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

by Unknown

Thomas Campbell,

Born July 27, 1777.   Died June 15, 1844.

aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied.

Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”

Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.”

——:o:——

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!

And I’ll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle,

This dark and stormy water?”

“Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.”

“And fast before her father’s men

Three days we’ve fled together,

For should he find us in the Glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride!

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight

“I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:—

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heav’n each face

Grew dark as they were speaking,

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather;

I’ll meet the raging of the skies:

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather’d o’er her.

And still they row’d amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was chang’d to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade

His child he did discover:—

One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried in grief,

Across this stormy water:

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!—Oh my daughter!”

’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,

Return or aid preventing:—

The waters wild went o’er his child—

And he was left lamenting.

Thomas Campbell.

---

Sir Robert’s Bill.[16]

Sir Robert, to the Commons bound,

Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry,

And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round,

If now my bill you’ll carry!”

“And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’

My own peculiar treasure?”

“Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel,

That does just what’s my pleasure.

And fast before the farmers’ friends,

I’ve fled in your direction—

And, should they gain their private ends,

My bill would meet rejection!”

“George Bentinck follows fast along,

From him great harm I feel, Sir,

And, should he prove so very strong,

Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?”

Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then—

“I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready—

It is not for yourself, ye ken,

But for the League so seedy!

“And, by my word, the Cotton Lords

In danger shall not tarry—

And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords,

Your measure I will carry!”

“Then haste ye, haste, and no more words,

Nor wait till it be calmer—

I’ll meet the raging of the Lords,

But not an angry farmer!”

The stormy Council Peel has left,

A stormy House before him—

And see, the Tories, all a drift,

Have soon begun to bore him.

Yet still he waged the wordy war,

With foemen justly railing—

Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,”

From wrath he turned to wailing.

For on that night in dismal plight,

Sir Peel he saw to sob then—

One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright,

And one was round his Cobden!

“Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief,

Across the stormy lobby,

“We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief,

Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!”

’Twas true—the turn-coats vainly rave,

Protection’s friends preventing,

The Tories brave kick’d out the knave,

And he was left repenting.

From Protectionist Parodies, by “A Tory.”
Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.

——:o:——

John Thompson’s Daughter.

A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,

And I’ll give thee a silver dime

To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now, who would cross the Ohio,

This dark and stormy water?”

“O, I am this young lady’s beau,

And she, John Thompson’s daughter.

“We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite

With great precipitation,

And should he find us here to-night,

I’d lose my reputation.

“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside,

His horsemen hard have pressed me,

And who will cheer my bonny bride,

If yet they shall arrest me?”

Out spoke the boatman then in time,

“You shall not fail, don’t fear it;

I’ll go, not for your silver dime,

But for your manly spirit.

“And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

For though a storm is coming on,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose,

The boat was at the landing,

And with the drenching rain their clothes

Grew wet where they were standing,

But still, as wilder rose the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Just back a piece came the police,

Their tramping sounded nearer.

“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“It’s anything but funny;

I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,

But not my Father’s money!”

And still they hurried in the face

Of wind and rain unsparing;

John Thompson reached the landing place,

His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning’s angry flash,

His child he did discover;

One lovely hand held all the cash,

And one was round her lover!

“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe.

Across the stormy water,

“But leave the purse, and you may go,

My daughter, Oh! my daughter!”

Twas vain, they reached the other shore,

(Such dooms the Fates assign us),

The gold he piled went with his child,

And he was left there, minus.

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

---

Lambeth Ferry.

A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town

Cried “Boatman do not tarry:

I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown

To row me over with Mary.”

“Now who be he vould cross the Thames

Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?”

“Vy Billy Downey is my name,

And this is Black Joe’s Daughter.

“Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys!

An hour we’ve run away, man!

Should they catch us they’d make a noise,

And my poor back vould pay, man.”

Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull;

Jump in my boat, be jolly;

It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull,

But for your charming Polly.

“And so help me tater, the darlen creetur,

Though in danger you have brought her,

But if it should rain both cats and dogs,

I’ll row you o’er the vater.”

And then the vind it howled apace,

The rain vas fast a pattering.

They stared in each other’s face

As they stood there a chattering.

And still as the rain made more noise,

And as the vind blow’d hoarser,

They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys

As if they vos coming closer.

“Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said,

“Though the veather be ever so cold, man,

I’d rather meet a vatery bed

Than meet my angry old man.”

The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore,

They pulled away, ahoy! sir,

Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand,

They run against a buoy, sir.

My eyes! how the wild waves did roar,

Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying,

Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore,

Ven he begun a-crying.

For ven towards the wreck he look’d

His child he did discover.

Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d

Tother vos round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,”

“Come back, vot are you arter,

And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey,

My daughter! oh, my daughter.”

But a wave came vot upset the boat

In the vater they vos drivelling.

Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat,

And he began a snivelling!

Anonymous.

---

The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry;

And I’ll give thee a silver pound

To row us o’er the ferry.”

The boatman did not even smile,

But looked across the water;

He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,

And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter.

“Oh, haste thee!—haste!” the lady cried,

“This youth and I, eloping,

Would cross at once to t’other side,

So aid us in our sloping!”

The boatman budged no inch, and then

The clue Lord U. discovers;

And down the glen ride armed men,

And catch the brace of lovers.

“Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief,

“If I were free I’d show ye”—

“We’d rather dee on Loch Maree

Than on the Sawbath row ye!”

Funny Folks, July 13, 1878.

——:o:——

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array’d,

Each horseman drew his battle blade,

And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n

Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n,

And louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flash’d the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,

On Linden’s hills of stained snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens, on ye brave,

Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet,

Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!

Thomas Campbell.

The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians. Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically faulty, and proposed it should be altered to:

“And every sod beneath their feet

Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”

---

BANNOCKBURN.

(An imitation of Hohenlinden.)

Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave

The rising sun its radiance gave,

Upon the armour of the brave

That burned for battle brilliantly.

And Scotland by that soaring sun

Beheld her brightest day begun—

Her greenest wreath of glory won

By deeds of dauntless bravery.

On Bannockburn’s camp covered field

The men of war were met to wield,

With hostile hand, the sword and shield,

For conquest or for liberty!

How gaily glanced that field before

Began the battle’s rage and roar!

That reddened with the reeking gore

As raved the dreadful revelry.

The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high,

St. George! for Edward was the cry,

And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky,

St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty!

Then closed the conflict deep and dread!

Then strained the bow and struck the blade,

Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed,

As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry!

What feelings fired each hero’s heart,

For conquest or a country’s part,

As from each eye the flash did dart,

That spoke the spirits enmity:

But fast the Southrons fell and fled

Where Bruce—brave Bruce! his patriots led,

And Scotland’s lion rampant—red

Pranced proudly on to victory!

And may each land, as Scotland, scorn

The tyrant’s threat—his thraldom spurn

With such success as Bannockburn

Of dear and deathless memory!

Archie Aliquis.

From The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties.
Printed by Edward Lacey, 1825.

---

The Battle of Peas Hill.

“The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all Cantabs, as long as there shall be a Snob or Radical amongst them, or a fist to bate them with. This is the only Matriculation Day which is registered in letters of blood in the archives of the Vice-Chancellor; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling Freshmen from the science of mechanics to the application of its theory in the science of war.”

On Granta, when the sun was low,

No symptoms lower’d of fearless row,

But all was silent as the flow

Of Camus rolling tardily.

But Granta saw another sight,

When Radicals presumed at night,

With Carter’s[17] mutton-wicks to light

Their Caroline’s base treachery.

Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d,

Each Gownsman rush’d the cause to aid,

And fast about him each one laid,

With blows that told most terribly.

Then rushing forth the Snobs among,

Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung,

And loud and clear the market rung,

With shouts of dreadless liberty.

But redder yet shall be each cheek,

And louder yet each tongue shall speak,

And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak

His vengeance most undauntedly.

’Tis rushlight all—but what can shew

The Gownsman from the Gownsman’s foe,

As shouting in thick files they go

To battle all so merrily?

No banners there were waving high,

To cheer the brave to victory,

No pennon floating to the sky,

With rare device wrought curiously.

No plumes of crested pride were seen,

But tassels black of silken sheen,

With gold and silver mix’d between,

Emblems of unanimity!

No sound was heard of martial drum,

No bugle blast, but one wild hum

Floated o’er all: “The Snobs! they come,

On! on! and meet them cheerily.”

And then was shout, and noise, and din,

As rallying forwards poured in,

Hundreds and hundreds to begin

The work of fame so gloriously.

Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight,

The tall—the low—the strong—the light;

And, oh! it was a glorious sight,

That strife of Town and Gown to see.

As fist to fist, rais’d high in air,

And face to face opposed were,

As shone the conflict in the glare

Of lights that told of Bergami.

Then rushed to fight the hardy Soph,

Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff,

As one by one they sallied forth

To war in ambush warily.

Then rush’d the Freshman to essay

His maiden valour in the fray,

And who that valour shall gainsay,

And wrong not such effrontery?

Then with one cry so loud and shrill,

It echoed to the Castle Hill,

They charged the Snobs against their will,

And shouted clear and lustily.

Then all distinctions were forgot—

Then, silk and velvet had one lot

With tatter’d stuffs, upon that spot

Which sacred was to bravery.

