I was, I had always to keep
A ready-made speech on my lips.
As I stept on a pier from steamer’s poop-deck,
“Or put my head out of a train;
As I enter’d a city, or went from a town,
I could not from speaking refrain.
Where two or three gather’d together forthwith,
I gave them a taste of my tongue;
No matter their sex, no matter the place,
I spared neither aged nor young.”
“Enough! People’s William!” the young man cried;
“It is clear to me now that I gaze
On a man who has foolishly tried in the past
To spend in hard work all his days.”
“That is so, my young man,” People’s William replied;
“So me as a warning employ
To teach that all work and no play in the end
Makes William, like Jack, a dull boy!”
Truth, October 24, 1878.
What the Young Man said to the Gobbler.
Also what the Gobbler said in Reply.
“You are old, turkey gobbler,” the young man cried;
“Your flesh must be terribly tough,
Yet they’ll cook you to-morrow for dinner, I’ll bet—
Don’t you think that exceedingly rough?”
“I am no longer young, I admit,” said the fowl,
“Yet remember I cost but a shillin’;
Your landlady thought (and with her I agree)
That, considering the price, I’d be fillin’.”
“You are old as the hills,” the young man remarked,
“And I fear you are not very fat,
Though they’ve fed you on pumpkin seeds now for a month—
Pray what will you answer to that?”
“I’m not very fat—you’ve hit it again;
In truth I’m as lean as a lizard,
For some chronic complaint, with a long Latin name,
Is eating away my gizzard.”
“Your gizzard! good gracious! don’t say so, by Jove!”
The youth in dismay fairly roared;
“Why, that is the part sure to fall to my lot,
When, as now, I’m behind with my board!”
“I am sorry for that,” replied the old fowl;
“I assure you ’tis no fault of mine;
But I s’pose if you choose to prefer something else,
’Twill be easy enough to decline.”
“You are old, you are tough, you are sickly besides;
Your lot my compassion doth move;
Don’t you think,” said the youth, “that a change of scene
Your condition would greatly improve?”
“I acknowledge the corn and a change of air
Would do me much good I believe;
But I have an engagement to-morrow, you see,
I cannot very well leave.”
“I’ll break your engagement,” the young man cried,
As he smashed in the coop with an axe,
Whereupon for a healthier neighbourhood
The old turkey gobbler made tracks.
* * * * *
“There’ll be turkey for dinner,” the boarders all cried,
But, alas! they were greatly mistaken,
For the landlady brought in that Christmas day
The usual liver and bacon.
Free Press Flashes, 1882.
The Grand Young Man, or Father William
“Ewart” Answered.
“You look young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“Yet you’re up on your legs every day;
You have impudence, too, an amazing amount!
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“Your wisdom, your years,” little Randolph replied,
“And the honours that some think your due,
Merely force me to strut in your path and proclaim
I’m as good every bit, sir, as you.”
“You are young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“If your elders excite but your jeers;
But tell me, now do, how it comes that, though young,
You are so ill-behaved for your years.”
“I am so ill-behaved,” little Randolph replied,
“Because I believe in myself,
And regard such old fogies as Northcote and you
As lumber but fit for the shelf.”
“You’re too good, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“And of gumption you’re certainly full;
But I never could quite understand why you seem
To enjoy playing frog to my bull.”
“Old pippin, it’s clear,” little Randolph replied.
“A fine Grand Old Man you may be,—
But I’m making my game, and the public all round
Hail the coming Grand Young ’Un in me!”
Punch, November 18, 1882.
Truth for April 5, 1883, contained nineteen competition parodies of “You are old, Father William,” amongst which the following are the most interesting, the others are nearly all out of date:—
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your step is still springy and gay;
You are strong, Father William, a muscular man,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the days of my strength, Mr. G—dst—e replied,
“I, by exercise, strength still amass’d;
That, devoted to England and Statesmanship first,
I might flourish my axe to the last.”
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“In the Commons to lead is not play;
And yet you accept not the peerage you’ve earned;
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the tomb of the Lords,” Mr. G—dst—e replied,
“I’d not bury my eloquence vast;
But as Clark speaks of rest, in the future may do
That I never have done in the past.”
“You are bold, Father William,” the young man cried
“Though majorities dwindle away:
Oft your acts men estrange, yet you talk them all back,
Now, teach me the secret, I pray.”
“Mark me, Herbert, my son,” Mr. G—dst—e replied,
“Let my words your discretion engage;
In the days of my youth, had I chatter’d like you,
“None had hearkened to me in my age.”
Repealer
“You are young, Master Randolph,” the Premier cried;
“You are scarce from your nursemaid set free.
And I was a Statesman before you were born,
So don’t come dictating to me.”
“I own that I’m young,” Master Randolph replied,
“And you are old, WEG, that no one denies.
But I’m really surprised that you have not yet learnt
That in age no criterion lies.”
“It’s exceedinly rude,” Father William rejoined,
“To speak thus to your elders and betters.
Remember, ‘Small boys should be seen and not heard,’
As you’ll read when they teach you your letters.”
“But, being so old,” the Coming One cried,
“You ought to be wiser, it’s plain.
But no—a thought strikes me—I see it, of course:
You are entering your childhood again.”
“This impudence really exceeds all belief;
Since I was young, things are much changed.
When I was a Tory, small boys knew their place—
My lad, I’m afraid you’re deranged.”
“Father William,” the other rejoined, with a laugh,
“Of my talents you’re jealous, I see;
And this I know well, though you scoff at my youth,
That you’d gladly change ages with me.”
Pickwick.
“You’re a Peer, now Lord Wolseley,” a subaltern cried
“Scarce your breast can more medals display.
By the Horse Guards unsnubbed, to the War Office dear,
How on earth you have managed it, say?”
“’Tis advertisement does it,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I went in for monthly reviews;
In each new magazine Wolseleyistics were seen,
But I minded my p’s and my q’s.”
“You’re a General, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“And our only one, so people say;
In your twopenny wars no great captains you fought,
How got you such fame? tell, I pray.”
“In my Ashantee campaign,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I had made what cute Yanks call a ‘Ring,’
And, buttering all round from ‘the Duke’ to the ground,
Praised my friends that my praise they might sing.”
“You’re a Patron, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“Of a wine club, ‘The Vine,’ yet you say
The best soldier is he who drinks nothing but tea;
Expound me this thusness, I pray.”
“At swallowing camels,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“Dear England’s digestion’s not weak.
She will gulp down whole arkfuls—like me to succeed,
Try advertisement, butter, and—cheek!”
Skriker.
“New honours, Lord Wolseley,” cried Roberts “you get,
Though your victories were very small;
You’re head of the army, and War Office pet—
Pray how have you managed it all!”
“In war,” he replied, “all manœuvres are fair,
So by others the hard work was done;
Their failures I blamed, took their praise as my share,
And so that’s how my honours were won.”
* * * * *
Old Log.
“You are old, Lady William,” the débutante cried,
“And by this time your hair should be grey;
Yet fair golden locks still encircle your head,
Now, how do you do that, I pray?”
“The locks of my youth,” Lady William replied,
“Were a carroty ginger they said;
But by wise application of Mexican Balm,
I attained to this delicate shade.”
“You are old, Lady William,” the débutante cried,
“And all the folks call you a guy:
Yet the bloom on your cheek far outrivals my own,
Now tell me the dodge or I die.”
“A complexion like mine.” Lady William replied,
“Is expensive and peerless, I hope;
I obtained it by dint of much trouble and care,
And the free use of Pears’ patent soap.”
“You are old, Lady William,” the débutante cried,
“At least, so your enemies say;
But the census last year puts your age down, I see,
As thirty-five years to a day.”
“When my youth ’gan to fade,” Lady William replied,
“I thought I’d remain at this stage;
My friends and my enemies doubted and scoffed
But by now they’ve forgotten my age.”
Third Raven.
“You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Do you mean with us always to stay?
You’ve been shot at, Sir Kaiser, some three or four times,
Yet you’re coming up smiling to-day.”
“In the days of my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
“I was hardy, and healthy, and strong;
And as to the shooting, my boy, it is said
That threatened men always live long.”
“You were bold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“When you popped Prussia’s crown on your brow;
And yet you were right as the sequel has proved,
For they’ve made you an Emperor now.”
“Why, certainly, Prince!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied.
“I remembered that thrones do not last.
I thought of the bird, and the hand, and the bush,
And I nailed ‘Right Divine’ to the mast.”
“They were sold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Those French who would march to Berlin;
For there’s poor little Denmark, and Austria too,
They’ve all been obliged to cave in.”
“Yes, I’ve had a good time!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
Though there’s one little flaw, I confess;
That obstinate Pope is the thorn in my side,
Or else I’m a perfect success.”
T.S.G.
“You are plain, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“Though your hair has not yet turned to grey;
But you’re nice Mr. Biggar, a sensible man,
Why not marry me, Joseph, I pray?”
“In the days of my youth,” Mr. Biggar replied,
“The marital rocks I steered past,
And carefully kept myself free from the knot,
That I ne’er might repent it at last.”
“You’re not young, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“And the troubles of age creep apace;
You may need a sweet wife—a soft, loving nurse—
In your heart why not give me a place?”
“In the days of my youth,” smiling Joseph replied,
“That request was oft made to me too,
There are ‘obstacles’ very much stand in the way
Of my marriage, dear Fanny, to you.”
“You are good, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“To church shall we both now repair,
Pray these ‘obstacles’ somehow at once be removed
That your future your Fanny may share?”
“I gladly agree, dear,” Joe Biggar replied,
“The idea my attention shall claim;
Meanwhile, let me give you a few pair of hose—
On the way we will purchase the same.”
Paste.
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And you have not a hair that is grey!
Yet you set yourself up against Stafford and me,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“In the days of one’s youth,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“’Tis important to get oneself known;
And the best way of making a mark in the House,
Is to strike out a line of one’s own.”
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And wisdom with age comes, they say;
Yet on every topic you claim to be heard,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“I am young, it is true,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“But a smattering of most things I know;
And give all men credit for knowing still less,
And often I find this is so.”
“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“Yet you’re eloquent, too, in your way;
And your speeches are always reported at length,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”
“If I only can make enough noise while I’m young,”
Said Randolph—“Perhaps when I’m grey
Folks may come to believe me, and so I shall be,
A ‘Grand Old Man’ also some day.”
Yash.
“You are old, Father William,” a pert youth said,
“I can see it, you know, in your face;
And still you go on with your prating and rating,
Pray how do you keep up the pace.”
“In the days of my youth,” the old man replied,
“I foresaw I was destined for strife;
I found a high collar supported the ‘jaw,’
And have stuck to it all through my life.”
“You are old, Father William,” the youth then said,
“You’ll excuse my remarking again;
But still you fell trees with remarkable ease,
Now can you this wonder explain?”
“In the days of my youth,” said the Grand Old Man,
“To keep little Herbert from harm,
With healthy correction his faults I restrained,
This accounts for the strength of my arm.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “yet it’s easy to see
That your brain is as fertile as ever,
And your facts, though a fiction, defy contradiction;
What made you so dreadfully clever?”
“I’ve answered two questions, that’s surely enough,
You have got to the end of your tether;
When puzzled, reply in a meaningless way,
Or refuse to reply altogether.”
Don Juan.
Of the Truth Parodies omitted, some were political, two were in reference to the action for breach of promise of marriage brought against Mr. Joseph Biggar, M.P., and one related to pigeon shooting. The extraordinary story set afloat by Lady Florence Dixie, that she had been waylaid by two men who attempted to murder her in broad daylight and close to the high road, was thus explained:—
“You have told, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“A story that reads like a play;
And your tale, Lady Florence, is hard to believe—
Oh! why did you tell it, I pray?”
“In the tales that I tell,” Lady Florence replied,
“I remember that rumour flies fast;
And all that I cannot conjecture at first,
Gets somehow put in at the last.”
“But those men, Lady Florence,” the young man cried.
“Those ruffians, with knives, got away,
And yet of your struggle all traces are gone—
Oh, where are their footmarks, I pray?”
“Of your questions, bold youth,” Lady Florence replied,
“I hoped I had heard quite the last;
I thought of my figure whatever I did,
And my corsets must vouch for the past!”
“But the truth, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“Credulity’s passing away;
You are cheerful, while Leaguers are bent on your death—
Oh, tell me the secret, I pray!”
“I am cheerful, young man,” Lady Florence replied,
“For my case doth both houses engage;
And Royalty’s sent to ask how I am—
In fact, I am just now the rage.”
Ohr.
