Thomas Moore,
Born May, 28, 1780. Died February, 25, 1852.
’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay;
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Thomas Moore.
The First Rose of Summer.
’Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves, with pride from its throne,
’Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom?
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon;
Was’t the lark of the morning that ’woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet flow’ret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie.
O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne’er would’st decay,
But, alas! soon thou’lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair,
Yet I’ll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.
Robert Gilfillan. 1831.
The First Rose of Summer.
’Tis the first rose of summer
That blushing steals forth,
Still doubtful, and fearing
The blight of the north;
Her sister buds cower,
Beneath on the stem,
While yon lone one is smiling
In fragrance o’er them.
I’ll not pluck thee young rose bud,
Nor mar thy fresh bloom;
Soon yon dark cloud may wrap thee
In coldness and gloom:
Then bask while thou may’st,
In the bright sun’s lov’d smile
And dream of light dewdrops,
And blue skies the while.
So in life’s sunny morning
Spreads forth hope’s fair flow’r,
How soon to be blighted
In sorrow’s drear hour;
Still, while friendship smiles o’er it,
And joy brightens round,
May no demon’s dark malice,
To blight it be found.
From Wiseheart’s Fashionable Songster
or Gems of Melody. Dublin.
Epsom Races.
’Tis the last man in London
Left lounging alone,
All his bottle companions
To Epsom are gone:
No friend of the Regent
Or Bond do I see,
To kill on this pavement
His cursed ennui.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine in this street,
Since Verey has jellies,
We’ll stroll in and eat.
Thus at Epsom they’re crowded,
In London we’re cramm’d,
And whilst we are jellied,
They’re probably jamm’d.
The National Omnibus, May 27, 1831.
The Old Maid.
I’m the last Rose of summer,
And wither alone;
All my lovely companions
Are wedded and gone.
No soul of my kindred,
No maiden is nigh,
To reflect back my wrinkles,
And heave sigh for sigh.
Yet peaceful I rest me
Upon my lone bed,
No tyrant molests me,
I mourn no Babe dead.
Thus cheerful I scatter
Regrets to the air,
And rejoice in my freedom
From discord and care.
Alone must I perish,
Alone I decay:
No daughter to cherish,
No son for a stay.
I sink to the slumber,
Of Death’s calm repose,
Till the Bridegroom, rejoicing,
Shall claim his last Rose.
From The Maids’, Wives’, and Widows’
Penny Magazine, December 29, 1832.
The Last Summer Bonnet.
’Tis the last summer bonnet,
The worse for the wear;
The feathers upon it
Are dimm’d by sea air:
Gay places it went to,
But lingers at last,
A faded momento
Of sunny days past.
The prejudice still is
For poets to moan,
When roses and lillies
Are going and gone:
But fashion her sonnet
Would rather compose
On summer’s last bonnet,
Than summer’s last rose!
Though dreary November
Has darken’d the sky,
You still must remember
That day in July,
When, after much roaming,
To Carson’s we went
For something becoming
To take into Kent.
You, long undecided
What bonnet to choose,
At length chose, as I did,
The sweetest of blues;
Yours now serves to show, dear,
How fairest things fade;
And I long ago, dear,
Gave mine to my maid.
Oh! pause for a minute,
Ere yours is resign’d:
Philosophy in it
A moral may find:
To past scenes I’m hurried,—
That relic revives
The beaux that we worried
Half out of their lives.
’Twas worn at all places
Of public resort:
At Hogsnorton races,
So famous for sport;
That day, when the Captain
Would after us jog,
And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!
He gave me a sandwich,
And not being check’d
He offered a hand—which
I chose to reject!
And then you were teased with
The gentleman’s heart,
Because you seemed pleased with
His gooseberry tart!
’Twas worn at the ladies
Toxopholite fête.
(That sharpshooting trade is
A thing that I hate;
Their market they mar, who
Attempt, for a prize,
To shoot with an arrow
Instead of their eyes.)
And don’t that excursion
By water forget;
Sure summer diversion
Was never so wet!
To sit there and shiver
And hear the wind blow,
The rain and the river,
Above, and below!
But hang the last bonnet
What is it to us,
That we should muse on it,
And moralize thus?
A truce to reflecting:
To Carson’s we’ll go,
Intent on selecting
A winter chapeau.
Then let Betty take it,
For Betty likes blue;
And Betty can make it
Look better than new:
In taste Betty’s fellow
Was never yet seen;
She’ll line it with yellow,
And trim it with green!
Thomas Haynes Bayly, in
The New Monthly Magazine, 1833.
’Tis the last Bit of Candle.
’Tis the last bit of candle,
With flickering light,
All its pound of companions,
Have finished their night;
While here we sit toping,
And waking the sun,
To shine on the revel,
As merely begun.
Thou sink’st in the socket,
The grease of thy wick,
Is failing and failing,
As smiles of the sick;
The lips most bewitching,
The eyes most divine,
Are scarcely less fleeting,
In ceasing to shine.
O, My last bit of candle,
Thou’lt not be alone,
Go stink in the grease pot,
Thy brethren are gone:
Though moon ne’er should light us,
Though gone be thy spark,
We can all find our glasses,
And mouths in the dark.
From Wisehearts Merry Songster. Dublin.
The Last Lamp of Grafton’s Alley—Cork.
The last lamp of the Alley,
Is burning alone!
All its brilliant companions
Are shiver’d and gone.
No lamp of her kindred,
No burner is nigh
To rival her glimmer,
Or light to supply.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To vanish in smoke;
As the bright ones are shatter’d
Thou, too, shalt be broke.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy globe o’er the street
Where the watch in his rambles
Thy fragments shall meet.
Then home will I stagger
As well as I may,
By the light of my nose sure
I’ll find out the way.
When thy blaze is extinguished,
Thy brilliancy gone,
Oh! my beak shall illumine
The Alley alone.
William Maginn.
The Last Cigar.
’Tis a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;
All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown.
No more of its kindred
To gladden the eye,
So my empty cigar-case
I close with a sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine; but the stem
I’ll bite off and light thee
To waft thee to them.
And gently I’ll scatter
The ashes you shed,
As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.
A pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay
From the weed’s glowing circle,
The ash drops away.
A last whiff is taken,
The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar-case
I sit all alone.
The Straw Hat of Summer.
’Tis the straw hat of summer
All tattered and torn;
All the brim has departed,
Its crown is well worn.
But no hat is there like it
So dear to my heart;
It has kept off the sunshine
In meadow and mart.
There it hangs o’er the window;
Its glory is shorn,
For my foolish affection
Don’t laugh me to scorn;
It is grimy and greasy,
And ragged ’tis true,
But its value in mem’ry
Is more than when new.
Though a horse would not eat it
In such a sad state,
It is worthy of meeting
A far better fate.
It is hardly sufficient
To kindle a fire
But I’ll make of its fragments
A funeral pyre.
Oh! companion of summer,
Go with thee my joy,
Thou hast served me with ardour
That knew no alloy.
So then peace to thy ashes
Thy loss grieves me sore,
I shed o’er thee tear drops
Of friendship of yore.
The Last of the Fancy.
A Lament for the Anticipated
Extinction of the Prize Ring.
’Tis the last of the Fancy,
Left pining alone,
All his “nobby” companions
Are mizzled and gone!
No “pal” of his kindred
No bruiser is nigh,
To exchange broken noses
Or give a black eye!
“I’ll not leave thee, thou game one,
To pine in the ring;
Since the strong ones have mizzled,
Go—do the same thing.
Thus, kindly I gather
The ropes from the ground,
Where thy pals of the Fancy
Have fought the last round!”
The Art none will follow
When prizes decay,
And from patrons and backers
The “tin” drops away;
When all, e’en a novice,
To mill with have flown,
Ah! who, then, would flourish
His “mauleys” alone?
Judy, July 10, 1867.
An Oxford Parody. On Smoking.
’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s
Left lying alone;
All his dark brown Regalias
Are vanished and gone.
No cigar of its colour,
No “Lopez” is mine,
To delight with its perfume
And fragrance divine.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one
I’ll ring for a light;
Thy companions are ashes,
I’ll smoke thee to-night.
Thy halo and incense
Shall rise o’er my head,
As I sigh for the beauties
All scentless and dead.
And soon may I follow
Those loved ones’ decay;
Since from each tempting bundle
They’ve faded away.
When Regalias are smoked out,
And “Lopez” are blown,
Oh! who would still linger,
Cigarless, alone?
J. R. G.
From Hints to Freshmen in the
University of Oxford. (J. Vincent, Oxford.)
The following parody of The Last Rose of Summer is rather slangy, and would not have been inserted, but for the fact that it originally appeared in part 9 of The Snob (June 4, 1829), a small paper published in Cambridge, to which it is known that Thackeray contributed. It is, therefore, not improbable that he was the author of this parody.
’Tis the last little tizzy
My pocket what’s in,
O, its pale-faced companions
I’ve changed ’em for gin!
There’s not a brass farden
To rub ’gainst his ribs,
For ah! in my pocket
There’s never no dibs!
I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one,
Here moping with me,
With thy friends in the gin-shop
Go tizzy, and spree;
So down on the counter
That sixpence I vacks,
And has ’stead of him, Sir,
Four glasses of max!
But they vont give no credit,
So I has no more,
I’ll go and pick pockets
By Drury-Lane door;
About the Theaturs
There’s lots to be had
And ven I gets flush, vy
I’ll guzzle like mad.
An Autumn Session.
’Tis the last of the members
Left spouting alone;
Half the Whigs and the Tories
Are grouse shooting gone.
Not the creatures of Althorp,—
No hireling is nigh
To defend all his blunders
And give lie for lie.
Will they force you, ye lone ones,
To sit till Septem-
Ber? No; others are sporting,
Go sport ye with them.
Then fain would I scatter.
This ghost of a house,
Where their mates of St. Stephen’s
Are bagging the grouse.
So soon may you rise when
Debates do decay,
And from all the divisions
Each side keeps away.
For when Whigs are all vanished,
And Tories are flown,
Oh, who would attend at
The Bleak house alone.
Figaro in London, August 17, 1833.
’Tis the Last Fly of Summer.
’Tis the last fly of summer,
Left buzzing alone,
All its black-legged companions
Are dried up or gone:
Not one of its kindred,
No bluebottles nigh,
To sport ’mid the sugars,
Or in the milk die.
I’ll not doom thee, thou lone one,
A victim to be,
Since the rest are all vanish’d,
Come dine thou with me.
Thus kindly I scatter
Some crumbs of my bread,
Where thy mates on the table
Lie withered and dead.
But soon you will perish
I’m sadly afraid,
For the glass is at sixty
Just now in the shade.
When wasps have all vanish’d
And bluebottles flown,
No fly can inhabit
This bleak world alone.
Punch’s Pocket Book, 1848.
The Last “Viva Voce.”
He’s the last “Vivâ Voce”
Left sitting alone;
All his lucky companions
Have finished and gone:
Not a man from his College,
No friend is there nigh
To get his “Testamur,”
And walk down the “High.”
“I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one,
To pine in these ‘quads,’—
Since your papers are ‘satis’—
We’ll let you through ‘mods.’
Thus kindly I give thee
Our leave to go down,
Where thy mates of the College
Await thee in town.”
“So soon may I follow,
When friends will not stay,
And the ‘Common Room’ circle
Has melted away.
When rooms are all empty,
And their tenants are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This slow place alone?
From College Rhymes, 1868.
The Last Belle of Summer.
’Tis the last belle of summer,
Left blooming alone,
For her lovely companions
All seaward have gone.
No dame of her kindred,
No chaperon’s nigh—
I will see if see if she blushes,
Or gives sigh for sigh,
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine in the square,
While thy sisters are breathing
The ozoned sea air.
Though thy flowers in the garden
Lie scentless and dead,
I will bring thee a bouquet
From Johnson’s instead.
Say, love, may I follow
When thou goest away
To the family circle
Beside the salt spray?
For when “swells” have all vanished,
And “belles” have all flown,
I could not inhabit
Belgravia alone.
Funny Folks.
The Last Pipe.
’Tis the last pipe this winter,
Left squirting alone;
All its leaden companions
Are frozen and gone,
No turncock was handy,
No plumber was nigh;
And each cistern kept running
Until it was dry.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
While icicles gem
Thy tap, or else, bursting,
Thou wilt be like them;
But gaily I’ll scatter
Some straw o’er thy bed,
And the crack I discover
Will stop with white-lead.
I thus shall get water,
Though turncocks delay
Round the plug’s shining circle
Fixed over the way.
While lead pipes have frozen,
And iron ones flown,
I see thee with gladness
Still squirting alone.
Funny Folks. February 1, 1879.
The Last Jar of Pickles.
’Tis the last jar of pickles,
Left standing alone,
All its other companions
Are eaten and gone!
No one of its kindred,
No pickle is nigh,
To tickle my stomach,
And draw forth a sigh,
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
Tho’ I’ve just finished three,
And the others are eaten,
I’ll likewise eat thee;
Thus kindly I’ll swallow
Thee down, like the rest,
Go! find your companions,
They’re under my vest:
So soon may I follow
When pickles are scarce,
And from friendship’s circle
Withdraw my bluff face.
When walnuts, and cabbage,
And onions are gone,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Anonymous.
In The Weekly Dispatch for May 22, 1881, there was a parody competition, and the prize of Two Guineas was awarded for the following poem:
Lord Randolph Churchill.
[Since the defection of his three friends, the once famous “Fourth” party consists of Lord Randolph alone.—Daily Paper.]
He’s the last of his party
Left sitting alone;
All his brilliant companions
Have left him and gone.
No Gorst of his kidney—
No Balfour is nigh,
To reflect his bright flashes
Or applaud him sky high!
They have left him, the lone one,
To speak all alone;
His audience are sleeping,
They cough and they groan.
Yet pertly he’ll patter
(Though he should be abed),
For his tongue’s ever ready,
Though senseless his head!
So soon may he follow
His “party’s” decay;
From whose brilliant circle
Those three dropped away,
With Gorst, Wolff, and Balfour
Seceded and flown,
He can’t long inhabit
That bleak bench alone!
R. H. Lawrence.
Several of the non-successful parodies were also printed, of which the best are here given:—
’Tis the last baked potato
Left swelt’ring alone;
All her mealy companions
Are parted and gone,
No floury kidney—
No ash leaf is nigh,
To share her seclusion
And rest eye to eye.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To shrivel apart;
Since the mealy digest well,
Come—sleep near my heart.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy peel at my feet,
Where the whelk and the orange
Perfume the dull street.
Soon, too, will I follow
Thy chariot away,
As the glimmering gas lights
Fade into the day.
When winkles lie soulless,
And ’taties are strown,
Oh, who then would wander,
The pavement alone?
W. W. Dixon.
The Policeman’s Lay.
’Tis a prime leg of mutton,
Cut near to the bone;
All the greens and potatoes
Are surely not gone!
No haughty inspector—
No sergeant is nigh,
To reflect on what he’d do
If hungry and dry.
I’ll not leave that nice bone—one
May see ’tis a gem;
Since the folks are all sleeping,
It’s nothing to them,
Thus gaily I’m feasting—
For freely I’m fed—
While my mates on their night beat
Are famished instead.
Some strong beer I’ll swallow,
Then forth I must stray,
And from kitchen and “cooky”
Steal gently away.