No signs of fear, no signs of dread,

Of bloody nose or broken head,

Of wretch by Proctors homeward led

For “acting contumaciously.”

No thoughts were there, but such as grace

The memory of that crowded place,

The memory of that gallant race

Who took and gave so heartily.

The combat deepens; on, ye brave,

Who rush to conquest, or to save;

Wave all your stuffs and poplins wave!

And charge with all your chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet,

Dull soon shall be each crowded street,

Responsive, now, to thousand feet

Pursuing on to Victory.

From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs,
John Hearne, London, 1824.

---

Jenny-Linden.

A Dreadful Engagement between the
Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn.

On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low,

And bootless was the wild-beast show,

The lessee counted for a flow

Of rhino to the treasury.

But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight

Saw Drury in a proper light,

Refused, for any sum per night,

To sing at the Menagerie.

With rage and ire in vain displayed

Each super drew his wooden blade,

In fury half and half afraid,

For his prospective salary.

Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,

And speedily the goosequill drew

With which he is accustomed to

Pen such a deal of poetry.

He wrote the maiden, to remind

Her of a compact she had signed,

To Drury Lane’s condition blind,

And threaten’d law accordingly.

Fair as in face in nature, she

Implored the man to set her free,

Assuring him that he should be

Remunerated handsomely.

Two thousand pounds she offered, so

That he would only let her go:

Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No!

With dogged pertinacity.

And now his action let him bring,

And try how much the law will wring

From her to do the handsome thing,

Who had proposed so readily!

The Swedish Nightingale to cage

He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage,

And left him to digest his rage,

And seek his legal remedy.

Then shook the House with plaudits riven,

When Jenny’s opening note was given,

The sweetest songstress under heaven

Forth bursting into melody,

But fainter the applause shall grow,

At waning Drury’s wild-beast show,

And feebler still shall be the flow

Of rhino to the treasury.

The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,

Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;

Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave,

And cheer with all thy chivalry.

’Tis night, and still yon star doth run;

But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,

And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn,

And quadrupeds, and company.

For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet,

Their fellowship had been unmeet,

The sawdust underneath whose feet

Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.

Punch, May 15, 1847.

Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her début was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects.

---

The Bal Masqué at Crockford’s.

On Thursday, ere the time was come

For supper’s joys—the guests were glum,

And deep as thunder was the hum

Of thousands polking sullenly.

But Crockford’s saw another sight,

When rang the bell at dead of night,

Commanding streams of gas to light

Her supper-room’s gay scenery.

In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent,

Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent,

And eagerly the cash was spent,

To join the coming revelry.

Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven,

Then rang the room, with laughter riven,

And loudly were the orders given

For Champagne popping merrily.

But louder yet the noise shall grow,

Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go,

And faster yet the wine shall flow,

From bottles emptied rapidly.

’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band

Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand,

While Jullien waves his wearied hand,

And leads the final galopade.

The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!

Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go.

Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow,

And make the walls re-echo thee!

Few, few, remain that sound to greet,

The dancers rest their burning feet;

And each cab in St. James’s-street

Bears home some worn-out reveller.

The Man in the Moon, Vol. 1.

---

Row-in-London.

Caused by the Invasion of the
French National Guards, in 1848.

In London, when the funds were low,

And business was uncommon slow,

The Quadrant only on the go,

And that kept moving sluggishly.

But London saw another sight

When National Guards arrived at night,

And Lumber troopers took to flight,

Across the pavement slippery.

In shirt and stockings fast arrayed,

The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid,

And with the Aldermen essayed

To join the flying Cavalry.

To cut and run they’d stoutly striven,

But back to battle they were driven,

And then the foremost rank was given

The Bunhill Row Artillery.

But bolder yet that troop must grow,

Or, London conquered by the foe,

The Gallic cock will proudly crow

On Temple Bar right merrily.

’Tis morn—but Specials in a swoon,

Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon,

Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18]

Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry.

The combat deepens—on ye brave,

Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave;

Save, Magog! oh, the city save,

And charge with all the Livery.

Few French shall tread where freemen meet

Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat;

But hung on high, with dangling feet,

Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s!

The Puppet Show, September 30, 1848.

---

The Battle of the Boulevard.

On Paris, when the sun was low,

The gay “Comique” made goodly show,

Habitués crowding every row

To hear Limnandier’s opera.

But Paris showed another sight,

When, mustering in the dead of night,

Her masters stood, at morning light,

The crack chasseurs of Africa.

By servants in my pay betrayed,

Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,

Wrote that a circumstance delayed

His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers with terror riven;

Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;

And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),

Was seized, bold Lamoricière.

But louder rose the voice of woe,

When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt,

And tearing down a helpless foe,

Flashed Magnan’s red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave

Is dragged to prison like a knave,

No time allowed the swell to shave,

Or use the least perfumery.

’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son,

(Perchance her spouse’s too) has won

The imperial crown. The French are done,

Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;

Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet!

And every serf beneath my feet

Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.

These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun.

---

Hohen-London.

The result of an awful Engagement on the part of
her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence.

In London, when folks’ taste was low,

They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show;

But now ’tis voted very slow—

A dull affair, decidedly.

But London showed another sight,

When the Queen came on Wednesday night,

Escorted, through a blaze of light

To join the City revelry.

At every window smart array’d,

Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade;

And all the populace hoorayed

To see the Royal pageantry.

Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven;

Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven;

And still more stunning cheers were given

By noisy British loyalty.

But noisier yet the crowd will grow,

Through King Street, as the Queen shall go

To Guildhall, there—on gouty toe—

To see her hosts dance heavily.

The concourse thickens! Heroes brave,

Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave,

Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave,

And charge them with the cavalry.

The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun!

As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done!

Except her suite, there’s room for none

To dance before her Majesty.

Few, few can polk where many meet,

And have no space to kick their feet;

The Hop a failure was complete;

The Supper went off decently.

Punch, July 19, 1851.

---

Swindon.

At Swindon when the night drew nigh,

Few were the trains that went thereby,

And very dreary was the sigh,

Of damsels waiting dolefully.

But Swindon saw another sight,

When the train came at dead of night,

Commanding oil and gas to light

Much stale confectionery.

By soups and coffee fast allured,

Each passenger his choice secured,

Excepting those lock’d in, immured

By sly policeman’s treachery.

Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;

Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;

And louder than the orders given,

Fast popped the beer artillery.

But farther yet the train shall go,

And deeper yet shall be their woe,

And greater horrors shall they know,

Who bolt their food so speedily.

Time’s up; but scarce each sated one

Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun,

Where curious tart and heavy bun

Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.

The combat thickens. On, ye brave!

Who scald your throats, in hope to save

Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave

Will charge for all he ladles ye!

Few, few, digest where many eat,

The nightmare shall wind up their feat,

Each carpet bag beneath their seat

Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.

Anonymous.

---

Hotel Swindling.

In Dover, when my purse was low,

One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow,

At an hotel most travellers know,

Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.

But Dover shock’d at morn my sight

With such a bill for that brief night,

Such whacking sums for wax to light

The darkness of its hostelry!

My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d,

That a rogue drew the bill betray’d,

And furious overcharges made,

The whole a dreadful robbery.

Then shrank my purse, to plunder given:

Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven;

And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,

Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery.

But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,

When reft of means “express” to go,

From Dover, in the third-class low,

Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.

’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun

Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun”

As I,—excuse the horrid pun—

In that infernal hostelry.

The subject sickens. On, thou knave!

And dig base Imposition’s grave;

Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave,

And overcharge in rivalry!

Few, few return, where many meet,

Or press again the snow-white sheet;

The Times, ye hosts, who foully cheat,

Will be your swindling’s sepulcre.

Diogenes, November, 1853.

---

The Battle of Bull-Run.

At Bull-run, when the sun was low,

Each Southern face was pale as snow;

And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow

Of Yankees boasting rabidly!

But Bull-Run saw another sight,

When in the deepening shades of night

Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight

Of Yankees running rapidly!

Then shook the corps, with terror riven

Then rushed the steeds, from battle driven;

The men of “Battery number seven”

Forsook their red artillery.

Now from McDonald’s furthest left,

The roar of cannon strikes one deaf;

Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff”

Contend for death or victory.

The panic thickens; Off ye Brave!

Throw down your arms; your bacon save!

Waive Washington, each scruple waive,

And fly with all your chivalry.

---

Sic Vos, Non Vobis, Versificatis Ave.

At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,

And summer’s sun refused to show,

Relentless was the steady flow

Of raindrops pattering drearily.

But Seacliff saw another sight,

The band struck up at ten at night,

And Volunteers in leggings tight,

Awoke the dance right cheerily.

By willing steward’s friendly aid

The warrior sought the smiling maid,

And charged, as each musician played,

Adown the hall, hung tastily.

Then shook the floor to twinkling feet,

While some did dance and some did eat,

Or strove to stay the increasing heat

By swallowing ices hastily.

But shorter yet these lights shall burn,

And faster yet the waltzers turn,

Before the chaperones discern

That day is surely slipping in.

’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair

Of Seacliff beauties linger there,

Full loath to seek the outer air

And leave the hall they’re tripping in.

The ball is over. Read ye now

Who read for honours,—or a plough,

May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow

Of him who works most steadily.

Too soon we part; but when we meet

In bonds of recollections sweet,

We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat

That welcomed us so readily.

L. E. S.

From College Rhymes. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.