——:o:——
The Lords and the Young Radical.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
Nor can long your departure delay;
Indeed it is strange you have lasted so long,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
Your whole Constitution, that Senate replied,
Would fail, if the Lords should depart;
As the Queen is the Hand, and the Commons the Head,
Of the nation the Lords are the Heart.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And I think you should now clear away,
Yet you all seem determined to stick to your House,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
Whatever we may be, the Peers’ House replied,
We are English and pluck do not lack;
We shall never desert a good cause we espouse,
Or to foes turn a cowardly back.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And in my view no longer should stay,
Though with some you were popular once, I confess,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
We earned the true love of the land;
Magna Charta we won—of its earliest laws
The best were the work of our hand.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, if it is useful to-day
To remind us of good you did centuries back,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
We have faith in the people, the Peers’ House replied,
Far stronger than you can avow;
In the days of our youth if for them we strove hard,
They will hardly turn round on us now.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And long since have seen your best day,
But still you are proud of your body effete,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
Nothing good or ennobling was scorned:
Clive, Wellington, Nelson, Howe, Liverpool, Pitt,
Made us proud of the House they adorned.
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And to talk of your youth is to bray,
But if you are proud of the age you have reached,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.
There are men in our House, the Assembly replied,
Its promise of youth who fulfil,
And Salisbury, Wolseley, Lytton, Tennyson, Cairns,
Uphold and ennoble it still!
You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, for all you may venture to say,
You can’t be immortal, or if you so claim,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.
Our glory will wane not, the Peers’ House replied,
So long as the Sword and the Pen,
The Courts and the Commons, th’ Exchange and the Church
Shall send us the best of their men!
From A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor, London, 1884.
The Old Man of the Commons.
“You are old, Father William.” the young man cried;
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
Yet you’re still a most hale and remarkable man—
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“I remembered that youth would fly fast;
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might lack them at last.”
“You are hale, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you never are heard to complain;
But yet I can sadness perceive in your looks;
Pray, what is the source of your pain?”
“Nay, nay, as to that,” William Ewart replied,
“Too closely you’re seeking to pry;
But if you insist upon knowing the cause,
The Whigs can the answer supply.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And yet you’re more honoured each day;
Now tell me, I beg, what the reason can be
You’re beloved in this wonderful way.”
All the days of my life.” William Ewart replied,
“To do what is right I have tried;
And fearless of scorn and regardless of jeers,
I have ever made duty my guide.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“Yet thousands but yesterday sat
Devouring, for hours, every word that you spoke;
Now, what is the reason of that?”
“Whenever I speak,” William Ewart replied,
“I never am acting a part;
But I say what I feel, and each sentence comes straight
From the depths of an Englishman’s heart!”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And honours are surely your due;
Then prithee explain why a title or cross
Has ne’er been accepted by you?”
“In a cross or a star,” William Ewart replied,
“No kind of attraction I see;
No, the love of the land, and its people’s respect
Are honours sufficient for me!”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you live in the nation’s esteem;
Then why do the Tories insist that a base
And most truculent traitor you seem?”
“’Gainst all honest attacks,” William Ewart replied,
“I am safe, thanks to Liberal might;
So much foul-mouthed abuse must be due, I suppose,
To an impotent partisan spite.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
And yet every year that you live,
You nearer approach to the Radical’s creed
What reason for this can you give?”
“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“Of politics what could I know?
But now every year that I live, I contrive
Still wiser and wiser to grow.”
“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And life must be fleeting away,
Yet you stick to your post, and refuse to take rest;
Now, what is your reason I pray?”
“I stick to my post,” William Ewart replied,
“Because a great work I’ve begun,
And mean not to rest, though the peers do their worst,
Until that great work I have done.”
Truth, 1884.
“Encouraged by the success which has attended the interviewers of Fred Archer in America, we thought we would send a man to try his hand on William Archer père, at his residence at Cheltenham. He had an audience of the Patriarch, and has focussed the result in the following”:—
Old William Archer Interviewed.
“You are old, Father William,” the Editor cried,
“And too stout for a race, I suspect;
Yet they say that you once were a good ’un to ride,
Now tell me if that is correct?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to the scribe,
“I rode for the famed Romanoff,
And the grog which in Russia I used to imbibe,
Put on what I never got off.”
“You are stout, Father William, as I said before,
And my questions may savour of cheek.
If you clapped on the sweaters and used them once more,
How much could you waste in a week?”
“In my youth,” said old Billy, “in flannels and wraps
I’ve toiled over mountain and plain;
But such practices never suit podgy old chaps,
So I’m blest if I do it again.”
“You are ’cute,” said the Scribe, “and your intellect’s clear,
Your son is of jockeys the crack;
As the Derby’s approaching, I’m anxious to hear
Which horse you advise me to back.”
“See here,” said the Old ’Un, “you want a straight tip,
And I’ll give one your merits to suit,
Get out of my diggings, you artful Old Rip!
Or I’ll give you the toe of my boot.”
The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885.
“That terrible Lancet has discovered that the public requires to be put on its guard against the practice of licking adhesive stamps and envelopes. Local irritation, sore tongues, and the like lie in wait for the licker, and it seems, furthermore, that ‘every now and again we hear of special propagation of disease by the habit.’ Our medical contemporary’s caution suggests a wholly new version of an old rhyme:—
“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your health is quite perfect, I wis,
And your back is unbent, and your muscles are strong,
Pray explain, sir, the meaning of this.”
“As a lad,” said the sage, with a glance that was sly,
“In my watch on myself I was strict,
I refrained when the postage-stamp courted my tongue,
And I let envelopes go unlicked.”
Funny Folks, June 6, 1885.
The Sequel to a Great Poem.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
To revive and embellish your winterbound head,
There is obviously only one way.”
“Ere my fogeydom days,” Father William replied,
“I spent money to make myself spry,
But the hoar-frost of age, all cosmetiques defied,
Though I tried every advertised dye.”
“That may be,” said the youth, with self satisfied air,
(He belonged to a set that was fast,)
Yet, why, Father William, give way to despair,
Are the days of discoveries past?”
“Not so,” cried the old man, “I read but yestr’een,
‘There is hope for the aged and grey,’
You know you young dog very well what I mean,
The Reviver of Great Count D’Orsay.”
(From an advertisement.)
Once a Week, 1886.
On Irish Policy.
You are old, Father Will—one might almost expect
That your head was as sage as it’s hoary;
Yet your blunders are easy for babes to detect,
And your wits have, it seems, gone to glory.
You preached upon “Peace,” and your text wouldn’t mar
By applying Coercion to “Pat”;
Yet you’d turn a back somersault, go in for war;
Pray, what is the reason of that?
Of the Empire’s integrity, careless as well
As your own, you must needs turn Home-Rule-ish,
And stoop to intrigue with that traitor P—ll;
What made you so awfully foolish?
“Peace, Randolph,” replied Father Will, in a huff,
“No questions!—I’m lofty and pure,
“Not made like you Tories of bloodthirsty stuff,
“Be off, or you’ll get the Clôture.”
A New Alphabet of Irish Policy, by Sphinx
(John Heywood, Manchester).
A Valentine.
From Miss Hibernia to W. E. G.
You are old, sweetheart William—your hair is grown grey
But your heart is still tender and true;
And though often in anger I’ve turned me away,
Yet I’ve ever been faithful to you.
You are old, sweetheart William—you’ve courted me long,
And you’ve given me presents galore;
But I want—and I hope you won’t think I am wrong—
I want just one little thing more.
Don’t refuse, sweetheart William, my modest request—
The control of my household affairs;
And our union at last may be happily blest,
And I’ll never more give myself airs!
James G. Meagher.
The Weekly Dispatch, February 14, 1886.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening,
Old Caspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Caspar took it from the boy.
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh—
“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory,”
“I find them in the garden, for
There’s many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many a thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for!”
“It was the English,” Caspar cried,
“That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory!”
“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little streams hard by;
They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to rest his head.
“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then
And new born infant died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many a thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.”
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory!”
“And everybody praised the Duke,
Who such a fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous victory!”
Robert Southey.
Mr. J. Dixon, in a recent number of Notes and Queries, remarks that “while writing this popular little poem Southey seems to have ‘forgotten his history’ in making Caspar, an old Bavarian peasant, call Prince Eugene of Savoy, “our good prince.” He and the Duke of Marlborough, as commanders of the allied forces, defeated the combined army of the French and Bavarians, and old Caspar could look upon Prince Eugene only as an enemy and alien. Southey calls the little boy Peterkin, a name quite unknown in South Germany. Blenheim has been so universally accepted as giving a name to the battle, and so many places in England have been called after it, that it would be absurd to expect that the real name of the village—‘Blindheim’—should ever replace it; but certain it is that no such place as Blenheim exists in Germany.”
A Battle with Billingsgate.
It was the Christmas holidays,
And seated in the pit,
A Father saw the new Burlesque,
That was so full of wit.
And by him sat—in slang unskill’d—
His pretty little girl, Clotilde.
She heard some “ladies” on the stage
Say they would “cut their sticks!”
And one in male attire declare
That she’d “go it like bricks.”
She asked her Father what were “bricks”?
And what they meant by “cut their sticks?”
The Father heard the audience laugh,
As at some witty stroke;
And the old man he scratch’d his head,
For he couldn’t see the joke.
“I don’t know what they mean,” said he,
“But sure ’tis some facetiæ.”
And then she heard one, nearly nude,
Say something else about,
“Has your fond mother sold her mangle?
And does she know you’re out?”
And when the people laughed, cried she,
“Oh, Pa! there’s more facetiæ!”
And then the little maiden said,
“Now tell me why, Papa,
That lady ask’d him if the mangle
Was sold by his mamma?”
“I can’t tell why, my dear,” said he,
Though, of course, ’tis some facetiæ.”
But when she saw the lady’s fingers
Unto her nose applied,
“Why, ’tis a very vulgar thing!”
The little maiden cried.
“The papers all, my child, agree,
’Tis brimful of facetiæ.
“And everybody says the piece
With brilliant wit is filled;”
“And what is wit, my dear Papa?”
Quoth innocent Clotilde.
“Why, that I cannot say,” quoth he,
“But wit is not—vulgarity.”
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack
for 1847.
A Seasonable Gossip.
It was a Sunday evening,
Old Simpson’s pipe was fill’d,
And on the hob his porter stood
(He always took it “chill’d”)
And near him, from the Times outspread,
His little grandson Thomas read.
(Here follow seven verses descriptive of the principal events in the French Revolution of 1848. These are ancient history now.)
“Great praise, no doubt, the men deserve,
Who for their rights have fought.”
“But what will come of it at last?”
Asked little Tom, in thought.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But not, I fear, Tranquillity.”
The Puppet Show, May 13, 1848.
The Battle of Jobbing.
A Prospective Scene.—Time about 1893.
It was a winter’s evening;
Old Thomson’s work was done,
And he, before a small wood fire,
Sat crouching like a crone;
And by him sat, as cold as stones,
His trusty neighbours, Scott and Jones.
He saw his nephew bringing in
A something large and round,
That in the garden at the back,
In digging there he’d found.
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and black, and round.
Old Thomson took it from the youth,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And answered with a sigh—
“A lump of that sea-coal,” said he,
“Our fathers used so lavishly.”
They find it near Newcastle, for
There’s plenty thereabout;
But Shipping Law and City Dues
Combine to keep it out.
And such poor wretched folks as we
Can’t purchase such a luxury.”
“Now tell me what ’tis all about,”
The youth cried with surprise;
And neighbours Scott and Jones looked up
With wonder in their eyes:—
“Now tell us all about the Law,
And what the City Dues are for?”
“The Law is this—all foreign ships
Are by our rulers told,
They shall not bring us coal while ours
Are off for Melbourne gold;
And so the coal comes as it can—
A cheap and most efficient plan!
“The City lent an orphan fund
To merry Charles the Second;
Full seven hundred thousand pounds
I think the sum was reckon’d;
But what they lent it for,” quoth he,
“No mortal man could ever see.
“But though Charles could not meet his bill
The loan was not so rash;
For soon they put a tax on coals,
Which paid them back their cash
A hundred-fold; but then, you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.
“On ev’ry fire for twenty miles
They laid this City tax,
And what they lost by merry Charles
They put on other’s backs;
And still they keep the tax, you know,
For money makes the Mayor to go.
“We think it is a splendid sight
On a November day,
To see the Lord Mayor’s coach and six,
With bands and banners gay;
But then we know, beneath the show,
What money makes the Mayor to go.
Great praise the Corporation wins
For hospitality.”
“Why, they’re a set of jobbing knaves!”
Exclaimed the other three.
“Hush, hush! my friends,” quoth he, “you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.
