Sir Walter Scott,
Born August 15, 1771. Died September 21, 1832.
he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in verse and in prose, they have given rise to.
Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of Ivanhoe entitled “Rebecca and Rowena” will be fully described, with several others of a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies.
Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as Jokeby, The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle, and Marmion Travestied, these are long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter poems, and of detached passages from The Lay of the Last Minstrel, etc.
Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that contained in Rejected Addresses, the celebrated little volume by the Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise by the reviewers.
The Quarterly Review said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select—it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the misapplication of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst The Edinburgh Review spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors of Rejected Addresses, in their very interesting preface to the eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in the laugh that they had occasioned:—
“From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what occasion.’”
A TALE OF DRURY LANE.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”—Don Quixote.
(To be spoken by Mr. Kemble,
in a suit of the Black Prince’s armour,
borrowed from the Tower.)
Survey this shield, all bossy bright—
These cuisses twain behold!
Look on my form in armour dight
Of steel inlaid with gold:
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belong’d to sable prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valour tart as pungent quince,
He slew the vaunting Gaul.
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28]
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.
THE NIGHT.
On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it past,
Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then re-assumed its still array;
When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome, and turret height,
Appeared to slumber in the light.
From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought, who gazed around
Amid a silence so profound,
It made the senses thrill,
That twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead—
All was so hush’d and still.
THE BURNING.
As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flash’d upon her eyes—
So London’s sons in nightcap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames;
For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke—
“The playhouse is in flames!”
And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
Where Patent Shot they sell;
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30]
Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson’s Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,
To distant fields, the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound.
As from a lofty altar rise,
It seem’d that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon’d firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thunder’d through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Show’d foreman of the British gang—
His name was Higginbottom. Now
’Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view;
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,
Then came the Phœnix and the Sun,
Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run,
The Eagle, where the new;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,
Crump from St. Giles’s Pound:
Whitford and Mitford join’d the train,
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,
And Clutterbuck who got a sprain
Before the plug was found.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap,
For both were in the Donjon Keep
Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!
E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “Heads below!”
Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Witford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd.
At length the mist awhile was clear’d,
When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d,
Gradual a moving head appear’d,
And Eagle firemen knew
’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew,
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
“A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!”
And pour’d the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He totter’d, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman’s soul was all on fire),
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphry stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite.
He sunk to rise no more.
Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
“Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
“You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,
“Why are you in such doleful dumps?
“A fireman; and afraid of bumps!—
“What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!”
Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31]
THE REVIVAL.
Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,
“Joy to the managing committee!”
Eat we and drink we, join to rum
Roast beef and pudding of the plum;
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,
For this is Drury’s gay day.
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops,
And fingers of the Lady.
Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train,
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod;
To realise bold Wyatt’s plan
Rush’d many a howling Irishman;
Loud clatter’d many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan
With trowel and with hod.
Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
She “wings the midway air” elate,
As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears,
No pendant portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33]
Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread,
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,
You might have deem’d her walls so thick
Were not composed of stone or brick,
But all a phantom, all a trick,
Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick,
So high she soars, so vast, so quick!
——:o:——
BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.
[Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of The Monastery, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient air of “Blue Bonnets over the Border.”]
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are bound for the border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story,
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the border!
Walter Scott.
Blue Stockings over the Border.
Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men!
Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order?
Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen!
All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!
Their banner is flying,
They’re “victory” crying,
They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye—
Come from the rowing match,
Glee club, and merry catch,
Read for a class and the old College glory!
Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers,
Open your books,—set your studies in order—
The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers,
For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border.
Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe,
Read briefs—for their steps to the Woolsack they bend:
The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe,
With old Esculapius the Blues would contend!
Their clack is resounding,
With hard words abounding,
Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder.
By Gas they’re enlightened—
By nothing they’re frightened,
The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.
Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men!
Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order?
Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken
Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border!
Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians—
They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State;
Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians—
In every department the Blues are first-rate.
Famed Craniologists!
Learned Phrenologists!
You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order;
The organ of Prying
All others defying,
Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.
Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,
From Wellington down to the City Recorder.
Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,
If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.
Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,
A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange—
Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy—
Spots in the moon, which betoken a change.
Quake, ye Geologists!
Tremble, Conchologists!
Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order!
Beware, Antiquarians,
They’re Disciplinarians,
These talented Blues who are passing the Border!
Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen—
Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder—
If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen,
Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!
’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion,
Attached to their tongues, ’twill be henceforth their own;
And this job completed, some folks have a notion
They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone.
An enemy slanders
Their ablest commanders,
Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke),
Says Watts’ Steamer teaches
The plan of their speeches,
Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke,
Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story—
Come when they will, let them find you in order—
Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory,
By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.
The above appeared in The Mirror, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue Stocking Clubs; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the blue stockings;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a Blue Stocking Club in her ‘Bas Bleu,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.”
Write, Write, Tourist and Traveller.
Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Many a laurel dead flutters around your head,
Many a tome is your memento mori!
Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.
Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning,
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;
Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning,
Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!
Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding,
Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story;
Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say,
“He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”
Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Robert Gilfillan, 1828.
Read, Read!
Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley,
Turn every page and read forward in order;
Read, read, every tale cleverly,
All the old novels are over the border!
Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read,
Many a chiel wants a thread to his story;
While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen,
Like a giant, well grogged, marches on in his glory!
Come from your tales full of murders amazing,
Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago;
Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising,
Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe!
Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding,
May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary!
Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say,
“He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!”
Robert Gilfillan, 1831.
Tax, Tax!
Tax, tax Income and Property,
Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order?
Tax, tax, Genius and Industry—
Aye; but not so as on plunder to border!
Many, by hand or head
Earning precarious bread,
Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story.
Do, Johnny Russell, then,
Justice to working men;
If you refuse, we must call in a Tory!
Punch, May 17, 1851.
Valour under Difficulties.
March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in,
That is to say you must march in good order;
March, march, broiling sun melted in,
Stocks all so tight that on choking you border.
Martinet’s anger dread
If you can turn your head,
Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story,
Shave and make ready then,
Half-strangled Englishmen!
March on, as well as you’re able, to glory!
Punch.
Lobster Salad.
Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order;
Take, take, a decent-sized bowl,
One that’s sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that’s nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order;
Then hard-boiled eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.
Take from the cellar of salt a proportion;
Take from the castor both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion—
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together;
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order!
But when you’ve stirr’d away,
Mix up the whole you may—
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.
Take, take plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces.
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavour increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it, the process stay;
Patiently do it again in due order.
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil.
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.
Punch.
Song by a Surgeon.
Take, take, blue pill and colocynth:
Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order.
Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth:
Close on acute inflammation you border.
Symptoms about your head,
Make me congestion dread,
When I take them with the rest in conjunction;
Leave off wine, beer and grog:
Arrowroot all your prog,
Let organs rest to recover their function.
Punch, November 12, 1859.
Riflemen both sides of the Border.
Drill, drill, London and Manchester,
Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order;
Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh;
Don’t be behind us, on your side the border.
Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead,
Let your array tell a different story:
Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen,
Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory.
Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising,
Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe:
Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising,
Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co.
Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding,
Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order,
Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray—
Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border.
Punch, December 3, 1859.
Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting into life in England and Scotland.
——:o:——
Mr. Kemble’s Farewell Address.
On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage.
Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed Macbeth. At the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell address, which had been composed for him by Walter Scott. It is only necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of this well-known poem:—
As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that these valued plaudits are my last.
* * * * *
But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung,
When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;
And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is—Friends and Patrons, hail! and Fare you Well!
In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench. “Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.”
As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long
Has taught to prance before the applauding throng,
Now all unfit to play his wonted part,
Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart;
If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears
Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers,
Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling,
And longs to circle in his ancient ring—
So I, when loud your festive laughter swells,
Would gladly don once more my cap and bells,
So sad it is to deem my triumphs past,
And think these joyous plaudits are my last.
Warned by some symptoms of a certain age,
To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage;
A certain age a certain post requires—
Not prematurely Robertson retires.
At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey,
’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array,
And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench,
Some space between the banquet and the Bench.
Time was, when even the rigid and the wise
Might scan my levities with lenient eyes;
Cast in a mould denied to other men—
(Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)—
If not with wit, at least with words at will,
The wish to please—and, shall I say, the skill?
Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke,
And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke.
Each look would set the table in a roar:
And when the look was grave, men laughed the more.
Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell,
To serve two masters, and to serve them well;
For Momus can with Mammon ill agree,
And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne.
But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone,
The general question, and the big trombone
That makes the orchestra nothing—Oh! farewell
To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell;
The stammering cornet, the Italian air;
Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer;
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun,
Farewell—for Peter’s occupation’s done.
Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before,
May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er;
Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse
To please the laughers in the Outer-House.
Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high,
Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly,
Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll,
Shall vainly strive their muscles to control;
Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while
The losing litigant consents to smile;
* * * * *
All but the macer, grieved to see no more
The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.
But to return: if you have owed to me
One witless jest, one pointless repartee—
If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled,
And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled—
If censuring tongues might of my errors tell,
As loving mirth, not wisely but too well—
If even in caution’s course I missed my aim,
Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame—
The few preposterous efforts I have made
By this too partial tribute are repaid.
Could my big bosom prop the sinking line,
Then I could speak what feelings now are mine.
But fancy fails, expression dies away;
In feeble murmers I can only say,
Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife:
“This is the proudest moment of my life!”
——:o:——
Lament for Tabby;
or, The Cat’s Coronach.
And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid,
The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid,
Great mouser of thy day;
Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread,
Whole whiskered legions oft have fled
In midnight battle fray.
There breathes not kitten of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O! could I match the peerless strain,
That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain,
Or that whose milder tone
O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime,
The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime,
Raised the sepulchral moan!
Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar,
And reach thy spirit from afar.
But thou remote from pain and strife.
Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life
In some Elysian grove,
Where endless streams of milk abound,
And soft valerian paints the ground,
Thy joyous footsteps rove;
With Tasso’s cat, by poets named,
And Whittington’s in story famed,
Requiescat in pace!
From The Satirist, March 1814.
——:o:——
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison.
Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem’d to have known a better day!
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well a day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress’d
Wish’d to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll’d light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress’d,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone
A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor,
He begg’d his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.
Walter Scott.
* * * * *
Another
Lay of the Last Minstrel.
The Tide was low, the wind was cold,
Upon the sands the minstrel strolled;
His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay
Seemed to have known a better day;
His banjo, sole remaining joy,
Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy;
The last of all the band was he
Who sang of nigger minstrelsy.
For, well a day! their date was fled—
His tuneful brethren earned their bread
In other channels. He confessed
That had he done so it were best.
No more to fiddle, harp and horn,
He sang his melodies forlorn;
No longer courted and caressed,
The tenor squared his manly chest,
And poured to lord and lady gay
His unpremeditated lay.
Old times were changed, old music gone,
The folks had “scientific” grown,
Neglected his untutored chime,
Pronouncing Wagner quite sublime.
A wandering nigger, scorned and poor,
He hummed and strummed from door to door,
And tuned, to please a vagrant ear,
The banjo swells had loved to hear.
Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.
The Grand Old M—instrel.
[“Mr. Gladstone, attired in a light summer suit, and without any wrapper round his throat, walked on Tuesday afternoon up Whitehall from his residence in Richmond-terrace. On reaching Trafalgar Square the right hon. gentleman was closely followed by a considerable number of people. He repeatedly raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes he received from many persons as he proceeded. Turning up the Strand, Mr. Gladstone made his way in the direction of Covent Garden, still followed by about a hundred persons.”—Daily News, July, 1885.]
The sun was hot, the day was bright,
The statesman found his collars tight;
He threw the starchy things aside,
And round his neck no choker tied;
In summer suit he quickly dressed—
True Paisley cloth, and of the best,
Presented by admiring Scots
Who gave him presents, lots on lots.
“Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay,
“I think I’ll take a walk to-day;
The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs,
Will never know me in these togs;
Not one can recognise in me,
The potent statesmen, W.G.!”