---

Belton.[19]

(August 12, 1863.)

At Belton, ere the twilight grew,

Untrodden was the avenue,

Save by Papas and Mas a few

With their sight-seeing progeny.

But Belton saw another sight,

When the mob came at nine at night,

And with a thousand flambeaux light

Illumined all her scenery.

With od’rous torch and British cheer,

To Brownlow’s home they drew them near,

His Lordship’s honour—not his beer—

The motive of their revelry.

Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its

Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,

’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits,

Though Bass be its auxiliary.

And hours that amber stream shall flow,

And men shall come and scorn to go,

The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,

Though quarts it empties rapidly.

’Tis midnight. For one “level son,”

A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,”

And as the barrels run and run,

Shout in their beery jollity.

The beer grows thicker: now they go—

They could not drink for aye, you know—

Grantham thy banners (calico)

Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?).

Few, few can stand, though all have feet,

They need no counterpane or sheet,

When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet

Destroys a perpendicular.

---

Bills.

At Oxford when my funds were low,

And I was ploughed for “Little-go,”

How fast and furious was the flow

Of Bills that came in rapidly!

But Oxford saw another sight,

When my rich aunt went off one night,

For then I’d gold, and cheques could write,

And shopkeepers came fawningly:

“Our stupid clerks the error made,

We never were the least afraid

About our small bills being paid;”

And so they went on lyingly.

“We hope,” they said with glistening eye,

“You’ll still allow us to supply

All articles you want; we’ll try

To please you, sir, in every way.”

Oh! rare and comic was the fun

To see each humbly cringing dun,

The oily and the sugary one,

All full of meek apology.

I paid their bills upon the spot,

And the receipts from each I got,

And then I looked at all the lot,

As they stood bowing smilingly.

“Get out each fawning drivelling knave,”

I shouted out with features grave;

My hand towards the door I wave,

And clench it simultaneously.

I heard the sound of hurrying feet

Haste down the stairs and up the street,

And then in fits of laughter sweet,

I went off unrestrainedly.

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

---

Ho! in Prince’s.

At Prince’s when the sun is low,

See all the fashion skating go,

And bright and brilliant is the flow,

Of ladies rinking rapidly.

Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight,

From break of day till fall of night,

For all combine to render bright,

The dull surrounding scenery.

In gorgeous dresses see arrayed,

The haughty dame, the tender maid,

Who join, with not a thought dismayed,

The fascinating revelry.

From morn till eve a throng is found,

Of rapid rinkers rolling round,

Amid the light and joyous sound

Of music’s varied melody.

Then on, ye fair ones, one by one,

Who rink for fashion, or for fun,

From early morn till setting sun

You’ll always meet with chivalry.

And if, perchance at fearful pace,

You charge another face to face,

Then cry, when in that close embrace,

“’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,”

Few will forget the hours sweet,

They spent with skates upon their feet,

Nor friends that they were wont to meet

At Prince’s, rinking rapidly.

From Idyls of the Rink.
London: Judd & Co., 1876.

---

The Tay Bridge Disaster.

That fatal eve, as darkness died,

It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride,

And far beneath it rolled the tide

Of Tay, lamenting sullenly.

But later met that bridge its doom,

When fiery showers pierced the gloom,

To light to their tempestuous tomb,

A wild despairing company.

Struck midway by the raging blast,

The girders crash’d and crumbled fast,

And down that living freight was cast

Into a sea of agony.

Lost was the falling metals roar

Amid the elemental war,

And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er

The chasm’s dense obscurity.

But soon those sparks are lost to sight,

Quenched in the river’s rayless night,

And still rejoicing in his might,

Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.

’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make

Her way where seething billows break,

And still the winds and waters shake

The heavens in their rivalry.

Though darker yet the airy dome,

Speed, gallant ship, across the foam!

On! on! Dundee! and gather home

Those wrecks of frail humanity!

But none shall wake where many sleep,

Their bier shall be the trackless deep;

And ever shall the surges sweep

Above their lonely sepulchre.

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton.
Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.

The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.

---

Erin-Lieder.

In Erin where the Praties grow

When rents were high and prices low

Ejected Paddies had to go,

Across the ocean rapidly.

But Erin saw another sight,

When tenants struck for tenant right,

And gallant Parnell led the fight,

Against a Landlord tyranny.

By torch-light leaders were conveyed

To platforms, furious speeches made,

And every tenant farmer bade,

To “hold the harvest” steadily,

Few, few the rents that any got,

And if an Agent was not shot,

He had to undergo Boycott-

Ing, by a furious peasantry.

J. M. Lowry, 1884.

---

It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the Greenock Advertiser, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the forte of the contributor.”

A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the Sabrinæ Corolla, 1850.

——:o:——

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw;

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,

’Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,

In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young,

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

“Stay—stay with us!—rest, thou art weary and worn!”

(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,)

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

Thomas Campbell.

---

The Soldier’s Dream.

(After T. Camp-Bell, by A. Camp-Beau.)

We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,

And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry;

And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered,

The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.

While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,

With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain—

After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all—

I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.

Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array,

I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;

’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way

To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.

I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft

With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,

I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,

And heard the shrill notes Weippert’s orchestra flung.

She was there—I would “pop”—and a guardsman no more,

From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part,

When sudden I saw—just conceive what a bore—

A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!

“Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne—

To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away—

When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn

Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.

Punch, July 9, 1853.

---

The Boat Race,

“Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis.”

We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired;

Our starter intent on his watch set his eye;

On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired,

The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.

The last gun was fired, we are off and away,

With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track;

’Twas pumping—my knees, too, got in my way,

And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.

The flush of exertion broke out on my face,

And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain,

And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race,

And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.

Put it on—well-rowed all—now you’re gaining—full oft

I heard on the bank from many a tongue,

And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft

From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.

Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more,

Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart,

Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore,

To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.

Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn!

I was glad, for my back had begun to give way.

Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne,

And our boat became head of the river that day.

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

---

The Tory Premier’s Dream.

Our leaders sang truce—for the session had lowered,

And a cloud had come o’er the political sky;

And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered,

The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.

After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw

With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again.

Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array

Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack.

’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say.

“We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!”

I flew to the policy traversed so oft,

The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung;

My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft,

And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.

Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore

From our spirited policy never to part;

The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er,

And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.

Stay, stay with us—rest till an Empire is born;

And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay;

But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn,

And all my majority melted away.

Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.

---

The Fatal Gallopade.

A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell,
Author of “Theodric,” etc.

’Twas night—a damp—dark—misty—murky night,

Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light,

When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name,

A crowd of carriages and chariots came,

Stopping in turns, successively before

A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door;

And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,—

Anon a halt—and then a sudden jam

Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven,

And shrieks of “Coachman!—Thomas! John!—oh Heaven!”

At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room,

Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume,

Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20]

Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres

From the high roof where gold and azure blended,

In hues designed to typify the sky,

Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended

In colours each of too resplendent dye

For human art with one of them to vie.

Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight—

Too grandly gay—too beautifully bright!

And now the music and the dance began,—

The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan;

And oft between the pauses of each dance,

To lull the listener to a dreamy trance,

Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed,

To which a voice responsive accents breathed,

Filling with such sweet harmony the air,

It seemed an angel had been wafted there!

But who is he of foreign garb and air,

That roams about with sentimental stare?

No common personage; his star-lit breast

Bespeaks him noble—little boots the rest;

Russian he is, a rich ambassador.

And oh!—propitious fact! a batchelor!

A faded heiress looks on him intent;

But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,—

And such another! who her charms can paint?

Description waxes in the effort faint;

Pure as an infant in its first repose—

Mild as a summer evening at its close—

Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,—

Meek as the lily—tender as the vine—

Chaste as the Vestal,—modest as the ray,

Which the sun leaves for night to scare away!

These, and a thousand other charms, to boot

Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute!

Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began,

And partners briskly to their stations ran;

Now thought the amorous Ambassador,

Now let me dance—yes, now, or never more!

With this he rushed to where his loved one stood,

Asked her to dance—sweet girl!—she said she would;

Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed,

And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;—

Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk

Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk,

Arrests not them too fond to look below,

Till down they suddenly together go!

Smile not, ye fools!—the fair one’s head is broke!

They raised her up, but never more she spoke!

Ah! well with anguish may her partner start,

For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart!

The Comic Magazine, 1834.

——:o:——

LOCHIEL’S WARNING

The Wizard—

Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!

For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,

And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;

Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.

But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?

’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,

Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate,

Asteed comes at morning; no rider is there;

But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.

Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!

Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;

For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,

Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!

Lochiel—

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

The Wizard—

Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?

Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode

Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!

Ah! home let him speed—for the spoiler is nigh.

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,

Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?

’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven

From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.

Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,

Whose banners arise on the battlements height,

Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;

Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,

And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.

*  *  *  *  *

These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of bouts-rimés, it certainly displays little trace of such a mode of construction.

---

On January 14, 1880, The World published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being:

“1879, its Glory and its Shame.”

First Prize.

John Bull——Old Year.

John Bull—

Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day

That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away!

For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight,

From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight.

Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain,

Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain!

Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast,

Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!

Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river

Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,

And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells

Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells.

Old Year—

Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power

Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer;

Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead,

And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped;

And no brighter pages can valour display.

John Bull—

Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day—

From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight

Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night;

Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm;

Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm;

While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain

Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain.