“And after feasts much broken food
Is given to the poor,”
“Why, they but give them back their own!”
Exclaim’d they, as before.
“Well, that,” said he, “I do not know,
But money makes the Mayor to go.”
Diogenes, October, 1853.
The Battle of Berlin.
(As it may be described some day.)
It was a summer’s evening,
Old Monty’s[67] work was done,
And he, before his garden door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild Hughendine.
She saw her brother Benjamin
Bring something tied around
With broad red tape, which he inside
A Cabinet had found:
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so neatly tied around.
Old Monty took it from the boy,
And sighing, shook his head,
“It is my relic of the fight
That congress waged,” he said—
“The Berlin Treaty, which,” quoth he,
“We won in the great victory.”
“Now, tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Benjamin he cries;
And little Hughendine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes—
“Now tell us why the Congress met,
And what advantage did we get.”
“It was our Premier,” Monty cried,
“That put them all to rout;
Though how and when he managed it
I could not well make out;
But every body said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.
“True, Russia most successfully
Did play her little game;
And Austria got heaps of spoil,
And even Greece the same:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Cyprus won,
And Salisbury too, I ween.”
“For simply faring like the rest!”
Said little Hughendine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.
“And everybody praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.”
“But, pray, what good has come of it?”
Quoth little Benjamin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;
“But ’twas a famous victory.”
Funny Folks, August 3, 1878.
Children at the Pantomime.
First Prize poem published in
The World February 4, 1880.
It was a winter’s evening;
The father’s work was done,
And in a box at Drury Lane
He sat to see the fun,
And nestling closely at his side
Were Mat and Mabel eager-eyed.
They gloated over Blue Beard’s crimes;
They pitied Sister Ann;
They clapped the transformation scene,
As only children can;
Then Columbine and Harlequin,
With Clown and Pantaloon, come in.
“Now tell us what it’s all about,”
Young Mat expectant cries;
And little Mabel seconds him
With shining wistful eyes.
“Now tell us all about the fuss,
And why they whack each other thus.”
“It is their way,” the father said;
“They act it in dumb show;
But what they whack each other for
I really do not know.
But everybody calls it prime—
It is a famous pantomime,
“But still, they say, ’tis sad to see
Those girls so young and fair,
Who charmed you so just now, at home,
And all the squalor there.
But things like these in every clime
Attend a famous pantomime.
“Great credit has the manager
From all the people gained.”
“Why those poor girls appeared so gay!”
Quoth Mabel, greatly pained.
“Hush, hush, thou little lass o’ mine;
It is a famous pantomime!
“And folk have praised the good lessee,
Who’s furnished us the fun.”
“But what’s the meaning of it all?”
Quoth Mat, his tiny son.
Said dad, “You’ll know it all in time;
But ’tis a famous pantomime.”
Orchis. (F. B. Doveton.)
Second Prize Poem.
It was a winter’s evening,
Had closed the tedious day,
And grandpapa and Master Tom
Had come to see the play,
And, shyly peeping at the scene,
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
Then Master Tommy’s mouth and eyes
Grew very large and round,
With awestruck gaze of mute surprise
At that enchanted ground;
“Please tell us what they do, you know,
And why they slap each other so.”
“They play those tricks to make us laugh,
(Just hear the people shout!)
Though what they slap each other for,
I never could make out;
But everybody says this time
It is a famous pantomime.
“And some are kings, and some are queens,
And some are knights and squires.
And some have friends behind the scenes,
And fly—by means of wires;
For many hundred at a time,
Perform in this great pantomime.
“Some smile, like that for weeks and weeks,
And twirl upon their toes;
Some paint their eyebrows and their cheeks,
And prance about in rows;
And everybody says, ‘How prime!
It is a famous pantomime.’
“Great praise the foremost actors win
Whenever they are seen—”
“But tis a very silly thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl; this time
It is a famous pantomime.
“Perhaps poor Joe, who laughs so loud,
Feels more inclined to cry;
Perhaps his little Wilhelmine
Is sick, and like to die:
But every one, you know, some time
Must play in the great pantomime.”
Cucumber. (A. Salter.)
The Battle of Brummagem.
By Robert Mouthey.
I.
It was an April evening,
The polling day was o’er;
And Grandpa Stone in sadden’d mood,
Reclined his fire before;
Recrimination, blame, were done,
Gem, Randall, Hopkins,—all,—were gone.
II.
His little grandson, playing near,
A printed sheet had found,
With letters cover’d, bold and clear,
And figures large and round;
In vain he tried to make it out,
And came to ask what ’twas about.
III.
Old Stone then took it from the child,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heav’d a natural sigh,—
“It tells of all who went,” said he,
And poll’d in the great victory!”
IV.
“I see it in the papers told,
There’s many here about;
And often when their tales I read,
In lies I find them out;
We Tories never feared,” said he,
“To gain a glorious victory!”
V.
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
His grandson then he cries,
While near his little sister stood,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now, tell us all about this Poll;
What means this word so queer and droll?”
VI.
“The Liberals ’twas” said Stone, “who put
The Tory host to rout;
But how this same thing came to pass
I cannot well make out;
But all the same for us,” said he,
“It is a virtual victory!”
VII.
“I show’d my face amid the crowd,
The polling booth hard by;
Hired ruffians chaff’d and hooted me,
And I was forced to fly;
So, as was best, I quickly fled,
And here I rest my weary head.”
VIII.
“All false reports and tales we spread,
And slander far and wide;
Intimidation, threats, rewards,—
Each Tory dodge we tried;
Such things in politics must be,
E’en for a virtual victory!”
IX.
Bad luck! a drizzling rain came down,
The day had else been won;
Our band of Tory lambs it drench’d,
And spoilt their promis’d fun;
The Liberals to vote were free,
And gain’d a famous victory!”
X.
“Great praise our Burnaby he won,
And Calthorpe by his side,”
“Why, twas a very foolish thing!”
The little girl then cried.
“Nay,—nay,—my little girl,” quoth he,
“They gain’d a virtual victory!”
XI.
“And every one the Major prais’d,
Who this great fight did win;”—
“Then, after all,” the boy he cried,
’Twas Burnaby got in?”
“Well,—not exactly that,”—said he,
’Twas but a virtual victory!”
By the late William Bates, B.A.
The Town Crier, Birmingham, April, 1880.
A Famous Holiday.
It was a summer evening,
The pointsman’s work was done;
And he before his own box door
Felt precious glad for one;
And by him loafed about the line
The night-watch due at half-past nine.
And, as he loafed about, he came
On something flat and round,
That smashed had caught his shuffling feet
Upon the gravelled ground.
And then he asked what he had found
That was so smashed—yet flat and round.
The pointsman took it from his mate
Who stood all sleepy by;
And then he clapped it on his head
And said, “Lor’ bless you—why,
It’s what some bloke dropped by the way
On that there last bank ’oliday!
“I often come across ’em here,
There’s many round about;
Why, if you had to find your ’ats,
That ditch would rig you out!
There’s scores of ’em, so I’ve heard say,
Wos dropped on that there ’oliday.”
“Now, tip us ’ow it come about,”
The other, drowsy, cries,
The while, the crownless chimney-pot
Upon his head he tries.
“Now, tip us: say, whose job it wor?
What did he smash the ’Scursion for?”
“Jim’s wor that job,” the pointsman said;
“He ’ad too long a bout!
But what he smashed the ’Scursion for
I never could make out.
He fell a blinkin, I dus say,
And took his little ’oliday!
“But them as was a-takin’ theirs
(And some—it was their last),
Was ’appy, singin’ of their songs:
And, as she busted past,
You might ’ave heard ’em, laughin’ say,
‘This ’ere’s a famous ’oliday!’
“So, when she come upon them points,
As crammed as you could pack,
And not a soul a-chaffin’ there
Know’d death lay on the track,—
It did seem ’ard in that there way
To end their ‘famous ’oliday!’
“And, oh! it was a ’orrid sight,
When off the line she run,
With dozens lying stiff and still,
Who started full of fun!
But, there—had Jim now not give way,
They’d ’ad a famous ’oliday!
“He got it precious ’ot for that!”
The other stroked his chin.
“Maybe. But it’s the Company,”
Said he, “I’d like to skin!
I’d let ’em all at Bot’ny Bay
Just try their famous ’oliday!”
The pointsman faced his mate. Quoth he,
“Where can your reck’ning be?
Here’s parties pays a bob or two.
And gets three hours o’ sea;
And, if they ain’t smashed up, I say,
That there’s a famous ’oliday.”
“And, what’s to come,” the other asked,
“Of scares now like this ’ere?”
The pointsman smiled. “My mate,” he said,
“You’re green, that’s pretty clear.
Why, ‘what’s to come?’ Next year, I’ll lay,
Another famous oliday!”
Punch, September 25, 1880.
A Glorious Victory.
It was a summer evening,
Old Roger’s work was done,
And he his fragrant honey-dew
Was smoking in the sun,
And by him sported, bright and fair,
His little grandchild, Golden Hair.
She saw her brother, Curly Head,
Bring something hard and round
Which he, upon the mantel-shelf,
Beneath a shade, had found.
She came to ask what he had found
That was so hard, and smooth, and round.
Old Roger took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by,
And then the old man told the tale—
(Fire kindled in his eye)—
“This is the Cricket-Ball,” said he,
“That tells of a great Victory.
“I prize it more than all I have,
It’s worth can ne’er be told;
’Tis true ’tis only leather, but
’Tis more to me than gold!
Go, place it back again,” said he,—
“It was a famous Victory.”
“Please tell us what it is you mean.”
Young Curly Head he cries;
And little Golden Hair looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes:—
“Yes, tell us, for we long to know
The reason why you prize it so.”
“It was the Colonists,” he said,
Of now undying fame,
Who met Eleven picked Englishmen
And put them all to shame:
For everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous Victory.
“The contest, at the Oval was—
The noted ground hard by—
’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps,
And made the bails to fly;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.
“Not even Grace, of matchless skill
(No worthier in the land),
The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist,
His awful speed withstand;
By lightning smit, as falls the oak,
The wickets fell beneath his stroke!
“And more than twenty thousand men,
With bated breath, looked on—
The threatening rain deterred them not,
Nor did the scorching sun;
Their time and money gave to see
Who’d gain the famous Victory.
“And when at last the crisis came—
When one must quickly yield—
When Peate, the famous Yorkshireman,
His wicket failed to shield,
All over was the splendid play—
The Englishmen had lost the day!
“They say it was a wondrous sight,
After the match was done,
To see so many thousand men
After the Victors run;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.
“Great praise the ‘Demon’ Spofforth gained,
His bowling was so rare.”
“I think he must have frightened them,”
Said little Golden Hair.
“Well, well, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous Victory!”
“And everyone the ‘Demon’ cheered,
So many low he laid”——
“But what could they be all about
To let him?” Curley said:
“Why that—I cannot tell,” said he:
“But ’twas a famous Victory!”
Punch, September 16, 1882.
A Famous Victory.
It was a spring-tide evening,
When he who speaks of jams,
And many more mysterious things,
Sat reading telegrams;
And, while he scanned them through and through,
The British public read them too.
And soon that public stared to see
A column filled with blood,
Which though set forth in plainest print,
No mortal understood:
They came to ask that statesman good
What looked so red with human blood.
The statesman took it from the crowd
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a worried sigh—
“’Tis some news-monger’s scrawl,” said he,
“About the grand new victory.”
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
The British public cries,
While in that good man’s face it looks
With wonder-waiting eyes—
“Now tell us all about our war,
And what we killed these Arabs for.”
“It was we English,” out he cried,
“Put Osman’s blacks to rout;
What else can Liberals want to know
Why else marched Graham out?
And e’en the Tories own,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous—victory.”
“We thrashed the Arabs once at Teb—
I can’t say why ’twas so;
For Tokar needed no relief,
And Sinkat less you know:
And Gordon promised t’other day,
The Soudanese should have their way.
“Oh, ’twas a glorious sight to see
How great god Jingo rose,
And at my bidding swept from life
Whole hosts of gallant foes:
How British soldiers dare and die
With, or without a reason why,
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won:
For full four thousand bodies there
Lay dead beneath the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise my energy has gained,
And laurels crown my head.”
“Why, ’twas a downright massacre!”
The simple public said.
“Nay, nay, my friends: nay, nay,” said he
“It was a famous victory!”
“Famous, by—Jingo!” so he swore.
Yet still they asked, perplext,
“But what good comes of it at last?
And what’s to follow next?”
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he:
“But—’twas a Famous Victory!”
Clapham Free Press, April 5, 1884.
The Battle of Blenheim (House).