He first from Richmond Terrace hied,
Without policeman at his side;
And then up Whitehall took the air
Until he reached Trafalgar Square;
By twos and threes the folks came out
And welcomed Gladstone with a shout;
Others, attracted by the sound,
In tens and dozens gathered round;
Desiring but to be alone,
The baffled Statesman hurried on;
With eager steps he paced along,
But always followed by the throng;
He fled from crowded street to street,
Precipitately in retreat;
And yet, despite the pace he flew,
The crowd only the greater grew;
And now, though several days have gone,
That Statesman still is hurrying on;
And strangers in a London street
Perchance may any moment meet
An old man in a summer suit
Endeavouring to avoid pursuit,
But vainly; for where’er he goes
The crowd behind him cheers and grows.
The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.
The Lay of the Last Cab-hack.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The cab-hack was infirm and old.
His withered hide, a dirty grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
His nose-bag, sole remaining joy,
Was pilfered by a ragged boy.
The last of all the hacks was he,
Of bony frame and broken knee:
For, well-a-day, their date was fled,
His wretched brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more ’neath damsel lightly borne,
He caracolled like lark at morn;
No longer curried and caressed,
Snug placed in stall of corn the best,
He pranced for lord and lady gay
Throughout the equine-octial day.
His form was changed, his strength was gone,
A stranger owned his frame of bone;
His master of the iron time
To starve him thought it not a crime—
A wandering cabby, scorned and poor,
He urged his hack from door to door,
And drove, to win a peasant’s fare,
The horse that once a lord did bear.
He crawled where London’s smoky Tower
Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower;
The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye,
Alas! no resting-place was nigh,
With weak and faltering step at last
The glaring sausage-shop he passed,
Whose ponderous chopping-up machine
The rest of all his race had seen.
The shopman marked his weary pace,
His hang-dog mien and bony face,
And bade his boy the cabby tell
He’d buy if he the hack would sell;
For he had bought much worse than he,
Though born of racing pedigree,
In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom—
They’d gone unwept to this same tomb.
Funny Folks.
The Bray of the Last Donkey.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The donkey was infirm and old;
His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
A whip, that sadden’d all his joy,
Was wielded by an awful boy;
The last of all his race was he,
Who lived in age of chivalry.
For, well-a-day, their date had fled,
His long-ear’d brethren all were dead;
And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d,
Would soon be with them—and at rest.
No more with light load gladly borne,
He caracolled from night till morn;
No longer well-fed and caress’d.
High placed in stall, a welcome guest,
He pour’d to lord and lady gay
His most unmusical of bray;
Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone,
The stalls with horses filled alone,
Proud favourites of degenerate time—
Even his braying call’d a crime,
A groggy donkey, starved and poor,
He carried sand from door to door,
Hard words and blows still doomed to bear.
Till death relieves him from his care.
Anonymous.
The Lay of the Last Ministry.
The way was long, the voters cold,
The Minister was weak—not old;
His wither’d hopes and messes gay
Seem’d to have known a better day;
The lyre, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by the Office Boy;
The last of the stop-gaps was he,
And which his name was Salisbury.
His brethren to the towns had fled,
Expecting to be shortly dead,
And he, dejected and oppress’d,
Wished they were back, and feared for rest.
No more on wings of fancy borne
He chortled light as lark at morn;
No longer standing on the boards
As leader of the House of Lords,
To nobles young, and nobles grey,
He pour’d the Governmental lay:
His occupation nearly gone,
He felt he must vacate his throne;
For many at Election-time
Look’d on his policy as crime.
A Premier on a touting tour,
He begged for votes from door to door,
And tried to please the peasant’s ear
With tunes that few might care to hear.
Et cetera.
Fun, November 18, 1885.
This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre.
——:o:——
CANTO III.
And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither’d heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love;—
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love’s very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green,
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
Walter Scott.
* * * * *
W. E. Gladstone in March, 1880.
And thought they I was growing old?
And hoped they that my hate was cold;
And that my vengeful fire was fled,
And that my hopes of power were dead;
And that I might not sigh for place?
How could I to the dearest theme
That ever warmed a statesman’s dream
Prove recreant so foul and base?
How could I name its very name,
Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame?
In Session prudence tunes the reed,
’Tis otherwise across the Tweed!
In Parliament, one’s forced to wear
Restraint that one can doft elsewhere!
St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue,
In Scotland fierce can be my song!
Blest he who has a double face,
When place is Heaven and Heaven is place!
From They are Five, by W. E. G.
(London, David Bogue, 1880.)
——:o:——
CANTO VI.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!
* * * * *
Walter Scott.
A Declamation.
By Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never several times has read
The works of Spencer and of Mill!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As o’er the pages he has turned
Of Hamilton upon the Will!
If such there breathe, go rate him well,
For him no student’s raptures swell.
High though his titles, what of them?
I want a man whose diadem
Is the Binomial Theorem!
What matters it how proud his look,
He knows not Euclid’s second book!
His wealth is boundless—that may be;
But how about his Rule of Three?
Despite his titles, pride and pelf,
And all the books upon his shelf,
The wretch not knowing Algebra,
Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!”
Whilst many an one, his soul to vex,
Shall ask him what’s the power of x
And give him, heeding not his groans,
Equations with the three unknowns.
Until at last, his torture’s o’er,
He seeks a School Board’s open door;
And there, by jeers to action stung,
Begins on learning’s lowest rung,
O Conic Sections! oft reviled,
How sweet thou art to this young child!
And book eleven of Euclid too,
How sweet it is thy props, to do!
And then to draw from them deductions!
There’s but one thing still better—Fluxions!
Geometry! what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the knotted band
That knits me to thy propositions,
Thy postulates and definitions!
Strong too’s the cord which fastens me
To Statics and Geology!
Still stronger those which me affiance
To thee, my own, my Natural Science!
But strongest are the heavenly ones
That join me to Mars’ late-found suns!
[She collapses.
From Finis.
On Scotch Patriotism.
Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said
Farewell for aye, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As he his willing steps hath turned
To wander on a foreign strand!
Who has not with a spirit gay
From his loved Scotia trudged away
To join the fortune-hunting band!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no canny raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
He is an idiot all the same.
No pupil apt of Gaelic school,
He is a patriotic fool,
A simple and un-Scottish clown
Who, living, forfeits fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child!
Thy lovely scenery but tells
On those brave Scots who keep hotels;
Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor,
Are only dear to those who tour.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Could e’er invite me to thy strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
I think of what things might have been
And shudder as I think once more
That I might ne’er have left thy shore.
Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth,
That I so early went down South.
O. P. Q. P. Smiff.
The Figaro, August 1, 1874.
Pilosagine.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“To have moustaches would be grand.”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned
As o’er the paper he hath turned
And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned?
If such there be, go, mark him well,
And in his ears the good news tell:
Pilosagine has gained a name,
All who have tried it own its fame:
While thousands prove its great renown
By the moustaches they have grown;
Whiskers and beards on many a face
Their origin likewise to it trace,
It contains no oil, is free from grease,
And now forsooth our rhyme must cease.
But what, you ask, is the expense?
’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.
Old Advertisement.
Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to his wife has said,
“I love a bit of home-made bread!”
Or can a man of aught be prouder,
Than to have cried in tones still louder,
“I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!”
Specimen of Smiff’s Literary Advertisements.
The Poetic Style.
Breathes there a man with taste so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is the spirit of my choice,”
As he his steaming glass hath stirred?
Who hath not slightly raised his voice,
So that his words might all be heard—
O something Whiskey, strong yet mild,
Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled;
From thee, as doctors oft have proved,
The fusil oil has been removed;
Unlike the other spirits, thou
Bring’st not an aching to the brow.
Of thee no biliousness is born,
No coppers hot the following morn;
Men drink of thee at noon, at night,
And rise quite fresh at morning light;
Men drink of thee, and drink again,
To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain.
* * * * *
But there are some, I grieve to say,
Who act in quite a silly way;
Who every day their vitals spoil,
By drinking lots of fusil oil.
Yes, such there be, go—mark them well!
Their sallow cheeks the secret tell.
Sound though their stomachs may have been,
Their livers active, palates clean;
Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force,
Fell indigestion comes, of course.
The Figaro, October 4, 1876.
——:o:——
Canto vii.
O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34]
And only dear to those who travel through you:
The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child,
But you do not believe such nonsense, do you?
What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,—
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant
O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;
And to relate how, from engagements freed,
He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.
He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat,
And thought the modern Athens a fine city;
Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street,
And wished the lassies could have been more pretty—
With smaller bones, and less decided feet;
He found the cabmen insolent, though witty:
The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on
The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon.
The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though,
’Twas like being in a city of the dead;
With solemn steps, and faces full of woe,
The people to their kirks and chapels sped,
Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so
Went home again with Puritanic tread;
Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms,
Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.
* * * * *
From Jon Duan.
Ye Grand Adventures
of some
Modern Men of Might.
Showing how Don Salisbury Quixote de la Hatfield set out to keep watch over his arms and armour, ere he could be admitted a Knight of the Primrose.
The Don’s Midnight Vigil.
The sky was dark, the air was cold,
But firm Don Salisbury was and bold,
As, undeterred by nights alarms,
He vigil kept to watch his arms.
Above him, as he humbly kneel’d,
Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield—
The man whom once he had reviled,
But whom long since, with fervour wild,
He’d seemed to love; but who looked down
As ’twere with a sardonic frown,
As, very far from being at ease,
Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees.
Each side him, on the Statue’s base,
He for his armour’d found a place,
And there he watch’d it, till, so sore,
That he could bear to kneel no more,
He staggered to his feet again,
And sighing from excessive pain,
His lance he grasped, and with a moan
Limped lamely on his vigil lone.
The gas-jets round but flickered dim,
And in their light it seemed to him
That with a look of scorn intent
The Statue’s eyes were on him bent.
Nay, more, as he returned the gaze,
He thought he saw the Statue raise
Its dexter arm and point south-west,
As though his notice to arrest.
Nor was the intimation vain,
For as the Don his eye did strain,
He saw folks in Victoria Street,
Caught, too, the tramp of many feet;
And, listening still, soon overheard
Such sounds that he at once inferred,
It was the promised delegation
Sent by the Primrose Habitation
To take him to the Hall of Light
Where he was to be dubbed a Knight.
* * * * *
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.
Albert Graeme.
It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish Knight,
For love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
* * * * *
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!
Walter Scott.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI.
The Lay of the Poor Fiddler.
Willie.
It was a toper one Saturday night,
(The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,)
And he would spend a shilling so bright,
For strong liquor will still be lord of all.
Blithely he posted with jolly red face,
To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall,
But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case,
He found that strong liquor was lord of all.
He pawned his shirt and his breeches both,
Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall;
He then did swear a terrible oath,
For ire that liquor was lord of all.
In a hurry home he naked ran
From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
The night was too cold for a naked man,
Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all.
His limbs were cold, though his face was red
As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall;
He craved for admission, his wife was in bed,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
She looked through the window and bade him go
Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall;
Or she on his hot skull would throw
The liquor that is not lord of all!
He shivering ran with might and main,
To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
But the door was locked he bawled in vain,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.
When morning came, quite dead he lay,
Close by the door in yon ale-house wall;
The frost his blood had chilled they say,
And strong liquor is still the lord of all.
Now all ye topers when ye view
The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall;
Pray for his soul who once did rue
That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all.
This ballad is from The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, by an admirer of Walter Scott. B. and R. Crosby & Co., London, 1814.
This scarce little volume of 167 pages, is a tolerably close Parody of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” It is, like the original, in six Cantos, and is accompanied by numerous notes, in which the legendary lore, and archæological learning of Scott, are humourously and ingeniously burlesqued.
The opening lines of each Canto are modelled upon those of Scott’s poem, a few extracts may be given:—
Introduction.
The night was dark, the wind did howl,
When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl;
His nose once of a fiery hue,
Was now deep tinged with modest blue;
Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow,
And swiftly fell the drifting snow.