With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed,

With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed,

With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press

To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress,

While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low—

Old Year—

False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go:

All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed;

I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed;

If want and Disaster have marched by my hand,

They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land;

And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine

At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine.

Ziegelstein. (Goymour Cuthbert).

---

Second Prize.

Wizard (of the North)——Chieftain B.

Wizard—

Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year!

Of distress and disaster a history drear:

For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight;

And grim Isandula, that massacre fight.

They fought and they perished by field and by flood;

But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood.

Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale!

Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale!

Chief—

Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer!

If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear,

Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe

Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe.

Wizard—

Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side?

Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride.

Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies!

And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies.

Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood,

And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood.

Chief—

Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan;

Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man,

With our endless resources, no foeman we fear,

So woe to king Theebaw—

Wizard— Yet weep for the year.

Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant;

And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent.

Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met—

And look how the country has got into debt!

They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House;

The Session was lost, just because they’d no nous,

And where are those bothering Irishmen—where?

Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear!

Yet, no! for departure from office is near;

Peace, retrenchment, reform—

Chief— You be—! Well, I don’t fear.

For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes,

Still England, while life in each British breast glows,

Shall, queen among nations in ages to come,

Exult in libertas—

Wizard— But not imperium.

Rad

---

In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:—

Old women! old women! prepare for the day

When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway;

For a dream of the future behold we to-night,

While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight.

They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen—

Accursed be the puppets that trespass between!

Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain,

And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain.

For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words—

What voice of the people defies the great Lords?

’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await

That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State,

A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there,

But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair.

Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend;

Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end.

For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand,

The Lords—whose foundations fast sink in the sand.

---

The following Parody was also printed:—

O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day

When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array;

When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might,

And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight,

Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,”

Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,

Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,

While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain.

But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,

What falchion gleams like a meteor star?

’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await

The time when thy summons is heard at their gate.

Already its prelude resounds in the air,

And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair.

Oh! Albion, long in captivity led,

Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped,

And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave

Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave!

James Robinson.

——:o:——

The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:—

O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day

When the people shall meet thee in hostile array!

For what can it end in excepting thy flight?

Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight,

It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown,

And woe to the lords who would trample them down!

Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain,

And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain.

And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare,

What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air?

’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores,

The people in anger will surge at your doors.

Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair,

Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair;

Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late,

And you and your lords meet a merited fate!

Albert Otley.

---

Gladstone’s Warning.

(Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning.)

O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day

When my legions shall meet you in battle array!

For the state of the poll in a vision I trace,

With a name at the top, and a name at the base;

Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!”

And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down.

Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor,

That he works for them now—though he did not before.

But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air,

Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair?

’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late,

The country has snubbed him, and—shown him the gate!

Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain,

O weep!—can ye hope to deceive them again?

They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart,

That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!

The Judge, November 28, 1885.

——:o:——

Ye MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A Naval Ode.

Ye Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas:

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle, and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!—

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave.

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o’er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger’s troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell.

Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad ‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;” it was published early in 1801, in the Naval Chronicle, with the line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,”

this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish Armada.

After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.”

The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell, had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.

---

Ye Kite-Flyers of Scotland.

Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,

Who live from home at ease;

Who raise the wind, from year to year,

In a long and strong trade breeze:

Your paper-kites let loose again

On all the winds that blow;

Through the shout of the rout

Lay the English ragmen low;

Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,

And the English ragmen low.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall peep from every leaf;

For the midnight was their noon of fame,

And their prize was living beef.

Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,

Your paper kites shall show,

That a way to convey

Better far than their’s you know,

When you launch your kites upon the wind

And raise the wind to blow.

Caledonia needs no bullion,

No coin in iron case;

Her treasure is a bunch of rags

And the brass upon her face;

With pellets from her paper mills

She makes the Southrons trow,

That to pay her sole way

Is by promising to owe,

By making promises to pay

When she only means to owe.

The meteor rag of Scotland

Shall float aloft like scum,

Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack,

And the day of reckoning come:

Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,

Your hone-a-rie must flow,

While you drink your own ink

With your old friend Nick below,

While you burn your bills and singe your quills

In his bonny fire below.

Thomas Love Peacock.

The above parody is one of a series entitled Paper Money Lyrics, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,

Chorus of Northumbrians.

(On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England.)

March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,

Whether ye promise to bearer or order;

March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,

All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:

Vanity you snarl anent

New Act of Parliament,

Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder”

Dogs you have had your day,

Down tail and slink away;

You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border.

Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;

Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law;

Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle,

Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.”

*  *  *  *  *

Comic Songs for Young Ladies.

Young gentlemen of England,

That only mind your ease,

Ah, little do you think how hard

Young ladies try to please!

Give ear unto the Milliners,

And they will plainly show

How the waist must be laced,

By the Fashion-books to go.

She who’d attract attention

Must laugh at common sense,

For when one goes to choose a dress,

One mustn’t mind expense;

Nor think how Pa will scold one,

Whene’er he comes to know

How he’s let into debt,

By the Fashion-books to go.

What terrible privations

Young ladies must endure,

A lovely face and form of grace

From damage to secure!

Their appetites they must control,

Lest they too stout should grow,

And in vain strive and strain

By the Fashion-books to go.

In days of bitter weather,

Which winter doth enforce,

One cannot think of such a thing

As good thick boots, of course;

With instep undefended,

In rain, and hail, and snow,

All so bold one gets cold,

By the Fashion-books to go.

Punch, December 14, 1844.

---

Ye Peasantry of England.[21]

(Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk.)

Ye Peasantry of England,

Who till our fertile leas,

How little do ye think a man

May live on, if he please?

Your weekly wages, it is plain,

As far again would go,

And keep you so cheap,

(For Norfolk’s Duke says so)

If, when hunger rages fierce and strong,

To curry you would go,

This powder, hungry fathers,

From all expense will save;

For if your children eat thereof,

No other food they’ll crave;

And any time that wages fall,

(As oft they fall, you know,)

’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep

In water—a pint or so;

And when hunger rages fierce and strong,

To your curry powder go.

Our labourers need no dainties,

But something strong and cheap;

No steak from off the rump they crave,

No chop from off the sheep:

With curry powder thrice a week,

Warm into bed they’ll stow,

Nor ever roar out for more—

Their place so well they know;

But when hunger rages fierce and strong,

To the curry powder go.

The ’tato crops of England

May all to gangrene turn,

While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot

His wise head shall concern.

Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers,

Your song of thanks should flow

To the fame of his name

Who the powder made you know:

Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong,

Will set you in glow.

Punch, January, 1845.

---

Ode to the “Specials.”

Ye Constables of London,

That guard our Cockney plain,

Whose staves have braved for several hours

The Chartists and the rain,

To Clerkenwell come forth once more

To meet your ancient foe,

And go then at the men

Who never struck a blow

At the men who spout so loud and long,

But never strike a blow!

Our London needs no barriers,

No forts along the street;

Her faith is in her Specials’ staves,

Her trust is in their feats!

With their truncheons of old oak

They fright the Chartists so,

That they roar all the more,

But they never strike a blow!

Yes, although they spout so loud and long,

They never strike a blow.

The maniac mob of England

Shall yet some reason learn,

Till humbug’s dreary night depart,

And the star of sense return!

Then, then, ye cockney warriors,

Our half and half shall flow

To the fame of your name,

And every one shall know

Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob

Who never struck a blow.

The Puppet Show, June 10, 1848.

(Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.)

---

Ye Ship Builders of England.

Ye Ship builders of England,

That load our native seas

With craft not fit to brave a year

The battle or the breeze:

Such rubbish do not launch again,

Top heavy, dull, and slow

As they creep through the deep

Whatever wind may blow.

The spirits of retrenchment

Shall start from every wave,

For in the sea economy

Through you has found a grave.

Thousands and thousands you have sunk

In ships that will not go;

For they creep through the deep

Whatever wind may blow.

The costly ships of England

For fire-wood yet may burn,

Till to the models of the past

Her shipwrights shall return.

Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders,

Our song no more will throw

All the blame on your name,

Which now merits every blow.

Punch, December, 1849.

---

“Ye Subalterns in England.”

From Tuff, of the Fusiliers in the Crimea,
to Muff, of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s.

Ye subalterns in England,

Who live a life of ease,

How little do ye think upon

Our sufferings o’er the seas.

To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again,

Upon fried pork we go,

And three-deep, we’ve to sleep,

In the trenches all a-row,

With the batteries roaring loud and long,

Four hundred guns or so!

The ghosts of clothing colonels

Would shudder in their graves;

For no two of us are rigged the same,

And scarce a fellow shaves.

Light cavalry and heavy swell

Black as coal-heavers show;

You can keep clean so cheap,

But here a tub’s no go;

For water you’ve to shell out strong,

And then it’s salt, you know.

Out here we need no boot-jacks,

For in our boots we sleep,

One never sees a dressing-case,

And hair brushes are cheap.

Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke;

Short pipes we’re glad to blow;

And we draw rum from store,

As we can’t have Bordeaux—

The point is, something short and strong,

Although it may be low.

But round the flag of England

We’ll our last cartridge burn,

Till we have made the Russians smart,

And victors home return.

Then, when, as veteran warriors,

At fête and ball we show,

With the fame of our name,

The ladies’ hearts will glow,

And while you swells are voted bores,

The pace, oh, shan’t we go!

Punch, November 18, 1854.

Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in Punch, December 11, 1852. It referred to a fracas which had taken place between two Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever.

——:o:——

A Ballad by a Bishop.

(With Brass Accompaniment.)

Ye clergymen of England,

Who livings hold at ease,

How little do you think upon

The troubles of the Sees!

Give ear unto my plaintive lay,

And I’ll engage to show

That a bishop’s poor and needy—whom for being rich and greedy,

Up the stormy Times doth blow—oh! oh! oh! oh!

Chorus expressive of Woe.

’Tis a law of human nature,

As you all of you must grant,

That of worldly things, the more man has

The more he’s sure to want,

Then wonder not that we, on whom

Such fatness men bestow,

Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more

Than you who sit below—oh! oh! oh! oh!

That bishops who have been brought up

Regardless of expense,

In luxury must dine and sup,

Seems merely common sense:

And neither few nor far between

Can be their wants, you know,

When in health and at ease their appetites increase

For the good things here below—O! O! O! O!

Then think ye not a bishop’s less

To be envied than be pitied,

Rememb’ring that to meet distress

So little he is fitted.

Nor wonder he for pension wants

Six thousand pounds or so—

Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer,

On the parish he would go—o—o—o—Oh!

(Refrain) On the Parish he would go!

Punch. October 11, 1856.

---

Crinoline’s Raging Fury;

Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings.

You rustic maids of England,

Who dress yourselves with ease,

Ah, little do you think how hard

It is French taste to please.

Give ear unto the milliners,

And they will plainly show,

With what care, tight with air,

They our Crinolines do blow.

*  *  *  *  *

(Five verses omitted.)

The husband, and the lover,

May simple gowns prefer,

That fit the form, and, in a storm,

With safety let one stir,

Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce,

Against our taste they throw,

Which we poor things endure,

Whilst our Crinolines we blow.

We put on costly merchandise

Of most enormous price,

So much we need of drapery,

To follow this device;

We spend so much in drapery,

Of such a size to show,

And with toil our shape spoil,

When our Crinolines we blow.

Punch, January 31, 1857.

---

Ye Commoners of England.

Ye Commoners of England,

Who cannot sit at ease

In the house designed by Barry

Four hundred odd to squeeze,

Your straitened bounds enlarge again

To hold two hundred more,

Who now creep, in a heap,

Through the narrow lobby door,

When division bells ring loud and long,

To the over-crowded floor.

The sluggard and late comer

Their right to seats must waive,

But a card stuck on the bench at prayers

Will disappointment save.

For architects will fail again

Where Barry failed before,

And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep,

Through another crowded door,

While uttering curses loud and deep,

To the over-crowded floor.

In the present House of Commons

But few attempt to speak,

For some have not the gift of tongue,

And some not that of cheek.

But in the new Reformed House

There be at least ten score

Who, like Bright, every night,

Forth their eloquence will pour,

And speeches make, both loud and long,

As ne’er were heard before.

To meet your wants in future,

And find you room in turn.

Gives Headlam, Thomson Hankey,

And Bazley great concern:

O’er plans and elevations

Right patiently they pore,

For they know ’tis no go

To find space for any more,

When debates are waxing loud and long,

And the Speaker’s heard to snore.

Echoes from the Clubs, November 27, 1867.

---

The Scream of the American Eagle;
or, The Crow of Yankee-Doodle.

You sneaking skunks of England,

Who stay at home at ease,

Who think because you never fight

You’re rulers of the seas:

Another pirate launch again

To match a New York foe,

For the fame of your name

Which has had so sad a blow,

While we Yankees bluster loud and long,

And over England crow.

The shattered “Alabama”

Lies deep beneath the wave,

Your finest guns and gunners

Their vessel couldn’t save,

When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,”

Her shot and shell did throw,

To the bottom in an hour

Did the “Alabama” go,

And we Yankees bluster loud and long,

And over England crow.

The flag of old Columbia

Shall ne’er again be furled

Till, having scourged the Southern States,

We whip the whole wide world;

With real lightning from our guns

Our thunderbolts we’ll throw,

Till not a single Britisher

Upon the seas doth show,

Then won’t we bluster loud and long

And over England crow.

Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers,

Our song and feast shall flow

When we sink your Island, Queen and all,

Old ocean’s depths below,

And masters of the ’varsal airth

We’ll liquor to and fro,

Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves

And trumpets loudly blow

To the fame of our name,

And o’er the whole world crow.

From Lyrics and Lays, by Pips
(Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).

---

The Fenians’ Raging Fury:

Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings.

Ye gentlemen of Ireland

Who live abroad at ease,

A mighty little wonder ’tis

That you are absentees.

Give heed unto the newspapers,

And they will daily show

All the crimes—see the Times—

When the crimson drops do flow.

All we that would live landlords

Must bear arrears of rent,

And little though we should be paid

Or none, must be content;

Or else, a tenant’s bullet

Will quickly lay us low;

With a ball he pays all,

Whilst the crimson drops do flow.

*  *  *  *  *

Not Irish landlords only,

Thus live in care and dread;

Their stewards and their agents too

May look to be shot dead.

Whoever makes an enemy

Is very soon let know,

What is what, by a shot,

When the crimson drops do flow.

*  *  *  *  *

If all conciliation

Is wasted, nought remains

But to renew an iron rule,

Stern penalties and pain,

At least empower our magistrates

To cage each public foe,

With the speed which we need

When the crimson drops do flow.

Punch, March 12, 1870.

---

Ye Scavengers of England.

Ye Scavengers of England!

Whose cart one seldom sees

Without unpleasant consciousness

There’s something in the breeze!

Leave other garbage to its fate,

And here your prowess show!

And sweep through the heap

From King Street up to Bow;

Where the struggle rages all day long,

From King Street up to Bow!

The Duke may wish you farther,

The question try to waive;

But, bear in mind, that filthy slush

Might prove his Grace’s grave!

And should he, by some chance, go down

Himself, he’d swear you’re slow,

As ye sweep through the heap

From King Street up to Bow!

We boast we need no bulwarks

Our social rights to keep;

Yet, if we wish to purchase plums,

We do it—ankle deep!

And though we often, through the Times,

Our indignation show,

The while we roar, the loads still pour

From King Street and from Bow;

And the struggle lasts the whole day long,

From King Street down to Bow!

The dirty flags of Mudford

At last shall have their turn!

No more for rotting refuse prove

A putrid public churn!

So up, ye British Scavengers,

A decent garden show,

Where Duchesses henceforth may—leap!

From King Street up to Bow!

And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep

From King Street up to Bow!

Punch, October 16, 1880.

This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market.

---

To Milliners and Millionares.

A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade.

Ye milliners of England,

Who clothe so many shes,

Whose stuffs have never found their peers,

Oh, listen if you please.

Your standard prices pray keep down,

To hold the trade in tow,

For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep

Of customers a flow;

Though you make toilettes loud and long

Now trains have ceased to grow.

The spirits of your tailors

Shall start with every fold,

For Paris ’twas from whence they came,

And their reward was gold;

Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell

There is a better show,

Where they do reap and do keep

Of customers a flow,

And say you haven’t the “haut ton,”

And are most sadly slow.

Britannia needs no bustles,

No heels of slender height,

Her walk should e’er be straight and sure,

Her dresses not too tight.

With simple taste do loop them up

And trim them down below:

Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way

O’er other firms to crow!”

Well, then—(despairingly)—make your toilettes loud and long,

We will not say you “No!”

(Sarcastically—)

May the ladies fair of England

Ever live and learn

To be extra grateful for your deeds

And give you some return!

We sing to you, fair modistes,

To Messrs. Worth and Co.,

To the fame of your name,

And may fools of fashion flow,

While you make dresses more and more,

And bows and buttons grow.

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

---

Torpedo Terrors.

Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric
in accordance with the
New System of Naval Warfare).

Ye mariners of England,

Be vigilant to seize

The flag that braved a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze;

And if your ships be launched again

To meet a foreign foe,

Ere ye sweep through thöe deep

Send your divers down below,

For that dread explosive swift and strong,

The sneaking Tor-pe-dö.

When your heroic fathers

Their foes a thrashing gave,

On the deck above they sought for fame,

Not underneath the wave.

When Blake and mighty Nelson fought

They dealt no dastard blow,

But now we sweep o’er the deep,

Both cautiously and slow,

Fearing the din and the secret fire

Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö.

Britannia needs new bulwarks,

New towers along the steep,

If far below the mountain wave

These hidden reptiles creep;

No thunders from our broadsides now

May quell the floods below,

If when the proud ships float along

The swift steam launches throw

Beneath the keels of ironclads strong

The coward Tor-pe-dö.

Though soon beneath our vessels

They may terrific burn,

With ships of steel and hearts of oak

We trust their power to spurn;

That still our ocean warriors

To sea may safely go,

And win new fame for England’s name

With an open-handed blow,

While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high

With their own vile Tor-pe-dö.

Funny Folks.

---

Ye Infantry of England.

A Military Ode.     Imitated from Campbell.

“Fas est et ab hoste doceri.”

Ye Infantry of England,

Supposed to guard our shores,

Who made a precious mess of it

In trying to pot the Boers,

Your ready rifles take again,

And try another style;

Nor fool by old rule

While the foreign critics smile,

Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long,

And our foreign critics smile.

Britannia needs instructors

To teach her boys to shoot,

Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill

Have borne but bitter fruit.