It was a winter evening,
In dull November’s gloom,
When J. B. Stone sat doing sums,
In the club smoking-room;
And by him Rowlands sat serene
Blowing the fragrant nicotine.
They heard a voice both shrill and loud
Calling out “Daily Mail,
Result in Central Birmingham!”
Then turned a little pale;
And Rowlands hoarsely whispered “Stone,”
I—rather—think—the verdict’s known.”
They sent the spacious serving man—
A ha’p’ny in his hand—
To fetch with tongs th’ accursed sheet,
Which eagerly they scanned:
A fearful thing there met their sight,
“GREAT VICTORY FOR MR. BRIGHT!”
Quoth Rowlands: “This looks very blue,
Poor Churchill—what a sell!
I think I’ll have a brandy hot,”
And forthwith pulled the bell;
While Stone sat still with stony stare,
Gazing profoundly on the air.
But soon he gave a sudden jerk,
And pulled his pencil out,
And figured over several sheets,
Then raised a joyous shout:
“Ah, ah, ’tis not so bad you see,
We’ve won a virtual victory.
“’Tis true that Bright is just ahead,
By hundreds nine to ten,
But I can show he should have won
By just us much again:
We’ve lower’d their proud majority,
And that’s a virtual victory.”
“Ahem!” said Rowlands, looking glum,
“That doesn’t count, I fear,
A win’s a win, and we must sing
Political small beer.
Your best arithmetic won’t score
Twice two as anything but four.”
“Cheer up, cheer up, my trusty friend.”
Stone cheerily chirped out,
“I’m rather good at ciphering,
And know what I’m about:
I say we ought to sing with glee
For such a virtual victory:
“Send off the news to Blenheim House
That Marlborough may know,
Despatch a score of ‘tannergrams’
To humble Highbury Joe;
’Twill make him shake with fear to see
We’ve won a virtual victory.
“Come, run with me to High Street quick,
And show to the Gazette
How to display this joyful news
In type triumphant set;
How fine upon the bill ’twill be
To read “Great Virtual Victory!”
“But tell me,” Rowlands answered him,
“What ’vantage we shall gain,
When Bright will sit, and Bright will vote,
While Churchill’s with the slain?”
“Oh that,” quoth Stone, “Don’t trouble me,
’Tis such a virtual victory!”
Birmingham Daily Mail, November, 1885.
The old Gladstonite and his Son.
A.D. CIRCA 1900.
“Tell me, dear father, if the time
When this poor paltry Island’s might,
Was held enough to conquer Crime,
And even Anarchy to fight;
Explain to me how Gladstone’s acts—
So noble in themselves—yet made
Our ruin and our fall two facts,
And put our glory in the shade.”
His explanation only ran,
“He was a very grand old man.”
“But father, dear, when all the dead
And tortured loyalists who fell
For deeming that what Gladstone said,
Was true; and only when the yell
Of Dynamiting Fenian crew
Came on their ears, saw their reward,
For so believing, surely you
Don’t think ’twas right to steal their sword?”
He murmured, as his tears began,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
“And England’s honour, credit, name,
Her colonies, her army, fleet,
All gone—her prestige turned to shame,
Her altered battle cry ‘Retreat:’
Was not all this a biggish price
To pay for keeping even him
To talk, and make distinctions nice.
And be so eloquent and dim?”
He glared as only fathers can,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
“Father, I know we should be still
While foes are taking all we prize;
’Tis Gladstone-good to think no ill
Of murderers in moral guise;
But, somehow, if our forbears had
Just shut him up, I’d almost bet
That Englishmen might now be glad,
And England might be England yet.”
Poor Father’s tears in buckets ran,
“He was a very Grand Old Man.”
Desart.
The Morning Post, June 5, 1886.
——:o:——
The Jackanape Jock.
(From our Special Sporting Correspondent.)
I.
Great stir in the air, great stir on the lea,
Stands, paddock and ring all noisy with glee,
All backing the favourite, for none had a notion
Except his sly owner, he’d been drugged with a potion.
II.
As the hour of two chimed forth from the clock,
Out came the favourite with Jackanape Jock,
As they swept round the corner, they were received with a yell,
Cantering down in the open, both showed off so well.
III.
Even the starter of the Horsely stock
Had lumped his little on Jackanape Jock;
He mounted his steed, as the hand bell rang,
Which signalled the time when his duties began.
IV.
Then, the rest of the field trotted down to the dell,
They muster’d fifteen—all known very well;
But none so cute at getting out of a block
As the favourite bay and the Jackanape Jock.
V.
The sun in heaven shone bright and gay;
All who’d any coin began to hedge or to lay;
Bookmakers screamed their odds all around,
Four to one, three to one, then two to one pound.
VI.
The bay with the Jackanape Jock was seen
A dark little speck by the other fifteen;
Sir Ralph took his glasses from round his neck
And fixed his eyes on that dark little speck.
VII.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
He’d all on the bay, slap down to his ring,
It was wealth or ruin—nothing less—
But Sir Ralph felt certain of success.
VIII.
He watched the white flag brightly float,
He watched the starter’s light covert coat,
He saw the nags standing as firm as a rock,
But the one which stood best was the bay and his jock.
IX.
The flag is lower’d—away they go,
The start is fair—the pace not slow,
The excitement is great—all gaze on the race,
And even their tongues are quiet for a space.
X.
Up by the dell, as if spurning the ground,
Though straining each muscle, each gracefully bound;
But from the tip of his tail to the end of each hock
It looks like a win for the bay and his jock.
XI.
Sir Ralph he shouted and praised the bay,
He fancied he’d got it all his own way;
He began counting his gains, and hoarding his ore,
And chuckled with glee at the thought of his store.
XII.
All of a sudden, the bay lessens his speed,
And cease to take such a prominent lead;
“He’s keeping him in for the finish,” says he,
And he praised the jock as he had the gee.
XIII.
“The chap wants to show he’s well up to the course,
And can win in a canter without tiring his horse;
But I hope he won’t try and run it too fine,
For even in racing you must draw the line.”
XIV.
Yet still the bay lags behind more and more,
The ring and the stands make more noise than before;
Says Sir Ralph, “If he means pulling the bay,
I tell you beforehand, I’m d—d if I pay.”
XV.
Here they are—they have pass’d and the great race is run,
The numbers go up and all have been done—
And nothing but swearing and cursing is heard,
For the bay and his jock came in a bad third.
XVI.
Sir Ralph he swore and tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
He curst the bay; he curst the jock;
And he curst his owner like one o’clock.
XVII.
But before he departs from the scene of the tale,
To catch the first trans-Atlantic mail,
He mutters this moral, at the thought of his losses
“Mind you don’t go and put your crust in racehorses.”
From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley.
(Jones and Piggott, 16, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1883.)
PARODIES OF SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS.
In order to explain the parodies of Southey’s political poems, it is necessary to refer to the peculiar opinions he held, and the widely varying theories he advanced, at two different periods of his life.
In Southey’s youth his friends had wished him to enter the English Church, but he, in addition to holding strong republican views, had also imbibed Socinian principles. Feeling, therefore, that he could neither conscientiously receive holy orders, nor remain happily under a purely monarchical government, he decided upon resigning both his college and his country. He enlisted his two bosom friends, Lovell and Coleridge, in his projects, and, proceeding to Bristol, there held a consultation as to the best mode of securing the liberties of the human race in future, from the designs and ambition of political rulers. The system agreed upon was that of a Pantisocracy, or society wherein all things should be in common; and the spot fixed on as the citadel of future Freedom was on the banks of the river Susquehana, in North America.
But the poverty of the three friends prevented them from putting the scheme into execution, and procuring, as they had fondly hoped, universal liberty and equality for the entire human race.
Notwithstanding this disappointment Southey’s enthusiasm in the cause of republicanism was kindled even higher than before; and, in his “Wat Tyler,” published in 1795, he advocated the principle of universal liberty and equality, with a fervour not exceeded by any writer of that agitated period. This vehemence, he lived to regret,—whether the calmer judgment of maturer years condemned the errors of those that were past,—or whether self-interest was the influencing motive for a sudden and total change of political sentiment, it is not now possible to ascertain. So complete was his change of sentiment that he employed the most active measures for the suppression of the work itself: he destroyed all the unsold copies, bought up many of those that had been distributed, and exhibited the plainest demonstration of an abandonment of his early projects and principles. Carlisle, and others, who did not hesitate to expose themselves to legal penalties, provided they could hold up a political deserter to public scorn, had the boldness to republish “Wat Tyler” without Mr. Southey’s permission. An injunction was instantly applied for by the indignant author, but Lord Eldon refused to grant this protection, on the plea that “a person cannot recover damages upon a work which in its nature was calculated to do injury to the public.” This decision encouraged the vendors of the poem, and not less than 60,000 copies are supposed to have been sold during the excitement it created. And such passages as the following were extracted from it, and widely quoted by the opposition journals:—
“My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones.
Ye are all equal: Nature made ye so,
Equality is your birth-right;—when I gaze
On the proud palace, and behold one man
In the blood-purpled robes of royalty,
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions;
Then turn me to the hut of poverty,
And see the wretched labourer, worn with toil,
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants;
I sicken, and, indignant at the sight,
Blush for the patience of humanity.”
Nor had Southey the consolation of public sympathy, which indeed is seldom shown to such political apostates.
Henceforward Southey cast off his revolutionary opinions, and all his future writings were marked by an intolerant attachment to church and state, and servile adulation of the Royal Family. He soon reaped the reward of his apostacy, he was appointed secretary to Mr. Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, with a salary of £350 a year, and very light duties. In 1807, the government conferred a pension of £200 a year upon him, and in 1813, on the death of Henry James Pye, he was appointed Poet Laureate. In this capacity he did not compose the usual Birthday odes, and New Year’s Day odes, as had been done by his predecessors, but he produced various courtly poems on certain important events. These appeared at irregular intervals, and there are only three which need be specially alluded to, namely, Carmina Aulica, written in 1814, on the arrival of the allied sovereigns in England; Carmen Triumphale for the commencement of the year 1814; and Carmen Nuptiale, the Lay of the Laureate on the marriage of the Princess Charlotte. But last, and worst of all, was The Vision of Judgment, written on the death of George III, in 1820. These poems were all deeply tinged with Southey’s political prejudices, and contained the most bitter sentiments towards all who differed from his views; they provoked much animosity and ridicule at the time, and would soon have passed into utter oblivion, but for the satires and parodies they gave rise to.
Of these Lord Byron’s Vision of Judgment was, of course, the most powerful, in it the Laureate received a mercilessly witty castigation, which even his admirers admitted to be not altogether unmerited, as he had gone out of his way to attack those who had done him no wrong.
The mere fact of Southey’s complete change of opinions on political and social affairs would not, in itself, have been sufficient to account for the violence of the attacks to which he was subjected. It was not only that he turned from being an ardent Republican and a Communist, to a staunch Royalist and supporter of the Aristocratic form of government, but the change came at a time when party feeling ran very high, when the great body of the people were suffering sore distress, and when his own prospects, pecuniary and social, were greatly benefitted by deserting what was then known as the popular cause.
Further, he at once proceeded with all the ardour of a pervert to violently attack all who held similar views to those he had but so lately upheld, and advised that the most severely repressive measures should betaken against them, which caused Byron to address him thus, in the opening lines of Don Juan:
Bob Southey! you’re a poet—Poet-Laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although ’tis true that you turned 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;
Which pye being open’d they began to sing”
(This old song and new simile holds good).
“A dainty dish to set before the King”
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food,—
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,—
Explaining metaphysics to the nation—
I wish he would explain his explanation.
You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry Bob!
I would not imitate the petty thought
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary was’t for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the excise.
You’re shabby fellows—true—but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
Notwithstanding all the attacks aimed at him, Southey continued to write in the interest of his patrons, and retained the office of Poet Laureate until his death in 1843, when it was conferred upon William Wordsworth, who already held a lucrative government appointment. For more complete details of the duties and emoluments connected with the post of Poet Laureate, readers may refer to my little history of the Poets Laureate of England.
The most witty and amusing attacks of Southey’s early republican poems proceeded from the pen of George Canning who started the Anti-Jacobin Review, a series of weekly papers, the avowed object of which was to expose the doctrines of the French Revolution, and to ridicule the advocates of that event, and the friends of peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, and John Hookham Frere, Lord Clare, and Lord Mornington, were amongst the contributors. Their purpose was to disparage and blacken their adversaries, and they spared no means in the attempt. Their most distinguished countrymen, whose only fault was their being opposed to the government, were treated with no more respect than their foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. So alarmed, however, became some of the more moderate supporters of the ministry at the violence of the language employed, that Mr. Pitt was induced to interfere, and after an existence of eight months, the Anti-Jacobin (in its original form) ceased to exist.