Tom was returning from the fair
With lightsome heart devoid of care;
His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung,
Across one ample shoulder hung
In leathern case, and by his side,
A horn of snuff was well supplied;
A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped,
And to his breast a loaf he clasped,—
Poor Tom had once seen better days
Than fiddling for a looby’s praise;
At country club, or wake, or fair,
He would have scorned to scrape a hair;
But now alas! old times are gone,
He roams neglected and unknown;
And strangers claim that high renown
Which Tommy once had thought his own.
At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm:
The lady happened to be nigh,
She heard his voice and language high,
She marked his wet and dirty clothes,
His pimpled cheek and reverend nose,
And bade her maid the servants tell,
That they should use the fiddler well:
For she had known adversity,
Tho’ raised to such a high degree;
And sorrow too, for in her bloom
She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb.
After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:—
I.
And said I that my throat was dry;
And said I that no cheer was nigh,
And that all giving souls were dead,
And that the good to heaven were fled.
And that I ne’er should put my nose
Again into a tankard’s brim;
And that I ne’er again should dose,
Before an ale-house hearth so grim?
How could I fancy such mishap,
Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap,
On me the happiest of mankind,
The merriest mortal you may find?
II.
In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good;
In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed;
In kitchens, now they drink small beer;
Malt, hops and water, grow so dear.
Good liquor rules both church and state,
It brightens many a stupid pate;
And men and saints, to my own thinking,
Are often prone unto hard drinking.
Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen;
A glass of grog is what they mean.
* * * * *
The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:—
Hushed is the fiddle—Tommy’s gone;
But did he roam, unhoused, unknown,
Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear?
No succour nigh, or alehouse near?
Oh no:—close by this stately hall,
So snug, with newly white-washed wall,
Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean,
And window-shutters painted green,
A garden, hen-pen, and a stye,
Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by;
And every want is well supplied,
And every blessing is enjoyed.
* * * * *
Breathes there a Man with Soul so Dead.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
Confound that horrid Little-Go
Whose heart within him ne’er has burned,
As from the papers he has turned,
When them he found he did’nt know.
If such there be—go! mark him well
For him no Poll will do as well
As honours high, or wrangler’s name
A fellowship’s his only aim.
Not his to lie upon the shelf;
Poor wretch sustainer of himself
A living comes thro’ his renown.
Nor unrewarded goes he down
To the small hamlet whence he sprung,
A hero great as bards have sung.
From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite.
(Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.)
The Lay of the First Minstrel.
By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart.
It was an Oxford Scholar bright,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And he would get him thoroughly tight,
For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
Blithely he saw the coming dun,
As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall,
Alas! his race was well nigh run
And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
Then came Cremation and he fell,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,”
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art,
To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all.
The scholar spurned the knife and fork,
(The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,)
And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork,
So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.
From The Shotover Papers
(Oxford), October 17, 1874.
——:o:——
The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “Lays of the Saintly,” by Mr. Walter Parke, published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.
St. Fillan’s Arm.
(A Lay of Scott-land.)
Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang,
“On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring”
(Which elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang,
And keep thy wires in order while I sing
In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring;
And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint
Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring;
Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint
With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.
I.
If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright,
Go visit it by the broad daylight,
For if the night were murky, pray
How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye!
And should it eke come on to rain,
Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain;
But when the golden sunbeams smile
On ruin’d nave and barren aisle,
When noontide rays enlivening fall
On thirstly floor and weedy wall.
So that thou need’st not break thy bones
Or shins against the rugged stones,
Then go, but take a trusty guide
Who knows the country far and wide,
And give him half-a-crown or so,
To tell thee all that he may know;
But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb
Within some cloister’s ivied gloom,
Believe him not, although he swear,
Because the Saint’s not buried there.
II.
Breathes there the man who having read
All that the Northern Bard has said,
All the particulars supplied
By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide,
Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand,
Longs not to see that favour’d land?
Oh, would that I could get the chance
To view those regions of romance,
What pleasure to be climbing now
Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow!
How sweet to stand beside the Frith
That owes its waters to Loch Smith,
To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile,
And Ion-munga’s charmed isle,
Whilst in the distance can be seen
The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35]
And, if the weather be not dull,
The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull;
And, floating like a mirage there,
That phantom ship, the “Brig of Ayr”
Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates
A beauty that intoxicates.
Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt,
Knights tourneying within Glen-Tilt,
Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James
Calling each other dreadful names,
And see them chase, through bosky dells
The hart that “in the Highlands” dwells.
Oh, if some friend would pay my fare,
How “like a bird” I’d wander there!
III.
The meal was over at Pittenweem;
The monks had gone to their cells to dream,
Or heavily sleep, as the case might be,
Till waked by the bell at half-past three;
The Abbot had gone to his private tower,
For he sat up till a later hour,
And oft he would have his under-prior
To sit and talk by the cosy fire;
For Abbots of old, you may suppose,
Could do in such matters as they chose,
And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch
To the tippest top of the weather-cock,
Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme—
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.
IV.
The night was long, the weather cold;
A Minstrel, neither young nor old,
Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes
Wrung pity from those monkish souls,
Entered the Abbey’s lower hall,
Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call,
He brought himself and harp upstairs
And ’gan show off his Scottish airs.
It was a charity to bring
Such warbler in the place to sing.
St. Fillan gave him ample cheer
And copious draughts of home-made beer,
Till, while that inspiration work’d,
This music from the wires he jerk’d:—
V.
BALLAD.
The Blue Brother.
(Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”)
’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes
(“Where early fa’s the dew.”)
That at the set of sun I met
A Friar of Orders blue.
With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down,
His face was sad to see;
Some heavy care was settled there—
Whatever could it be?
“Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar,
Why dost thou look so blue?”
He answer’d stern—“I’ve yet to learn
What that’s to do with you.”
“Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold,
Who sought a hermit’s lot,
Because thy love so false did prove?”
He answer’d, “I was not.”
“And hast thou fought in distant climes,
Seen mighty cities fall,
And wounded been a score of times?”
He answered, “Not at all.”
“And did thy true love follow thee,
In page’s garb disguised?
And when thou foundest it was she,
Say, wert thou not surprised?”
“No true love ever follow’d me
Thus garbed; or if she had,
At once, I ween, I must have seen
’Twas she, and not a lad.”
“And did she, stricken by thy side
In thy embrace expire?”
“Good gracious! no—who told you so?
He must have been a liar.”
“Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair,
And wast about to wed,
But saw or heard that she preferr’d
Another knight instead?
“And didst thou seek their trysting-place,
And fiercely slay them both,
And there inter both him and her?”
“I did’nt, on my oath!”
“Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid,
Who loved thee all the time,
And seek a hermitage’s shade?
Far in a foreign clime;
“And did the maiden seek thee out,
Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy?
And, having found thee safe and sound,
Die, there and then, for joy?”
Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye;
“’Tis well,” he cried, “for you,
That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire
Some mischief might I do!
“Why should I tell to such as thou
The story of my youth?
My patience is exhausted now,
Denying each untruth.
“You’re right, so far, if you suppose
I’ve seen some woes and cares,
But, mark you well, I never tell
To strangers my affairs.”
The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell;
Abrupt he sped away,
And not another syllable
Did to this minstrel say.
And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes
Since then I’ve often been,
I know not why, but never I
Have that Blue Brother seen.
VI.
The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill,
And gave him siller—better still;
What wonder that such vagrant men,
Encouraged thus, should come agen?
For Fillan’s heart was warm and large,
He never gave these folks in charge,
And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan,
He let his torturer alone.
Well used, I wot, were one and all
Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall;
Even the cats were fed on cream—
Such was the custom of Pittenweem.
* * * * *
Another imitation of The Lay of the Last Minstrel was “The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle,” a poem in Five Cantos (with notes in galore) supposed to be written by W——. S——., Esq., London, 1814. This parody was at first attributed to the pen of Washington Irving, but is now generally ascribed to his brother-in-law, James Kirke Paulding, a voluminous author, well-known on the other side of the Atlantic. The parody appears to have been first published in the United States, and then re-produced in London. The author, for the purpose of his burlesque, describes the unhappy war then raging between Great Britain and his own country, as predatory, and treats of the British officers as border chieftains and freebooters. Such poetical license, especially on the part of an avowed foe, seems quite excusable, yet the Editor of the English Edition, in his preface, is very severe both on the poem and the notes which accompany it. These notes are voluminous, occupying nearly as many pages as the parody itself, and they are partly humorous and satirical, but principally descriptive of events alluded to in the poem, which had occurred during the war.
There were some imitations of Scott’s Lay in Truth, January 18, 1877, and also in the Christmas number of Truth for 1877.
“A Lay to the Last Minstrel,” inscribed to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, by Edward Churton (London, John Murray, 1874), is not, as one might suppose from the title, either an imitation, or a parody of Scott. It is merely an essay on his poetical genius, with some lines in his praise.
——:o:——
MARMION.
This was the next poem published by Scott after The Lay. It contains several passages which have been singled out for frequent imitation, notably Lady Heron’s Song, Lochinvar, and the well-known lines in Canto VI.:—
“O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!”—
* * * * *
An English Poet to a Scotch Critic,
Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease
Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,—
And querulous in thy tirade
As shrewish wife or sour old maid—
When too much “whusky” stings thy brow,
An unco’ sarcy devil thou!
(Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot).
A Good Wife.
“But, on the whole, Chloe is a good wife. If I have a cold she dresses me in linseed poultices, and doses me with all kinds of potions; and even in my suffering I can appreciate the poetic exclamation—
“Oh, woman! in our hours of ease,
Impatient, coy, and hard to please:
As ineffectual as the shade
By a defective gingham made:
As difficult wherewith to deal
As any sly and cunning eel;
But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax,
How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!”
A Dedication.
O woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze!
Unequall’d too at making cheese—
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
And “very able,” too thou jade,
In managing a shopping raid—
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
Well, one of two things then art thou:
That is, thou’rt either a born nurse;
Or else a nuisance, if not worse!
O Woman! too, in hours of woe,
Into hysterics apt to go:
When trouble levies its distraint,
How prompt art thou thereon to faint!
When danger’s for the time supreme,
How ready art thou, too, to scream!
In fact, what hour of night or day
Is there when thou’rt not in the way?
From Finis, 1877.
The Mansion House Marmion.
[In 1883, when there was much talk of impending and very desirable reforms in the Government of the Metropolis, Lord Mayor Fowler gave a dinner to the City magnates. He then expressed his great surprise that Mr. Forster should have recommended him to become first Lord Mayor of the new Corporation. “Far from that,” he asserted, “he would fight the new Bill, line by line and clause by clause;” and he then proceeded to declaim to his vociferous fellow-citizens Marmion’s speech to King James.]
The City Carlton merrily
With wassail rung, and mirth and glee,
For Tory City-Fathers there
Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor.
The spread outshone all banquets past;
The wine and wit flowed free and fast;
Till, ’midst approving sound,
The loyal toasts were drunk in turn;
And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern,
The Loving-Cup went round.
And easy was the task, I trow,
The Marquis’ manly form to know,
When, his great courtesy to show,
He drank with Fowler, bending low
To meet the goblet’s brim;
And City men who saw the sight,
Demonstrative in their delight,
Gave several cheers for him.
Ere long, uprising from his chair
To toast the City, Mr. Mayor
Stood, in his new-found fame;
But for some moments could not speak—
His Tory heart swelled nigh to break—
And presently adown his cheek
A bitter tear there came.
Then memory did his wrath inspire,
Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire,
And shook his very beard with ire,
As “This to me!” he cried.
“From Forster, too, a friend who knows
How I persistently oppose
Reforms on every side!
He little kens the thoughts that roll,
Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul,
Or he would not declare
That I, a City Tory true,
Would of the Corporation new
Become the first Lord Mayor!”
Still on his cheek the flush of rage
O’ercame the ashen hue of age,
As he went on, “How dare he, then,
Thus beard the Lion in his den—
The Fowler at Guildhall!
Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow,
And lay our Corporation low?
No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No!
Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho!
For your stout aid I call.”
Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!”
Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah!
Let Harcourt know, if he dare try
The City Fathers to defy,
That London has its treasures great—
Its funds invested, and its plate;
That turtle now is cheap as beef
(That Conger canard’s past belief);
And that, ere his vile Bill be passed,
Those hoards of wealth we have amassed
Shall be entirely spent,
In Swords of Honour by the score;
In Golden Boxes, rained galore,
In Banquets gross as those of yore,
In jobs still grosser than before,
And greater in extent!
“That we will many a time persist
In opening a Subscription List,
Far-off distress to aid;
Whilst those who starve about our gate,
We’ll leave to their unhappy fate,
And hunger unallayed.
Know, too, that ere from power we start,
We’ll patronise again High Art,
And raise the Griffin’s counterpart
To dominate the City;
That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay,
And block the fish-producing-way,
Spite what in Parliament they say,
Or argue in Committee.
“Know, too, that ere all London taste
This new reform, we oft will haste
Funds left in Charity to waste
In gorging and in guzzling;
And we, as Aldermen, will mock
At justice still; and surely shock
Those who are bound to us to flock
For our decisions puzzling.
“Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed,
Shall many a poor man die of need,
And thousands suffer for the greed
Of our smug Corporation;
And London for long years shall bear
Fresh burdens that we still may share
The plunder, and well bait the snare
With which we trap the nation,
Pretending that at our own cost
We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost,
With generous intent;
Whereas it safely might be sworn
No penny from our hoard’s been torn—
’Tis duties placed on coal and corn
That we’ve so freely spent!”
Again, ’midst vehement applause,
Did Fowler for a moment pause;
Then, facing round to his brave band,
And fiercely shaking his clenched hand,
He with a sip his voice restored,
And once again defiance poured:
“Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,”
Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue,
I still am here, my friends, with you,
My opposition to renew;
And ere that Bill shall pass,
Full many a brother shall secure
Knighthood by rank expenditure;
Full many a Scandal we’ll commit;
Absorb full many a perquisite;
Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe
To join some Civic thievish tribe;
Full many a day reforms oppose;
Full many a time strike coward’s blows;
And often to the nation show
How small we are, how rude, how low,
How stubborn, ignorant, and dense,
How totally devoid of sense,
And how intensely crass!”
Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down,
While cheers from all sides came to crown
His spirited appeal;
Thrice went the Loving Cup around,
And thrice did fresh applause resound
As those brave City Tories found
Fresh impulse for their zeal!
Truth, November 29, 1883.
——:o:——
LOCHINVAR
This song, sang by Lady Heron, in Marmion, was partly founded on a ballad called “Katharine Janfarie,” which may be found in the “Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none—
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented!—the gallant came late!—
For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word—
“O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?—
Or to dance at our bridal?—young Lord Lochinvar!”
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!—
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!”
The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh—
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near—
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan:
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea—
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Walter Scott.
Benet College, Cambridge, 1820.
Dear Mr. North,
We are rather flat here at present, but I enclose you a squiblet, which was written when Sir J. E. Smith, that knight of the gilly-flower, made his grand charge on our Botanical Chair.
Lock-and-Bar.
A Botany Bay Eclogue.
O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North,
Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth;
Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none;
He came all unask’d, and he came all alone.
So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith,
There ne’er was Professor like President Smith.
He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan;
He put in his clamour where claim he had none;
But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state,
The tutors conspir’d—and the lectures came late.
For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too,
Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view.
In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall,
Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all;
Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way,
(For some of the Tutors had little to say),
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dine with the Fellows, or—what come ye for?”
“I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied,
I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried;
And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine,
To try a last measure—then leave you to pine;
There are students in London more civil by far,
That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.”
Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through;
He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do;
He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh,
With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye,
Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith.
“This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith.
So stately the tone, and so lovely the print,
Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t.
While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap,
And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap;
And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far
To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.”
A hint such as this had just rung in his ear,
When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near;
So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung,
So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung—
We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill,
“Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.”
There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan;
King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can,
There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè,
But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see,
—So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith:
Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith.
This Parody appeared in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for November, 1820. Many other excellent parodies and imitations are to be found in the early volumes of Blackwood, (which first appeared in April, 1817) but unfortunately most of them are quite out of date, and would be of little, or no interest to the modern reader.
Songs of the Rail.
O young William Jones is come out of the West,
Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best!
And save his grim stoker, he helper had none,
He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone,
So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans;
Did you e’er hear of driver like young William Jones?
He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke,
And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke;
But when at the station he slacken’d his rate,
The up-train had started, the down-train came late;
And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard,
Was to wed the fair Polly of Jones’s regard.
“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied;
And now I am come, with my lost Polly B.
To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea:
There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones,
To jump at the tender of young William Jones.”
The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up,
He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup;
She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie,
And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye:
He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay;
“Now walk on the platform,” said young William J.
So stately his form, and so beauteous her face,
That never a plank such a couple did grace;
While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume,
And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room,
And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, Bill, what d’ye say?
They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.”
One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear,
And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near;
So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung—
So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung—
“She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way,
And the next does not stop here” said young William J.
There was laughing and roaring with every man;
They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran:
They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea,
For the fair Mrs. Jones there they never will see;
And each one that knows her will laughingly say,
“That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young William J.!”
Punch, January 22, 1848.
The Russian Lochinvar.
[The first encounter in the Crimean War took place at Oltenitza, on November 4, 1854, when the Russians were defeated. A few days later the Turks retired to Kalafat where they kept the Russians in check for some time.]
The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East,
For treaties and truces he cares not the least,
And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none,
He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun.
So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar?
He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun,
He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none;
But when he got near to the old Iron Gate,
He found certain reasons which urged him to wait.
For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha,
Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar,
So he drew up his legions—serf, vassal and thrall,
His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all,
Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword,
In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord,
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?”
“I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied,
And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried,
So now I’ve come down with this army of mine,
The rights and the wrongs of the case to define,
And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star
Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.”
He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up
(Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup),
And deigned to his logic the briefest reply,
“That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,”
And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar
To further advance by the big-booted Czar.
So before Oltenitza the battle took place,
And the Russian thought proper to right about face,
For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom,
And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume,
And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far
To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”,
One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear,
The despot commands, and his men persevere—
So again to the breezes their standards are flung,
And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue,
And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar
The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar.
There was wild disarray in the rear and the van,
The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran.
There was racing and chasing—’twas pleasing to see
The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be.
May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war
That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar.
Shirley Brooks, 1854.
The Prince of Wales’s Ride.
(à la Lochinvar.)
The Prince of Wales was present at the autumn manœuvres in 1871, and the Times gave the following account of a part he took in a sham fight:—
“A party of the dashing 10th Hussars had pushed on too far up the hill, and were captured by our cavalry, and given in as killed by an umpire. They were standing—dead men all—on the ridge, when the Prince and his staff rode up the hill-side, and made towards three of Staveley’s guns. In a few seconds His Royal Highness had discovered whose the guns were, and galloped up to the troop of the 10th, who were prisoners (but he did not know it), placed himself at their head, and ordered them to charge the guns. The gunners, perceiving this manœuvre, with great smartness, but little loyalty, put four rounds into the Prince and his Hussars before they were ridden down. The Prince claimed the battery, and an umpire was sent for. Sir H. Grant, Sir C. Staveley, and others came, and the Prince and his party were given in as prisoners; but when Sir Charles claimed them, the Prince laughed and galloped off. Then was seen the Heir Apparent, flying before a general of division and his staff, who kept up the pursuit with a will, to loud cries of “Stop him!” “Don’t let him go!” “Seize the Prince!” One of Sir Charles’s aides-de-camp got so close that he could have laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, but neither for big guns, nor small arms, nor shouts would the Prince draw bridle, and he got clear away, and vanished into the woods below the hill.”
It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars,
Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars;
And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright,
As they rode to the Sham (for it was a sham) Fight.
“And if any would take the wind out of our sails,
They must look sharp about it!” says Albert of Wales.
“It is rather slow work, this,” then Albert said he.
“And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me.
At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang,
Are the enemy’s cannon—hark! there they go—Bang!
Let us try to surprise them—a rush seldom fails:
Balaclava the Second!” shouts Albert of Wales.
With a crash and a waving of sabres in air,
Down they swoop on the gunners—and how these last stare!
But although they are startled, not one of them runs:
They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns,
“Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the Prince hails):
“Do you yield?”—“No, but you do!” says Albert of Wales.
“You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.—
“I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”—
“Oh dear, no!”—“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits,
“As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits,
You must yield yourselves up—no resistance avails.”—
“Don’t you wish you may get it?” says Albert of Wales.
With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip,
Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip.
“You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may,
He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day!
You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details—
I am off in a hurry!” says Albert of Wales.
Then in haste follows Staveley, and off gallops Grant:
“Hallo there!”—“Hold him, now!”—“Oh, I’ll stop him!”—“You Can’t!”
Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck
That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck.
“It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails;
Let who can overtake me!” cries Albert of Wales.
Judy, October 11, 1871.
The Late Light of the Bar.
Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy[36] confest,
Pledged to see the foul wrongs of Sir Roger redressed!
Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none;
He went unabashed, and he went all alone,
As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,—
Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar?
He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan;
What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none?
But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate,
The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late;
For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par,
’Twixt John Mitchel and him, this late Light of the Bar.
So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall,
Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all,
While calm, cold, and cutting, the Speaker was heard,
Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word,
“In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are,
Without introducers thus passing our Bar!”
“I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied:
Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied!
And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine,
Like Cromwell, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine:
Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr
Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.”
Dropped by all like hot poker, John Bright took him up—
“Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup.
If Whalley has spirit to lend me a hand,
By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.”
But Disraeli moved, “Waive the rule, better far:
Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.”
So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face
He shook hands with the Speaker, swore, scowled at the Mace;
’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume,
What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume:
While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are;
Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.”
He touched Whalley’s hand, who fought shy, it was clear,
And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near;
So light in the air his green gingham he swung;
So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung—
“I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war!
See The Englishman!”—quoth this Ex-light of the Bar.
There were posters (four-sheet) on The Englishman’s van
With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran:
Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew.
But the lost case of Orton they would not review!
So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far,
Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar!
Punch, March 6, 1875.
Young Stephey Cave.[38]
O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East,
Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast!
And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none;
He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave.
He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone;
He took the first steamer where train there was none;
But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate
The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late,
For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave
Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave.
So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall,
Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all.
Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored,
(For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,)
“O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save,
Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?”
“I long thought ye bankrupt—the truth ye denied;
Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide,
And now I am come with this ledger of mine
To go through your figures. You dare not decline!
There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave,
Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.”
They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff;
He tested the figures through sums on his cuff;
He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh,
With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye;
He gave his right hand a most tragical wave—
“They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave.
One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear,
And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near.
So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed,
So strongly perceiving the same he avowed—
“We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!”
“They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave.
There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore;
Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore;
There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free,
But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see.
So renowned at accounts, so financially brave,
Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave?
Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.
Young Lochinvar.
The True Story in Blank Verse.
Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,
Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal,
Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,
Where good nags, fresh from the country,
With burrs still in their tails are selling
For a song; and save his good broad sword
He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter
Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw
Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,
Because there was no one going his way.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for
Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford
There was none, and saved fifteen cents
In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing
Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.
Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion
He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,
And this delayed him considerably, so when
He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant
Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.
So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and
Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;
Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you
I have the inside track in the free-for-all
For her affections! my suit you denied; but let
That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love
Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar,
They’ll have swift steeds that follow”—but in the
Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Free Press Flashes, 1883.
——:o:——
Marmion Travesty.