Our blunders are a standing joke,

The scandal of our Isle,

And the Boer loud doth roar,

Whilst our foreign critics smile.

Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long,

And our foreign critics smile.

The cartridges of England

In waste terrific burn;

In sighting and in snap-shots, we

From foes have much to learn.

Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry,

And go to school awhile,

Till the fame of your aim

Shall no more make foemen smile;

Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more,

And your foes have ceased to smile.

Punch.

---

The Perils of Parliament.

Ye Gentlemen of England,

Who stay at home at ease,

Ye little think upon the ills

That threaten our M.P.’s!

Now that throughout the House again

The flood of talk will flow,

And will roar

O’er the floor

While the storms of party blow,

While discussion rages loud and long,

And the storms of party blow!

The Spirit of Obstruction

Will start from every side;

New coalitions will be formed,

Old combinations tried;

The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!”

Lord Randolph talk more stuff,

Whilst a roar

O’er the floor

Will proclaim his new rebuff,

And noises weird and varied tell

That Warton’s taking snuff.

His meteor pocket-handkerchief,

Shall oft terrific burn,

Whilst weary legislators long,

But vainly, to adjourn;

Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes

Tempt Ministers to weep,

Or some bore

On the floor

Talks the faithful few to sleep;

Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips”

Their endless vigil keep.

Yes, Gentlemen of England,

Do picture, if you please,

The fate that probably awaits

Your sorely-tried M.P.’s.

Think of those frequent dinners

Of which they’ll get no bite

When the bell

Sounds their knell,

And compels them to the fight;

Till the lobbies echo with the groan

Of outraged appetite!

Think of the miles of walking

Divisions will impose,

On those who, spite their gouty pains,

Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.”

Think of the cramps they must endure

When furtive naps they take,

With what racks

In their backs

They will suddenly awake;

When they have slumbered in their seats

For their constitution’s sake.

“Britannia needs no bulwark”—

Or so her poets claim—

But he who makes Britannia’s laws

Should have an iron frame.

Yes, he does need a bulwark

’Gainst all the session woes,

’Gainst the roar

Of the bore,

And the battle’s stress and blows!

If his digestion be not sound,

He scarce will see its close.

For dark is the horizon,

And on the rising breeze,

Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,”

The weather-prophet sees;

And fears that even pheasants

The Sportsman shall lay low

Ere the last

Of the blast

Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go;

Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Truth, February 7, 1884.

---

Ye Mariners of England.

The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song.

[It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist, who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping Bill.]

Ye mariners of England,

That trust in Joseph C.,

Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears,

Receive the truth from me.

He champions you for selfish ends,

Does philanthropic Joe,

And you’re “had” by the Rad,

When the stormy winds do blow.

Our sailors need no Bill-wark

To guard them on the deep;

Shipowners all are worthy folk,

And calumny is cheap.

Their vessels stand the tempests’ test,

And never go below,

So no more on that score,

When the stormy winds do blow.

Obstruction’s flag in Parliament

Shall yet terrific burn,

Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart,

And the Tory clan return.

Then, then, ye ocean simpletons,

Brum tactics we shall “stow,”

None will back Merchant Jack,

When the stormy winds do blow.

Funny Folks, June 21, 1884.

---

Ruling the Waves.

(Freely adapted from Campbell.)

Ye Mariners of England!

Who’d guard our native seas,

What think ye, lads, every few years

Of this confounded breeze?

They tell us we must launch more ships

Ere we may match the foe,

And weep

O’er the deep,

Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow,

While the squabble rages loud and long,

And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Would look extremely grave

At doubts thus thrown upon the fact

That Britain rules the wave.

Officials on each other fall;

One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!”

And sweep

O’er the deep,

Of big figures in a row,

Tabled Statistics stiff and long,

And figures in a row.

Britannia needs a Navy

Her world-wide watch to keep,

To ward her isle-encircling waves,

And to patrol the deep.

That’s truth, and far beyond all joke,

Plain facts from them we’d know,

Who roar

And deplore,

That our Navy’s running low,

That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong,

Whilst our Navy’s running low.

The money-bags of England

The balance yet can turn.

We’re quite prepared to freely “part,”

Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn.

Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors,

Are what we fain would know!

For the fame

Of your name

Every British heart will glow,

When Party fights are heard no more

And the Windbags cease to “blow.”

Punch, October 4, 1884.

---

Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem.

(A Song for the next Election.)

Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem,

With all your Caucuses,

Whose noise has rung a year or two

Just on a passing breeze,

Your voice shall ne’er be raised again

To deafen another foe;

You shall fall, spouters all,

When our party strikes the blow,

And the battle will be short, I say,

When our party strikes the blow!

The demagogues and stumpers

No more shall rant and rave,

The platform was their field of fame,

Th’ election is their grave.

Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,

Now silence you shall know,

For you fall, stumpers all,

When our party strikes the blow,

And the battle will be short indeed

When our party strikes the blow.

Britannia’ll have no rebels

Her soil in blood to steep;

Her strength can crush the blustering knave—

Her wit the sly and deep;

And class with class she reconciles

And fuses high and low—

They unite for the fight

And together strike the blow,

And they make the battle short, I say,

When, allied, they strike the blow.

Conservatives of England;

A light enlightening burn

To help the poor and guide the rich

Right Members to return.

Then, then, you ranting Radicals,

Our song and feast shall flow,

As we tell how you fell

When the nation struck the blow,

How the battle was uncommon short

When the nation struck the blow.

A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor,
London, 1884.

---

Parodies by a Premier.

(Addressed to the L——s of the A——y.)

“Ye Mariners of England,”

(I’ll term you if you please),

Whose brag has raised, a hundred times,

A Parliament’ry “breeze!”

Your gallant features blanch again

Beneath another blow.

As ye creep down the steep

“Companion” stairs below;

While the crisis rages loud and long,

And you have to keep below.

“The spirits of your fathers”

Won’t “start from every wave”—

For the deck “it was their field of fame,”

And Kensal Green “their grave,”

“Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell”

You’ll have no chance to go,

Nor to creep down the steep

“Companion” stairs below;

While the crisis rages loud and long,

And you have to keep below.

“Britannia needs” her “bulwarks”

And “towers along the steep;”

Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,”

Her navy’s “on the cheap,”

With blunders from her naval L—ds

She riles the tars below,

And they swear—you’re aware—

“When the stormy winds do blow,”

’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong,

“When the stormy winds do blow.”

“The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn”—

They say—when Liberal L—ds depart,

And Tory ones return.

Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs!

Their song and jest shall flow,

To make game of your name

When you’ve ceased to go below;

When my fiery flights are heard no more,

And you’ve ceased to go below.

The Globe, June 18, 1885.

---

Song at Scarborough.

During the Match Gentlemen of England v.
Players of England, September 3, 1885.

Ye Gentlemen of England,

Who smite for twos and threes,

One bat has swiped for twenty years,

That bat is W. G.’s.

That wondrous willow waves again

To match the old, old foe,

And spanks through their ranks

Whilst the bowlers puff and blow,

Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight,

And the “field” do all they know.

Britannia need not tremble

Whilst he his “block” can keep,

And slog for sixes and for fours,

Though the field stand close or deep

There’s “powder” yet in every stroke,

His “drives” like lightning go,

And men roar as the score

Swells at every swashing blow,

Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail,

And Peate his best doth show!

The Cricket fame of England

Shall yet in brightness burn,

And we can wait without blue funk

That Cornstalk Team’s return,

Whilst W. G. can show such form

After twenty years or so;

The fame of his name

Sounds wherever Britons go,

And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore

Should bring him “one cheer mo’!”

Punch, September 12, 1885.

---

On conceding the Saturday
in Christmas Week, 1884.

Ye Shopkeepers of London,

Who live in lavish ease;

We beg of you for once to hear

Your poor employés pleas.

There is no need for us to say

How hard their daily task;

Then give the one short Saturday

Which they this Christmas ask!

*  *  *  *  *

Ye Merchants, too, of London,

Who Christmas will enjoy,

Until a glut of luxuries

Your appetites will cloy;

Come, think of those whose tired hands shake,

As at your books they toil;

And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake,

Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!

*  *  *  *  *

Truth, December 18, 1884.

Another long imitation of the same original appeared in Truth, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing

“Ye Ministers of England.”

Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled “Divine Songs of the Muggletonians,” printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,” “De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell’s Mariners:—

“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe

The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve;

Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear,

That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”

——:o:——

Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in The Weekly Dispatch, as, in addition to those already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885:—

The Bench of Bishops.

Never working, ever wooing,

Loving fat things, wealth pursuing;

Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing,

O ye favoured few?

All your lives obstruction brewing.

Cease, or else be true!

Measures banished, wrongs not righted.

See your Church, how disunited!

See the scores of bills you’ve blighted

In the House of Peers!

Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted,

’Midst your country’s tears.

Yet you deem yourselves a blessing—

Sleek and fat, and self-caressing,

Time is short, and needs are pressing;

Soon you’ll have to go.

Dull and useless, always messing;

Dotard’s all, and slow.

James Turner.

---

Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford.

Never fighting, ever cooing,

Still a fruitless course pursuing;

Read you not the wrong you’re doing

In my cheek’s pale hue?

All my lifelong hopes eschewing—

Fight, or cease to coo!

Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,

Still our ways are disunited.