The Poetry which appeared in the Anti-Jacobin has been frequently reprinted, but the prose contents are now generally forgotten. The best of the poetry was contributed by George Canning, with some assistance from John Hookham Frere, and whilst ridiculing the utopian views of Southey, and his friends, with much point and spirit, it differed from the prose articles of the Anti-Jacobin in that it contained fewer insulting personal allusions, and was generally written in a style of good humoured banter.
It was in November, 1797, that the first parody on Southey appeared, founded upon the following
Inscription.
For the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten,
the Regicide, was imprisoned Thirty Years.
For thirty years secluded from mankind
Here Marten linger’d. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison; not to him
Did Nature’s fair varieties exist,
He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he pour’d a sad
And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebell’d against the King, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp’d. Blessed hopes! Awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill’d!
Robert Southey.
Inscription.
For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the ’Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution.
For one long term, or ere her trial came,
Here Brownrigg linger’d. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She scream’d for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street.
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
She whipped two female ’prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind,
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! but time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal’d!
In the next number of the Anti-Jacobin there was an article on Jacobin Poetry, in which it was stated that “one of the most universally recognised principles in the Jacobin creed was that the truly benevolent mind should consider only the severity of the punishment inflicted by human laws without any reference to the malignity of the crime. It remained only to fit it with a poetical dress, which had been attempted in the inscription for Chepstow Castle, and which (we flatter ourselves), was accomplished in that for Mrs. Brownrigg’s cell.”
“Another principle, no less devoutly entertained, and no less sedulously administered, is the natural and eternal warfare of the Poor and the Rich.”
“This principle is treated at large by many authors, we trace it particularly in a poem by the same author from whom we borrowed our former illustration of the Jacobin doctrine of crimes and punishments. In this poem, the pathos of the matter is not a little relieved by the absurdity of the metre. The learned reader will perceive that the metre is sapphic, and affords a fine opportunity for his SCANNING and PROVING, if he has not forgotten them”:—
The Widow.
Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.
Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
“Pity me!” feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
“Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.
“Once I had friends—but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents—they are now in heaven!
I had a home once—I had once a husband—
Pity me, strangers!
“I had a home once—I had once a husband—
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!”
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On drove the chariot.
Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman: “Pity me!” she groaned out,
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer: sleep had seized her senses.
There did the traveller find her in the morning
God had released her.
Robert Southey, 1796.
“We proceed to give our imitation, which is of the Amœbœan or Collocutory kind”:—
Imitation.
Sapphics.
The Friend of Humanity, and the Knife-Grinder.[68]
Friend of Humanity.
“Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order—
Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in’t,
So have your breeches!
“Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissars to grind O!’
“Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?
“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
“(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”
Knife-Grinder.
“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers.
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
-stocks for a vagrant.
“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”
Friend of Humanity.
“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first—
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!”
[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a
transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]
This is generally admitted to be the best parody in the Anti-Jacobin, and has itself been frequently imitated. A few of the most interesting examples may be here quoted.
In John Bull (a London newspaper) for March 25, 1827, there was a parody on the subject of Roman Catholic emancipation, a topic then engaging much attention, although the bill on the subject was not passed until 1829.
The Friend of Humanity, and the Bricklayer’s Labourer.
Friend of Humanity.
Poor Roman Catholic! ere you mount the ladde
Unfold to me your melancholy story:
Soil’d is your neckcloth, and your whole apparel
Ragged and rusty.
Ah! Roman Catholic! all the proud Protestants
who to churches sometimes go on Sunday
Think you an ass for carrying the hod of
Pope Della Genga.
Once your clothes were new—and how came they shabby?
Did the Home Minister throw dirt upon you?
Or did His Honour the Master of the Rolls? or
Chancellor Eldon?
Did Mr. Peel, for killing of his game? or
Did His Honour, for denying of the veto?
Or John Lord Eldon, because you don’t like a
Chancery lawsuit?
(Ought not O’Connell and Shiel to be M.P.’s?)
Tell, without reserve, each of your privations;
Ready is my tongue the nation to rouse to
Render you justice.
Bricklayer’s Labourer:—
Justice! Privation!—what is it you mean, Sir?
Little do I know of our Lord the Pope, Sir,—
Father Shangolden gives me absolution
Often enough, Sir.
Secrets there are,—and those I shall not tell ye—
Captain Rock and I can keep our own counsel;
But my clothes were spoiled long before I came here
Over from Ireland.
Give me some whiskey—that is all I want now—
That makes me happy, for indeed I do not
Either for Shiel or O’Connell, or the vato
Care a potato!
Friend of Humanity.
I give thee whiskey—I will see thee burnt first.
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!
[Kicks the Bricklayer’s Labourer, overturns his hod of mortar and exit in a transport of liberal enthusiasm, and universal toleration.]
Sapphics of the Cabstand.
Friend of Self-Government.
Seedy cab-driver, whither art thou going?
Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order,
Local Self-Government yielding to the grip of
Centralisation.
Victim of Fitzroy! little think the M.P.’s,
Lording it o’er cabs, ’bus, lodging-house and graveyard,
Of the good times when every Anglo-Saxon’s
House was his castle.
Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. Chadwick—
Underground foe to the British Constitution—
Or my Lord Shaftesbury, put up Mr. Fitzroy
Thus to assail you?
Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police force
Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and
Easiest of Doctrines?
Have you not read Mr Toulmin Smith’s great work on
Centralisation? If you haven’t, buy it;
Meanwhile, I should be glad at once to hear your
View on the subject.
Cab-driver.
View on the subjeck? Jiggered if I’ve got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin’, I don’t—
Which I suppose it’s a crusher standin’ sentry
Hover a cabstand,
Whereby if we gives e’er a word o’ cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin’
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us
Dead as an ’ammer.
As for Mr. Toulmin Smith, can’t say as I knows him,
But as you talks so werry like a gem’man,
Perhaps you’re a goin’ in ’ansome style to stand a
Shillin’ a mile, sir.
Friend of Self-Government.
I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first—
Sixpence a mile or drive me straight to Bow Street,
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,
Insolent rascal!
Punch, July 30, 1853.
Lay of the Proctor.
“Tell me, O Proctor, whither art thou going?
Thus with thy bull-dogs putting the pace on,
Thick is the rain, your bands will get spoilt, sir
So will your velvet.
Tell me now frankly what made you turn Proctor,
Was there a lady somewhere in the case, sir,
Was it from duty, or is true you’re
A misanthrope, sir?
Did you want coin to help you to marry,
Or did you feel it a duty to your College,
Or was it simply from a love of mischief
That you turned Proctor?
If ’twas the first, then I will gladly tell you
My name and College, and pay you the five shillings,
Nay more, I don’t mind giving you a trifle
To help you on, sir.”
“Trifle!! I only hope that you’re drunk, sir,
Openly to insult a Proctor daring
Thus in the streets. If you are not tipsy
You’ll be sent down, sir.
Are you aware, sir, whom you’re addressing?
One who can fine you, send you down, or gate you,
Once more I ask you, sir, will you tell me
Your name and College?”
“My name and College? I’ll see thee d—d first,
Wretch, with no sense of gentlemanly feeling,
Sordid, unholy, pitiless, degraded,
Brute of a Proctor.”
(Trips up the Proctor, knocks down Bull-dogs,
and exit in transports of joy.)
Will Scarlet.
From The Shotover Papers, or
Echoes from Oxford, May 2, 1874.
Interviewed.
Scene—A Sea Port. Friend of Humanity
(Mr. P * * * h) meeting Seafaring Person.
Friend of Humanity (loq.)—
Stranger, why so deeply blushing?
Why your hat your temples crushing?
Why strange oaths so freely gushing?
Why inclined to so much lushing?
Why your way so madly pushing?
And from haunts of seaman rushing,
Through wet streets insanely slushing,
Fretting, fuming, “tish”-ing, “tush”-ing?
Seafaring Person.
’Cos it’s me as run the Russian
Emperor aground at Flushing!
[They weep together.
Punch, May 23, 1874.
The Friend of Humanity.
“Russicos odi, puer, apparatus”
Horace (latest edition.)
Friend of Humanity.
“Mr. John Bull! What ever are you doing?
Turkey is crush’d, the East is out of order;
War-trumpets blow; your interests are threaten’d,
So is your honour!
“Mr. John Bull! how little thought the great ones,
Who are supposed to settle European
Questions, that you would ever be content to
Play second fiddle!
“Tell me, John Bull, have you no human feeling?
Won’t you assist these luckless lambs of Moslems?
Will you sit still and see the Russians enter
Constantinople?
“Can you allow your foe of former days thus
All undisturbed to carry on his old game?
Can you behold his arrogance, and yet not
Give him a thrashing?
“Have you not read the Special Correspondents’
Shocking accounts of Muscovite aggressions?
Will you not make a spirited retort?—I
Pause for an answer.”
John Bull.
“Answer! good gracious! I have none to give, sir!
Only, I know that many papers, and the
Stock Exchange too, occasionally spread ri-
-diculous rumours.
“Often I’m told the wily tricks of Russia
Here or there put my interests in danger:
Still, they’re untouch’d, whilst quietly I keep my
Weather-eye open.
“I shall be glad to fight for British honour,
When it’s attack’d, and you of course will help me;
But, for my part, I never like to mix it
With Politics, sir.”
Friend of Humanity.
“I come and help thee! I will see thee d—— first—
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Baffled, effete, humiliated, sordid,
Spiritless Shopman!”
[Wisely refrains from kicking Mr. J. B.,
and exit in a transport of martial enthusiasm
and impartial philanthropy.]
Funny Folks, March 30, 1878.
The Friend of Agriculture,
and the Needy new Voter.
A contribution to modern Anti-Jacobinism.
(Imitated from the celebrated
Sapphics of Canning and Frere.)
Friend of Agriculture.
Needy New Voter! Whither are you wending?
Bad are the times, and hard upon your order.
Prices fall fast;—your stomach feels a vacuum,
So does your pocket!
Nubbly-knee’d rustic! little know the proud ones,
Who at their button flaunt the expensive orchid,
What dreary work ’tis delving all your days, and
Ending a pauper.
Tell me, Giles Joskin, whom your vote inclines to.
Is ’t the rich Rad, who only aims to use you?
Or the kind Squire? or Parson of the Parish—
Lavish of blankets?
Is it sly Joe, who’s playing his own game, or
Arch-diddler Arch? Are you the dupe of “ransom”
Or roguish land-schemes, baited with that bogus
Cow and Three Acres?
(Have you read Popular Government, by Sir R. Maine?)
Tears of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Tell me your tale; turn up those Rads, and trust the
Pitiful Tory.
Needy New Voter.
Tory? Lor’ bless ye, he has proved a sell, Sir,
What hath he done for I, or for the farmer?
This poor old hat and breeches, yon bare acres,
Show him a diddle.
Promised Protection? Boh! Can’t take me in so.
Cow and Three Acres; That’s a Tory scare-crow;
But there be some small hopes in altered land-laws
And small allotments.
I should be glad to think yer honour loved us;
Might, if ye’d been the first to gi’ us the Vote now.
But do ut des,[69] as Bizzy puts it; that is
My politics, Sir,
Friend of Agriculture.
Give thee the Vote? I wish we’d seen thee starve first.
Wretch! whom no thought but gain can move to gratitude;
Sordid, uncultured, Socialistic, stupid
Radical cat’s-paw!
(Kicks the New Voter, compares him unfavourably with the intelligent Conservative Working Man, and exit in a transport of Constitutional enthusiasm and universal Anti-Jacobinism.)
Punch, February 6, 1886.
——:o:——
Again, in December, 1797, did The Anti-Jacobin attack Southey’s muse, saying: “we have already hinted at the principle by which the followers of the Jacobinical sect are restrained from the exercise of their own favourite virtue of charity. The force of this prohibition, and the strictness with which it is observed, are strongly exemplified in the following poem. It is the production of the same author whose happy effort in English Sapphics we presumed to imitate; the present effusion is in Dactylics, and equally subject to the laws of Latin prosody.”
The Soldier’s Wife.
Dactylics.
Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road;
Wild-visaged wanderer! Ah! for thy heavy chance.
Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back—
Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.
Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face,[70]
Thy husband will never return from the war again;
Cold is thy hopeless heart, even as charity—
Cold are thy famished babes—God help thee, widowed one!
Robert Southey, 1795.
The Soldier’s Friend.
(Canning’s Contrast.)