Marmion was published in February, 1808, when the Duke of York was Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. A scandal in connection with this office gave rise to a very successful burlesque of Marmion, about which a few explanatory notes must be given. Frederic, Duke of York (the second son of George III., born in 1763), having proved his utter incapacity as a general in the field, during several disastrous campaigns in Flanders and Holland, was raised to the lucrative post of Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Notwithstanding that he was married to a daughter of the King of Prussia, he took several ladies under his protection, one of whom, Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, was also married. The Duke, in addition to an unfortunate attachment to the pleasures of the table, was also an inveterate and unlucky gamester, consequently the allowance of £1,000 a year which he had promised to Mrs. Clarke was always in arrear.
Unable to support the expensive establishment which she had started at the Duke’s instigations, Mrs. Clarke proceeded, with much business aptitude, to sell Commissions in the Army, to arrange promotions, and to effect transfers, pocketing very large sums for her services, which, in most cases, were crowned with success. Colonel Wardle, M.P. for Oakingham, brought the subject before the House of Commons, an enquiry was instituted, Mrs. Clarke was examined as a witness, and stated that she always found the Duke of York willing to promote the gentlemen whose names she recommended to his notice. The evidence taken before the Committee was so damaging to the character of the Duke that he resigned his office before the House had fully decided on its report. Sir David Dundas was appointed Commander-in-Chief, but he only held the position for a short time. As soon as the public indignation had in some degree subsided, the Duke of York resumed the office, having by the clever ruse of a temporary resignation, escaped the almost certain vote of censure of the House of Commons.
Upon these circumstances was founded “Marmion travestied; a tale of Modern Times, by Peter Pry, Esq. London; Thomas Tegg, Cheapside. 1809.” The keynote of this amusing volume is given by the motto, taken from Gay:—
’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind;
By her we first are taught the wheedling arts;
Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind;
She tricks us of our money with our hearts.
The Travesty was inscribed by its author to “Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate.” Each canto is introduced by lines addressed either to Sir Francis Burdett, R. B. Sheridan, Sir David Dundas, Sir Robert Peel, or Lord Ellenborough.
The poem consists of 277 pages, octavo, and deals very closely with the Clarke case, so that unless the reader has by him the Report containing the evidence taken before the House, some of the allusions would be unintelligible, especially as the names are only indicated by italics, and the volume is destitute of any explanatory notes.
As one of the longest and most important burlesques in the language it could not be passed over, but unfortunately it offers few passages, which detached from the context, would interest the modern reader, and even these might be considered rather broad in their allusions.
The parody it contains of Lady Heron’s song, Lochinvar, is entitled “The Bishop,” an allusion to the fact that the Duke of York was Prince-Bishop of Osnaburg, a post for which his high moral character admirably fitted him.
The Bishop.
O, a Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray,
Throughout our dominions no man is more gay;
And save one in a corner, he favourites had none,
For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one;
So faithful in love and so fervent in pray’rs
That never did man better manage affairs.
He staid not for cash—tho’ he ask’d for a loan,
But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none;
And ere he’d neglect things of love or of state
He came without money, for fear he’d come late,
For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares,
Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs.
To worship his saint did he thus take a trip,
And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip;
When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked,
(It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d),
Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs,
Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs?
Without you have cash must your suit be denied,
Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide;
So now I observe—and observe very true,
That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do;
Your Grace need not take empty pockets upstairs,
It is a long-purse that must manage affairs.
The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d;
His vows—but not one of the house-bills—were paid.
She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain,
For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain.
She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears,
“Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs.
How sudden his exit—how wild was her look,
For now his departure she scarcely could brook;
While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume,
And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room,
And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares,
To meddle so much with a Bishop’s affairs.”
One hint by the way—and one word in your ear
If ever you wish to be darling and dear—
Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout mammon, but know
His blessing’s enough, as the sequel will show;
“She is false—then farewell—let her rail, but who cares;
Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.”
And to manage affairs is a business of art,
A secret which prudence forbids to impart,
A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns,
For statesmen can always display ways and means;
In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares,
Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs.
The Duke of York died early in 1827, to the great regret of all—his numerous creditors, and the nation erected an expensive monument to commemorate his military genius, and domestic virtues.[39] Perhaps the money might have been as well employed in the payment of some of his debts.
——:o:——
THE LADY OF THE LAKE.
The success of Marmion encouraged Scott to produce another poem, and in May, 1810, was published The Lady of the Lake, which met with equal favour. In the preface to his new poem Walter Scott made the following sensible remarks:—
“If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village, must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. On this principle I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their own level; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as school-boys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling.”
The philosophical temperament of which he here boasts was soon put to a severe test, for George Colman the younger produced a parody in which every technical blemish in The Lady of the Lake was mercilessly ridiculed, and every improbability maliciously exaggerated, whilst Scott’s long Notes on antiquarian and philological topics were imitated with very comical mock gravity. This clever satire was entitled, “The Lady of the Wreck; or Castle Blarneygig,” by George Colman the younger, inscribed to the author of “The Lady of the Lake.” This poem was published by Longmans and Co., London, and was illustrated by some curious and very well executed little woodcuts. The scene of the story is laid in Ireland, and the author thus explains his reason for selecting that country:—
“Let not the reader, whose senses have been delightfully intoxicated by that Scottish Circe, the “Lady of the Lake,” accuse the present author of plagiary. The wild Irish and wild Caledonians bore a great resemblance to each other, in very many particulars; and two Poets, who have any “method in their madness,” may, naturally, fall into similar strains of wildness, when handling subjects equally wild and remote. ’Tis a wild world, my masters! The author of this work has merely adopted the style which a northern Genius has, of late, rendered the Fashion, and the Rage. He has attempted, in this instance, to become a maker of the Modern-Antique; a vendor of a new coinage, begrim’d with the ancient ærugo; a constructor of the dear pretty sublime, and sweet little grand; a writer of a short epick poem, stuff’d with romantick knick-knackeries, and interlarded with songs and ballads, à la mode de Chevy Chase, Edom o’ Gordon, Sir Launcelot du Lake, &c., &c. How is such a writer to be class’d?”
Scott’s descriptions of scenery, his love of sport, and chivalrous tone are all, in this burlesque, reduced to a very prosaic level; thus the lines in Canto I commencing:—
“The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.”
are, by Colman, rendered thus:—
“The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint,
Where Patrick is the Patron Saint,
And with his peasant Lord, unfed,
Went, grunting, to their common bed:
But when black night her sables threw
Athwart the slough of Ballyloo,
The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar
Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore,
And hailstones pelted, mighty big,
The Towers of Castle Blarneygig.
* * * * *
And all the Vassals’ senses lay
Drown’d in the whisky of the day.
Still raged the storm!—still, records run,
All slept in Blarneygig, save one,
Lord of the Castle, and Domain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.”
In Canto II. of The Lady of the Lake occurs the celebrated and often quoted
Boat Song.
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
* * * * *
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands,
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine!
O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from the deepmost glen,
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”
In Colman’s version the Lord of Castle Blarneygig is the hero of the song:—
“Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang,
And, thus, as loud the chorus rang,
The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.”
Banquet Song.[40]
Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey;
Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas!
Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky!
For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas?
Crest of O’Shaughnashane!—
That’s a Potato, plain,—
Long may your root every Irishman know!
Pats long have stuck to it,
Long bid good luck to it;
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting;
No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground;
Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting
Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round.
Wants the soil, where ’tis flung,
Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung,
Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow;
Shout for it, Ulster men,
Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining!
While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig,
So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining
Around the potato of proud Blarneygig!
While the plant vegetates,
While whisky recreates,
Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow;
Shake your shillalahs, boys!
Screeching drunk, scream your joys!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:—
The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
* * * * *
is thus parodied:—
Song of the Bridegroom.
Don’t, now, be after being coy;
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy!
And let us at our breakfast, toy,
For thou art Wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain,
Thy humble sarvant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane,
The Husband unto thee, Judy!
* * * * *
The skins of Wolves,—by me they bled,—
Are covers to our Marriage-Bed;
Should one, in hunting, bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy!
Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind;
And if I leave, as I’ve design’d,
Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,
They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!
Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott.
The libretto of an Italian opera was founded upon The Lady of the Lake (and such librettos are always burlesques on the original poem), besides which it has been frequently represented, in various forms, on the stage. One very amusing version, by Andrew Halliday, entitled “Mountain Dhu; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake,” was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, on December 26, 1866. This burlesque was full of parodies of Scotch songs with topical allusions. The leading parts were performed by Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Miss Furtado, and Paul Bedford, with J. L. Toole as Rhoderick Dhu. About the same time Miss M. Oliver produced “The Lady of the Lake plaid in a new Tartan, an ephemeral burlesque,” by R. Reece, at the New Royalty Theatre, London, but this was decidedly inferior in literary merit to Mr. Halliday’s Mountain Dhu.
“Hail to the Chief!”
(A Popular Pæan. After Sir Walter.)
Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine,
Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances!
Fervently flame in the front of our line!
Heaven his strength renew,
Still keep him stout and true,
Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow;
While all true Englishmen
Send forth the shout agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet!
Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade?
Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet,
Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid,
Firm as the fixèd rock,
Braving the tempest’s shock,
Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow.
England and Scotland then
Echo his praise agen,
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly,
And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied.
Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly,
But little the Veteran recked of his pride.
“Fagots” all prostrate laid
Long shall lament his raid,
Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe:
Buccleuch’s brave voting men
Shake when they hear agen
“Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!”
Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party!
Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief.
Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty,
Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf?
And there’s a stripling gem,
Worthy the ancient stem—
Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.”
Loud shall all England then
Shout for the pair agen,
“Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!”
Punch, April 24, 1880.
——:o:——
The following lines are in imitation of the opening of Canto III., entitled The Gathering. They are apropos of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in August, 1884, during the agitation about the Franchise Bill.
Raising the “Fiery Cross.”
(Some way after Sir Walter Scott).
Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore,
When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee,
When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore,
Herald and harbinger of victory,
Is not yet blotted from man’s memory.
How few, how weak and withered of their force
The Tory remnant, which all men might see
Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse
Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course.
There yet live those who can remember well
When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew;
When county broad and borough big, as well
As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew,
And fast the faithful clan around him drew.
And now again his warning note is wound,
Again the banner floats as then it flew;
Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound,
And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round.
The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue
Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue;
Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze,
Born of conflicting policies,
Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy,
And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy,
Are not for Members sorely prest,
The prospect of unbroken rest
In dull uncertainty still lies
Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies.
The Peers have crossed the People’s right,
And there is bound to be a fight!
Against the ermine and the lawn
The proletariat blade is drawn,
Members must leave the mountain’s side,
The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide;
To raise the sword and shout the cry
Amidst the roused democracy.
Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush,
The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush,
War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove
Hushes her notes of peace and love.
No thought of peace or Autumn rest
Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast.
With unsheathed broadsword in his hand,
He’ll pace the war-awakened land.
Strife’s rising he has heard and laid
His hand upon his ready blade,
His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care
Midlothian promptly will prepare,
Where he aforetime lessons taught
With deep and deathful meaning fraught;
Where they shall meet and whence abroad
The Cross of Fire shall take its road.
The land would hear his vocal blasts,
And see the flashing glance he casts:
Such glance the mountain-eagle throws,
When high among the peaks and snows
He spreads his pinions on the wind,
And, like an albatross reclined
Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes
The chirpers of the brakes and bushes.
’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock,
And bold to brave the stormiest shock,
With kindling eye, with floating plaid,
Wide waving hair and flashing blade,
The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim,
Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb.
The Cross is shaped, and held on high;
The Chieftain of the eagle eye
Rears it aloft with clutch of steel,
Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:—
“When flits this Cross from man to man,
Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan,
Woe to the clansman who shall view
This symbol, loved of followers true,
Forgetful that when last the blue
Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew
Beaconsfield’s glory low!
Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust,
He shall be scattered like the dust,
And from all loyal gatherings thrust,
Each clansman’s execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe!”