When prog is demolished,
And liquor is gone,
Oh, who would be a p’liceman
This bleak night alone?
Lizzie Griffin.
’Tis the last rose of Windsor[117]
Left blooming alone;
All the other Princesses
To Hymen have gone,
No kindred as suitors
At present are nigh,
But “Monty,” ’tis whisper’d,[118]
Receives sigh for sigh.
And will he be grafted
On royalty’s stem?
And will he be happy
When quite one of them?
What more borrow’d honours
Must o’er him be shed,
From the name of the living,
The fame of the dead?
The bay and the laurel
May soon fade away;
His brow has a circle
Which cannot decay,
And if he can marry
So near to the throne,
Why should he inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Fred. Rawkins.
’Tis the Last Blows of a Drummer.
By a Poor and Unmusical Civilian.
’Tis the last blow of a drummer,
Who stands all alone,
And calls the battalions
With monotonous moan
No hour ever passes,
No day e’er goes by,
But this sound my ear crushes
Though from it I fly.
I lived near the barracks,
Till well nigh insane,
And now, when I’m sleeping
I hear that refrain.
Thus blindly I flatter
The thing I most dread,
Since my thoughts don’t discard it
When even in bed.
So soon as the morrow
Succeeds to to-day
May that drum and its drummer
Be wafted away;
For if they continued
their rub-a-drum call,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world at all?
From Cribblings from the Poets,
by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.
Home Rule.
’Tis the last ruse of someone
Left blooming alone;
All his lovely companions,
Are faded and gone;
No flower of his kidney
Save Rosebery’s nigh,
To reflect back his gushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou “old hand,”
To skulk in thy den,
Till the landlords are settled,
We’ve Home Rule again;
Thus kindly I flourish
My rod o’er thy head,
While the mates of thy Council
Lie senseless and dead.
How soon may I follow
Should friendship decay.
And from eighty-five “mimbers”
The funds fall away;
If Home Rule lies withered,
And Parli’mint’s flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
Bleak Erin alone?
E.L.
The Globe (London), April 12, 1886.
——:o:——
The Manifesto.
(Mr. Parnell addressed the Irish People on the subject of the Royal Visit.)
Let Erin remember each craze of old,
Now her foremost foes invade her,
America send the dollar of gold
In the sacred task to aid her;
To aid her to see all her banners are furled—
Let who will not look out for danger;—
Turn the emerald gem to a brick to be hurled
At the helpless head of the Stranger.
When far from the revels the Home-Ruler strays,
Whiskey hot, whiskey cold, declining,
He’ll dream of the glories of other days,
And scorn the low joys of dining!
Thus shall Saxons be taught by a pose sublime
That their pride and their prestige are over,
And the Prince and the Princess will know next time
What thick heads a few caubeens do cover!
Punch, March 21, 1885.
——:o:——
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind.
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign’d?
* * * * *
T. Moore.
To A Bottle of old Port.
When he who adores thee has left but the dregs
Of such famous old stingo behind;
Oh! say, will he bluster or weep,—no—’ifegs!
He’ll seek for some more of the kind.
He’ll laugh, and though doctors perhaps may condemn,
Thy tide shall efface the decree,
For many can witness, though subject to phlegm,
He has always been faithful to thee!
With thee were the dreams of his earliest love,
Every rap in his pocket was thine,
And his very last prayer, ev’ry morning, by Jove,
Was to finish the evening in wine.
How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive
The effects of four bottles of thee;
But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give,
Is to stagger home muzzy from thee!
W. Maginn.
To Jolly.
When he who adjures thee has left but the shame
Of his pamphlets and postcards behind,
Oh! say—wilt thou weep when they darken the fame
Of a seat that by me was resigned?
Yes weep! but, although in your heart you condemn,
Remember ’twas only through me
You attained to the right to put after your name
The coveted letters “J.P.”
Through thee were the dreams of her earliest love—
The news that she wished to be mine—
By Greenwich conveyed. Therefore since I must move,
My seat unto thee I resign.
Oh! Happy Joe Arch, should he chance to receive
The post now vacated by me,
While one thought serves my last parting pang to relieve,
I’ve resigned—not been kicked out by thee.
From They are Five, by W. E. G. (D. Bogue, London, 1880.)
——:o:——
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.
The harp that once through Tara’s halls[119]
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er.
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Colburn’s Puff.
(Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that
eminent publisher, by MISS L. E. LANDON)
The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls
The soul of humbug shed,
Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the praise of many books,
Whose sale, alas! is o’er,
And men who once were gull’d thereby,
Will now be gull’d no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The Puff of Colburn swells,
For those who con Court Journal now,
Heed not the tales it tells,
And people who read paragraphs,
In Courier or in Post,
Think no more of them than old maids
Of tea and butter’d toast.
The National Omnibus. April 29, 1831.
The Belt which once the Champion Brac’d.
The Belt which once the Champion brac’d
When boxing honour reigned,
In modern times has been disgraced,
And all its glory stain’d;
For he, whose pugilistic fame
Each Fancy Bard should sing,
Now hides his head in conscious shame,
And banish’d from the Ring.
Tom Cribb, thy manly form no more,
In fight we shall behold;
But matchless were thy deeds of yore,
As generous as bold.
Base acts your gallant spirit spurned,
And manfully you dealt,
And honestly, though hardly, earn’d
The English Champion’s Belt.
Thy praise shall long resound afar,
The Champion long wert thou,
And honor was thy leading star,
And triumph deck’d thy brow:
But glory now is on the wane,
The Fancy in despair,
When shall we see thy like again,
The Champion’s Belt to wear?
From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.
Poetical Advertisements.
The harp that once in Warren’s Mart
The soul of music shed,
Now mutely lies in Warren’s cart,
Or under Warren’s bed.
So sleeps the source of Moses’ lays,
So Rowland’s puffs are o’er;
And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays
Are thumped for rhymes no more.
No more by stanzas, songs, and odes,
Warren his blacking sells;
The van alone the carman loads,
The name of Warren tells.
Thus Moses’ muse so seldom wakes;
The only sign she gives
Is when some silly rhymes she makes,
To show that still she lives.
Punch, December, 1853.
Sarah’s Halls.
The broom that once through Sarah’s halls
In hole and corner sped,
Now useless leans gainst Sarah’s walls
And gathers dust instead.
So sweeps the slavey now-a-days
So work is shifted o’er,
And maids that once gained honest praise
Now earn that praise no more!
No more the cobweb from its height
The broom of Sarah fells;
The fly alone unlucky wight
Invades the spider’s cells.
Thus energy so seldom wakes,
All sign that Sarah gives
Is when some dish, or platter breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Judy, March, 1869.
The Wallflower.
The girl that oft in lighted halls
Enchantment round her shed,
Now sits neglected by the walls
Her bloom and temper fled.
So fades the belle of garrisons
Till she becomes a bore,
And hearts that once beat high for her
Now feel that pulse no more.
From The Girl of the Period Miscellany,
June, 1869.
The Voice That Once.
The voice that once thro’ senate halls
Would set the echoes free,
Is silent now when Randy calls,
And mute to Ashmead B.
So sleeps the speech of former days,
So hearing’s thrill is o’er,
And Tories famed for teasing ways
Now earn reproof no more.
No more, supreme in wordy fight,
The voice of Gladstone swells;
The cough alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells,
Thus Eloquence no longer seeks
To conquer near and far—
How can it, when each wheeze bespeaks
Laryngeal catarrh?
Funny Folks. March, 1884.
Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s Walls.
(By an Ex-Warder H.M. Prison, Newgate.)
Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s walls
The tear of penance shed,
And listened to the warders’ calls
And wished those warders dead,
Now feeds no more on prison fare
Loosed are the chains he bore
The cell that once confined him there
Can find him there no more.
No more he weeps in durance vile
Or mourns o’er man’s decline,
He wanders far from Britain’s isle
And Binns[120]—the hangman’s-line.
Fond memory holds his shadow dear
Old Newgate loves him yet,
And though he is no longer there
He ought to be, you bet.
Hal Berte, in Detroit Free Press, March 21, 1885.
(This parody was written at the expense of the popular Detroit Free Press writer, known as Luke Sharp, the author of the piece being also connected with that amusing paper.)
——:o:——
Fly Not to Wine.
Fly not to wine—’tis just the hour
The House divides—the lobbies scour,
And Bellamy’s—for once be bright,
The Whigs are strong—we’re beat to-night,
If friends won’t muster soon.
That Tory Members might be paid,
Were boroughs, taxes, titles made;
Fly—tell our friends the loaves are going,
The fishes fast away are flowing.
Oh! pray!—oh! pray.
The Whigs ne’er wove so strong a chain,
To bind our wrists, our places gain,
If we don’t break it soon.
Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade,
Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade;
Through all our souls his precepts ran,
Since we, like imps and fiends, began
The people’s hearts to tear.
If Members game at White’s or Brookes
And will not vote to-night, odd zooks—
Office we shall ne’er return in,
Hell their recreant souls shall burn in.
Oh, pray! oh, pray!
Oh, let not Tory spirits quake—
The people rouse—they’re quite awake—
We’re beat to-night—oh, dear!
From The Blue Bag; or, Toryana.
(Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)
Fly not yet.
Sung by the Right Honorable W. E. Forster, M P
(“Owing to the near approach of the passing of the Coercion Act a number of Transatlantic personages, who have been going about Dublin for some time, have disappeared. It has also had the effect of inducing others to remove to England.”—Dublin News letter.)
Fly not yet! ’tis just the hour
When murder, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And bhoys who love the moon.
’Twas but to guard these hours of shade
That the Coercion Bill was made;
Let not its penal clauses glowing
Set all mine honest friends agoing.
Oh! stay,—oh! stay,—
Law so seldom weaves a chain
Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain
You shun its links so soon.
Fly not yet. The pluck displayed
In times of old in ambuscade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, with blackened face, began
To shoot when night was near;
And thus the leaguer’s heart and looks,
Though smooth at noon as winter brooks,
Should kindle when the night returning
Brings their usual hour for burning.
Oh! stay,—oh! stay!
Alas! ’tis now too late to take
Revenge on rogues so wide awake
As these embarking here!
From The St. James’s Gazette, March 5, 1881.
——:o:——
RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
“Rich and rare were the gems she wore.”
(Apropos of the late Alderman Wood and Queen Caroline.)
Rich and furred was the robe he wore,
And a bright gold chain on his breast he bore,
But ah! his speaking was far beyond
Waithman himself with his snow-white wand.
“Humpty, dost thou not fear to stray
With the lady so far from the king’s highway?
Are Britain’s sons so dull or so cold
As still to be cheated with tinsel for gold?”
“Mistress Dumpty, I feel not the least alarm,
No placeman ever dare do me harm;
For though they vote her and me a bore,
They love their own heads and places more.”
“On he went—in her coach to ride,
While he cozened the lady who sat by his side;
And lost for ever was she who was led
By Humpty’s honour and Dumpty’s head.”
Theodore Hook.
The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824.
Ragged and Rough.
Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore,
And a bottle and glass in her hands she bore;
But, oh! her red nose shone far beyond
The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand.
“Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray,
Before the morn, on the king’s highway,
When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold,
And may run away with the bottle you hold?”
“Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm,
I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm;
Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store,
Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!”
On she went to the famed Turnstile,
And, tired enough, she sat down awhile;
Till, non se ipse, all care she defied,
For she drank so much, that she hiccupped and died.
Erin’s Chivalry.
Rich and rare were the arms she bore:
A brace of Colts at her waist she wore;
And, oh! her beauty was hidden with fear,
As on she fled like a hunted deer.
Lady, why dost thou fear to stray,
Alone and unarmed, in the ancient way?
If Erin’s sons were not blameless or cold,
They used to spare women in days of old!
“In days of old” she answered, “Sir Knight,
Honor and virtue were Erin’s delight;
But this cursed League”—Ere more was said
She ducked, and a brick-bat missed her head.
On, like the hunted deer she went—
Her only crime that she’d paid her rent;
And the stranger said, “Sure, we’ll change the song
Of “Erin-go-bragh” into “Erin gone wrong.”
Funny Folks.
Rough and Red.
Rough and red was the cloak she wore,
And a cup of potheen in her hand she bore;
But, oh! from her short black pipe the smoke,
Was more fragrant by far than her rough red cloak.
’Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lonely and laden o’er this bleak way?
Are Erin’s sons in virtue so ripe
As not to be tempted by potheen and pipe?
“Och misther! I fear not a boy in the place,
For I’m the girl that can batther a face;
And though they love potheen and pipes d’ye see,
The devil a drop will they get from me!”
On she went with her cup in her hand,
In safety all over that lonely land;
And barefoot and saucy was she who relied
On that fist of her own, that swung by her side.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Paternoster Row.
There is not in this city an alley so sweet
As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet;
Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell,
E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell.
Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen,
On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill.
Oh no, it was something more readable still,
’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there
With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear;
’Twas that Hurst, Duncan, Kelly, all published away,
With Sherwood and Gilbert, and the Piper to pay!
Sweet Row Paternoster, I’d like very well,
To see you and your Publishers marching to hell;
There the devils might rub them behind and before
And they’d never be troubled with the Cholera more.
The National Omnibus. July 8, 1831.
Thomas Moore[121] (Loq.) “I am the English Anacreon, the biographer of Byron and Sheridan, the inditer of Lalla Rookh, and the Man of Melodies. I would suggest to my noble patrons that:—
There is not in the palace a wide room so sweet
As the room on whose table the dinner things meet;
Oh the last gout for good things from life must depart
Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart.
Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish
Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!)
’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill—
Oh no, it was something more drinkable still.
’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there
That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear,
And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt,
When, I saw them reflected in bottles of port.
Sweet room of the dinner, how calm could I rest
Near thy table and chair, with the wine I love best,
When the ladies should leave us, restraint to release
And, damme, we’d drink off a dozen a piece!
The National Omnibus, December 30, 1831.
There’s not in Saint Stephen’s so pleasant a seat,
As that Bench where each evening the Ministers meet:
Oh, the last Tory yearning for place must depart,
Ere that Bench’s remembrance will fade from my heart.
’Twas not that the upholsterer had covered each form,
With the greenest of baizes, so genial and warm;
’Twas not the soft cushions well padded with skill—
Oh no, it was something more exquisite still:—
’Twas that place, the beloved of the Tories was near,
Making every dear seat on those Benches more dear;
And which taught how the strongest of scruples will move,
When we find them assaulted with pay that we love.
Sweet Treasury Benches, how calm could I rest,
On thy surface of green, with the friends I love best;
When the radical howl for Reform shall quite cease,
And the Bill, like my speeches, be buried in peace.
Figaro in London, 1833.
Punch Office.
There is not in all London an endroit so sweet
As the office of Punch, in famed Wellington Street,
Oh, the last ray of feeling and life will depart,
Ere the love of that office shall fade from my heart.
It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene
A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green;
’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till—
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that Punch, the beloved of my bosom is near,
Making every dear inch of the office more dear;
And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve,
When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love.
Sweet office of Punch! oh, how calm could I rest
In thy little back room though for space rather press’d;
When publishing time should be over and cease,
And my frame, like that Artist’s, shall slumber in peace.
Punch, Volume 2, 1842.
An Oxford Parody. On Hunting.