Come, little Drummer Boy, lay down your knapsack here;
I am the soldier’s friend—here are some books for you;
Nice clever books by Tom Paine, the philanthropist.
Here’s half-a-crown for you—here are some handbills too—
Go to the barracks, and give all the soldiers some,
Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.
(Exit Drummer Boy, with handbills, and half-a-crown, mane Soldiers’ Friend.)
Liberty’s friends thus all learn to amalgamate,
Freedom’s volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty.
Reason, philosophy, “fiddledum diddledum,
Peace and fraternity, higgledy, piggledy,
Higgledy, piggledy, “fiddledum, diddledum.”
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
In the following number of The Anti-Jacobin (December 18, 1797), another parody of the same original appeared:—
The Soldier’s Wife.
Imitation Dactylics.
(Being the quintessence of all the Dactylics
that ever were, or ever will be written.)
Wearisome Sonnetteer, feeble and querulous,
Painfully dragging out thy demo-cratic lays—
Moon-stricken Sonnetteer, “Ah! for thy heavy chance.”
Sorely thy Dactylics lay on uneven feet;
Slow is the syllable which thou would’st urge to speed,
Lame and o’erburthen’d, and “screaming its wretchedness!”
* * * * *
Ne’er talk of ears again! look at thy spelling book;
Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities—
Dactylics, call’st thou ’em?—“God help thee, silly one!”
Both these Parodies were written by William Gifford, the Editor of the The Anti-Jacobin.
SOUTHEY’S OFFICIAL POEMS.
Southey wrote an ode on the first overthrow of Napoleon, entitled “Carmen Triumphale, for the year 1814,” this gave James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, the hint for a long and uninteresting parody “The Curse of the Laureate, Carmen Judiciale,” published in “The Poetic Mirror,” in 1816.
But of all Southey’s official poems “The Vision of Judgment,” published in 1820, on the death of George III, was the most important, and the one which received the greatest attention, praise, blame, and ridicule from his contemporaries, according to their various shades of opinion.
There are two notable instances in English literature of the respect described as having been paid by heaven to deceased kings. The first of these was the tribute paid by the servile Dryden to the memory of Charles II, entitled “A Funeral Pindarique poem, sacred to the Happy Memory of King Charles II,” the other was the description, by Robert Southey, of the beatification of George III, entitled “The Vision of Judgment.”
Of Dryden’s poem nothing need here be said, except that it contained the oft quoted lines:—
“For, e’er a prince is to perfection brought,
He costs omnipotence a second thought.”
Second thoughts are not always the best, and few kings have been above the average of mankind.
At the time these poems were written each author was enjoying the pension of Poet Laureate, which furnishes the only possible excuse for the blasphemy, and the fulsome adulation, which characterise the poems.
Southey’s poem, with all its faults, was scarcely so glaringly profane at that of Dryden, who spoke of the second Charles, as
That all-forgiving king,
The type of him above!
yet Southey did not hesitate to represent the Almighty as leaving his throne especially to come down to meet the spirit of George III at the gate of heaven. Then all the spirits in heaven, and in hell, are summoned to the trial of the old king, and his accusers are ordered to stand forth to bear witness against him.
According to Mr. Southey this immaculate king had no accusers save two from amongst the fiends, and they are too terrified by his presence to bear witness against him. These are the shades of Junius and John Wilkes, both of whom are immediately hurled away into sulphurous darkness.
After this George III is told by an angel that “there is none to arraign him,” which is scarcely surprising considering the summary manner in which Southey had disposed of the previous accusers.
The beatification of George follows, and he makes his triumphal entry into heaven, according to Southey, as the King of Glory! The poem was written in blank verse, and consisted of twelve cantos, whereas Lord Byron’s Vision of Judgment is written in rhyme, and can scarcely be styled a parody of Southey’s Vision. It is, besides, a rather lengthy production, and as every one has a copy of Byron’s works, it is unnecessary to insert it here. In his preface, Byron alludes to the inconsistencies of Southey’s life and opinions, and in the poem itself he causes Southey thus to describe his works to the Arch-angel Michael:
He said—(I only give the heads)—he said,
He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way
Upon all topics; ’twas besides, his bread,
Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works—he would but cite a few—
“Wat Tyler”—“Rhymes on Blenheim”—“Waterloo.”
He had written praises of a regicide;
He had written praises of all kings whatever;
He had written for republics far and wide,
And then against them bitterer than ever;
For pantisocracy he once had cried
Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever,
Then grew a hearty Anti-Jacobin—
Had turn’d his coat—and would have turn’d his skin.
He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory; he had call’d
Reviewing “the ungentle craft,” and then
Become as base a critic as e’er crawl’d—
Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men
By whom his muse and morals had been maul’d;
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,
And more of both than anybody knows.
He had written Wesley’s life:—here turning round
To Satan, “Sir, I’m ready to write yours,
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
With notes, and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints.”
Satan bow’d, and was silent. “Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
As it was once, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.
“But talking about trumpets, here’s my vision!
Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.
I settle all these things by intuition,
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,
Like King Alfonso. When I thus see double,
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”
He ceased, and drew forth an M.S.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish’d, with variety of scents,
Ambrosial, and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his “melodious twang.”
* * * * *
——:o:——
In 1821, William Hone issued a pamphlet entitled “A Slap at Slop, and the Bridge Street Gang,” with some clever political caricatures by George Cruikshank. This pamphlet contains several amusing parodies, notably one on Canning’s U-niversity of Gottingen, and a very close imitation of part of Southey’s “Vision of Judgment.”
Hone’s object was not only to ridicule Southey’s poem, but also to attack the members of The Loyal Association, or, as it was afterwards styled, “The Constitutional Association,” a body formed with somewhat similar objects to those of The Primrose League of to-day. This society had its offices in New Bridge Street, Blackfriars, hence Hone’s term, “Bridge Street Gang,” its secretary was one Charles Murray, a thin, elderly man with a wooden leg; whilst “Dr. Slop” was a name borrowed by Hone from Tristram Shandy, and applied to Sir John Stoddart, M.D., a choleric physician, who had formerly been on the staff of The Times newspaper. He had therein attacked certain persons, and opinions, so intemperately that he was discharged, according to an article in The Times itself, in 1817, on account of “the virulence and indiscretion of his articles.”
He then started a journal of his own, called The New Times, in which the objects and proceedings of “The Constitutional Association” were constantly puffed and praised. Hone christened this paper, with doubtful taste, “The Muck Times, or Slop-pail,” and in the following parody he imitates Southey’s description of the hosts assembled in heaven to welcome George III, amongst whom only those were named whose political opinions were pleasing to the Poet Laureate.
A NEW VISION.
By Robert Southey, Esq.! l.l.d.!!
Poet Laureate!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!! &c.!!!
’Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding,
I alone in Slop’s office was left; and, in trouble of spirit,
I mused on old times, till my comfort of heart had departed.
Pensile at least I shall be, methought—sus per coll. surely!
And therewithal felt I my neckcloth; when lo! on a sudden,
There came on my eyes, hanging midway ’twixt heaven and St. James’s,
The book called the Pension List. There did I see my name written.
Yea even in that great book of life! It was sweet to my eye-lids.
As dew from a tax! and Infinity seem’d to be open,
And I said to myself. “Now a blessing be on thee, my Robert!
And a blessing on thee too my pen! and on thee too my sack-but!”
Now, as thus I was standing, mine ear heard a rap at the street-door,
Ev’n such as a man might make bold with, half gentle, half footman;
And lo! up the stairs, dotting one, one, after the other,
Came the leg of a wonder, hop! hop! through the silence of evening
And then a voice snarling from the throat of him they call Murray,
Who said, as he hopp’d, “must the Muck Times be mournful at all times?
Lo, Slop, I’ve a sop, for your mop; yes—hop! hop! I’ve a story,
With which I’ll light you up, if you’ll light me, Slop, up another.”
“Don’t be so bold!” methought a larking voice from the skylight
Answer’d, and therewithal I felt fear as of frightening;
Knowing not why, or how, my soul seem’d night-cap to my body.
Then came again the voice, but then with a louder squalling—
“Go to Hell” said the voice, “What, I?” said I inwardly, “I go?”
When lo, and behold, a great wonder! I, I, Robert Southey,
Even I, Robert Southey, Esquire, L.L.D. Poet Laureate,
Member of the Royal Spanish Academy, of the
Ditto of History too, of the Institute Royal
Of Dutchland, and eke of the Welch Cymmodorion wonder,
Author of Joan of Arc, of much Jacobin verse, and Wat Tyler,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
(For it’s unknown all the things that I am, and have written),
I, as I said before, ev’n I, by myself, I,
Unlike in that single respect, to my great master Dante,
(For Virgil went with him to help him), but like in all others,
Rush’d up into Paradise boldly, which angels themselves don’t,
Yea ev’n into Paradise rush’d I, through showers of flimsies,
All as good as the Bank, and for hailstones I found there were Sovereigns
Spick and span new; and anon was a body all glorified
Even all the great Host both of Church and State, Crosses, Grand Crosses,
Commanders, Companions, and Knights of all possible orders,
Commons and Peers, the souls of the sold, whom pensions made perfect,
Flocking on either hand, a multitudinous army,
Coronet, Crosier and Mitre, in grand semicircle inclining,
Tier over tier they took their place, aloft in the distance,
Far as the sight could pierce, Stars, Garters, and Gold Sticks.
From among the throng bless’d, all full dress’d, in a Field Marshal’s uniform,
Rose one, with a bow serene, who, aloft, took his station;
Before him the others crouched down, all inclining in concert,
Bent like a bull-rush sea, with a wide and a manifold motion:
There he stood in the mid’st alone; and in front was the presence,
With periwig curling and gay, and a swallow-cut coat tail.
Hear ye of long ears! Lo! in that place was Canning,[71]
He who strengthens the Church and State, with his Manton’s hair-triggers,
And sneers on his lips, and eyes leering, and rapturous speeches;
With him Fletcher Franklin I saw, and Sir Robert, my namesake,
Worthy the name! even Baker, Sir Robert, of Bow-street;
And Gifford, with face made of lachrymose, savage and feeble,
Who delighteth with Croker to cut up men, women, and young men,
And therefore did Hazlitt cut him up, and so he stood mangled,
There, too, brocaded and satin’d, stood smiling and bowing,
With court-mask’d appearance, the Fearful One, him of Triangle!
And there, too, the Foolish one, circular-conscienced, the Doctor!
And I saw in the vision, the Generals, Sol and Attorney;
And Sacchi, was there too, and him surnamed Non-mi Ricordo;
And Mademoiselle Daemon, and Barbara Kress, and Rastelli;
And Mister, and Mister-ess Jessop, and eke the Miss Jessops;
And Mar——ss H——d, and M——ss C——m, also;
And Mrs. Fitzherbert, and C—ch; and in sooth all the Beauties
Of the “Georgian Age”; except Robinson Mary,[72]
Whom great G. first sent to the D—— and little G. after,
(Namely Gifford, who smote at her sorely, yea, ev’n at her crutches,
So that she fell in her grave, and said, “cover me kind earth!”)
And the great-minded Cl— was there, looking like to Behemoth;
And the Lauderdale disinterested, great Scotch standard-bearer,
And there, too, the King’s much-conspired-against-stationer, King, stood,
The Lord Mayor of Dublin, who sendeth his Majesty’s whiskey;
And the members of Orange Clubs, all, anti-Irish shillelaghs;
And a heav’nly assembly of parsons, some lately expectant—
Parson Hey, Parson B. called, otherwise, Parson Blackcow, divine brute!
Parson C., alias Croly, or Crawley, or Coronaroly,
Who putteth forth innocent pamphlets on pure coronations,
Expecteth Milleniums, and audeth the Blackguard of Blackwood’s,
And looketh both lofty and slavish, a dreariness high-nosed,
As if he had, under the chin been, by worshipful men, chuck’d;
And great Parson Eat-all-stone, who’d swallow any thing surely;
And the Manchester Yeamanry Cavalry, riding down women;
And Alderman Atkins, with Curtis, that big belly-gerent;
And Flower, and Bridges, C. Smith, and the rest of the Bridge Gang;
All cloth’d for the heav’nly occasion in their best Indictments!
And there all the Lottery Contractors,[73] and such like, were also;
And there Mr. Strong-i-th-arm, his Majesty’s Seal Engraver, was also;
And they all who forged, lo! the French Assignats, were there also;
And the Court Newsman also was there—
(The Spirit now bids me write prose, but that, you know’s all the same thing.)