When the goal is well-nigh sighted

Feeble funk appears;

Vacillation so benighted.

Is for Lib’ral fears.

Office—once your dearest blessing;

Place—we both would be possessing!

Hopes—a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you’ll make them grow

Dim, and worthless our caressing—

Yours with age, mine woe.

Henry L. Brickel.

---

Britannia’s Remonstrance.

Never peaceful, ever doing,

Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing,

And askance the straight path viewing—

All for pow’r and place!

Future storms for me you’re brewing;

Cease, or veil my face!

Where is now the troth we plighted?

Both our hearts are disunited;

Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted,

Now ’tis quenched with tears.

Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted,

Roused are all our fears.

Once you earned my richest blessing,

Thrilled my soul with your caressing

Each a mutual love confessing,

Soon its sweets you’ll miss,

For your love’s not worth possessing

While War’s lips you kiss.

J. Arthur Elliott.

---

Staffy’s Remonstrance.

Never winning, ever wooing,

Still the sweets of place pursuing,

And the cause of my undoing,

Randolph—it is you!

All your life seems spent in brewing

Mischief ever new,

Rivals bullied and indicted,

Still our ranks are disunited;

When your glowworm lamp is lighted

Mine half-quenched appears;

I must wander on benighted

’Mid’st the groans and cheers.

Would you but bestow your blessing,

How I’d purr at your caressing!

But your pranks are so distressing

Soon you’ll make me trow

Place itself’s not worth possessing

If you plague me so!

Gossamer.

——:o:——

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion,

For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean,

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!

“Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger,

“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22]

*  *  *  *  *

Thomas Campbell.

---

English Melodies.

“Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim,

Joy, joy for ever! the task is done,

The city’s free and Evans has won.

It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘Dear De Vear,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.”

Air.—Erin go bragh.

There came to the hustings an exile from office,

The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill,

For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his

Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill.

But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,

As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion,

And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion,

They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.”

“Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman,

“Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee,

But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man,

A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me.

Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket,

Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it),

My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it,

Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.

Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store,

But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken,

And sigh for the votes that support me no more.

And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me,

In a post where electors no longer can chase me;

Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me,

Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.

Where now is the Westminster rump that supported

Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall,

And where is the junta, that influence sported,

And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?

Alas what an ass I have been for declining

My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning

My office! but now there is no use in whining,

It cannot my seat or my office recal.

But yet all my bitter reflections repressing,

There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,

De Vear, thy old protegé gives thee his blessing,

Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh.

Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion)

I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion

In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion,

You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.”

Figaro in London, May 18, 1833.

This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest.

---

The Exile of Erin;

Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;

He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,”

As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.

He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,

And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,

Which once he had put in such awful commotion

By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!

“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger,

“My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,

But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here;

Repose or tobacco exist not for me;

Ne’er again in the snug little bar

Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.

Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war

By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!

The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.

---

The Visit to Erin.

There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,

If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.

From his country he came in the hope of repairing

Some errors whose memory clings to him still.

Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean,

His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion

The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,

He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?

O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,

O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.

The day still I rue when we parted in anger,

For a place and a party remain not in me.

Then grant me once more for a day or an hour

The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.

O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower,

And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.

O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand;

But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken,

Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.

O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me

On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me,

With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me,

I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.

Where is my great University measure?

Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall?

O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure,

Which gave to you Trinity College and all?

O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!

O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing?

Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing,

My power and my party they cannot recall.

O that, all sad recollections suppressing,

From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw,

I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing,

Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh!

Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion,

Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean,

And murmur, in token of grateful devotion,

Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!

From “They are Five,” by W. E. G., 1877.

In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.

Ireland’s Distress.

I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin;

Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form;

For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing,

Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm.

Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean,

Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion;

Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion,

Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger;

‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone;

For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger,

To new homes and new countries my children have flown,

Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary

And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story,

Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory,

Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.

Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken,

In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;

Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken

Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?

O happy land, only thou can’st replace me

In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me,

Never again shall my children disgrace me,

Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.

Now is the cabin-door open and shattered,

Father and mother are weeping within;

Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered,

Their children with famine are wasted and thin.

Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow,

Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow,

How can I dare any comfort to borrow

From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?

Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing,

One only fond wish my sad heart can desire—

That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing,

As faction shall languish and discord expire!

Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean;

Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion,

And my children shall sing with new love and devotion,

Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’

Kommitop (Captain Walford).

---

Second Prize.

There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean

The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain,

And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion.

Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane;

For the food of the famishing people was rotten,

And the hate that is often of hunger begotten

Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten,

And the singers of Erin were silent again.

O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell,

The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause?

Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell,

If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?

For small is the gain and the glory ensuing

From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing,

And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing,

From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.

‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant;

‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree,

And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant,

But no roof and no food for my children and me.

O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction!

When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction

From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection,

We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.

Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,

We wander half-starved over mountain and shore,

And search for a remnant of hope, or a token

That life may be glad to our spirits once more;

Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken,

To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken,

And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken

To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!

Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,

That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground,

Could he know that the land upon which he was lying

Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound;

And the trials and straights of despair and starvation

Through which he was fighting should end in salvation

To happier sons of a new generation,

Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’

Hypophosphate (Miss E. Chamberlayne.)

——:o:——

HOHENLINDEN.

An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on [page 28]. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.

The subject was chosen for a prize competition in The World, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:—

The Tay Bridge Disaster.

On Balgay when the sun was low,

Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow,

And dark and muddy was the flow

Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.

But Balgay saw another sight,

When rose the wind at fall of night,

And distant gleams of splendour light

The darkness of her scenery.

Mid light and darkness fast arrayed

The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid,

And every furious blast essayed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven,

Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven,

And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven,

Out flashed the train lights ruddily.

But brighter still that light shall gleam,

With one last flash o’er land and stream,

And then shall vanish like a dream

At daylight passing wearily.

The coming sun shall light no more

Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore,

And dark Dundee bereft shall cower

Beneath her smoky canopy.

The horror deepens. Who can save

Those rushing to a watery grave?

Wave dashes wildly over wave,

And leaps in dreadful rivalry.

None, none shall part where many meet;

The sand shall be their winding sheet;

No churchyard turf shall veil their feet

In their untimely sepulchre.

Chevy Chase (J. F. Baird.)

---

Second Prize.

On Tay the summer sun sinks low,

Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow;

A thread athwart yon ruddy glow,

The wondrous bridge winds airily.

But halcyon days have taken flight,

Wild howls the storm this winter’s night,

And ’gainst that daring fabric light

The tempest rages furiously.

Homeward they wend from town and glade,

Husband and wife, and youth and maid,

For that dread race of death arrayed,

An all-unconscious company.

Forth speeds the train to ruin driven—

Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?

No warning voice in mercy given

Of the impending destiny?

The signal beckons—on they go;

Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,

Where, in the shuddering depth below,

The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.

With straining eyes the watchers run,

Longing to mark the passage done.

In vain: the blast his prey has won,

And on it swoops relentlessly.

That fiery flash the signal gave;

Down crashing through the maddened wave,

Both bridge and freight have found a grave,

Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.

With questioning eyes the mourners meet,

Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat;

The wild wave rolling at their feet

Mocks at their helpless misery.

Courthope (L. Beck.)

——:o:——

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day’s renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark’s crown.

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on!

*  *  *  *  *

But the might of England flush’d

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush’d

O’er the deadly space between.

“Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—

Then ceas’d—and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter’d sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

*  *  *  *  *

Thomas Campbell.

The two following parodies of this poem occur in The University Snowdrop, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.

The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the students took part. The warfare between the students and the townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students, believing that the constables took the side of the mob against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five students who had been most active in the fray were tried by the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days. Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force. The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:—

“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter,

Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”

A report of the trial was published, which was followed by “The University Snowdrop, an appendix to the Great Trial, containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof. With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.

The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous case of Longworth against Yelverton.)

Battle of the Balls.

Of Alma and the North,

Sing the glorious day’s renown,

When the students all stood forth

’Gainst the minions of the town.

And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew

I can’t tell how or why,

But each Student took a shy,

And floored were passers by

Not a few!

Like ravens to the row,

Came Pond and his Police,

(For breaking heads, we know,

Is their way of keeping peace,)

It was two post meridiem by the bell:

Up the Bridges as they dashed,

The boldest looked abashed,

For they knew they would be hashed

Very well!

Out the youth of Alma poured

To anticipate the scene—

And the balls the faster showered

O’er the deadly space between:

“We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.”

So around his band he looks,

“Now go, B20, Snooks,

And summon Bailie Crooks

With the Act.”

The Act was read in vain—

And the havoc did not slack,

Till Crooks had fled again

To the Council chambers back,

And that there was a riot he would vouch:

Then came the soldiers all,

With their captains stout and tall,

And sixty rounds of ball

In their pouch.

Out spake the Major then,

And he trembled as he spoke—

“We are brothers—we are men—

By the Lord, my nose is broke!

Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed;

Our patience you will tire

Peace is all we require,

Then yield, or we shall fire!”

“You be d——d!”

Then the Provost forth he came,

For he saw it was no go:

Said he “It is a shame

To treat the Students so,—

If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw,

No longer at the gate

The Policemen shall await,

And the vengeance I’ll abate

Of the law.”

“That will do,” the Students cried,

And each band departed straight.