There is not in the wide world a country so sweet,
As the valley renown’d where “the Heythrop” pack meet;
Oh! the last dreams of hunting and hounds shall depart,
Ere the runs I’ve there witness’d shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had here laid the scene,
’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green;
’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill,
Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still.
’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near,
Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear;
And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve,
When riding with friends and to hounds that we love.
Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest
Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best
May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease,
And our brandies-and-waters be mingled in peace.
J. R. G.
From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford.
(J. Vincent, Oxford.)
Metropolitan Melodies.
There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet
Than the stench that’s exhaled where the Thames’ waters meet!
Oh, the last sense of smelling my nostrils must close,
Ere the stench of those waters offends not my nose!
Vile scent of Thamesis, howe’er can I rest,
And know you, perchance, may engender a pest
Till the law, bidding shameful monopolies cease,
Let’s us wash in, or drink, our pure water in peace?
Punch, June, 1850.
Another, and a very similar parody, on the same unsavoury topic, appeared in Punch, July 17th, 1858.
“A Song of the Season”
O, there’s not in the West-End a valet so sweet
As our Jeames when with drawing-room bouquet complete;
With the light “œil de poudré” on his side-curls so smart,
And where his back-hairs so symmetrically part!
’Tis not that he shows his six feet all serene,
In the reddest of red and the greenest of green:
’Tis not his grand airs—gazing nursemaids that kill—
O no, it is something more wonderful still!
’Tis the thought how amazing a product is bred
From the finest of shapes and the emptiest head,
When in folly’s first flight launched to dazzle the eye,
Clad in all that’s most foolish of fashions gone by!
Most fragrant of valets, sought Folly a nest,
The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast!
Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark,
Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park!
Punch, April 20, 1872.
There’s not in all London a tavern so gay,
As that where the knowing ones meet of a day;
So long as a farthing remains to my share,
I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere!
Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,
Nor because it produces good brandy and wine;
’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar,
Oh! no—’tis a something more cozie by far!
’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh,
Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry,
And teach you to feel how existence may please,
When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these.
Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell
In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well!
When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest,
And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest!
From Pickwick Abroad, by George W. M. Reynolds.
Stephen Kemble.
The following parody on the “Meeting of the Waters” emanated from the “Durham Wags,” and originally appeared in the Durham Chronicle. It was aimed at the late Stephen Kemble, whose frequent visits to Wynyard (the seat of Lord Stewart, afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) used to be celebrated by the great actor in poetry that was anything but “first rate.” “Noble Stewart the Patriot” was a favorite expression with him:—
“There is not in the wide world a mansion so sweet
As the Hall where ‘my Lord’ and ‘my Lady’ I meet:
Their kind invitations such pleasure impart,
That house can be never erased from my heart.
“It is not that well-polished tables so fine
Within its apartments resplendently shine;
It is not the green trees that round it I see:
Oh no! there is something more pleasing to me!
“’Tis because ‘Noble Stewart the Patriot’ is there,
With his Lady so lovely, so charming, and fair;
And who make all their tables in beauty improve
When they spread them with dishes that dearly I love.
“Hail, sweetest of mansions! how should I be blest,
If I e’er might dwell there with the food I love best;
Then the pangs I now draw from my crack’d harp should end,
And in stuffing and cramming my days would I spend.
Mr. S. Kemble resided for many years at “The Grove” near Durham. He is buried in the “Chapel of the Nine Altars,” in Durham Cathedral.
The Irish Welcome.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale where the beef and the white cabbage meet;
With potatoes galore, and strong beer at one end,
In one corner yourself, in the other your friend.
But it was not that Nature had shed o’er those scenes
The head of white cabbage, instead of bad greens;
But, when that was all over we had potheen in store,
With a welcome I’d give it, which makes it much more,
Then no more of your valleys, with your mountains so high,
Where there’s nought to be had but a bleak wind and sky!
But come to the cottage, where plenty you’ll see,
With a “Keith mille falthee,” you’re welcome to me.
Anonymous.
The Trifle.
There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet
As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;
Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart,
Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.
Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between,
Nor the peel of the lemon so candid and green;
’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill,
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,
Of which a delicious foundation is made;
And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve,
When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above.
Sweet plateau of Trifle! how great is my zest
For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best,
When the cream white of eggs—to be over thee thrown,
With the whisk kept on purpose—is mingled in one!
Punch, March 20, 1852.
The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.
Prize parody in The Weekly Dispatch, November 25, 1883.
There is not in the wide world a fester so foul
As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl,
Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart
Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart.
Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot
The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot;
’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease—
Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these.
’Twas that fiends—the familiars of Mammon—were here,
Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear,
And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved,
The dens whence they drew the rack-rents that they loved.
Sad outcasts of Babylon! How shall ye rest
While the vampires are sucking the blood from your breast?
Or how shall the storms that beat over you cease,
While your hearts, like your quarters, are strangers to peace?
T. A. Wilson.
Highly commended:
There is not in the wide world a city so great
As the Babylon mistress of Britain’s proud State,
Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the mem’ries of London shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that wealth had made radiant the scene
With splendour of pomp and with glory of sheen!
’Twas not the bright magic of palace or hall—
Oh, no! it was something more wondrous than all.
’Twas that Poverty’s sin-stricken children were there,
Darkly gathered, and pent in foul homes of despair;
And I felt as I gazed on their black haunts of shame,
That, though evil defiled them, mankind’s was the blame.
Dark city of London! Within thy deep breast
There are poor without hope, and forlorn without rest.
And, ah! when shall the woes of thy wretched ones cease,
And a wise-taught humanity kindly give peace?
Aramis.
The Meteing of the Waters.
There is not, in the Session, a joke so complete
As the sight when the Tories and Turtlemen meet
In conflict direct about water-supply,
And when Randy to Fowler gives “one in the eye.”
That double-chinn’d joker, great Harcourt, must shake
As Coope the Conservative benches doth rake
With his verbal stern-chasers; acidulous Firth
Must be moved to a Mephistophelian mirth.
Oh, it must be some sly compensation, if slight,
For delay of their Measure, to witness the fight
’Twixt the old Corporation, their long-threatened foe,
And those bad Water Companies, equally so.
The Municipal Bill may be under a cloud,
But to hear cheeky Churchill demanding aloud
What’s the use of an Alderman, verily, this
Must mitigate bile by one moment of bliss.
The meteing of waters may be a small point,
When they hold the whole City is quite out of joint;
But this pleasant reflection must comfort their breast,
“When rogues tumble out,”—well, the world knows the rest!
Punch, March, 1884.
The Weekly Dispatch Parody Competition.
“The Meeting of the Waters” was again chosen for imitation by the above journal, and the following parodies were published on August 10, 1884. The prize of two guineas was awarded to Mr. B. Saunders for the following:—
The Thames.
There is not in broad England so doubtful a treat
As a trip on the Thames ’twixt Blackwall and Purfleet.
Oh, the slumbers of Death on my eyelids must close
Ere the bare recollection shall fade from my nose.
Yet ’twas not that the banks were more grimy than green,
Nor rough were the waters that glided between;
’Twas neither sea-sickness nor fear made me ill;
Oh, no, it was something more horrible still.
’Twas that London had poured all its filth and its stink
In the river, which flowed with the blackness of ink;
And I smelt—O ye gods! can no measure improve
This river of sewage that Londoners love?
Sweet valley of Thames—(here I speak of the west,
Where Richmond and Kew smile on waters more blest);
Oh, when shall this plague spot polluting thee cease,
And thy waters to ocean flow purely in peace?
Highly commended:—
There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet
As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat.
Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart
If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart.
Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face
With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace;
’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet;
Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street.
’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there,
Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair;
And which gives me the courage to smile when I see
Her blue nose at the window reflected on me,
Sweet maiden, so wealthy, how happy I’d rest
Quaffing “fizz” on thy gold with the chums I love best;
Then the tortures I feel in borrowing would cease,
And my duns, like old friends, be all smiling in peace.
Aramis.
There is not in this wide world a fraud so complete
As the vetoing power of the Lords’ corps d’élite;
Oh, faint must the heart be that beats in his breast,
Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest.
It is not that Nature unkindly denies
To his lordship a brain of the average size;
Nor because he resembles the people he rules,
Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools.
’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag,
He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag,
And give to the Franchise the knock on the head
That he tried on the measure for giving him bread.
Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go—
There is room for your relics with Madame Tussaud;
For the time has come round when Obstruction must cease,
Hark! the cry of “Move off!” from the Commons’ police!
H.B.
There is not, to the poet, a pleasure so sweet
As to win the two guineas for which we compete.
Oh, the joy I’d be feeling if you’d only “part”
Would instil some new energy into my heart.
Yet it is not that lately I’ve frequently seen
That my name ’mongst the “highly commended” has been;
’Tis not the sweet pleasure of this that can fill;
Oh, no, I want something more tangible still.
’Tis the money that’s useful in ev’ry career,
And the first fruit of authorship ever most dear;
And I wonder if ever my verse will improve
Till, no longer rejected, I gain what I love.
Good judge of our excellence, calm would I rest
If I thought you’d adjudge this endeavour the best;
When the guineas would come, my small store to increase,
And the coins in my pocket be jingled in peace.
Edward A. Horne.
There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet
As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet;
Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart,
Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart.
Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene
The easiest chairs in their leather of green;
’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill;
Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near,
With stories and jokes to club gossips most dear;
And who feel how the odours of baccy improve
When surrounding the humorous faces we love.
Sweet haunt of a smoker! here weary brains rest
In thy fragrance and shade with the pipes they love best;
Where the worries of life for an hour or two cease,
And our meerschaums, like autumn leaves, colour in peace.
J. Pratt.
——:o:——
The Meeting of the Emperors at Skiernievice.
There is not in the wide world a town with a name
Queer as that to whose bosom the Emperors came;
Oh! ev’n than the treadmill the labour were worse—
That town with the queer name to squeeze into verse!
But not of that town or its name do we treat,
But the reason would know why the Emperors meet;
The quid-nuncs look wise, but—explain it who can?—
What the mischief’s the mischief those Emperors plan?
Are those heads, so beloved of their peoples, brought near
To bring on a war ere the close of the year,
Or, adopting the principle, “Lex sibi Rex,”
The unoccupied parts of the globe to annex?
Ah! town with the queer name, how calm should we rest
Could our hearts of the comforting thought be possessed
That the storms we most dread in this dark world would cease,
And that meeting of Emperors really mean Peace!
Moonshine, September 27, 1884.
——:o:——
Come, Send Round the Wine.
Come, send round the wine, and leave plans of reform
To patriot asses and radical tools;
In the den of corruption we fatten and swarm,
Then let’s keep our places and laugh at the fools.
Your place may be easy, and mine may be hard;
But while the cash comes from the Treasury chest,
The fool who’d relinquish his honest reward,
Deserves not to eat or to drink of the best.
Shall I ask the old fogie, who sits by my side
And plunders the hive, if our tenets agree?
Shall I give up my friend, who for bribery was tried?
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the Catholic girl of my heart shall I fly
To seek somewhere else for a Protestant kiss?
No. Perish the placeman that ever would try
To value his place by a standard like this.
To us ’tis all one whether Catholic Peers
Get into the House or for ever stay out;
And as for the Radicals, we have no fears,
Though they bawl for retrenchment and kick up a rout.
Then feather your nests well, and push round the bowl
Success to Taxation! that magical word
Is the true source of plenty, and sheds o’er the soul
Of a placeman more joy than aught else can afford.
From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.
——:o:——
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away.
Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Mr. Colburn’s reflections when gazing on the piles of unsold, copies of Lady Morgan’s works.
Believe me if all those damn’d musty old works,
Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,
Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks,
And so be got out of my way,
They might still be abused, as this moment they must,
Let their pages be read as they will,
And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust
Might entwine themselves verdantly still!
It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown
To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear,
That the worthless, half-price of her works could be known
Which so long have laid mouldering here.
Oh, the books that are truly damn’d never will sell,
But are truly damn’d on to the close;
So their publishers wished, when their value so fell,
They had fall’n on her Ladyship’s toes.
The National Omnibus, April 15, 1831.
On the House of Lords Throwing out the Reform Bill.
Believe me if all that demolish’d plate glass,
Which I cannot observe without pain;
Could be made by to-morrow one glittering mass,
And fixed in your windows again.
They would soon be in holes, as this moment they are,
Let the panes be as thick as they will;
And around thy fine mansion each mob from afar
Would collect itself angrily still!
Oh! it is not while windows thus smash’d are thine own,
Presenting an aspect so drear,
That the furious rage of a mob can be known,
’Gainst a proud Borough-mongering Peer!
No, the vote of the Tory will ne’er be forgot
Till the bill has passed into an act;
Like your head, my dear Marquis, repair them or not,
Your windows till then will be crack’d!
Figaro in London, December 17, 1831.
Believe me, dear Susan, if all those Young Charms.
Believe me, dear Susan, if all those young charms
Which I meet on my beat ev’ry day,
Were to seek for protection B. 53’s arms,
Like the maiden does Brown’s in the play,
I should still from your area, dear, never depart,
But notice each dish on the sill;
And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart,
I should gull you—for you’re verdant still.
It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own,
Or you spill master’s cask of best beer,
That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known,
That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear.
For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets
Life’s poetry mix with its prose;
For his love is as warm as the sun, when it sets
On the larder which steams ’neath his nose.
Diogenes, Vol. 3, p. 209, 1854.
To A Lady.
Believe me, if all those voluminous charms
Which thy fondness for fashion betray,
And keep e’en thy nearest relations at arm’s
Distance—some paces away:
Were those air tubes now blown up exploded outright,
And those hoops trundled off thee as well,
With less ample a skirt thou would’st look less a fright,
And more belle-like when less like a bell.
’Tis not by mere Swells taste in dressing is shown,
And that size is not beauty ’tis clear;
Nay, the shapeliest forms when balloon-like out blown,
Both distorted and ugly appear.
Then heed not what fashions le Follet may set,
Be enslaved by no follies like those;
For be sure that your dresses, the wider they get,
The more narrow your mind is disclose.
Punch, October 17, 1857.
(Ladies were then wearing very large crinolines.)
John Bull to Paddy
Believe me, if all those unfounded alarms,
Which circulate every day,
Proved true by to-morrow, and Fenian arms
Were uplifted to plunder and slay,
We should still hold our own, with unterrified heart,
Let the outrages be what they will,
And our motto (however our injuries smart)
Should be “JUSTICE TO IRELAND!” still.
It is not to scoundrels, whom patriots disown,
And whom Erin has reason to fear,
That the meaning of FREEDOM can truly be known,
Nor the cause of “OLD IRELAND” be dear.
No! the heart of the Patriot never forgets
’Tis not thus he should conquer his foes,
And the emblem on which his reliance he sets
Is the Shamrock entwined with the Rose.
Echoes from the Clubs, December 25, 1867
John Bright to His Place.
Believe me if all those endearing young charms
That I share with such rapture to-day,
Were to fade by to-morrow at Tory alarms,
Collapsing both office and pay!
Thou wouldst still be as dear as this moment thou art,
Let Conservatives boast as they will,
And round the lost Council each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself Liberal still.
It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own,
And thy Childers confiscates the pens
That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown,
Who can roar down the biggest of Bens—
Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest,
But as glibly runs on to the close,
For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best,
And a mob may be useful, who knows.
Will-o’-the wisp, May 15, 1869.
To an Ancient Coquette.