And Colburn with his Muck Monthly Magazine was there;
And Ward the animal Painter, with a piece of spoil’d canvas, 35 feet wide by 21, was there;
But Bird who, most disloyally, died of a broken heart, was not there;
And the Duke of Wellington, with his Sword of State was there;
And Sir John Silvester, the Recorder of London, and his assistant were there;
And Messrs. Rundell and Bridge, the Jewellers who repair’d the Crown were there,
And the Pigtails cut off from his Majesty’s guards were there;
And the guards themselves in their next uniforms, and new white gaiters, were there;
And the State Coach and Coachman and Horses were there;
And the other Ministers of State in the new State liveries were there;
And the Clerks of the Council and the two Silver Inkstands were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the Stock Exchange were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the Shipping Interest were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the Landed Interest were there;
But all the people without Interest were not there;
And all the Peers who voted the Queen of England guilty were there;
And all the Ministerial Members of the House of Commons were there;
And Dr. Slop with ‘fresh fig leaves for Adam and Eve[74],’ was there;
And the Royal Proclamation against Vice and Immorality was pasted up there;
And behold, while I read it, thinking to put it, excellent as it was, into language still better,
Methought, in my vision, I dreamt—dream within dream intercircled—
And seem’d to be hurried away, by a vehement whirlwind,
To Flames and Sulhphurous Darkness, where certain of my Minor Poems were scorching,
Yet unconsumed, in penal fire; and so was I purified,
For deeds done in the flesh, being, through them, burnt by proxy,
There, too, roasted the Bishop of Osnaburgh’s Doxy,[75]
But the Righteous-one, the Prince-Bishop himself, was in Heaven;
And two boots[76] were there, as a burnt offering for pecadillo,
But the Owner thereof was a glorified spirit above,
Whereof, as in duty bound, I had sung to him “Twang-a-dillo,
He that loves a pretty girl, is a hearty good fellow!”
And in Torment (but here the blest rage of the bard returns on me)
And in torment was She, who, on earth, had been also tormented
By Him who is never, nor can be accused, of aught vicious;
With her were the friends of my childhood—not leaving out Coleridge;
And they who were killed by the Manchester Yeomanry also;
And Truth, the whole Truth, nothing but the Truth, suffered the burning.
Then I turn’d my meek eyes, in their gladness, to Heaven, and my place there,
And ascending, I flew back to Paradise, singing of Justice;
Where, fill’d with divine expectation of merited favour,
The gathering host look’d to him, in whom all their hopes center’d,
As the everlasting hand; and I, too, press’d forward to obtain—
But old recollections withheld me; down, down, dropped my sack-but,
And my feet, methought slid, and I fell precipitate. Starting,
Then I awoke, with my hair up, and lo! my young days were before me,
Dark yet distinct; but instead of the voice of the honest,
I heard only Murray’s Yap! yap! and hop! hop! through the silence of evening:
Yap! hop! and hop! yap! and hence came the hop, step, and jump of my verses.
——:o:——
Carmen Triumphale.
BY R.S.P.L.
Last eve as I sate in my room that looks o’er the church of Saint Clement,
(Nota Bene: I had but of late arrived in town upon business,)
I ordered my boots for a walk, my boots that polished and pointed,
Bright on their surface display the beauty of Warren’s jet blacking:
Now you must know that my man, in his speed to reply to my summons,
Brought me my Wellington boots, but never once thought of the boothooks;
So to allay my spleen by calm and ennobling reflections,
Such as might wile the time disturb’d by my valet’s omission,
I sate me down in a chair, and thus apostrophised Warren.
“Pontiff of modern art! whose name is as noted as mine is,
Noted for talent and skill, and the cardinal virtues of manhood
Receive this tribute of praise from one whose applause is an honour,
I am he who sang of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and
Gothic enough it was, I’m told, in metre and meaning;
Thalaba too was mine, that wild and wondrous effusion,
Madoc and Joan of Arc, and the splendid curse of Kehama;
If I then, the author of these and other miraculous volumes,
And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic
Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end,
And thus shall it be with the man whom S—y delighteth to honour,
Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s,
Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto
Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and
Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras:
Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden,
Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the moonlight,
When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him.
“Through thee in the season of spring, oh pride of the modern creation!!!
Beauty sets off by night each grace of her whirligig ankle,
When to the music of harps in dulcet symphonies sounding,
She waltzes with twinkling twirl, and butterfly bucks hover round her;
Thee she hails as a friend, while her pumps, in the pride of their polish,
Illumine the ball-room floor like the slippers of famed Cinderella,—
In Brighton thy name is known, and waxeth important at Cheltenham;
Travels per coach to Bath, that exceedingly beautiful city;
Thence crossing the channel to Wales, it stirs up attention at Swansea;
Or flees with the speed of a dove o’er the mountainous ridges of Snowden,
Till valley, and rock, and glen ring aloud with ‘Buy Warren’s Blacking.’
“But not unto Britain alone is thy fame, Robert Warren, confined: o’er
The civilised regions of Europe, believe me, ’tis equally honoured;
For when, as a proof of the fact, I rambled through Switzerland lately;
And, spent with the labour of travel, put up in the vale of Chamouny,
My boots by the waiter were bathed in the luminous dew of thy blacking:
This, as you well may guess, astonished my nerves not a little;
So, flaming with zeal, I said, ‘now tell me, oh waiter, I pray thee,
Th’ extent of this tradesman’s fame in the vales of the Switzer, that straight I
May note it down as a hint for some future edition of travels,
Then blythe the waiter assured me that through Chamouny, the splendour
Of Warren’s name beamed joy, as the snow on the summit of Jura,
Tinged by the occident ray, sheds glory and gladness around it,
While villages bask in its smiles:—meantime I continued my Carmen,—
Thrice honoured artist, who hast a minstrel like me to commend thee!
Year upon year may roll, but you never will get such another;
For I am the bard of time, the puffer of peer or of peasant,
Whether Russ, German, or French, Whig, Radical, Ultra, or Tory,
Provided my sack-butt is paid with a butt of sack for each bouncer
Hence, nobles are proud to bow to my laurelled head at Saint James’s,
Deeming his Majesty’s grace dispensed through me, for they well know
His Majesty loves in his heart my political creed
(Nota Bene—I will not swear that he does; but is it not likely, oh Europe?)”
Here I concluded my stave, for my valet returned with my boot-hooks;
So taking my hat in my hand a remarkably requisite practice,
I sought that widening gulf where the Strand with a murmur susurrous
Flows into Pall Mall East, like Thames at the Nore into ocean;
Here I stood rapt awhile, commending the buildings around me,
Especially Waterloo Place, with which I was highly delighted;
Till hearing the clock strike eight, I returned to my Strand habitation,
And heard the bell from St. Clement’s toll, toll through the silence of evening.
From Warreniana, by W. F. Deacon. (Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, London, 1824.)
——:o:——
“The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor” for September 1, 1813, contained several burlesque applications for the Laureatship, then vacant through the recent death of Henry James Pye.
None of the poems is of sufficient interest co be worth reprinting, the authors supposed to be imitated are Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Dr. Thomas Busby, Thomas Campbell, Walter Scott, George Crabbe, W. H. Fitzgerald, and Robert Southey.
The burlesque of Southey concludes thus:—
“Then what a happy Prince you’ll be
With a Poet Laureate such as me;
When duly here, to George the Regents praise,
My Prince, as with an angel’s voice of song,
Pours my melodious lays
Upon the gales of even,
And sounding strenuous like a gong,
I lift his fame to th’ north-west gates of heaven,
Such harmony to all my notes is given.”
Epitaph for Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate
Author of “Wat Tyler, &c., &c.
Dignus auribus Principis—Horat.
Here lies our good Laureat, whom Byron has sent hence,
Without any time for “a death-bed repentance,[77]
Of his sapphics, so cruelly mangled by Canning—
So safely remov’d both from sense and from scanning;[78]
(For our Laureat dealt largely in sapphics seditious,[79]
Before he got scent of the loaves and the fishes),
Or his Botany Eclogues, from which one would swear
That the Poet had learnt his morality there.[80]
Poor Joan[81] ever doom’d to be burnt in our ire,
Once more by all England condemn’d to the fire.
Sure Southey, like Bedford, was born for thy curse,
And we burn thee again, to atone for his verse.
Next Thalaba came, that selfslaying destroyer,
Of readers and conjurors too the annoyer;
Let him murder magicians, and all their relations,
But why did he murder our rhyme[82] and our patience?
Then Madoc’s adventures so ably were sung,
You’d think they were told in his own native tongue.[83]
For the curse of Kehama one cannot help dreading it,
The curse is so cursedly felt in the reading it.
Then a Monarch of Spain—how strange he should blast one!
For though he’s a Goth he might surely have past one,
Since he is (the Belov’d not excepted) the last one.[84]
But as soon as our bard got attach’d to the crown,
He try’d to sing up what he used to sing down;—
One day Bribery’s slave and the next its reviler,
Praising Castlereagh now, and now praising Wat Tyler,[85]
To constraint and corruption now bidding defiance,
And now lauding the deeds of the Holy Alliance.[86]
Enduring the scorn of all England most martyrly,
Secure that his sores would be lick’d by the Quarterly.
Then forth came that Letter, or crack “branding iron,”
Which the Laureat so cackles about to Lord Byron,[87]
That letter so famous, in which he advances
Truths such as you find in the Spanish Romances,
Traduced by our Bard, who contriv’d in abridging all,
To make one, for shortness, desire the original.
Next like some “obscene birds” of his feather, he flew
To prey on the stain of thy field, Waterloo![88]
Then returned to o’ershade, with his sad gratulation,[89]
An event that awak’d all the hopes of a Nation,
And surely the Laureat alone could have told it,
In rhymes, that had Sternhold himself out-Sternholded.
Then Byron and Juan eternally lamming him,
Play’d the devil with him—so he set about damning him;
And if to his foes or his friends he a grudge meant,
What could he do worse than his Vision of Judgment!
But ’twas fit that this model of tergiversation,
Who began in sedition, should end in damnation.
To atone for all this, what must now be his lot?
Shall he “lie” like his Works “in obstruction and rot?”
No—let him be punished by quitting his urn to
See all the “vile uses” they’re sure to return to.
The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1823, London, 1824.
THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
As the early poems of Robert Southey were repeatedly parodied in this celebrated journal, a few words as to its contents may conveniently be inserted here. “The Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner,” was edited by W. Gifford, and the principal contributors to its pages were the Rt. Hon. George Canning, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterwards Earl of Liverpool), Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterwards Marquis Wellesley), and Dr. John Whittaker. The Poems in The Anti-Jacobin were not exclusively political, and the following is a list of all that can be properly termed Parodies, omitting only those which have already been included in the collection of Parodies on Southey.
La Sainte Guillotine, a new song attempted from the French. (Tune—“O’er the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France.”)
The Progress of Man, a Didactic poem. Written to ridicule Mr. R. Payne Knight’s The Progress of Civil Society, a Didactic Poem.
Chevy Chase, a parody founded upon the Duke of Northumberland’s attempt to evade the payment of Income Tax.
The Loves of the Triangles, a parody of Dr. Darwin’s Loves of the Plants.
Brissot’s Ghost, a parody on Glover’s Ballad of Admiral Hosier’s Ghost.
Ode to Jacobinism, a political parody of Gray’s Hymn to Adversity.
The Jacobin, a political skit, written in imitation of Southey’s Sapphics, but not so good as the examples already quoted, and dealing with obsolete facts and forgotten individuals.
Ode to a Jacobin, in imitation of Suckling’s Ode to a Lover.
The Anti-Jacobin also contained several humorous imitations of Horace, and a burlesque play, founded on some German dramas, translations of which were then being performed in England to the detriment, and discouragement of English dramatists. The greater portion of this amusing work was written by Canning, it was entitled “The Rovers; or, the Double Arrangement,” and has passages which parody The Robbers, and several other plays by Schiller: Stella by Goethe, and Count Benyowsky, or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka.
The Rovers.
The second scene of the first act contains the gem of the burlesque. It opens thus:—
Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh with coffins, escutcheons, death’s heads, and cross-bones,—toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.—Rogero appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.—Rogero rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.
Rogero. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre, the cruelty of a Minister—the perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellowmen. Soft! what have we here? (stumbles over a bundle of sticks.) Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? Eleven years and fifteen days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more.… Soft, what air was that! it seems a sound of more than human warblings. Again, (listens attentively for some minutes.) Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar.
(Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra. Air, Lanterna Magica.
Song.
By Rogero.
I.
Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen—
-niversity of Gottingen.
(Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with
which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly
at it, he proceeds—
II.
Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
At the repetition of this line, Rogero
clanks his chains in cadence.
III.
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat, post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish’d at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen
-niversity of Gottingen.