He stops;—the word his followers take
With forward step and fiery shake
Of naked brands that lightnings make,
And clattering shields that echoes wake;
And first in murmur low,
Then like a Demonstration’s course
That Hyde parkwards doth his in force,
And purple shouts itself, and hoarse,
Burst from that thousand-throated source,
“Woe to such traitors, woe!”
The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave,
The Tories scarce that Cross may brave;
The exulting Rads hurrah afar—
They know the voice of Gladstone’s War!
Punch, August 30, 1884.
——:o:——
ROKEBY.
Rokeby was the next important poem produced by Scott,—it appeared early in 1813, and was quickly followed by a burlesque, entitled “Jokeby; a Burlesque on Rokeby. A Poem in Six Cantos, by an Amateur of Fashion.” To which are added Occasional Notes, by our most popular characters. London, printed for Thomas Tegg, 1813. The notes are in imitation of the style of learned commentators, and are signed by Sheridan, Kemble, Colman, and others. The only portion of this now-forgotten parody which is worth quoting, is a song founded on that in Canto III. Rokeby, commencing:—
“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.”
Song.
Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
And though in dwellings low they stay,
Yet snug is their retreat.
And as I walked thro’ Russel-square,
To see what I could see,
A fair one from a window there
Was singing merrily
Chorus—
“Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”
If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree,
To leave this house and place,
Thou first must guess what boys we are,
Who sweet St. Giles’s grace.
And if thou can’st this riddle tell,
As tell you may with ease,
Then shalt thou enter soon our cell,
As merry as you please.
Chorus—
Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I’d rather with my Cymon stray,
Than live in country seat.”
“I guess you by your awkward feet,
And by your stoop to boot;
I guess you for a taylor meet,
To make a marriage suit.”
“A taylor, madam, bends his knees,
And not for sake of prayer;
His legs are always fix’d at ease,
And mine are here and there.”
Chorus—
Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
I wish I could with Cymon stray,
And see his snug retreat.”
“By the fine compliments I’ve met,
And by your gallant airs,
I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet,
Who for him lies and swears.”
“No servant I to any Squire,
Nor yet a place have I,
And when that trials hard require,
I can both swear and lie.”
Chorus—
And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay,
The pride of Dyott Street,
Yet never lass with me shall stray,
To see our snug retreat.
“Lady, a shameful life I lead,
A shameful death I’ll die;
The man who labours hard for bread
Were better spouse than I.
And when I meet my comrades rare,
In places distant far;
We all forget what once we were,
Nor think on what we are.”
Chorus—
Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay,
The pride of Dyott Street;
And ever true and merry they,
Within their snug retreat.
Jokeby went through many editions, although to a modern reader it seems almost destitute of humour or talent. It has been attributed to John Roby, and also to Thomas Tegg, its publisher, whilst the Editor of Parodies copied the following note from a copy of Jokeby, which had belonged to the late Shirley Brooks, Editor of Punch:—“This was written by the Brothers Smith (of Rejected Addresses). I picked it up at a bookstall near Baker Street. The work is not good for much, but I suppose is now scarce, so this may as well be kept.—Shirley Brooks, 17th October, 1873.” But it seems most improbable that this poor imitation should have been the work of either of the Smiths, whose admirable parody of Scott in the Rejected Addresses, which was given on page 72, shows what they could do in that way.
There was also Smokeby a Parody of the same poem, which appeared in an early number of the Ephemerides, a literary serial, published in Edinburgh in 1813. Rokeby the Second is the title of a long, and rather dull, parody which appeared in The Satirist, of March. 1813. The events recounted in the poem are supposed to have occurred immediately after the dreadful fight between Tom Cribb and Molineux. The chief aim of this production was to ridicule Scott for the inordinate length of the notes to his poems, for in a preface entitled “An Essay on the Art of Book Making,” the author remarks: “It must be known to everyone, that in modern bookmaking, little depends on the poetry of a poem. The notes are the thing on which success depends. In these, difficult as it may seem to come up to the authors of Childe Harold and Rokeby, I am vain enough to think I shall not be found wanting.” Accordingly, the notes are very long (as well as rather broad), and have very little connection indeed with the parody itself.
The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor (London), first appeared on October 1, 1807, and was discontinued in 1814. It contained numerous political parodies, and with each number there was a large coloured folding cartoon. The tone of the Satirist was decidedly Tory, and both in its cartoons and its letterpress the Whigs were roundly abused and ridiculed.
The parts published December, 1808, and January, 1809, contained two articles entitled “Second Sight,” which professed to be a review of a new poem entitled “MacArthur, an Epic Poem, in six Cantos, by Walter Scott, Esq.” This review not only gave the plot of the supposed work, but also quoted several extracts from it, such as the following:—
“And every eye was turn’d to see
What such a goodly smell might be!
When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d,
With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d,
And crest erect on high;
In noble dish of china-ware,
Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare,
Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air,
A lofty pigeon-pie!
And round its edge, in bas relieve,
The curious gazer might perceive
S.W. and P.I.!
* * * * *
Knows well, no doubt the curious sage,
And poet’s mind, and head of age,
What such devices mean;
Who made this pie, of high renown,
A baker was, of Derby town,
His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown,
An honest wight, I ween;
His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash,
His mother a matron of Enfield-wash,
And laundress to the Queen!
And long could he trace his ancestry,
Too long for my weak minstrelsy.”
* * * * *
——:o:——
Valentines,
A Fragment.
… “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the Minstrel, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:—
I who, of Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The battled towers, the Donjon keep,
The loophole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
Built of the thickest stone:—
Of stalworth knight and champion grim
With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb;
Of Haco’s floating banner trim;
Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart,
Who came on baker Simnel’s part;
Of abbots, monks and jovial friars,
Of simple nuns and purblind priors,
Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires;
And wanton lady’s charms;
Of painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing,
And him, that Satirist, so knowing,
Of whom we still make some account,
Sir David Lindsay, of the mount,
Lord lion king at arms:—
* * * * *
I, who have sung of all of these;—
And eke of that same cuckold lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twissel and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.
Who led the Falcon knight to the deas,
And posted him full high
With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie
And a savoury venison pie:
From the bare north, my distant home
A border minstrel, lo! I come;
Who much, I ween, have pored
On many a huge unwieldy tome
Imprinted at the antique dome,
Of Caxton, or de Worde:
To dear St. Valentine no thrush,
Sings livelier from a Springtide bush;
Then pay me half-a-crown a line,
And I will be thy Valentine.”
This Valentine parody appeared in The Satirist for February, 1810, with another poem imitating the style of M. G. Lewis.
In January, 1811, there was another long parody of Walter Scott, in the same journal. It was entitled The Ovation of the Empty Chair, and commenced:—
O that I had the muse I wot,
The buxom muse of Walter Scott,
Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes,
Recite the tales of other times;
Then should that simple muse declare,
Th’ ovation of the empty chair.
This parody relates to the imprisonment in the Tower of Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical Member for Westminster, and father of the present Lady Burdett Coutts.
——:o:——
On the death of Mr. Henry James Pye, the Poet Laureate, in 1813, and during the discussion which ensued as to his probable successor, The Satirist published a collection of applications for the post. These applications (supposed to have been written by the most eminent poets of the day), contained specimens of such odes and addresses as they would have been prepared to manufacture in praise of the monarch, and his family, on appointment to the office. The authors thus parodied were Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Thomas Campbell, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, and George Crabbe. The notes which accompanied the parodies were more interesting than the poems themselves, of which, indeed, the only one which would be worth quoting was a parody on Robert Southey. That on Walter Scott was poor stuff, and most of the others are quite out of date.
——:o:——
Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers.
Be not discouraged—gentlemen,
Tho’ criticism has run me down—
Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen,
And Plagiary stole my renown—
Give me more cash—I’ll take more pains,
And far surpass my former strains
In Metaphor and thought.
My fancy too shall soar so high,
That burlesque writers I’ll defy,
And critics set at naught.
Successful in my first essay,
My friends began to greet—
My First, entitled the Last Lay—
No minstrel sung more sweet—
Then envy slept and I became,
At once a Poet of great fame;
For much applause I had—
Proud of the offspring of my pen,
I was resolved to write agen,
And to my laurels add.
My Marmion I then gave the town,
In strains energetic and bold;
The critics were ready to own,
The battle sublimely was told.
But one Peter Pry,
His humour must try,
To burlesque the poem I’d written;
To me it did seem
A wonderful theme,
For any to exercise wit on.
Resolved another work to make,
I wrote the Lady of the Lake;
The Lady was so much the rage,
That she was brought upon the stage;
But grief to tell!
The younger Colman must think fit,
(In order to display his wit)
My Lady, who the Lake did deck,
To make the Lady of the Wreck;
Nor was this all—for—oh, for shame!
Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot,
Stole all my sentiments and plot,
And made a novel of the same.
I’ll nought of Don Roderic say,
For that, sirs, had never fair play
And well the poor author may rail
In oblivion Don Roderic lay;
For all must allow,
There wer’nt puffs enow,
And how could it then have a sale?
I then my dear Rokeby devised—
By Murray ’twas well advertised;
For he made a boast
In the Times and the Post,
(And many the puffs too believed)
That he the first copies received—
But oh my unfortunate Rokeby;
Who e’er of a parody dream’t,
To bring thee thus into comtempt,
Metamorphosing thee into Jokeby.
When I saw—oh, how great was my passion,
The bills upon Edinburgh wall—
Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]—
I sent men to cover them all.
Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted,
I wish a new work to be printed—
Another’s already prepared,
Then don’t let your money be spared.
I hate in my price to be stinted—
’Tis such—it will baffle all wit,
’Tis such that no burlesque can hit;
’Tis such so sublime and so grand—
The critics will not understand.
And I long—ah, I long now to show ’em,
The charms of my forthcoming Poem.
From Accepted Addresses, or Præmium Poetarum.
London, Thomas Tegg, 1813.
——:o:——
“The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain,” is the title of a small volume published by Longmans & Co., London, in 1816. This contains poems which are ascribed, in the index, to Lord Byron, Walter Scott, W. Wordsworth, James Hogg, S. T. Coleridge, J. Wilson, and Robert Southey. In the introduction the Editor remarks that he claims no merit save that of having procured from the authors the various Poems contained in the volume, and he leads one to believe that the names affixed to the Poems represent the real authors.
The Editor of Parodies purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “The Altrive Tales,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of The Poetic Mirror: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R—— S—— is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.”
It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the Poetic Mirror cannot be termed Parodies; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances.
Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled “Wat o’ the Cleuch,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles Marmion, whilst Lochinvar was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:—
Walsinghame’s Song.
O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch?
The lad that has worrying tikes enow,
Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,
And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine
With two pint stoups of good red wine;
But when he looked they both were dry;
O poverty parts good company!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine
To woo a maid both gallant and fine;
But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side
He smell’d the mutton and left the bride.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch?
Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal,
He wanted milk, and he wanted veal;
But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow
He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow!
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight,
But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright,
And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray,
He wist not what to do or to say;
But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree,
A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
But the devil is cunning as I heard say,
He knew his right, and haul’d him away;
And he’s over the border and over the heuch,
And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch!
But of all the wights in poor Scotland,
That ever drew bow or Border brand,
That ever drove English bullock or ewe,
There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch.
Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch!
Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch!
——:o:——
“Warreniana; with Notes Critical and Explanatory, by the Editor of a Quarterly Review,” is the title of a small volume of imitations, published by Longmans and Co., London, in 1824. The Editor signs his prefatory remarks “W.G.” but there is every reason to believe that the work was written by a Barrister, Mr. William Frederic Deacon, who died in, or about 1845. The motto on the title-page gives the key-note to the motive of the poems, “I have even been accused of writing Puffs for Warren’s Blacking,” Lord Byron. Warren’s Blacking inspires each composition, but whether seriously or in jest, can be best judged by the following extract from the dedication to the King: “Deign then, oh best of Princes, to justify the Editor’s appeal, that posterity may learn how Warren enlarged the bounds of science, and his Sovereign bowed approval. Long after the trophies of a Wellington shall have floated down the Lethe of oblivion, the name of Guelph, eternised by the gratitude of Warren, shall flourish to after ages, the Medici of modern art. That as yet this mighty manufacturer has lived comparatively unnoticed, he casts no reflection on your Majesty; he resigns that office to his Blacking, but feels with the sensitiveness of neglected genius, that intellect, like the oak, is but tardy in the attainment of its honours.”