Believe me if all those affected young charms
Which I gaze on so sadly to-day,
Were to change by to morrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away.
Thou would’st still be abhorred as this moment thou art
Mocking beauty so vainly and ill,
For around such a ruin no wish of my heart
Could entwine itself, or ever will.
Nay, rather leave rouge and pearl powder alone,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a smear,
That nature’s own beauty in age may be known,
And the autumn of life calm and clear.
The heart that is true to itself never frets
For the tints of the lily and rose,
And the sun of affection should glow when it sets,
Even purer than when it arose.
Anonymous.
Believe me, if all those most solemn-faced dons,
Whom we’ve seen at St. Mary’s to-day,
Were to get in a body, and tuck up their gowns,
And down Market-place caper away;
They would still be adored as this moment they are,
Let their dignity fare as it will;
And at them, with wondering awe from afar,
The Freshmen gaze verdantly still.
But while they are clothed in glossy silk gown
And cap best obtainable here,
Their features are scanned by the Freshmen and known,
So that time only makes them less dear,
For when once he’s been gated he never forgets,
But steadily swears to the close
At the Tutor, who bounds to his out-goings sets,
Or for Chapel disturbs his repose.
The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. (Cambridge.)
Believe me, if all that roast pork which with zest
I devoured at dinner to-night,
Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest
Like a log, putting slumber to flight,
It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore,
Let my sufferings be what they will,
And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore
My thoughts linger lovingly still!
It is not while playing a good knife and fork,
When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe,
That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork
Will be likely to fill you with woe.
No! ’tis only when several hours have flown,
That pale Nemesis steals from her lair,
And as on your pillow you fidget and groan,
You feel that “roast pig” is a snare!
F. B. Doveton.
Judy, March 9, 1881.
Believe me, that all these delusive alarms
That the Tories so recklessly float
Are but meant, like the silly cry, “Ulster to arms!”
As a trap for the Liberal vote.
Since you gave them the sack, they imagine (good lack!)
They can wriggle, by foul means or fair,
In spite of consistency, just to get back
Into Downing-street, Parliament-square!
But you know very well, from my action of old,
It’s on me you can always depend;
If you lean on the Dissidents, then you’ll be sold—
It’s not Joseph, but William’s your friend!
All their high-sounding talk hides but envy and pride,
Though their tone is so soft and so fair;
’Tis for you to decide whom you’ll have to preside
At 10, Downing-street, Parliament-square.
Abracadabra.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.
——:o:——
“Oh, Blame not the Bard.”
Ah, blame not the Bard if his frantic endeavours
At compassing kudos should constantly fail,
Nor blame Mr. Warden when circumstance severs
The ties of his home and consigns him to jail;
The Bard would be willing, and yearns to be able,
To thrill the whole world to its innermost soul,
And Warden would cheerfully grace his own table,
But “circumstance over which we’ve no control.”
Oh, blame not the British Museum for showing
Its autotype Raphaels all of a row,
For wert thou “originals” on them bestowing
They’d hang them with pleasure I happen to know;
And blame not the troops in the Soudan for straying
Unlinked with their base as they press to their goal—
It is, though, undaunted the front they’re displaying,
A “circumstance over which they’ve no control.”
* * * * *
Oh, blame not the walrus that’s come to Westminster
If loneliness makes him to set up a howl,
How often the same has occurred to the spinster
Who sits by her parrot and cat, cheek by jowl;
And blame not the Frenchman with China who quarrels,
Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole,
But just count his strange international morals
A “circumstance over which he’s no control.”
Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city,
Who’re sending out parties to proselytize;
They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity
That others should not have to suffer likewise;
And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy,
And move with a steadily slumberous roll,
The fact that he makes all the universe dozy
Is “a circumstance over which he’s no control.”
Fun, November, 1883.
——:o:——
(Air—“Love’s young dream.”)
Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright
Her own hair wore,
Oh, a girl was not an awful fright
In days of yore.
Now, eyes may leer—false teeth appear,
And painted be each face;
But there nothing half so beautiful
As Grace—sweet Grace.
Oh! those lovely girls are ne’er forgot,
Mine eye once traced:
No “Chignons” huge, or scanty skirts,
Their forms disgraced.
Now “Taste” has fled—from heel to head,
All ugliness we trace,
Ah! there’s nothing half so beautiful
As Grace—sweet Grace.
From The Girl of the Period Miscellany, May 1869.
——:o:——
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.
Lesbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
My Nora’s lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The Sloe-Black Peeper.
Peggy hath a squinting eye,
But no one knows at what it squinteth;
Right and left her glances fly,
But what they glance at, no one hinteth;
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
My Nancy’s roguish sloe-black peeper;
Few its looks, but every one
Strikes sly Cupid’s arrows deeper!
Oh, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!
My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!
I despise
Peg’s squinting eyes,
But sloe black peepers please my fancy.
Peggy wears her dresses high,
And then her stays so tight she’ll lace ’em;
Not a charm can one espy,
Tho’ busy fancy tries to trace ’em.
Oh, my Nancy’s gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free,
To rise or fall as nature pleases!
Yes, my black-eyed Nancy, dear!
My plump and playful black-eyed Nancy!
Nature’s dress
Is loveliness,
And yours, like hers, just suits my fancy.
Peggy’s mouth to grin’s inclin’d,
But ’mongst her teeth there’s ne’er a white one;
And then they look as if design’d
To snap at, or perhaps, to bite one!
But Nancy’s iv’ries, oh, how clean!
And then her breath is sweet as roses;
And lips were never redder seen,
Nor aught more straight than Nancy’s nose is:
Oh, my black-eyed Nancy dear!
My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy!
How I prize
Your sloe-black eyes,
But squinting Peg’s I ne’er can fancy.
From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.
Boiled Chicken.
Lesbia hath a fowl to cook
But, being anxious not to spoil it,
Searches anxiously our book,
For how to roast, and how to boil it.
Sweet it is to dine upon—
Quite alone, when small its size is
And, when cleverly ’tis done,
Its delicacy quite surprises.
Oh! my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender chicken,
I can wish
No other dish,
With thee supplied, my tender chicken!
Lesbia, take some water cold,
And having on the fire placed it,
And some butter, and be bold—
When ’tis hot enough—taste it.
Oh! the chicken meant for me
Boil before the fire grows dimmer,
Twenty minutes let it be,
In the saucepan left to simmer,
Oh! my tender chicken dear!
My boil’d delicious, tender chicken!
Rub the breast
(To give a zest)
With lemon-juice, my tender chicken,
Lesbia hath with sauce combined
Broccoli white, without a tarnish;
’Tis hard to tell if ’tis designed
For vegetable or for garnish.
Pillow’d on a butter’d dish,
My chicken temptingly reposes,
Making gourmands for it wish,
Should the savor reach their noses.
Oh, my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender chicken!
Day or night,
Thy meal is light,
For supper, e’en, my tender chicken.
Punch.
Crinolina.
Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly,
But none observes how full it streameth;
Right and left the men go by,
But of remarking no one dreameth.
Bolder ’tis to dare put on
My Lina’s skirts of extra sizes;
Light she seems, but every one
By unexampled bulk surprises.
Oh, my Crinolina dear,
My pavement-filling Crinolina,
Beauty lies
In mod’rate size,
But Ton in your’s, my Crinolina!
Lesbia’s dress keeps out the cold,
Good taste, good sense, all feel, have graced it;
But Ton approval must withhold,
There’s not a breadth of stuff in’t wasted!
Oh, my Lina’s skirt for me,
That swells balloon-like on the breezes,
Letting everybody see
How far stuff can go, if it pleases!
Yes, my Crinolina dear,
My rustling bell-shaped Crinolina,
Taste in dress
Can’t well be less
Than you display, my Crinolina!
Lesbia hath a waist refined,
But with such mod’rate drapery round it,
Who can tell her heart’s confined,
From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it.
Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart
Within her miles of skirt reposes,
Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,—
Poor Love quite lost among the rows is.
Oh, my Crinolina dear,
Expansive and expensive Lina,
Waist less tight,
Skirts less a sight,
Indulge in, do, my Crinolina!
Punch, November 8, 1856.
To Mark Lemon, Esq. Song.
(Air: Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye.)
Lemon is a little hipped,
And this is Lemon’s true position;
He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,
Yet wants a little fresh condition.
Sweeter it is to gaze upon
Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers,
Than on the houses every one
That form the street called Saint Anne’s Villers.
Lemon hath a coat of frieze,
But all so seldom Lemon wears it,
That it is a prey to fleas,
And every moth that’s hungry tears it.
Oh! that coat’s the coat for me,
That braves the railway sparks and breezes,
Leaving every engine free
To wear it till the owner sneezes.
Then, my Lemon, sound and fat,
Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at—
On Tuesday next come down to Brighton.
Charles Dickens, 1855.
Published in London Society, October, 1875.
The Chaunt of the Cockney Swell.
(Air—“This Life is all Chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes.”)
This suit is all chequer’d with crosses and stripes,
Which I wear as I walk by the wide winkley deep.
I am one of the tourist world’s toppingest types,
And I purchased these togs in Cheapside on the cheap.
So closely they fit to my elegant shape,
That the fall in my back every optic may see;
And, if you should take an Apollo and drape
Him in chocolate tweed, he would look much like me.
Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy,
With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight;
Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy,
The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight.
When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count
The number of pockets my garments display:
There are twenty, all told,—’tis a tidy amount,
Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say.
There are many like me who in youth would have tasted
The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine,
But their precious small “screws” they on tipsters have wasted,
And left all their pockets as empty as mine.
But let’s have a liquor! ’tis jolly good fun
To do the cheap toff in the Hall by the Sea!
Though I may’nt sport a mag when my holiday’s done,
Go it stiff while you can, is the motto for me!
——:o:——
OH! THE SHAMROCK.
Through Erin’s Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander’d,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander’d.
Where’er they pass
A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As Emerald’s seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.
Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin’s native Shamrock!
T. Moore.
* * * * *
The Scarecrows.
O’er Erin’s Isle, in rule awhile,
What British knaves have blundered!
Their state misused, and power abused—
And prisoned, packed, and plundered.
But soon or late, they met the fate,
That evil in despair knows;
We tore in rags, their tinsel tags,
And set them up as scarecrows.
Oh, the scarecrows,
No wind that foul or fair blows,
But shakes awhile
The tatters vile
Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.
First Forster came, and linked his name
With certain ammunition,
His burly nod sent folks to quod,
Of high and low condition;
Yet came the day when far away,
We saw the Yorkshire bear go
And take his place in dire disgrace
A grim and gruffy scarecrow!
Oh, the scarecrow
No village bantam dare crow,
Till Buckshot fell
In Failure’s Hell
From which ne’er rose a scarecrow!
Came Cowper next with tidy text
(To gospel-writ a stranger),
Deep under ground to drive where found
All discontent and danger;
But if he did, the seeds he hid
The morrow saw in air grow,
While prospects marred he mounted guard,
A most disgusted scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow
Can annals anywhere show
A weaker fool
Sent, men to rule
Than this poor ragged scarecrow.
Trevelyan tried, sneered, whined and lied,
To please his precious master,
But “Indian meal” nor “even keel”
Could save him from disaster.
Alas, poor Pinch! we inch by inch,
Brought you to wreck and care low,
It seems to me, of all the three,
You made the meanest scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow,
We’d honour give to fair foe,
But scorn and hate
Must ever wait
The memory of this scarecrow.
Not last nor least, the great Arch Priest,
Of red and raw repression,
Whom Fame shall yoke with deeds unspoke,
And devil-wrought transgression;
Ah, Foxy Jack, your British pack,
Shall shortly in the rear go,
Of him who fled in gloom and dread,
A failed and beaten scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow
Our boys from Howth to Clare know,
To hear the joints
Of Johnny Poyntz
Groan dry like any scarecrow.
So friends shall fall the strangers all,
Who seek to crush our nation;
Nor rope nor “soap” can hope to cope
With grim determination;
And while our tree of liberty,
More branching green and fair grows,
Our museum shall filled become
With sick and sorry scarecrows.
Oh, the scarecrows!
No wind that foul or fair blows,
But shakes awhile
The tatters vile
Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.
Drailin.
From United Ireland October 10, 1885.
——:o:——
Song for a Thin-Thatched Dandy.
(Air—“One Bumper at Parting.”)
One more try at parting! Not many
Locks circle my head, I regret;
But a few, the most hardy of any,
Are left on the crown of it yet.
’Tis a ticklish task to divide them,
In well-balanced head-central fringe;
These patches cost labour to hide them,
Give vanity many a twinge.
But come—every sproutling I treasure—
Thine aid O Macassar! I beg;
Though I own—who can face it with pleasure?—
I’m getting as bald as an egg!
As older we grow, how unpleasant
To pause and reflect with distaste
That the few scattered spikes seen at present,
Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste!
But Time, a most pitiless master,
Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop,
Ah! never does Time travel faster
Than when one desires him to stop.
No, Age cannot trip to Youth’s measure,
With paunch and a spindle shanked leg,
And I own—though it is not with pleasure—
I’m getting as bald as an egg!
Punch’s Almanac, 1883.
——:o:——
THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow worm’s lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The Irishman’s Serenade.
The full new moon is old, my love,
You’ve got plenty of money, I’m told, my love,
So your knocker I’ll ring,
And my love I will sing,
Though I’ve get a most shocking bad cold, my love,
Then awake, for my love is so hot, my dear,
That without you I’ll soon go to pot, my dear;
For my shirt, at your clack,
Would stick close to my back,—
But the devil a shirt have I got, my dear.
Like a cat my watch I’m keeping, love,
For no bed have I got to sleep in, love;
So honey look down,
And smile me a frown,
From your eye so beautiful peeping, love.
Old Time, like the gutter does run, my dear,
So pry thee mock modesty shun, my dear;
Have me, I’ll have you,
And though still we’ll be two,
All Kilkenny will take us for one, my dear.
Anonymous.
The Bladder of Whiskey.
The Cats on the tiles are squalling, love
And the watchmen past twelve are bawling, love,
So step down this ladder,
For I’ve, in a bladder,
Some whisky, that “drink me” is calling, love.
I’ve had nothing to-day but porter love,
With some glasses of gin and water, love,
So if you come down,
I’ll lay you a crown
That this bladder we quickly will slaughter, love.
I’ve some onions, and bread, and cheese, my love,
And some Scotch snuff to make you sneeze, my love,
So since I’m so pressing,
Pray don’t wait for dressing,
But come down as quick as you please, my love.
Anonymous.
The Cat’s Serenade.
The lamps are faintly gleaming, love,
The thief on his walk is scheming, love!
And its sweet to crawl
O’er the dead wall,
While the tabbies are gently screaming, love.
Then put out one paw so white, my dear,
The housetops are covered with light, my dear,
Through the day, at our ease,
We’ll sleep when we please,
And we’ll ramble abroad through the night, my dear.
Now all the world is sleeping, love!
But the bobby his night-watch keeping, love!
And I who wait,
On this cold, cold slate,
While you’re at the mouse-hole peeping, love!
Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear,
And we’ll have a rare old time, my dear;
But if you look shy,
Faith it’s all in my eye,
For away with another I’ll run, my dear.
The Old March Moon.
The old March moon is beaming, love;
The quarter-day dawn is gleaming, love,
’Tis meet to move
From the floor above,
When the landlord below is dreaming, love.