IV.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
V.
There first, for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
VI.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doom’d to starve on water gru-
-el, never shall I see the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.
During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.
There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “Anti-Jacobin” writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen, and composed the last stanza on the spot. As the song has been so frequently parodied any detail connected with it is interesting, and it may be remarked that Mr. Pitt fell into a grave error in describing Rogero as doomed to starve on water gruel, for in the previous scene the waiter mentions that he had just conveyed the usual dinner to the prisoner in the vaults, namely, pease-soup, with the scrag end of a neck of mutton.
A New Gottingen Ballad.
Oxford and Cambridge, sisters two,
With prejudice begotten in,
Your tassell’d Commoners[90] should embue
Their minds, with knowledge from the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Johnson and Milton ye can show,
Or tell the graves they’re rotting in;
But what are they to Kotzebue,
Who studied morals at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
Hyde-Park, that aristocrats, with new
Buckskins and boots, are trotting in,
Boast you the philosophy true,
Subliming mankind at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
Ah! no; your ring, where men in du-
-els go for to be shotten in,
Can boast no slaughters like the su-
-icides, that happens at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Commons and Lords, where buff and blue
Now seem to be forgotten in,
Ye want a thorough revolu-
-tion, and the system of the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
Halls of the city, that the crew
Of traders are begotten in,
I’d share your fatt’ning revenue
With literati at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?
O! people banking base, and bou-
-tiquière, that are so hot in gain,
O! learn the doctrine of commu-
-nity of goods, and send yours to
The doctors meek of Gottingen!
From The Morning Herald, 1802.
Song.
Whene’er with aching eyes I view
The troublers of the nation,
I find them one conspiring crew
The Bridge Street Gang—the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
Slop’s venom, of high Tory blue,
The Stuart royal fashion,
In secret gave the poison to
The daggers of the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
Forth from his SLOP-PAIL swift he flew,
In dread of moderation,
Assassin’s knives to cowards threw,
And called the GANG the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
I, who when wild his curses flew,
Gave him his appellation,
Would force him into light, in du-
-ty to unmask his CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-tional Association.
Against me if his SLOP-PAIL brew,
For that high designation,
I spurn his SLOP-PAIL, spurn him too,
And scorn his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
Until a fouler opportu-
-nity a filthier still occasion
He’ll empty his dirty SLOP-PAIL gru-
-el, through his sink-hole CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
But should he shrink from public view,
Or skulk with mean evasion,
I’ll lash the knave with all his crew—
Slop and his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL Association.
-TIONAL Association.
From Hone’s Facetiæ and Miscellanies. A Slap at Slop by William Hone, with illustrations by G. Cruikshank. London, 1822.
The allusions to Dr. Slop, (Dr. John Stoddart,) and the Constitutional Association, or Bridge Street Gang, have already been explained in reference to A New Vision of Judgment.
(See [page 177].)
The London University.
In 1826 a party who believed that the home and university plan of education which prevails in Scotland, was much better than the college and university education of Oxford or Cambridge, made Lord Brougham and Mr. Charles Knight their spokesmen, and declared they would have a university within reach of their own homes. A joint-stock company was formed, and the place in Gower Street was opened on October 1, 1828, under the name of the “London University.” One very prominent feature in the prospectus was that there should be perfect religious freedom within the university. The scheme met with much opposition and ridicule, Theodore Hook dubbed the place “Stinkomalee,” and R. Harris Barham, the author of the Ingoldsby Legends, satirised it in the following amusing parody:—
Song.[91]
Whene’er, with pitying eye I view,
Each operative sot in town,
I smile to think how wondrous few
Get drunk who study at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
What precious fools “The People” grew.
Their alma mater not in town;
The “useful classes” hardly knew
Four was composed of two, and two,
Until they learned it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
But now they’re taught by Joseph Hu-
-me, by far the cleverest Scot in town,
Their items and their tottles too;
Each may dissect his sister Sue,
From his instructions at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Then L——E comes, like him how few
Can caper and can trot in town,
In pirouette, or pas de deux—
He beats the famed Monsieur Giroux,
And teaches dancing at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
And Gilchrist,[92] see, that great Geentoo—
Professor, has a lot in town
Of cockney boys who fag Hindoo,
And larn Jem-nastics at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Sam Rogers,[93] corpse of vampire hue,
Comes from its grave to rot in town;
For Bays the dead bards’ crowned with yew,
And chants, the Pleasures of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Frank Jeffrey,[94] of the Scotch Review,—
Whom Moore had nearly shot in town,
Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue
And yellow, damns the other two,
But lauds the ever glorious U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Great Birkbeck,[95] king of chips and glue,
Who paper oft does blot in town,
From the Mechanics’ Institu-
-tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw,
Lever and axle at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Lord Waithman,[96] who long since withdrew
From Mansion House to cot in town;
Adorn’d with chair of ormulu,
All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo,
Lectures on Free Trade at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Fat F——, with his cost of blue,
Who speeches makes so hot in town,
In rhetoric, spells his lectures through,
And sounds the V for W,
The vay they speaks it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Then H——e comes, who late at New-
gate Market, sweetest spot in town!
Instead of one clerk, popp’d in two,
To make a place for his ne-phew,
Seeking another at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
There’s Captain Ross, a traveller true,
Has just presented, what in town—
—’s an article of great virtu
(The telescope he once peep’d through,
And ’spied an Exquimaux canoe
On Croker Mountains), to the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
Since Michael gives no roast nor stew,
Where Whigs might eat and plot in town,
And swill his port, and mischief brew—
Poor Creevy sips his water gru-
-el as the beadle of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
There’s Jerry Bentham.[97] and his crew,
Names ne’er to be forgot in town,
In swarms like Banquo’s long is-sue—
Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew,
Come trooping on to join the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
To crown the whole with triple queue
Another such there’s not in town,
Twitching his restless nose askew,
Behold tremendous Harry Brough-[98]
am! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town—
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Grand Chorus:
Huzza! huzza! for Harry Brough-
am! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.
Penny Postage.
The Penny Postage commenced on January 10, 1840. The following parody was issued during the same month.
THE UNIVERSAL PENNY POSTAGE.
From universal suffrage some
Say every blessing’s sure to come,
As clear as one and one make two;
But others say it’s all a hum,
And there’s no blessing like the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Of all the penn’orths Nature gave—
A penny show, a penny shave,
There’s blacking for a penny too,
A penny biscuit—all must waive
Their claims in favour of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
For all things now there’s some new way—
To write, to seal, to fold, to pay;
And you must talk in idioms new,
And when you mean Post-paid must say,
“Prepaid,” by order of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
If aught’s not new the wonder’s great,
The tables are so turned of late,
E’en useful tables, though so true:
Your half-ounce makes one penny-weight,
According to the school of U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Who’d think our great authorities
Would do a thing so (penny) wise?
(Pound foolish things we know they do!)
How now in history they’ll rise!—
The Government that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Oh, Rowland Hill, immortal man,
How can we pay you for your plan!
To you our thanks, our pence are due;
It was the Emperor of Japan
As much as they that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.
Send up a column to the sky,
Five thousand office inkstands high;
Take for a basement fair to view,
As many reams of “wove demy”;
Write—“To the author of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.”
Anonymous.
Song.
Sung by Dodge-ero (Colonel T-yl-r)
in the Burlesque Play of “The Reform Rovers.”
It is a most provoking do!
To think that I was potting ’em—
The guileless Dillwyn and his crew,
When who should twig us but the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(Weeps and pulls out a true blue Reform bill.
Gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—
Sweet Measure! checks of truest blue
They soon had found garotting ’em,
If they had helped to pass you through,
Without detection by the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(At each repetition of this line Dodge-ero
cracks his whip in cadence.)
Bah! Bah! As Rarey trotted Crui-
ser, I was calmly trotting ’em,
When, hang it! who should enter—who?
But that confounded pest—the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
The very form, in which they drew
My words up, clearly spotting ’em,
He offered to the House as scrU-
-tineers—he did indeed, the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
My eyes! (with soda corks, it’s true,
I have a way of dotting ’em
At awkward times)—a rare to-do
Was thus created by the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
And since they can’t escape the crU-
-el sentence he’s alloting ’em,
Their only chance is to abU-
-se, and heap strong terms upon the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham—
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.
(During the last stanza Dodge-ero perceives that he has run his head against a wall, so hard as to produce a visible confusion. The curtain drops.)
Fun, April 27, 1867.
The Orator’s Song.
“Glory, Glory, to the Union.”
My years are many—they were few
(The flight of time immense is)
My cap and gown were both brand new
When first a member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
A Literal then of deepest hue
(Now Time’s restored my senses)
My jokes were old, my facts were few
When first a speaker at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
I’d done myself, as others do
In railing at th’ expenses,
Yet thought such criticism stu-
pid when the Treasurer at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
And still with pride I can review
How I sternly fined offences,
And rigorously enforced them too
When I was President at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
What fights from those old frescoes grew,
They drove us into frenzies,
Whether their charms should shine anew,
Or, whitewashed, vanish from the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
When first my beard and whiskers grew
(A Bachelor in all senses)
I’m afraid I swaggered—(so would you,)
An hon’rary member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.
Ah, me, perhaps those days I view
Thro’ gaudy-tinted lenses,
Yet, sad, I bid my last adieu
To all thy well-known rooms, O, U-
-nion Oxoniensis.
-nion Oxoniensis.
From The Shotover Papers,
or Echoes from Oxford. March 1874.
The “Union” is a well known Club for Oxford Students, having reading and smoking rooms, a good library, and a debating room, in which some of our finest public speakers have made their maiden efforts. The frescoes above referred to were painted in 1857 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and are, unfortunately, rapidly fading away.
There was another Oxford parody of this song in “Diogenes” for July, 1853, entitled The Oxford Installation Ode. The celebrities to whom it alluded are now all dead, and the parody is quite out of date.
The Plea of Paddington.
The Board of Works, a thrifty crew,
Oppose in cold, heart-sadding tone,
The Park! Ah! Bumble may pooh-pooh,
But “Let us have it!” is the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.
Non possumus? Nay, that won’t do!
Pray drop official fadding tone!
Builderdom’s selfish bosh eschew,
And listen kindly to the U-
-niversal cry of Paddington.
Asphyxia on our Town, too true,
Weighs yet in many a madding ton;
Give us another “lung,” pray do,
Is now the hearty, ardent U-
-niversal plea of Paddington.
Are Cockney souls as dull of hue
As Babylon’s pervading tone?
“Let’s look upon the heavenly blue
From one more vantage,” is the U-
-niversal wish of Paddington.
Posterity, on its turf pursue-
-ing pleasant sports, in gladding tone
Will bless the foresight, wise and true,
Which timely listened to the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.
Punch, February 11, 1882.
A Song of Social Science.
“The Association was founded to elucidate the economical and moral principles on which the Constitution of Society should be based, and to influence, by the light of those principles, the course of future legislation.”—Mr. G. W. Hastings, M.P., in his Address at the Opening of the 25th Annual Meeting of the Social Science Congress, in the new Lecture Hall of the University at Nottingham.
If “principles” are “nuts” to you,
And promptly you’d be spotting ’em,
Best take a turn, Sir, at the new
Big lecture-rooms that grace the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
There Blues orate till all is blue,
(Knights and M.P.’s “big-potting” ’em)
If you the social maze would view,
They’ll guide you through it at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Twenty-five years since first they blew
Big Guns, Lord Brougham shotting ’em,
And now there’s nothing new or true
But they’ll bang at you—at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you would dish the Landlord crew,
By laws, without Boycotting ’em,
The Settled Land Act’s action scru-
-tinise as pictured at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you’d rejoice in skies of blue,
With no big chimneys blotting ’em,
You’ll probably learn what to do
By patient listening at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
If you tight-lacing would eschew,
See girls with “bags” culotte-ing ’em,
Or “dual garmenture,” why few
Subjects more “fetch” them at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
You’d learn how Women’s rights first grew,
And how Man shirked allotting ’em,
On all such questions they’ll adju-
-dicate serenely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Our Social Factors you’d review,
And learn the art of “totting” ’em?
Bless you! Statistics stiff are stu-
-diously fed on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Facts about drains, the Workman’s “screw,”
Girls’ boots, would you be jotting ’em?
They’ll stuff you with enough to ru-
-minate for years on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Would you the World of Hobbies view,
Behold their riders trotting ’em,
That Universe they will elu-
-cidate completely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Battle of Hastings! Pun, Sir? Pooh!
Poor wags are always plotting ’em.
Yet twenty-five years’ war, ’tis true,
Culminates this year at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!
Punch, October 7, 1882.