This dedication is followed by an introduction stating that Robert Warren had lately engaged all the intellect of England in his behalf, each author being required to furnish a modicum of praise in the style to which he was best adapted. The result being a collection of writings attributed to Washington Irving, William Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey, Lord Byron, S. T. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of less note.
The imitation of Scott is entitled:—
The Battle of Brentford Green.
“In the autumn of 1818, a serious affray took place between those illustrious rivals, Warren, and Day and Martin. The parties, as I learn from the black litter record of the fray, met at Brentford, and after a ‘well-foughtenfield,’ victory was decided in favour of the former Chieftain.”
The first Canto describes a Wassail in the banquetting-hall of Robert Warren. The second Canto, which is the better of the two, is entitled:—
The Combat.
’Tis merry—’tis merry on Brentford Green,
When the holiday folk are singing,
When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien,
And the Brentford bells are ringing;
Well armed in stern unyielding mood.
High o’er that Green the Warren stood;
A burly man was he,
Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue,
And clad in waistcoat dark of hue,
And thick buff jerkin gay to view,
And breeches of the knee:
Beside him stood his trusty band,
With hat on head, and club in hand,
Loud shouting to the fight;
Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane,
O’er hill and heather, wood and plain,
Sent forth the deepened sounds again,
With voice of giant might.
Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green,
Glitters afar with silvery sheen,
The lightning of the storm;
Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien,
With ragged Irishmen are seen,
Dreadful and drunken all, I ween,
A phalanx fierce to form:
Saint George! it was a gallant sight,
To ken beneath the morning light,
The shifting lines sweep by;
In mailed and measured pace they sped,
The earth gave back their hollow tread,
’Till you mote think the charnelled dead
Were howling to the sky.
“Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum,
The foe advance—they come, they come!
Lay on them,” quoth the Day;
“God for the right! on Brentford Heath,
Our bugles stern and stormy breath,
Summons to victory or to death;
Hurrah then, for the fray!”
Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank,
In vengeance rung along each rank;
And the red banners (formed by hap
Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42]
Waved lordlier at the cry:
’Till every proud and painted scrap,
Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap,
Or cloud in winter sky.
The Warren first this squad espied,
Ranged man to man in ruffian pride,
And to each warrior at his side
In vaunting phrase began,
“Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush,
All Brentford to a blacking brush,
My foeman leads the van.”
On rushed each lozel to the fight,
Ruthless as flood from mountain height,
The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast,
And dealt destruction as they past,
While high as some tall vessel’s mast,
Warren o’erlooked the shock;
Thence bore him back with might and main;
Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain,
Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain,
He stemmed them like a rock;
His foeman chief with wary eye,
The flickering of the fight could spy,
And shouted as his bands he led,
To Pat O’Thwackum at their head,
“Thwackum, press on—ne’er mind your scars,
Press on—they yield—and oh, my stars!
Each nose is bleeding fast;
Strike, strike,—their skulls like walnuts cracking
For Day, for Martin, and his blacking,
The battle cannot last.”
Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood,
Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood,
Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies,
His breast with choler glows,
Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes,
And claret from his nose.
The foemen meet—they thump, they thwack!
Hark! burst the braces on their back!
And, hark! their skulls in concert crack!
And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack!
With repercussive shocks:
See, see they fall—down, down they go,
Warren above, his foe below,
While high o’er all ascends the cry
Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky,
And “Thwackum” to the stocks.
Oh! for a blast of that tin horn,
Through London streets by newsmen borne,
That tells the wondering host
How murder, rape, or treason dread,
Deftly concocted, may be read
In Courier, Times, or Post;
Then in dramatic verse and prose,
The martial muse should tell
How Warren triumphed o’er his foes,
How Thwackum fought and fell,
And how, despite his cartel, Day
Hied him, like recreant, from the fray.
’Tis done—the victors all are gone,
And fitfully the sun shines down
On many a bruised and burly clown,
The flower of whose sweet youth is mown,
To blossom ne’er again;
For e’en as grass cut down is hay,
So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay,
As proved each hind who slept that day
On Brentford’s crimson plain.
Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad
Bravely lay sprawling on the sod;
They scorned to turn their tails,—for why?
They had no tails to turn awry,
So dropped each where he stood.
First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground,
Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound,
Mark Wiggins from Cheapside,
Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall,
The two O’Noodles from Blackwall,
Noggins the Jew from London Wall,
And Scroggins from Saint Bride:
Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose
To join the motley chase,
Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows
Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose
Was flattened to his face:
Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose,
Would have essayed to pour
On one—on all, his wrath red hot
As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not
Been hanged the day before.
Illustrious brave if muse like mine
May bid for aye, your memories shine
In fame’s recording page;
Each wounded limb, each fractured head,
Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed,
Shall live from age to age;
And still on Brentford Green while springs
The daisy, while the linnet sings
Her valentine to May,
The sympathising hind shall tell
Of those who fought and those who fell,
At Brentford’s grim foray.
L’Envoy to the Reader.
Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede
Hath reached an end, nor feel I need
To add to Warren’s fame, my meed
Of laudatory rhymes;
Far loftier bards his praise rehearse,
And prouder swells his daily verse
In Chronicle or Times.
Enough for me on summer day,
To pipe some simple oaten lay,
Of goblin page or border fray,
To rove in thought through Teviotdale,
Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale,
(The sight and sense with awe attacking,)
Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood,
Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud,
In boots baptized with Warren’s Blacking.
——:o:——
In 1822 a volume of Poems was published by Hurst, Robinson and Co., of London, and in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable and Co., entitled “The Bridal of Caölchairn, and other Poems, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.”
In the same year another edition was published by T. Hookham, Old Bond Street, London, on the title-page of which the work was said to be “by John Hay Allan, Esq.” The volume was dedicated to the Duke of Argyle, it had no preface, nor any explanation of the author’s impudent attempt to pass off his work upon the public as that of Sir Walter Scott.
The poems are of a serious nature, and would not have been mentioned here, had it not been for the hoax as to their authorship.
——:o:——
Rejected Odes, edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq. (London, J. Johnston, 1813), contains an imitation of Scott’s poetry, but it is not worth quoting.
When George, visited Scotland in August, 1822, Scott wrote an imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, Carle, now the King’s come, it was in two parts, and was published as a broadside. This was parodied, under the title of Sawney, now the King’s come, of which it is very difficult now to obtain a copy.
In the third volume of the works of the late Thomas Love Peacock (London, R. Bentley and Son, 1875) there is a Border Ballad written in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.
This was one of the “Paper Money Lyrics” which were written by Peacock in 1825, and published in 1837, it has little to interest modern readers.
Several other Parodies of Scott have appeared in Punch, in addition to those here reprinted. One, entitled The Battle of Wimbledon, which appeared on July 19, 1862, consists principally of an enumeration of the most famous shots amongst the Volunteers of the day. Another, The Nile Song, June 6, 1863, in imitation of “Hail to the Chief,” celebrates the announcement made by Sir R. Murchison, at the Royal Geographical Society that Messrs. Speke and Grant had discovered the sources of the Nile.
A few other Parodies of detached passages of Scott’s poems are to be found in the early numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which were written by Professor Wilson (Christopher North.)
Many of Scott’s novels have been dramatised, and also burlesqued, these will be enumerated when dealing with his prose works. It may here be mentioned, however, that a burlesque of Kenilworth, written by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie is now being performed at the Avenue Theatre, London.
The London University.
March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers,
Doff your great castors for brims of less border,
Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers,
And march off to school at great Intellect’s order;
For many a poet, who now does not know it,
Professor, historian, logician and great wit,
Mathematician, and famed rhetorician,
Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit.
March, march, &c.
Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble,
Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls,
No more waste your time on your needle and thimble,
Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls,
Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting,
To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men,
Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors,
And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen.
Then march, march, &c.
From The Spirit of the Age, 1829
The London University was founded mainly through the exertions of Lord Brougham, and Thomas Campbell, the Poet. It was opened in October, 1828, and was for some time the object of great opposition and ridicule. It was said that every sweep was going to have a college education, and a song, entitled The Literary Dustman, became exceedingly popular:—
At sartin schools they make boys write
Their alphabet on sand, sirs,
So I thought dust would do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, sirs;
Took in the “Penny Magazine,”
And Johnson’s Dixionary,
And all the Perio-di-calls
To make me literary.
They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,—
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen!
Smoking’s quite Regular.
“When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in
their mouths, it is a sign of rain.”—Old Saying.
Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green,
Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular.
Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps;
Smoking’s the fashion from gemman to higgler.
Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists;
Let there be piping and blowing no matter how.
Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists,
Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now.
Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right.
Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges,
Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks,
Bacca-pipe odour each nostril besieges.
Spit! spit! all who love bacca smoke,
For it produces great expectoration;
Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches,
Let there be spitting without a cessation.
Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats;
Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse,
Quid! quid! what do you think of it?
Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course.
From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster,
Dublin (about 1832, when smoking was
first becoming prevalent).
——:o:——
“Oh, Where, and oh Where.”
(Written by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, “On the Marquis of Huntly’s departure for the Continent with his Regiment in 1799.”)
Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home.
Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away.
Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.
Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound
Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound!
The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye!
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds,
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.
Punch’s Serenade.
Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?—
He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne,
And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home.
Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?—
He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well;
But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell.
In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?—
His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid;
And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad.
Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!—
Dog Toby would weep over him, and Punch himself would cry:
But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die.
Punch, October 1846.
Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.—Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. Life of Lord Brougham.
Song of the Slighted Suitor.
Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?
He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own.
What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch?
Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;—
And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such.
In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found?
I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;—
And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound.
What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make?
None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake,
And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take.
Punch, 1848.
The Great Kilt Reform.
Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone?
Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on!
What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear?
Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare;
And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air!
Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d?
Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks best;
But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest!
Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform,
Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more warm;
And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform.
Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad
Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid?
Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad!
Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old;
Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of cold;
And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold!
Diogenes, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854.
Wandering Willie.
Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone?
He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn,
And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn.
Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been?
He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean,
And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean?
Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam
So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome?
For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home.
In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed?
As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best,
And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest.
Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need?
’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed;
But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed.
And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act
If by his will the Government were out of office packed?
And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact.
Judy, December 31, 1879.
——:o:——
Bonnie Dundee; or, the Strike in the Kitchen.
(Another strike is announced, the malcontents being on this occasion gentlemen’s servants. A crowded meeting of butlers, coachmen, footmen, gardeners, and stablemen was held at Leamington; the butler of Leamington College being in the chair. The demands were for shorter hours and increased pay; while the separation of married couples was deprecated as conducive to immorality. Cheers were given at the conclusion of the meeting for “The Maids of Dundee.”—Daily Paper, April 30th, 1872.)
To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,
“This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke;
And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we
Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
For, be it a maid, or be it a man,
Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can.
To compass that object no method I see
Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
“’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke,
What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk?
But that which we like is the pluck—the esprit—
Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan;
Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span.
And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see
Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee.
“What may not result from this union of schemes,
If only Jemima is aided by Jeames?
We’ll soon be installed in the salon, you know,
With masters and missises all down below.
So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man.
No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban.
While every Lothario provided shall be
With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee.
“Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall,
From footman gigantic to buttons the small,
And follow your leaders the butlers, as we
Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee.
Quick! down with the master, and up with the man,
Since that nowadays is society’s plan.
You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be
If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.”
The Hornet, May 8, 1872.
The Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
(“The Dundee servant maids have quarrelled with the reporters, whom they charge with having made their meetings ridiculous. They refused to have their last meeting reported.”)