Wide awake! for the peeler’s light is near,
And I yesterday made him “all right” my dear.
And the best of all ways
Upon quarter-rent days,
Is to make him wink at our flight, my dear,
Now the landlord, I’ve said, is sleeping, love,
And his watch the peeler is keeping, love,
And you and I are
To be off and afar
Ere he at our actions be peeping, love.
So, awake! let it quickly be done, my dear;
For if he tired become, my dear,
He may turn on his light,
As on thieves in flight,
And take us two for one, my dear.
Diogenes, March 1854.
Song of the Signalman.
The rain through the night is streaming, love,
The signal lamps are gleaming, love,
I must keep on the move,
Or this somnolent cove
Would soon be asleep and a-dreaming, love!
So awake!—the Express is in sight, my dear,
I’ve been at it since dawn of light, my dear,
For one of the ways
By which Railwaydom pays,
Is to keep us at work day and night, my dear!
You, and most people, now are sleeping, love,
But my watch, in my box, I am keeping, love,
For the red or green star
I must note from afar,
Though the sleep ’neath my eyelids is creeping, love.
I’ve been working since rise of sun, my dear.
Fourteen hours, and I’m not yet done, my dear.
Oh, to watch day and night
For the signal light
Is—Directors think—capital fun my dear!
Punch, October 10, 1885.
Defeated Manœuvres.
“The Marquis is not to be won, Mamma;
My advances he seems to shun, Mamma!
I appeal to you
What am I to do?
Oh, tell me what’s next to be done, Mamma.”
“Have you sat by his lordship’s side, my child?
And every blandishment tried, my child?
Have you heaved deep sighs
And looked in his eyes?
And adroitly flattered his pride my child?”
“O yes, and I’ve done even more, Mamma:
Things I never have done before, Mamma;
For I fainted quite,
In his arms last night,
As we stood on the sea-girt shore, Mamma!”
“If the man is proof against that, my child,
Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child;
Between you and me,
The better ’twill be.
For you see he’s not such a flat, my child!”
Anonymous.
——:o:——
THE MINSTREL BOY.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him:
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
“Land of song” said the warrior-bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
“One sword, at least thy rights shall guard,
“One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
* * * * *
T. Moore.
On the Catholic Emancipation Meeting
at Penenden Heath.
Mister Sheil into Kent has gone,
On Penenden Heath you’ll find him;
Nor think you that he came alone,
There’s Doctor Doyle behind him.
“Men of Kent” said this little man,
“If you hate Emancipation,
You’re a set of fools,” he then began
A “cut and dry” oration.
He strove to speak, but the men of Kent
Began a grievous shouting,
When out of his waggon the little man went,
And put a stop to his spouting.
“What though these heretics heard me not,”
Quoth he to his friends Canonical;
“My speech is safe in the Times I wot,
And eke in the Morning Chronicle.”
W. M. Thackeray.
This parody is supposed to be the first composition by Thackeray that was ever published. It appeared in an Exeter newspaper soon after the great meeting, on the question of Catholic Emancipation, had been held on Penenden Heath.
The Sailor Boy.
The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone—
In an Oxford crib you’ll find him
His boxing gloves on his fives are drawn,
And care is cast behind him.
“Alic Reid,” said the bouncing cove,
Are you the man to fight me?
A turn-up let us have for love,
And to floor you will delight me.
But the Sailor Hero soon found out
That for once he had made a blunder,
For the Snob contriv’d to tap his snout,
And poor Harry Jones knock’d under.
“Ah!” he exclaim’d, to repine is vain,
Why to fight did I feel so eager?
I’ll never set to with the Snob again,
When my head is confus’d with Seager.[122]
From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.
The “Fancy” Parody.
The leary cove to the mill is gone,
In the P.C. ring you’ll find him,
His blue bird’s eye he has girded on,
And has left his flame behind him.
Fancy sport, cried the leary cove,
Though every Beak betrays thee,
One soul at least thy sprees shall love,
One faithful chaunt shall praise thee.
The cove was floor’d, but he show’d high game,
Nor like a cur knocked under.
His chaunt will ne’er be clear again,
For his nose was split asunder.
Leary cove, said his flame in a pet,
Thou pink of love and bravery,
Since thou art floor’d, I’ll a service get,
And spend my days in slavery.
From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.
The Minstrel Boy.
The fiddlers boy to the fair is gone,
In a rattling booth you’ll find him,
With his master’s fiddle (for his own’s in pawn)
In a green bag slung behind him.
‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard,
Though all the world despise thee,
One fiddler is left and will spend his last,
If its only to patronize thee.
The fiddler drank till it got quite late,
And the table he fell under,
His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight
And the cat-gut tore asunder.
Says he ‘No one shall ever know,
Thy sounds of jolly bravery,’
So he smacked across his knee the bow
And he went to sleep quite savoury.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster, Dublin.
A String of Poetic Pearls, Apropos of the
Great Diamond in the Exhibition of 1851.
The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone,
Neglected now you’ll find it,
With scarcely any one looking on,
But a constable set to mind it.
How oft some silly wight,
When prejudice has bound him,
Gapes o’er the Mount of Light,
With pickpockets around him!
All eyes and ears, the gem he nears;
Away the crowd has started;
While he looked on his purse is gone,
And all but he departed.
Punch, August 9, 1851.
The Cordon Bleu.
(On the departure of M. Alexis Soyer
for the Crimea, July 1855.)
The Cordon Bleu to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him:
His snow white apron is girded on,
And his magic Stove’s behind him.
“Army beef” said the Cordon Bleu,
“Though a stupid bungler slays thee,
One skilful hand thy steaks shall stew,
One artist’s pan shall braise thee.”
The cook went forth, and the foe in vain
On his pets and pans did thunder,
He thicked thin gravy, he sauced the plain,
And he sliced coarse lumps asunder,
And he cried “a cook can defy, you see,
A Commissariat’s knavery;
The soldier who saves a nation free,
Should have a ration savoury.”
Punch. July 28, 1855.
The Draper’s man to the war is gone
In the foremost ranks you’ll find him,
His knapsack he has buckled on,
His tape yard left behind him.
“Hands so strong,” cried the warrior, fired,
“No woman’s work were made for;
“Such sinew now for war’s required,
“And more—will be well paid for!”
Punch. October 17, 1857.
There was another parody of the same original, commencing
“The Chinese boy to the war is gone”
in Punch, May 7, 1857, but it is of no interest now.
The Errand Boy to the Beershop’s gone.
The errand boy to the beershop’s gone,
In front of the bar you’ll find him;
His hat he has’nt stopp’d to put on,
Nor to shut the door behind him.
“Another pint?” says the barmaid there;
“Yes, when you’ve paid for the first one!
Of all the young rascals who come here,
You really are the worst one!”
The youngster fell!—He had paid the cash,
He’d got it for a wonder—
When over the step he tumbled—smash!
His jug was broken asunder.
He picked himself up:—Hurt? not he;
He looked down at the running liquor:
“Well, if I’d taken it home,” quoth he,
“We could’nt have swallow’d it quicker.”
Judy, November 17, 1869.
The Beardless Boy.
The Beardless Boy to the Race has gone,
In the Betting Ring you’ll find him;
His father’s till he has drawn upon,
And his race-glass slung behind him.
“‘Land’ I must, or it will go hard
Should all my luck forsake me,”
Remarked the youth, as he bought a Card,
“And Policeman X may take me.”
* * * * *
He lost his bets, and his watch and chain,
At which you’ll scarcely wonder;
And as he rushed to catch a train,
He tore his coat asunder;
And said, “No one shall bully me,
I’ll not submit to slavery!
I won’t go home, but I’ll wander free,
And take to a life of knavery!”
Punch, June 5, 1875.
The Minstrel Boy.
The Minstrel Boy in the train has gone,
In the third class you will find him,
His concertina he plays upon,
Or the fiddle that hangs behind him;
“Child of Song,” cries the railway-guard,
“Though bobbies oft betray thee,
The Underground will thee reward,
These foolish folk will pay thee.”
The Minstrel entered the railway train,
But a rival knocked him under,
Causing the Child of Song much pain,
And his fiddle broke asunder,
And said “Go back to your own countree,
Thou dupe of Italian knavery;
Music was made for the brave and free;
And not to be used for slavery.”
Funny Folks.
Republicans, Come in your Thousands.
Bradlaugh to protest is gone;
In Hyde-park you will find him,
Royal trips to speak upon:
Now who will stand beside him?
“Sons of toil,” says the Radical bold,
“Though all the Whigs betray ye,
“One voice at least shall cry ‘Withhold!’
“One faithful heart shall serve ye.”
The grant is made! and once again
The public purse they plunder;
But if they try it on again,
We’ll speak in tones of thunder:—
Milton wrote, Cromwell fought,
Hampden died for freedom;
Can heirs of liberty be taught
To suffer slavish serfdom?
S. J. Miott, 1875.
On the Duke of Cambridge.
The warrior duke to the review had gone,
Amid the volunteers they find him;
His hat and plume he had fastened on,
And his gingham slung behind him.
“Sangster’s best,” sang the warrior duke,
“Though all the world does mock thee,
“One eye at least shall on thee look,
“To see no chaff shall shock thee.”
The rain came down, but the warrior duke
Could not get his gingham under;
The gingham he loved, by some awful fluke,
Had its ribs all broken asunder.
He wailed “The rain will fall on me,
“The chief of England’s army;
“My brand new clothes will spoil’d be;
“Oh, take me home and dry me!”
Song for a Civic Banquet, 1880.
The alderman from Guildhall has gone
In the coffee tavern you’ll find him,
The temperance badge he has girded on,
And his old port chucked behind him.
“Cold water pure!” sang the civic knight,
“Though tipplers all deride thee,
No other drink will I touch to-night,
Though the teapot stands beside thee!”
The alderman fell! ’twas not champagne,
But turtle, that brought him under
The festive board, for the glass again
He never touched, for a wonder!
“Cold water is the drink for me,”
Sang he in his Templar bravery;
“A total abstainer I will be
And shun King Alcohol’s slavery!”
Judy, December 1, 1880.
The Girton Girl.
The Girton girl to Exam. has gone,
In the Tripos list you’ll find her;
In mathematics she always shone,
And had left her mates behind her.
“Woman’s rights,” said the learned fair,
Though all the world may scold ye,
One brain at least for you shall dare,
One practised pen uphold ye!”
The men they failed!—since the papers set
Very quickly knock’d them under;
But no Examiner could get
Anyhow that girl to blunder.
She cried, “You Dons shan’t bully me,
For fame I’m now an angler!”
And fame rewarded her ways so free,
As she came out Senior Wrangler!
Funny Folks, March 12, 1881.
(The Senate of Cambridge University had recently decided to admit female students, resident at either Girton or Newnham College, to the Tripos Examination.)
The Grand Old Minstrel Boy.
The National Eisteddfod of Wales.—Towards defraying the expenses of this annual literary meeting, the Prince of Wales had sent a sum of twenty guineas. Mr. Gladstone had consented to act as President on the closing day.
The Grand Old Boy to the wars will go,
In the Jingoes’ ranks you’ll find him;
With Dizzy’s sword he will strike a blow,
And his own harp sling behind him.
“Land of the Sphinx,” this warrior Bard
Sings out, “Though tricks they play thee,
One Grand Old Boy thy rights shall guard;
By Jove, he won’t betray thee!”
So the Grand Old Boy takest rain from town—
With his harp the seat tucked under;
And the Prince pays twenty guineas down
To be out of it—and no wonder!
But the closing day a song shall hear
(May be noisier, may be quieter),
With an encore verse, that the heart will cheer
Of a Music Hall Proprietor!
Punch, August 5, 1882.
The Economical Peer.
The noble lord to the stores is gone,
’Mid the groceries you’ll find him;
His biscuit-box he has girded on,
And his jam-pot’s slung behind him.
His parcels of goods he can scarce convey,
All the brushes and soap he’s dropping;
And he staggers about in a senseless way
’Neath the weight of his various shopping.
“Here economy reigns,” said the noble bard,
“And it gladdens my heart to view it;
A flea I’d skin for the worth of its lard,
And here is the place to do it.
What care I for scoffs? They may jeer who please,
I despise their paltry scandals!
I shall twopence save on ten pounds of cheese,
And three-halfpence on my candles!”
Judy, February 1, 1882.
The North-west Boy.
Sir D. V. gay to the poll is gone,
In the Tory ranks you’ll find him;
A roll of pigtail he has girded on,
And a grey goose slung behind him.
“Blarney-lane,” said the feathery knight.
“Though all the world betrays thee,
Sweet spot where first I saw the light,
One faithful heart shall praise thee!
But the knight he fell—’twas Hooper’s gain—
And it brought his small soul under;
For the North-west Ward he’ll ne’er speak again;
Nor her true burgesses sunder.
“Alas!” said he, “my civic knell
Was rung the day I left Parnell,
For my country’s foes and bent the knee,
To Buckshot and Castle slavery.”
Mary Shandon.
From United Ireland, December 8, 1883.
A Dirge!
(To be said, or sung, by the Electors of Northampton.)
Our Bradlaugh boy to the House is gone,
In the Lobby there you’ll find him;
Erskine his sword has girded on,
And Denning is close behind him.
“You can’t go in!” cried this trusty guard;
“The Commons so decide it;
The House perhaps acts rather hard,
But you must stay outside it!”
The Members fell to; but ’twas in vain
To try “Denning to get under;”
“Braddy” was floored again and again,
And his top coat torn asunder;
His hat was knocked right o’er his head,
His corns and his bunions stampt on,
And down he went more live than dead,
To where he came from—Northampton!
The Wail of a Disturbed Soul.
The ’prentice boy to the street has gone,
Among his chums you’ll find him;
And he has ta’en his mel-o-de-on,
His favourite tunes to grind ’em.
“Balm of Gilead” loud they sing,
As if they’d been hob-nobbin’;
And then the midnight echoes ring
To the wail of “Poor Cock Robin.”
“There now it’s “Over the Garden Wall”—
Shut up, you noisy crew, you!
But list, the liquid rise and fall
Of “Glory Hallelujah!”
Will no one from a window take
An aim, and damp their ardour?
Alike for peaceful slumber’s sake,
And for the tunes they murder!
I wonder will they knock off soon
Great Handel! what a hobby!
Ah, now they carol “Bonny Doon.”
Confound it! Where’s the bobby?
With their last notion I agree,
And back that move to “carry”
The bloomin’ lot to “Tennessee,”
Or better, to “Old Harry”!
Oh, wandering minstrels of the night,
A victim I would pray you,
If you must put sweet dreams to flight,
Rehearse “Far, far away,” do!
A. B.
“The Grand Young Man”; or the Misleading Boy.
(A prophecy about Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.)
1885.
“The Grand Young Man” to the front has come,
At the head of the Rads you’ll find him:
The mild Whig leaders are under his thumb,
The G.O.M.’s far behind him.
“Land for the mob” cries Brummagem Joe,
“Let any one dare deny me;
One class alone has the right to crow—
Capitalists such as I be!”
1895.
The “Young One” fell; but no sense of shame
Could bring his proud soul under,
Though his wretched party earned the name
Of “‘rifle, rob and plunder.’”
Cried he “the blame don’t rest with me,
Not in the knave’s the knavery,
But in the fools who ought to see
Yet sell themselves to slavery.”
Moonshine, October 10, 1885.
The Grand Young Man.