And one by one they hied

Through the lofty College gate.

But they knew not how severely they were watched;

For Pond and all his rout

Raised a horrid shout,

And as every man came out

He was cotched.

Brave hearts! who fought so well

Once so faithful and so true,

In your dungeon’s gloomy cell

Our eyes shall weep for you.

We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond!

And when you all are freed,

I think we are agreed

On one article of creed,

Down with Pond!!!

---

Stanzas on a Late Battle.

Of the combat in the North,

Sing the glorious days’ renown,

When the Charlies’ fierce came forth,

To defend the trembling town,

While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan.

Each student took his stand,

Till the College gates were mann’d,

And shillellahs in each hand,

Proudly shone.

Intent upon a row,

Rose their clamour wild and loud,

And in showers the snowballs flew,

At the ragamuffin crowd.

It was just two o’clock by the time;

When the medicals came out,

As each waved his cudgel stout,

Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout

Is no crime.”

So down the stairs they dashed,

Spreading terror far and wide;

Right and left the crabsticks smash’d;

Yells were heard on every side.

“Hit ’em hard,” was the cry—when each man

With an adamantine whack,

Made their empty noddles crack,

Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!!

If ye can!!!

Again, again, again,

And the havoc did not slack,

Till to cut their sticks, they deign,

And within the gates fly back.

Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom;

And the Charlies’ bruised and pale,

With the mob behind their tail,

Our environs to assail,

Did presume.

With joy ye students shout,

At the tidings of your might,

How ye made the claret spout!

How the scoundrels mauled took flight!

Until midst their howling and uproar,

The Lobsters in were led,

And the Riot Act was read,

While the Provost popp’d his head

Through the door.

Brave hearts! turn out’s the word;

Though you’ve leathered the police,

Yet a baton’s not a sword,

So leave the field in peace.

And our bards shall sing the glory of the day,

How many a skull and hat,

To the tune of “Tit for Tat,”

Was bash’d and batter’d flat,

In the fray.

Kilspendie.

In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from Marmion, and another imitating The Lady of the Lake:—

“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c.

headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.”

——:o:——

The Burning of the Play-house.

(Improved from Campbell.)

[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856, during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled “Wizard of the North.”]

Of the “Wizard of the North

Sing the Tuesday’s night renown,

When he let the gas break forth

And burn the play-house down.

And illuminated London brightly shown,

While a masquerading band,

Almost too drunk to stand,

But all holding hand in hand,

Revelled on.

Detesting every note,

(They’d been playing there from nine),

The orchestra scarce kept

From kicking up a shine.

It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime,

And as each fiddler saith,

Tobacco choked his breath,

And he played, fatigued to death,

Out of time.

Any decent folks had blushed

To assist at such a scene—

But, sudden, firemen rushed

Where before they should have been,

And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun

Stopped upon pallid lips,

For the ceiling and the slips

Glowed like a mountain’s tips

In the sun.

The Main! the Main! the Main!

But beams came tumbling whack,

And a shower of fiery rain

Falls on the frightened pack,

And each hurries from the menaced doom,

And gents with terror pale

Pay no heed to woman’s wail,

And the flames at once prevail

And consume.

Down went Covent Garden then,

Vain was the engine’s wave,

Vainly the gallant men

Struggled the wealth to save—

The clock twice saved away indeed they bring,

But the Muse’s ancient seat

Is a ruin most complete;

Ashes, where song’s élite

Used to sing.

And London’s blame was chief

For the stupid heads of those

Who have doubtless come to grief

Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows.

A play-house is intended for a play;

If you let it for a night

To a Quack, you but invite

A fate that serves you right,

You may say.

Now joy old opera raise

For the tidings of the night,

Once more thy gas shall blaze,

Once more thy songs delight,

And though losing our fine house is a bore,

Let us think of those who weep

Their tools—by no means cheap—

A charred and melted heap

On its floor.

Shirley Brooks.

——:o:——

The Last Growler.

(After Thomas Campbell’s Last Man—also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.)

Four million souls without a Fly!

Shall we then realise

Our lack of common comforts, born

From lack of enterprise?

I saw a vision in my sleep

That caused me from my bed to leap,

And skip around the room;

I saw the Final Growler go

Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow,

To its appointed doom!

The gas-lamps had a sickly glare,

And not a heart did bleed

As passed that bony hulk along.

Drawn by its bony steed;

The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered,

The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered,

The street-boys raised a yell:

And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid

To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid

To fares a long farewell!

Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat;

He knew the end was near

Of over-charge and under-pay,

And did not shed a tear;

Saying—“Too long I have delayed;

My Cab is old, my Horse decayed,

’Tis mercy bids me bolt;

For fifty years of mortal breath,

We’ve jolted Passengers to death,

And shall no longer jolt.

“What though upon my seats have writhed

The Great, perhaps the Good.

Condemned in this proud Capital

To use my box of wood?

Yet now repentance, all too late,

Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate

A vehicle provide

More maddening in each palsied shake,

Or where long-suffering Fares might take,

A more atrocious ride?

“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls

Upon the myriad men

Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down,

And ‘had me up’ again.

Those frowsy cushions bring not back

Nor stretch four souls upon the rack

By Nature made for twain!

Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go,

Also thy dirty straw below,

Thou Vehicle of Pain!

“Even I am weary now of playing

My customary pranks;

Rank idiocy it was to place

Such Cabs upon the ranks!

How came it, else, that London’s sons

To stable-owning Goths and Huns

For aid in vain did cry,

While every Gent, and every Cad,

In Aberdeen and Glasgow had

His reputable Fly?

“Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect

On London’s awful waste

By not a single Four-wheeled Cab

From Kew to Greenwich graced!

Go, tell the world how you beheld

A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld,

Guiding his Growler mean,—

The general universe defy,

To match for sheer obliquity,

That ramshackle machine!

Punch, September, 1885.

——:o:——

The Massacre of Glenho.

Through deep Glenho the owlet flits,

That valley weird and lone;

The chieftain’s aged widow sits

Beside the bare hearth stone.

Beside the bare and blighted hearth

Whose fires, now quenched and black,

Had seen five gallant sons go forth,

And never one come back.

’Tis silent all! but hark—a cry

And ghastly clamours wake

The midnight glen. Then rose proudly

That ancient dame, and spake—

“What mingled sounds of woe and wail

Up Mortham’s valley spread?

What shrieks upon the gusty gale

Come pealing overhead?

“I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell,

The banshee’s scream I hear,

And hark! again that stifled yell—

The boderglas is near!!

“The Boderglas with bloody brow

And tresses dripping red—

I see him at the window now

He shakes his gory head!

“Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms,

Thus, thus, in close embrace,

The messenger of death we’ll meet—

The slayer of our race.

“Then do not weep, my daughter!”—

“Oh mother, ’tis not that—

But Donald Roy the carrotty boy

Has killed our old tom cat.”

From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
Chatto and Windus, London,)

——:o:——

The Lawn Tennis Match.

The summer day proved all too short,

But light forbade the pleasant sport,

And silent lay the tennis court,

Where time had flown so rapidly.

But morning saw another sight,

When, after slumbers soft and light,

The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight

Upon the level greenery.

On either side the net they stand,

Each with her tennis bat in hand,

The fairest maidens in the land,

Opposed in bloodless rivalry!

Then “faults” no longer were forgiven,

Then o’er the net their balls were driven,

And like the deadly bolts of Heaven,

The “serves” in their velocity!

But faster yet the balls shall fly

Beneath the cloudless summer sky,

And still more frequent be the cry

Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily!

’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow,

Though scorching hours may come and go,

Those maidens, fleeter than the roe,

Are ever darting rapidly!

The combat deepens, Grace will win,

In Jersey, fitting like her skin,

Just give the ball a subtle spin,

And snatch from Maud the victory!

A few games more, and Grace has won!

“Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!”

And from the fury of the sun

They scamper most bewitchingly!

F. B. Doveton.

From Society.

——:o:——

“We are ruined by Cheap Chinese Labour.”

In Punch for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It commenced:—

Ye Mariners of England

Who watch our distant seas,

’Tis very odd that you should be

The half of you Chinese.

It scarcely fits our notions

To have you down below;

And though your keep, perhaps is cheap,

The news comes like a blow;

To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack

Gives one a dreadful blow.

*  *  *  *  *

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow

Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,

Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,

Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?

Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear

More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,

And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

*  *  *  *  *

Thomas Campbell.

---

Campbell, undone and outdone.

When oftentimes the young aerial beau

Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below,

Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye,

Whose misty outline mingles with the sky?

Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear

More meet than all the landscape shining near?

’Tis distance sends enchantment to his view,

And lures the mounted with its azure hue.

From Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton.
(Hodges and Co., Boston, 1885.)

——:o:——

Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following are noteworthy:—

In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859), is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:—

Of Scotia and the North

A loving son would sing,

And to laud surpassing worth

Would wake the silent string,

Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb;

But bardic fires still burn

In the ashes of the urn,

And glimmering back return

Through the gloom.

For Burns this spirit lay

Is wafted to the earth,

In honour of the day

That gave the poet birth.

*  *  *  *  *

“Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J. Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt, brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others. Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin.

In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:—

“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope,

Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope;

His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry,

There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye.

Half gone his last tumbler—clean gone his last joke,

And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke.

What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be

Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”

W. Maginn.