And did they its meeting turn into a joke,
And fun journalistic presume for to poke?
Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see
In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee?
O be it a maid, or be it a man,
Let each be placed rigidly under the ban.
And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be
Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee.
Dare we hope, as result of this last little game,
The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same?
How much more inviting the papers would be,
If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee.
For be it in earnest, or be it in joke,
A deal of the talkee-talk does end in smoke.
Of course the reports are in fault, as in re
The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee.
Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt,
Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped.
No longer that twaddling bosh should we see,
“The Toast of the Evening”—all thanks to Dundee
Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid,
You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade.
From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see
Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee.
The Hornet, June 19, 1872.
Bonnie Bar-gee.
“’Tis a jolly conception!”—’twas Truscott who spoke—
“Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke;
So let each civic wag who loves humour and me,
Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be.
Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone,
Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan,
We care for no pleadings or warnings—not we!
For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’”
Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat,
And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet,
While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see,
’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!”
So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van,
There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man,
Just over the spot where the Bar used to be
They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!”
There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North,
But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth,
Since there are sober men who the reason can’t see
For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be,
Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone;
Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone!
For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be,
To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!”
Punch, September 18, 1880.
The Temple Bar memorial, erected in the centre of a narrow and very busy thoroughfare, cost London over £12,000. So great was the annoyance it caused, both on account of its obstruction and its ugliness, that two policemen were placed to guard it night and day, yet, in spite of their watchfulness, the carvings were smashed wherever they could be reached. The grotesque Griffin which surmounts the memorial is still the laughing stock of every passer-by.
The Dissolution.
In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke:
You will now be released and can take off the yoke.
As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea,
The majority of you can go to the D.!
You have squandered my money in powder and shot;
Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot.
You did this, and much more, in the name of the free,
So away you incompetents! Go to the D.!
You have fostered intolerance—bigotry’s ban;
Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man,
Compensated iniquities lavishly free—
Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.!
But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown,
Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone.
Two million! Ah, they to my future will see!
Farewell, then, I’ve done with you—go to the D.!
D. Evans.
The Weekly Despatch, November 15, 1885.
Jawing “J. C.” (Air, “Bonnie Dundee.”)
To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke,
“Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke!
So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me,
Let him follow the system of jawing J. C.
Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men,
Come, open the best way to let us go free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”
J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land;
The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;”
But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be,
For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.”
“Come fill up,” &c.
There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth;
If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North;
There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three,
Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C.
“Come fill up,” &c.
“Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums—
Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums.
So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me.
Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen,
To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men;
Fling everything open, we all will be free,
For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.”
The Globe, December 1, 1885.
——:o:——
“The Campbell’s are Coming.”
Dr. John Cumming, minister of the Scotch church, in London, frequently introduced controversial matters into his sermons, and was at times, rather violent in his denunciations of the Pope, and Roman Catholicism. The Pope wrote inviting him to go to Rome, but intimated that he would not consent to reopen a discussion on theological questions which had long since been decided by his august predecessors. The two following parodies on the subject appeared in Punch, which has always been exceedingly bitter in its attacks on the Roman Catholics and their priesthood. So much so that Richard Doyle (himself a Catholic), one of the most talented artists who ever drew for Punch, retired from its staff on that account.
The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming.
The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear!
They winna foregather, I fear, I fear;
For Jock certain questions has got to speer
That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear.
The Pop’ till his Council did all invite,
Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight,
“For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right;
Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light.
“Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot,
An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot;
Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit;
Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot.
“Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude,
Magnesian, Electric—do be sae gude!
Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude;
When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.”
The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply;
Non possumus, noo, he may truly cry.
’Tis not as it was in the days gane by,
When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry.
The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’,
An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’,
An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’
Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’!
Punch.
Hey, Johnny Cumming!
(Air—“Hey, Johnny Cope!”)
Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet!
Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet?
Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait,
To shrive Johnny Cumming i’ the mornin’.
Johnnie wrote a challenge to the Pop’ o’ Rome,
Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come,
Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb?
I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.”
When Pawpie read the letter on,
He took him pen and ink anon,
We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son
O’ Scotia an’ Knox i’ the mornin’.”
A line through Manning the douce auld Pop’
To Johnnie did in answer drop;
“Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop
To re-open the noo of a mornin’.
“There’s nane can doot or deny that we
Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie.
D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee?
Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’!
“Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’,
Doon on your marrowbones to fa’
An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw,
Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’!
Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute,
We dinna argue or dispute,
Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute,
Kiss that, Johnny Cumming, i’ the mornin’!
When Johnnie gat the Pop’s reply,
Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny
An’ sae do mony mair forbye,
The commission ye claim of a mornin’.”
Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law
Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’
To tell what the Pop’ says ex cathedra’
An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.”
When Pawpish Doctors disagree
As to what maks gude the Pop’s decree,
The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee
To ae canna Scot of a mornin’.
Nae dogmies Pio will discuss
To prove whilk wad auld Nick nonplus:
And sae he cries non-possumus;
Canna meet Johnnie Cumming i’ the mornin’.
Punch.
——:o:——
Khartoum.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
Over the desert so fast, so fast!
Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore
Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar
The might of Old England is felt once more—
Thanks to the Franchise Bill.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed.
But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame,
Or the growing power of that hero’s name,
Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”—
But to the Franchise Bill.
The Camels are coming at last, at last!
The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast,
Every nerve must now be strained,
New prestige must now be gained,
Money be spent and blood be rained—
To save the Franchise Bill.
C. B. S.
The Globe, September 30, 1884.
——:o:——
The Millionaire on the Moors.
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere,
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer;
Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe;
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know.
I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor,
As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor,
Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep,
And grouse-shootins also—don’t care much for sheep.
I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind,
Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind,
Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around,
On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound.
There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream,
And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream.
There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about,
Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out.
Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free,
Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me,
In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go.
Punch, October 27, 1883.
——:o:——
The Tourist’s Matrimonial Guide Through Scotland.
The following song, to the tune of “Woo’d and married an’ a’,” was written by a distinguished Scotch judge, Lord Neaves, it may therefore be taken as giving a correct view of the curious state of the Scotch law relating to marriage.
Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter,
The summer or autumn to pass,
I’ll tell you how far you may venture
To flirt with your lad or your lass;
How close you may come upon marriage,
Still keeping the wind of the law,
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’,
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
And not, by some foolish miscarriage,
Get woo’d and married an’ a’.
This maxim itself might content ye,
That marriage is made—by consent;
Provided its done de prœsenti,
And marriage is really what’s meant.
Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny
Say, “We two are husband and wife;”
The witnesses need’nt be many—
They’re instantly buckled for life,
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t with us a hard thing
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
Suppose the man only has spoken,
The woman just giving a nod.
They’re spliced by that very same token
Till one of them’s under the sod.
Though words would be bolder and blunter,
The want of them isn’t a flaw;
For nutu signisque loquuntur
Is good Consistorial Law.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
A wink is as good as a word.
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
If people are drunk or delirious,
The marriage of course will be bad;
Or if they’re not sober and serious,
But acting a play or charade.
It’s bad if it’s only a cover
For cloaking a scandal or sin,
And talking a landlady over
To let the folks lodge in her inn.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
It isn’t the mere use of words
Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’.
You’d better keep clear of love-letters,
Or write them with caution and care;
For, faith, they may fasten your fetters,
If wearing a conjugal air.
Unless you’re a knowing old stager,
’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost;
As a certain much-talked-about Major[43]
Had very near found to his cost.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
They are perilous things, pen and ink,
To get woo’d and married an’ a’.
I ought now to tell the unwary,
That into the noose they’ll be led,
By giving a promise to marry,
And acting as if they were wed.
But if, when the promise you’re plighting,
To keep it you think you’d be loath,—
Just see that it isn’t in writing,
And then it must come to your oath.
Woo’d and married ah’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid
Being woo’d and married an’ a’.
A third way of tying the tether,
Which sometimes may happen to suit,
Is living a good while together,
And getting a married repute.
But you who are here as a stranger,
And don’t mean to stay with us long,
Are little exposed to that danger,
So here I may finish my song.
Woo’d and married an’ a’;
Married and woo’d an’ a’:
You’re taught now to seek or to shun
Being woo’d and married an’ a’.
Charles, Lord Neaves.
——:o:——
Promise and Performance.[44]
Air—“Charley is my darling.”
Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring,
Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight;
For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring,
Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright.
Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter,
The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand:
But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter,
He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he scanned.
“Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys,
For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire;
But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare boys,
Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire.
And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys,
’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat;
’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!)
Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.”
And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover,
And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen;
And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky,
Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been!
Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely,
Punch holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s day;
And Punch states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking,
That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away.
Punch, November 29, 1856.
The Manager to Mrs. Langtry.
Air—“Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?”
O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me,
On lime-lit boards to win renown?
Can crowded stalls have charms for thee—
The painted scene and tinsel crown?
No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen,
No more restrained to Park and Square,
Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene,
Where thou art fairest of the fair?
O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play
“Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind;
Though Beauty’s charming in its way,
In acting “there is more behind.”
Some say, so stately is thy mien,
High tragic rôles thou well could’st bear;
Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen,
As well as fairest of the fair.
O Langtry, canst thou act so true,
Through long and trying scenes to go,
Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review,
Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?”
As yet, they don’t agree at all
What praise or blame shall be thy share;
And critics, whether great or small,
Are not the fairest of the fair.
And when at last thy Muse shall try
Ophelia, Juliet, Queen Macbeth,
Say, canst thou make thy audience cry,
Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath?
And wilt thou from thy handsome pay,
Of poorer players take due care?
If so, then still the world will say
That thou art fairest of the fair.
——:o:——
ROBIN ADAIR.
When General Dumourier, after unparalleled victories, deserted the army of the French Republic, in 1793, and took refuge from the infuriated Convention with the enemies he had lately beaten, someone expressed joy in the event where Burns was present, when he chanted, almost extempore, the following sarcastic stanzas:—
On General Dumourier.
A Parody on Robin Adair.
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,
How does Dampiere do?
Ay and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
I will light France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier.
I will fight France with you;
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier:
Then let us fight about,
Till Freedom’s spark is out,
Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt—Dumourier.
A Song.
Tune—“Robin Adair.”
Hark! to yon glorious shout,
Canning, O rare!
Echo proclaims it out,
Canning, Huzza!
Beauty, each step you see,
Displaying loyalty,
Whose charms keep Britons free,
Canning, Huzza!
O! ’tis a lovely sight,
Canning, O rare!
Thrills each heart with delight
Canning, Huzza!
What! though no freeman true,
What! though their eyes are blue,
Still are their lips for you,
Canning, Huzza!
Lips whose persuasive touch,
Canning, O rare!
Strengthens our cause so much,
Canning, Huzza!
Thou’lt think when far away,
Where red rose held its sway,
On Bosoms, pure as day,
Canning, Huzza!
Heroes wait their command,
Canning, O rare!
When waves their lily hand.
Canning, Huzza!
Whilst you with smiles approve,
Naught can our bosoms move,
Save Mars, or God of Love,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark as in lines they lead,
Canning, O rare!
See England’s hero tread
Canning, Huzza!
Whose bosoms void of care,
Wounds from your eyes but fear,
Whence falls the tender tear,
Canning, Huzza!
View their faces with surprise,
Canning, O rare!
Lovely tints lips and eyes,
Canning, Huzza!
Mark coalitions wile,
Join’d by a heavenly smile,
That can each hour beguile,
Canning, Huzza!
You whom all hearts adore,
Canning, O rare!
’Tis you to guard our shore,
Canning, Huzza!
Tell wandering nations far,
Our’s is bright honour’s war,
Shine Salamanca’s star,
Canning, Huzza!
From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October, 1812.
The Candidates were the Right Hon. George Canning; Lieut.-General Isaac Gascoyne; Henry Brougham; Thomas Creevey; and General B. Tarleton. (Messrs. G. Canning and Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)