The “Grand Young Man” on the “stump” has gone,
In the Rads’ front rank you’ll find him,
The spoilers’ axe he has girded on,
And his Programme slung behind him.
“Working Men,” said the “people’s Joe,”
“Though Tories all neglect thee,
One trump, at least thy “rights” shall blow,
One faithful arm protect thee.”
The “party” fell, but the Tories reign
Could not bring the bold boy under;
The “tongue” he loved was loosed again,
In threats of “blood and thunder,”
And said “no man shall bully me,
The soul of truth and bravery;
My voice shall sound till the land is free,
And never be gagged by knavery.”
F. B. Doveton.
Society, October 24, 1885.
Several Parodies of “The Minstrel Boy” were published in “Life” November 26, 1885. As they all related to Mr. Gladstone’s electioneering journey to the north, one specimen will suffice, as there is a great similarity between them.
The Grand Old Man to the North has gone,
’Neath a “Primrose” roof you’ll find him,
His “four point” poster he has girded on,
And his family travel behind him.
“Liberals all,” said the canny chief
“Let not disunion rend ye;
“Though by my deeds ye have come to grief
“In Speech I’ll aye defend ye!”
“Unite, Unite;” he pleads in vain,
Too late he sees his blunder,
The “Party” is split, for the Caucus strain
Has forced its links asunder
Hope in him dies, yet still he cries,
Though his spell of power has vanished,
“The Rads may come in, what care I if they win
So the Tories from office be banished!”
The Grand Old Man.
The Grand Old Man to the war has come,
Confronting the foe you’ll find him;
We’ll beat the charge on the Liberal drum,
And close our ranks behind him.
Grand old warrior, stout and bold,
Though faithless friends betrayed him,
We’ll place the helm in his honest hold,
And with hearts and voices aid him.
His battle-cry on the foe shall fall
Like the roll of distant thunder,
’Twill pale their cheeks and their souls appal,
And their blustering turn to wonder.
For the grand old man, with heart of gold,
Has burst our bonds of slavery;
And freed the land from its burden old
Of Tory craft and knavery.
From Songs for Liberal Electors.
——:o:——
Song of the Paunchy Tennis-Player.
(Air—“The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing.”)
The time I’ve lost in “screwing,”
In watching and pursuing
The ball that flies,
On fall or rise,
Has been my trade’s undoing.
Though Business hath besought me,
I’ve shirked the truths she taught me,
I left my books
To partner Snooks,
And ruin’s what he’s brought me.
By Tennis still enchanted,
Of late I’ve puffed and panted,
I once was light,
And slim and slight,
Ere Anti-fat I wanted.
But now young Beauties shun me,
For stoutness grows upon me:
When asked to play,
They turn away,
Old Blobbs can now outrun me!
And is my good time going?
And is my figure growing
So huge in size
That sparkling eyes
Brim o’er to see me “blowing?”
Yes—vain alas! th’ endeavour,
To charm with back-play clever,
Love nevermore—
Save in the score—
Shall bless me—never! never!
Punch’s Almanac, 1883.
——:o:——
Song for a High Art Hostess.
Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear Æsthete,
Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat;
These, these the contours that art yearns to create,
A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight.
Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name
Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame?
I know not, I ask not if ease they impart,
I but know they are true to the canons of Art.
Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss
Of the angular style in a seat such as this.
In furnishing, firmly High-Art I’ll pursue,
And I’ll crouch on my gridiron couch till all’s blue.
Punch. April 16, 1881.
——:o:——
Air
(“I saw from the Beach.”)
To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining,
The jug round the table moved jovially on;
I staid till the moon the next morn was declining;
The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone
And such are the joys that your brandy will promise,
(And often these joys at the finish I’ve known)
Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us,
And leaves us next day with a head ache alone!
Ne’er tell me of puns, or of laughter adorning,
Our revels, that last till the close of the night;
Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning,
For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light.
Oh, who’s there who welcomes that moment’s returning,
When daylight must throw a new light on his frame,
When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning—
His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame!
William Maginn.
I saw up the steps, when the morning was shining,
The undergrads crowding so hopefully on;
I came when the sun o’er those steps was declining,
There the Senate-House was, but the students had gone.
Oh! what was the fate of the morning’s fair promise,
How ended the hopes that we students had known?
Each question we longed for kept cruelly from us,
And those that we knew not set for us alone.
Ne’er tell of surmises but coldly adorning
The close of Exams at the coming of night.
Give me back, give me back the fond hopes of the morning;
Its alarms and its fears in the evening seem light.
Ah! who would not welcome that moment’s returning,
When bravely he up to the Senate-House came,
Nor deem’d that ’ere long from that building returning,
In the “list” he would look out in vain for his name.
The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. (Cambridge).
I saw from my window, when morning was smiling.
A “Girl of the Period” come tripping along,
When, sudden, the wild blast like fury came howling—
The girl was still there—but her “chignon” was gone!
Ah! such is the fate of the wigs we put on us!
So fleeting the false hair of which we’re so proud:
Our darling excrescence the rough wind blows from us,
And leaves us exposed to the jeers of the crowd.
From The Girl of the Period Miscellany, June, 1869.
——:o:——
SAIL ON, SAIL ON.
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark—
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Song for a Dweller in a Quiet Street.
Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer,
Rum-tum-ti-tiddy-iddy-tum!
You’ve thumped and twangled all the summer,
You tootle still now winter’s come.
The notes you thrum out seem to say,
“Though out of time and tune we be,
Less flat we are, less false than they
Whose clang shall rack thy wife and thee.”
Scale on, scale on—through endless time—
Through morn, noon, evening—stop no more!
To slaughter you were scarce a crime,
Oh, plaguy and persistent bore!
Were there indeed some quiet street
Where ne’er piano maddened men,
Where never “Scales” this ear should greet,
Then might I rest,—but not till then.
Punch’s Almanac, 1883.
——:o:——
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.
The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,
The night’s long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach’d by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The dawn of the morn, the daylight’s sinking,
Five’s cosy hour shall find me drinking
Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!
When friends are met, and cups go round,
And scandals fresh have all enchanted,
When buttered toast is bravely browned,
My soul, like Stiggins’s, is haunted
By Tea, Tea, only Tea!
When crisply curls the breakfast bacon,
Coffee by me shall be forsaken
For Tea, Tea, only Tea!
Like Ocean, which by light or dark
Gulps down the rivers, resting never,
The cup that cheers when cares do cark
I sip or sing of, doting ever
On Tea, Tea, only Tea!
I have no joy but of its bringing,
And “nerves” themselves seem nice when springing
From Tea, Tea, only Tea!
Tea’s spell there’s nought on earth can break
(Though tea-cups can, alas! be broken);
Bohea the toper’s scorn may wake,
By me for aye the praise be spoken
Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!
Punch, June 7, 1884.
OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME
Oh, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o’er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon—
Then, call it none of these.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
This poem was chosen as the original for a parody competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following specimens were published in that newspaper on February 21, 1886.
Prize Poem.
Justice For Ireland.
Oh, try, good sirs, some better game,
Coercion is too old,
And Charity is statecraft’s shame,
That gilds a wrong with gold;
And Pity, like some plaintive tune
Which, hackneyed, fails to please,
Awhile as sweet, will pall as soon—
Oh! trust to none of these.
Imagine measure surer far,
More free from lust of sway,
Than pity, alms, coercion are,
Yet nobler still than they;
And if your skill for need like this
No mortal plan can frame,
Go, ask God’s Justice what it is,
And try that better game!
B. Saunders.
Highly commended:—
Oh! Try Some Worthier, Better Game.
Oh, try some worthier, better game,
Coercion’s knell is tolled,
And force would fan the slumbering flame
That burnt so fierce of old;
And Home Rule’s but a jangling tune,
A signal on the breeze
For Orange hounds to bay the moon—
Oh! pray try none of these.
But when some plan that’s simpler far
Evolves to glad the day,
Home Rule shall with Coercion far
Betake themselves away;
And if thou’lt end such strife as this,
Not vain the strength that’s spent;
Go, ask—the answer comes, it is
But Local Government.
D. Evans.
Oh! call it by some better name,
Land Purchase is too cold,
And Separation is a scheme
Too venturesome and bold;
And Home Rule, like a tropic sun
That burns o’er all it sees,
Might scorch us when its aims were won—
Oh! call it none of these.
Imagine something safer far,
As potent and as free
As those Utopian measures are
With which we can’t agree;
And if thy lip for Rule like this
No mortal word can frame,
Go ask the “Old Man” what it is
And call it by that name.
J. Fitzpatrick.
Oh! call it by some fitter name,
For Justice is too cold.
And Peace is a decrepit dame,
Who limps on crutch of gold;
And Pity, like a melting moon
That sways the tidal seas,
Awhile as fond, will set as soon—
Oh! call it none of these.
Imagine something freer far
From stain of Saxon sway
Than Justice, Peace, or Pity are—
Abstractions dim and gray!
And if thy lips it overtax
A fitting phrase to frame,
Go, ask of Erin what she lacks,
And call it by that name.
Gossamer.
The Irish Landlord.
Oh! call him by some stronger name,
For Landlord is too cold;
A plundering Wolf his acts might shame,
When worrying the fold.
A Tyrant, like an Egypt sun,
May burn up all he sees,
But soon his frantic course is run—
Call him no names like these.
Imagine something more unkind,
More free from mercy’s sway,
Than Landlord, Tyrant, Wolf combined,
More cruel ev’n than they.
And if no name for work like this
Your Saxon tongues can frame,
Ask the “Ould Divil” what it is,
And call him by that name!
Robert Puttick.
——:o:——
BALLAD STANZAS
(The Woodpecker.)
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here!”
It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around
In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The Taxgatherer’s Knocking.
I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d
Above a high cape, that the Regent was there,
And I said, if there’s ton to be found in the world,
The Dandy of fashion will look for it here—
Half the shops were shut up, and I heard not a sound,
But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!
* * * * *
On pretence of Necessity, frequent large dips
In my now emptied pockets have made me repine;
In vain does Retrenchment rise up to my lips,
The Regent must live, though starvation be mine—
Though my shop be deserted, and heard not a sound,
But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!
William Hone.
The Comforts of an Inn.
I knew by the post that so gaily display’d
The sign of a Bear, that a tavern was near;
And said, if a cask of good ale e’er was made,
The man that was thirsty might wish for it here.
It was noon, and in mud puddles scatter’d around,
In silence repos’d the voluptuous hog—
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,
Save the innkeeper flogging a mischievous dog.
And here in this little lone spot, I exclaim’d
With a pipe in my mouth, and a drop in my eye;
With a cask of good liquor, old rye coffee named,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I lie
By the side of yon oak, where an old toper sips
His glass of gin toddy, how sweet to recline,
And to know that the liquor I rais’d to my lips,
Had never been tasted by any but mine.
From The Mirror, 1823.
An Editor’s Troubles.
We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d
Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near,
And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world,
’Tis not in a Magazine-Editor’s sphere!
All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,
But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through;
And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound,
We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe!
And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed,
How many a manuscript fair to the eye,
(But of which the poor author would soon be ashamed,
Did we print it,) the flame of our grate will supply!
All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,
But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through,
And as slowly together the “Copy” we bound,
The clock in the kitchen (a cuckoo), sang two!
The New Monthly Belle Assemblée. April, 1836.
The Good-Pecker.
I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d
Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near;
And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world,
’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.”
Every table was spread, and I heard underground,
The landlady tapping a cask of old ale.
And here, in a snug little inn of its sort,
With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute,
A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port,
If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute.
Every table, &c.
By the tinge of the parson’s red nose, that he dips,
With a smile of contentment, so oft in his wine,
How glorious to bask, and not open my lips,
Save to tell to the world how divinely I dine.
Every table, &c.
Diogenes, vol. 3, p. 200. 1854.
Clubs not Trumps.
I knew by the smoke that so heavily curled
From the roof of each club-house the Carlton was near;
And I said if there’s fog to be found in the world,
The lungs that love asthma may look for it here.
Punch, December 1880.
——:o:——
To Dizzy.
(By a Country Squire.)
When time hath bereft thee
Of votes now divine;
When the boroughs have left thee,
Nor counties be thine.
When the faces shall vanish,
That circle thee now;
And the groans thou wouldst banish,
Shall grow to a row.
In the hour of thy sadness,
Then think upon me.
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver to thee.
When Bright, who could turn thee,
From virtue and fame,
Shall spurn thee and leave thee,
To sorrow and shame.
When by Gladstone requited,
Thy brain shall be stung;
When thy name shall be blighted,
And linked with “unhung.”
In the depth of thy sadness,
Then think upon me.
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver to thee.
The Tomahawk, August 24, 1867.
——:o:——
A River Melody.
By the Thames, to the right, lies the flat shore of Erith,
For Gents by the Gem and the Topaz conveyed;
But you, when the steamer that landing-place neareth,
Say “No, I’m for Rosherville”—sensible blade.
By the Red House—that stands like a murder-stained dwelling,
Where pigeons (called blue rocks) lie sleeping in gore—
By the tide at Cremorne, which so seldom, high swelling,
Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door.
We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted
At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead;
Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted,
And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread.
No, Erith,—though snobbish the Gravesend refection,
Though the “Whittington” shop boys call polks in the hall,
Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion,
Your fare, fêtes, and fun, are more dreary than all.
From The Man in the Moon, Volume 2.
——:o:——
Just of Age.
Had I a shilling left to spare,
I should not pay it you;
For, though arrest you did not dare,
You’ve dunned me like a Jew.
Nor hope to prove my friends more kind
To thy complaining tongue;
For, misers in the old you’ll find,
And beggars in the young!
Know that of age I soon shall be,
And of the ready flush;
All bowing then you’ll come to me,
And for this rudeness blush;
So, with my custom, lest you learn
Another I have blest,
Let now a civil tongue return
And saucy dunnings rest.
Bertie Vyse.
The Comic Magazine, 1832.
——:o:——
Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The Cabinet’s Boat Song. June 1878.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
What though the Whigs and their friends look blue?
We’ll sing and we’ll chaunt, to each other true,
Pull, brothers, Pull! the stream runs fast,
The Congress is near, and the danger’s past.
Why should we yet our hand display?
There is not a card that Russia can play,
But when it’s played—be it ace or king—
We still can trump it,—and still can sing—
Pull, brothers, pull! the game goes fast,
But the Congress is near, and the danger’s past.
Muscovy’s bluster and Gladstone’s tongue
But steady our boat the surges among,
God of our fathers! guide our hand
For justice, freedom, and fatherland.
So shall we thankfully sing at last,
“Peace is secured and all danger past.”
They are Five by W. E. G. (D. Bogue. London. 1880.)
Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime
Our fears we’ll keep quiet and vote in time.
Soon as the polling hours begin,
We’ll vote our St. Gladstone “items” in.
Poll, brothers, poll! events run fast,
Defeat may be near, and our day be past.
Why should we “union” flags unfurl?
We’ll not spend a breath their blue folds to curl,
But when its last link leaves our shore,
We’ll rest ’neath the old umbrella once more.
Poll, brothers, poll, &c.
Politics’ tide, this July moon
Shall see us float proudly, or sink full soon;
King of the green isle hear our prayers,
Oh, grant in this crisis thy favouring airs.
Poll; brothers, poll, &c.
Roggee Shurt.
Truth. Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.
——:o:——
The Weekly Dispatch had a Parody Competition on Thomas Moore’s
Wreaths for the Ministers.
An Anacreontic.
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from Old Brompton’s bowers—
Or (if sweeter that abode)
From the King’s well-odour’d Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud!
Hither come, and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us.
Those who rule and (some say) fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Household Deities!
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an Orange lily—
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply!
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon’s wig!
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
For the head of Liverpool!
’Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs
Which they suffered (what a pity)
On the road to Paris city.
* * * * *
And the following parodies were published in that paper on February 7, 1886:—
Prize Poem.
Hither, Flora of the street!
Haste from Bumble on his beat—
Or (if there thou chance to dwell)
From “The Garden,” odoured well,
Where the citizens of Lud
Sniff the stench of putrid mud!
Hither come, with what of bloom
Dares defy our brumal gloom;
Bring the flowers as you find ’em
Round our rulers’ brows to bind ’em.
First, since near to Piccadilly
Flames not now the Orange lily,
And ’tis only some such dye
Irish G—bs—n can supply,
Stick a yellow Primrose sprig
Into A—hb—e’s brand-new wig.
Failing of a Poppy posy
For Lord I—dd—h, dear and dozy,
Could there fitter emblem be
Than the everlasting Pea?
Then on C—c—l’s black brows set
Spotted Dog’s-tooth Violet,
Or—which would beseem them well—
Rue and Spurge and Asphodel.[123]
Next, C—rn—n’s brows to crown,
Bring me here from Dublin town
Shamrock that has served its turn,
Withered leaf and broken fern.
But for Ch—ch—ll we must find
Blossoms of a gaudier kind:
Stitch the garland through and through
With flimsy threads of every hue;
And as Goddess—entre nous—
His lordship loves (though least of men)
The grandiose—like poor old Ben—
Twine amid his close-cropped locks
Artificial Hollyhocks!
Cr—b—k, M—nn—s, Sm—h, and B—ch,
Spriggs of Cypress pluck for each.
C—ss may smile a sickly smile
’Neath a crown of Camomile;
But time presses—let the rest
Wear whatever likes them best!
T. A. Wilson.
Highly commended:—
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Hence from Covent Garden’s bowers,
Where each blighted country bud
Droops in vegetable mud;
Haste, if such a haunt be thine,
Choicest herbs and flowers to twine
Into wreaths for those who’d rule us,
Those who’d not the wit to fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
Her own Tory votaries!
First, then, it is my behest
That a Cowslip be thy quest;
With it to the Commons hie—
Need I state the reason why?—
And stick it in Sir Michael’s crest.
Gather next a bunch of Rue,
To his speech a fitting cue—
Garland grim and strange to see,
For the head of Salisbury.
It will suit his bitter brows,
Now they’ve lost their laurel boughs—
(Smith, too, lost his—what a pity!—
On the road to Dublin city).
Next for Churchill bring a few
Flowers of any shade or hue;
Leaves of evanescent sheen;
Mellow almost while they’re green;
Add a little Indian Cress—
Warlike spoil it doth express.
That’s enough—away, away!—
Had I leisure I could say,
Naught for Bartlett’s brains of fret
Like the Russian Violet;
How Lord Iddesleigh’s brow supine
Would ’neath modest Primrose shine;
But time presses—for, I wot,
Men like these are soon forgot.
Aramis.
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste from Bedford’s ducal bowers—
Covent Garden’s sweet domain,
Grimy Eden of Cockayne;
Where each vendor of the spud
Breathes the dust and treads the mud!
Hither come, and daily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who would
Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could.
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Tory Deities!
First bring London Pride and Rue,
These for S—l—sb—y will do—
Place the wreath with gesture gladsome
Where his hair was when he had some.
Cockscomb, next, of brightest red,
Find for Ch—rch—lls’s modest head;
And, fair Goddess, if thy search
Leads thee by the classic Birch.
Pluck a tribute switch to grace
R—nd—lph in another place!
Shamrock, then, we fain would see—
Four-leaved shamrock let it be,
And with this botanic myth
Deck the brows of Mr. Sm—th.
Let “Old Woman”—homely plant—
Crown C—rn—rv—n’s ringlets scant;
And Thistle, loved of asses ever,
Were not amiss for Cr—ss the clever!
That’s enough—away, away!—
Had I leisure, I could say
H—cks B—ch would seem Adonis still
Wreathed in transient Daffodil;
But time presses—to thy taste
I leave the rest, so prithee haste!
Thistle.
——:o:——
The Legacy.
“When in death I shall calmly recline.”
“When in gaol I shall calm recline,
Bear my best coat to some pawnbroker near,
Show him how stylish the gilt buttons shine,
And ask him a price that’s not too dear.
Bid him not search for bank notes in the pocket,
For they were lugged out to pay an old debt,
And all he’ll find will be an old locket
Of Sal’s, she gave me when last we met.”
When in Death I shall Quiet be Found.
When in death I shall quiet be found,
Pray bear my clothes to some pawnbroker near,
Tell him to lend you a couple of pound,
And mind he don’t charge for the ticket too dear.
Bid him not search too close for gamboge
In the breeches, nor nicely examine the coat,
But tell him that he may send if he choose,
All he can spare ’bove a two-pound note.
Then with the money pray buy me a coffin,
And bury me safe ’neath a table of chance;
Haply e’en there my memory may soften
The pangs of ill-luck and the want of finance.
But should some cruel and opulent Greek
Revile at my state as he stamps o’er my grave,
Oh! let some thought of its master bespeak,
Your favour for him who was gambling’s slave.
Take, then, these cards, which now are neglected,
And bury them with me when I am at rest;
Never! oh, never! in cheating detected,
Though seldom by hands that were pure were they prest.
But should some fortunate gambling rover
Come here to seek them in frolic and fun,
Oh, then around my genius shall hover,
And teach him to spend the cash he has won.
Anonymous.
A Farewell
[Sung by Mr. Cross to the Ratepayers of London.)
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour
When the Pekoe is fragrant in boudoir and bower,
Then think of your Cross who had made the dear brew
At the ratepayer’s cost even dearer to you!
* * * * *
You may boil, you may filter, the stuff as you will
But the scent of the Sewage will hang round it still!
Punch May 1, 1880.
——:o:——
To Tory Hearts.
To Tory hearts a round, boys,
You can’t refuse, you can’t refuse,
When Lib’rals so abound, boys,
’Tis time to choose, ’tis time to choose,
For thick as stars that lighten,
Our London stage, our London stage
Are Whigs that fain would brighten
The present age, the present age.
To Tories fill, where’er boys,
Your choice may fall, your choice may fa
Be sure you’ll find truth there, boys,
So drink them all, so drink them all.
* * * * *
Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828.
——:o:——
Devilled Biscuit
(“A Temple to Friendship.”)
“A nice Devill’d Biscuit” said Jenkins enchanted,
“I’ll have after dinner—the thought is divine!”
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted—
To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine.
He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went
Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it,
And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent.
“Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think o grilling,
When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing,
I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.”
So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation
To Jenkins, who gave him a terrible look:
“Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station,
Was the answer that Jenkins sent down to the Cook.
Punch.
——:o:——
Apple Pie.
(“All that’s bright must fade.”)
All new dishes fade—
The newest oft the fleetest
Of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest;
Cut and come again,
The syrup upward springing!
While my life and taste remain,
To thee my heart is clinging.
Other dainties fade—
The newest oft the fleetest;
But of all the pies now made,
The Apple’s still the sweetest.
Who absurdly buys
Fruit not worth the baking?
Who wastes crust on pies
That do not pay for making?
Better far to be
An Apple Tartlet buying,
Than to make one at home, and see
On it there’s no relying:
That all must be weigh’d,
When thyself thou treatest
Still a pie home-made
Is, after all, the sweetest.
Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take
Some cloves—the best of spices:
Grate some lemon rind,
Butter add discreetly;
Then some sugar mix—but mind
The pie’s not made too sweetly,
Every pie that’s made
With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade
Too sweet is not the sweetest.
Who would tone impart,
Must—if my word is trusted—
Add to his pie or tart
A glass of port—old crusted
If a man of taste,
He, complete to make it
In the very finest paste
Will inclose and bake it.
Pies have each their grade;
But, when this thou eatest
Of all that e’er were made.
You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest.
Punch.
——:o:——
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are pass’d away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so t’will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!
T. Moore.
These Christmas Bills.
(A commercial melody 1826).
These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills
How many a thought their number kills,
Of notes and cash, and that sweet time
When oft I heard my sovereigns chime.
Those golden days are past away,
And many a bill I used to pay
Sticks on the file, and empty tills
Contain no cash for Christmas bills.
And so ’twill be—though these are paid,
More Christmas bills will still be made,
And other men will fear these ills,
And curse the name of Christmas bills.
From Hone’s Every Day Book.
On Revisiting College.
That chapel bell-that chapel bell!
Ah, once I knew its music well—
It tells of youth—of wasted time—
Of folly, happiness, and crime.
But now those joyous days are gone,
Yet still its peal is ringing on—
While others wish its tongue in hell,
And daily curse that chapel bell!
The Gownsman, (Cambridge), February 18, 1830.
The Fatal Moustache.
The Duke of Cumberland had grossly insulted some ladies in the public high road near Barnes. He attempted to deny his identity, but was recognised by his white moustache.
My white moustache, my white moustache,
You speak the truth, however harsh,
Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time
When I rode past with air sublime.
The curs’d excrescence does away
With every lie that Q—— may say;
And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells
The truth to the insulted belles.
And so they knew when I had gone
The moustache that my lips had on.
“No other pair so whitely swells
We know them,” say the Chiswick belles.
Figaro in London, October 6, 1832.
Moore, himself, wrote a parody on this subject, in imitation of the old song:
“A Master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping dreary dun.”
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
Galloping, dreary Duke;
The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,
He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,
With his charger prancing,
Grim eye glancing,
Chin, like a Mufti,
Grizzled and tufty,
Galloping, dreary Duke.
Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood
Of this galloping, dreary Duke;
Avoid him, all, who see no good
In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood.
For, surely, no nymph is
Fond of a grim phiz,
And of the married,
Whole crowds have miscarried
At sight of this dreary Duke.
Song supposed to be addressed by Lord Eldon to Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland (afterwards King of Hanover) on his leaving England:—
Fly Not Yet.
Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
When place—like a black midnight flower,
Which scorns the rude and vulgar light,
Begins to woo us sons of night,
And scamps who covet cash.
’Twas but to bless us sons of shade,
That place and pay were ever made.
’Tis then their rich attractions glowing,
From the public purse are flowing.
Oh stay! oh stay.
The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.
Grand Chorus.
The Whigs are at a discount now,
And while they are, indeed I vow
For you to leave is rash.
Figaro in London, September 28, 1833.
(The Duke of Cumberland was the least popular of all the sons of George III. His manners were rude, overbearing, and sometimes even brutal, and he was profligate, selfish, and quarrelsome. On the accession of Queen Victoria, the throne of Hanover passed to him in virtue of the Salic law, and the greatest public satisfaction was felt on his departure for his new kingdom, where his breaches of faith, and tyrannical conduct, soon led to commotions which had to be quelled by severe military measures. He died in 1851).
——:o:——
Those London belles, those London belles,
Ah! what a tale their beauty tells,
Of suff’ring beaux and wounded hearts,
The dire effect of Cupid’s darts.
Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue,
Has often made a sad to do;
And many a heart with anguish swells,
While thinking of the London belles.
Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me.
To take a social cup of tea,
And while the heart in comfort dwells,
To hear the chat of London belles.
For then they scan their dress,—the play,
Though woe to those who are away,
For Scandal often leaves her cells,
To join the chat of London belles.
Ev’n Jove peeps down, with looks of love,
And Juno, jealous, frowns above,
To see young Beauty gladly dwells,
To deck the charms of London belles.
And so ’twill be in other times,
Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes,
And cloud the praise this ditty swells
While ages grace the London belles.
Miss Bryant.
Those Ball-Room Belles.
Those ball-room belles! those ball-room belles!
How many a tale their memory tells
Of polka, waltz and galopade,
Of D’Albert, Linter, and Musard.
“The season” now has pass’d away,
And many “a man” that then was gay
Now climbs the alps or Scotia’s fells,
And whirls no more those ball-room belies.
And so ’twill be when next they meet,
In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street;
The waltz shall rouse embroider’d “swells”
To deux-temps with those ball-room belles.
Diogenes, August, 1853.
Those Scotch Hotels.
Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels
Each tourist of their robberies tells:
My pocket to its bottom thrills,
When I reflect upon their bills.
Some pleasant hours soon pass’d away,
But when I learned what was to pay,
I wish’d the devil had those swells—
The landlords of the Scotch hotels.
And so ’twill be when I am gone,
The greedy race will still rob on;
And other tourists through these dells
Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels.
Diogenes, September, 1853.
Those Gresham Chimes.
Those Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes!
They take us back to Tudor times,
When Merchant Princes felt no shame
To bear a civic magnate’s name.
That name has sunk below disdain,
No Gresham dons the civic chain,
A Merchant Prince as soon would wear
The garb of Beadle as of Mayor.
But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone,
A new régime is coming on;
We’ll hope to hear, in better times,
Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes.
Punch, December, 1853.
(A new set of Chimes had just been fixed in the tower of the Royal Exchange, London.)
Those Tramway Bells.
Those tramway bells, those tramway bells,
How many a joy their discord quells;
My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme
They knock completely out of time.
Those fearful sounds ne’er pass away,
But mar with discord night and day;
And tin-tin-nabulation swells
To horror in those tramway bells.
The railway bell has bulk of tone,
The muffin—sweetness of its own;
But frenzy in this tinkling dwells—
Like Mr. Irving’s in “The Bells.”
Not thus ’twill be when steam has come,
For then this clangour will be dumb;
Whilst other force the car propels,
We’ll hear no more those tramway bells.
Funny Folks.
Those Evening Bells.
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,
How many a tale their music tells.
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime.
And letters only just in time!—
The Muffin-boy has pass’d away,
The Postman gone—and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.
And so ’twill be when she is gone,
The tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.
Tom Hood.
London Bells.
Those London Bells, those London Bells,
How plain a tale that nuisance tells,
Of fees and beer, that buy the time
Of those who raise that senseless chime
Those foolish times are passed away
When people liked the belfry’s bray,
With Lord Mayor’s Shows and Thames’s smells
We class those pestering London Bells,
Were wringers’ swipes and swindle gone,
That vulgar noise would not go on.
The fact from every steeple knells
That Pewter Pots are London Bells.
Shirley Brooks. November 1855.
Those Pretty Girls.
Those pretty girls, those pretty girls,
How many a glance their bright eye whirls,
Of love, and hope, and that fond ray
That lures us on from day to day.
How many a spirit that was bright,
When first he looked on beauty’s light,
Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls,
And sees no more those pretty girls.
Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre,
Will beauty’s eyes still flash with fire,
And other poets twine your curls,
And sing your praises, pretty girls.
J. W. W.
Those Vatted Rums.
Those Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums!
How very cheap a quartern comes,
When of that liquor pure and prime,
You take two gallons at a time.
The fumes will quickly pass away,
And many an evening will be gay—
While nothing like a headache comes,
Through drinking these delicious Rums.
And so ’twill be, when I am gone;
Those Vatted Rums will still sell on,
And other fingers, pens, and thumbs
Will sing your praise—ye Vatted Rums.
Punch. August 25, 1855.
Those Evening Belles.
Those evening belles, those evening belles
How much of faded youth it tells
That red red rouge thick painted on,
Of waning charms, of beauties gone.
Soon e’en red rouge will pass away,
And sunken cheek and mind’s decay
Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells,
Leave old and grim those evening belles.
Yet then, as now, when they are gone
Some red rouged belles will still laugh on,
And yawning o’er them other “swells,”
Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles.
From Pan, the Pilgrim. (Weldon & Co., London).
That Muffin Bell.
That Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell!
How many a tale its tinklings tell.
Of youth, and hope, and that glad time
When my digestion yet was prime!
The bilious discs I then could eat,
The bell’s wild whangling down the street
Was one of boyhood’s special joys:
I never, never thought it noise.
How joyously at even rang
The tintinnabulary clang!
The gawping jaw, the raucous yell,
I loved them, loved them passing well
Those happy hours are passed away.
Age must not with its peptics play.
Strange qualms within me darkly dwell
Whene’er I hear the Muffin-Bell.
And yet soft memories of old times
Linger about the jangling chimes,
And, like De Rutzen, I’d be tender
To the too noisy Muffin Vendor.
But oh! methinks when I am gone
That tuneless peal will not ring on;
For Man, with street-law ordered well,
Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell!
Punch, December 18, 1880.
The Parcel Post.
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast—
May no ill fortune e’er restrain
This glorious bantling of his brain.
Deliv’ry companies no more
Delay and “cheek”—their day is o’er;
What now has laid the Carrier’s ghost?—
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
When Christmas comes with jovial fare,
Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare,
What then shall be my hope and boast?—
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
The postman, staggering ’neath the weight
Of welcome presents, opes my gate;
’Tis then I prize and honour most
The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post!
Judy, August 3. 1883.
Evening Belles.
Those evening belles, those evening belles,
How many a tale their costume tells
Of Fashion, in its latest show,
Reviving modes of long ago.
Our grandmothers have passed away,
Yet in their habits girls look gay,
As in last century gowns the swells
To dinner take the evening belles.
And so ’twill be when we are gone,
Fashion’s caprices will go on;
A century hence, what now repels
Will serve to deck the evening belles.
Moonshine, July 31, 1886.
——:o:——
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.
Oft, in the stilly Night,
Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Song by the Marquis of Londonderry.
Oft o’er my tea and toast,
When I a speech have sported,
I take the Morning Post,
To see how its reported.
The frequent “hears,”
“Continued cheers,”
The witty things ne’er spoken,
The “oh’s” left out,
And nought about
The coughs with which t’was broken.
When I behold it all
in columns neat and taper,
Precisely made to fall
By Brougham’s in the paper—
I feel like one,
Who’s really done
A thing too bright to sully,
And dream with head
As thick as lead,
That I’m the modern Tully.
Figaro in London, March 31, 1832.
Oft in His Present Plight.
Oft in his present plight,
Now bolts and bars have bound him
Calls Mitchell, with affright,
The late events around him;
His bragging talk of sharp pitchfork,
And words of pikes, too, spoken—
The boys who cheered, now disappeared,
The heads at Limerick broken.
When he remembers all
The facts thus linked together,
He feels uncommon small,
And aught but in full feather;
If all’s confessed, he feareth lest,
By Jurors ill supported,
Their maws to stay, he perchance may
Be, after all, transported.
The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.
The Poet and The Stomach.
(The Stomach complaineth that his Master writes love ballads when he should be sleeping.)
Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him,
Pale Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
He rushes then
For ink and pen,
To write some lines in measure,
The while poor I
Can only sigh,
Nor glow with Poet’s pleasure.
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumber should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor gives its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
When I remember all
The many hours wasted;
Those dainties turned to gal
Which I had lately tasted.
I must lament
The time misspent,
The hours snatched from slumber
The Stomach’s curse
Is midnight verse,
Without regard to number!
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumbers should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor pales its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
From Memoirs of a Stomach. Written by himself, that all who eat may read. (W. E. Painter, 342, Strand, London, 1853.)
The Silly Season.
[By a Used-up Journalist.]
Oft, on a “silly” night,
When lack of news has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
Physicians’ fees,
The Channel seas,
Words “out of Season” spoken;
Ill-treated Clerks,
The Public Parks,
And nerves by railways broken.
Oft on a silly plight,
When printers’ devils hound me,
Kind memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The themes, so mix’d together,
Which regularly call,
Like duns in autumn weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some prison mill deserted:
Each topic dead,
Each interest fled,
And all but me departed.
Thus, when a “silly” night
Completely “stumped” has found me,
Kind Memory flings the light
Of brighter days around me.
Funny Folks. October 5, 1878.
Air.—“Oft in the Stilly Night.”
W. E. G. sings:—
Oft in Election’s fight,
Ere “Home Rule’s” chains had bound me,
Mem’ry brings before my sight
Companions then around me;
The rows, the sneers,
The poll-booth jeers,
The slanging words then spoken;
The eyes that shone
How blacked! and bone
How smashed! and heads how broken!
Thus in election’s fight, &c.
When I remember all
The friends, then linked together,
Sloping off, to wait my fall,
Like crows in rainy weather,
I feel like one
Who breasts alone
A tide of vile coercion;
With justice fled,
And honour dead,
And on all sides aversion.
Thus in election’s fight, &c.
Caniculus
Truth. Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.
——:o:——
HERE’S THE BOWER.
Here’s the bower she lov’d so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here’s the harp she used to touch—
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
* * * * *
T. Moore.
Here’s the box that held the snuff,
And the bean so famous;
Here’s the pipe he used to puff,—
Oh! how that puff o’er came us!
Strasburgh, Tonquin,—both are dry,—
Where’s the hand to soak them?
Pipes around extinguished lie,—
Where’s the lip to smoke them?
Gin may fall, but he who loved
It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness;
Porter pots may be improved,—
Lost on him their deepness.
Quarts were pints where’er he stayed,—
Pints were to quarterns nearer;
Whiff ne’er warmed a jollier blade,
Nor drinking killed a dearer.
Anonymous.
J. Bruton wrote a similar parody, commencing—
Here’s the bottle she loved so much,
And here’s the glass she drank from,
Here’s the max her lips oft touched,
The stuff they never shrank from.
——:o:——
Punch’s Almanac for 1881 contained several parodies of Moore’s songs, of which the opening lines were as follows:—
Quaint and queer were the gems she wore,
A golden “pig” in each ear she bore
She’d flies and beetles and snake-shaped bands,
And the rummiest rings on her snow-white hands,
(Three more verses.)
The plate that once through Fashion’s halls
Æsthetic rapture shed,
Now hangs upon the kitchen walls
Its ancient glories fled.
So pass the fads of former days.
So fashion’s whim is o’er.
Old China that was once the craze
Now “fetches” fools no more.
(One more verse.)
When he who now bores thee has left but the fame
Of his one little weakness behind,
Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name,
Thou, to boredom so sweetly resigned.
Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For though I have often been shut up by them
I have always found patience in thee.
To buttonhole thee was my constant delight,
Every cock and bull story was thine,
Each mare’s nest I found I exposed to thy sight,
To my twaddle thine ear thoud’st incline.
Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give
To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee.
The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live,
Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee!
——:o:——
LALLA ROOKH.
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
T. Moore.
The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.
Song.
There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme,
And the minister’s sitting there all the night long,
In the time of my power ’twas like a sweet dream,
To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng.
That bench and its placemen I never forget,
But oft when alone at the close of the year,
I think are conservatives sitting there yet,
Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring “hear!”
No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave,
But rich harvests they pluck’d while the sun on them shone,
And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave
All the profits of place when their places were gone.
Thus the minister takes, from his power e’er it dies,
A pension that gives him some thousands a year.
So lucrative either in fall or in rise,
Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere.
Figaro in London, November 10, 1832.
“There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines.”
There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.
Poems and Parodies, By Phœbe Carey, Boston, U. S., 1854.
——:o:——
Parliament and the Tory.
“Every one is acquainted with Moore’s beautiful poem of Paradise and the Peri, in which the fallen spirit is represented as seeking on earth for a boon to regain the heaven she has lost. The story assimilates closely to a late affair, in which a certain military Tory (the Duke of Wellington), having lost the heaven of place (to him far more desirable than any place in heaven) devised all kinds of tricks to regain his former position.
One morn a Tory at the gate
Of Stephen’s stood disconsolate;
And as he listened to the words
Of Whigs within, like poison flowing,
And caught the sense of what he heard,
The downfall of his party knowing,
He wept to think his plundering race
Should e’er have lost that glorious place
* * * * *
The Devil, who is always keeping
The doors, beheld the Tory weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eldon’s fountain, when he cries
With tears which those who know him say
Proceed from no where but his eyes.
“Thou scion of a plundering line,”
The Devil said “one hope is thine.”
I think it is not yet too late
The Tory may again get power,
Who brings to this infernal gate
Some trick or bribe to suit the hour;
“Go seek it,” said he with a grin,
“’Tis sweet to let the Tories in.”
* * * * *
Downward the Tory turns his gaze,
And through excitement’s lowering haze,
Beholds a noble premier stand
Desponding, ’mid the people crying
Reform, just falling from his hand,
And his last hope to save it dying.
He tried what chance he found remain,
A threat of Peers, but all in vain.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well
Corruption lingered, freedom fell;
Yet marked the Tory where it lay,
And, when the rush of rage had past,
As he imagined to allay
The nation’s ire, he seized the last
Last copy of the Bill, as read,
Just ere the noble premier fled.
“Be this,” he cried, as he wing’d his flight
“My welcome gift in the house to night,
Though poison to me is this odious bill,
Fram’d by Whigs in power, to rat like this,
For conservative ends so noble is,
It would stain not the purest of those who still
Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss.
Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon that the Devil holds truly dear,
’Tis the false eclat which knavery draws
From a premier who falls with the people’s cause.
“Sweet,” said the Devil, as he gave
The gift unto his grasping hand,
“Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who such a hellish trick has plann’d;”
But see, alas! the golden bar
Of office moves not—craftier far
Than even this trick, the means must be
To open the gates of place for thee.
Figaro in London, 1832.
The Royal Enclosure at Ascot.
A Peri at the “Royal” gate
At Ascot stood disconsolate,
And as she gazed upon the forms
Of those who passed that jealous portal,
With envy, then, her bosom warms,
For she was feminine and mortal.
She all but wept to think her feet
Trod not that most select retreat.
“How lucky!” thought she, “aye, past compare,
Are the happy houris who wander there,
Where the feet of real princes fall.
If the Royal Enclosure’s not for me,
The joys of the season cease to be;
A ticket from Hardwicke exceeds them all.”
* * * * *
Truth. June 14, 1877.
This parody is much too long to give in full, as is also the following, on a similar topic, and which, by a curious coincidence, appeared in Truth exactly six years later:—
Paradise Lost.
This week a Peeress at the gate
Of Ascot stood disconsolate—
(The Royal Enclosure Gate is meant)
And as in misery she bent,
And gazed upon the lonely scene
Where life a week before was teeming,
She sighed for what long since had been—
A past now lost beyond redeeming,
And wept to think the privileged place
No more was held a sacred place.
“How happy!” she cried, in an accent drear
“We used to be who gained entrance here.
How mixed with our joy, too, was pleasant spite,
’Gainst others who lacked our privileged right.
Aye! it well-might upset our tried composure
To first get cards for the Royal Enclosure,
And nothing on earth was too great a price
To pay to enter the Paradise.
* * * * *
Truth, June 14, 1883.
The Political Peri.
One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate
Of office stood disconsolate,
He wept to think he’d run his race,
And left for aye that glorious place.
“How happy” exclaimed that child of air—
And ’twas true, though he hadn’t much truth to spare—
“Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there!
But I’ve made a mess they’ll find hard to repair
I’ve shed innocent blood in every clime,
Sent thousands of men to death in their prime,
Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime,
Done deeds that will stink the end of time,—
And I leave my country my heir!”
“Woe, woe for ever!
The Election’s done,
The votes are cast—
And I’ve not won!”
Bits of Beaconsfield. (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)
——:o:——
The Lament of the Peri.
Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing,
And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame!
* * * * *
Farewell, farewell—until Pity’s sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
T. Moore.
The Fire Worshippers.
“The wrongs of Ireland which are exciting so much sympathy on all hands at this moment, naturally call to recollection one of her most devoted advocates, as well as one of her brightest ornaments.
Air.—Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter.
Farewell—farewell to thee desolate Erin,
(Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,)
No curl ever lay on Law’s visage so leering,
More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee.
Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing,
How light was thy heart till curs’d Castlereagh came,
Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing,
To hush all its music, and render it tame.
But yet when to Parliament they are returning,
There will still be amongst both the young and the old,
Some who with disgust most indignantly burning,
Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold
The new made elector whene’er he advances,
To vote on some Irish Electoral day,
Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise,
He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.
Nor shall Daniel[124] beloved of thy people forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start.
Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart.
Figaro in London, February 23, 1833.
The Song of the Sultan
Farewell—farewell to thee, Arabi darling!
(Thus murmured the Sultan beneath his moustache.)
No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling;
Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.
Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing,
Our joint little game till the Britisher came,
Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing
And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame!
But long upon Arabi’s Orient guile and
Astuteness shall Abdul sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, would it were swept by the blasting Simoom!
And now by Old Nilus Sir Garnet is burning,
And calls to his standard the young and the old.
E’en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning,
In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.
I’ve played fast and loose, but the Giaour’s successes
My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way;
I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses
The nice little game I must trust thee to play.
Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee—
Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart,
But if thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she’d set thee
Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell!—be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;
But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.
I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.)
I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling
But this Proclamation must hurl at thy head.
Thy prospects on Egypt’s hot sands scarce look sparkling.
They gather, the Giaours, the Nile’s in his bed.
Farewell—farewell! ’Tis a pity—but counting
The chances, at present, by Nilus’s wave,
Thy star, my dear Arabi, scarcely seems mounting.
And so—go to blazes, recalcitrant slave!
[Signs reluctantly.
Punch, September 16, 1882.
On January 7, 1880 The World published four parodies on the same poem which had been sent in for Competition, the subject selected being:—
The Ameer of Cabul, Yakoob Khan.
First Prize.
Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali!
(Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak’s brow.)
No cursèd Hindu, timid servant of Kali,
Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou.
O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning
How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came,
Like the frost of the north on the flow’r of the morning,
And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame
Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul’s green highlands,
Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom
Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,[125]
Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb.
Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding,
And summons to combat the bold and the strong,
Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding,
Ever call on thy name as he rushes along.
So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee,
As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart;
Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee,
And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.
Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness,
With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal;
Each sign of submission, each token of weakness,
Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel.
We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying,
And lose in the battle the thought of thy name;
We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying,
And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.
Begone, begone, until life is departed,
And still are the hearts of the true and the brave!
We’ll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted;
We’ll curse at the coward who sued like a slave.
Toffer.
(Sir Louis Cavagnari, the English Envoy to Afghanistan, and his staff having been murdered in the Cabul, English troops hastened to that city which was captured on Christmas Eve, 1879. Yakoob Khan, accused of complicity in the massacre, was sent as a prisoner to India.)
Second Prize.
Away, away with the Ameer unlucky!
(Thus murmured the Viceroy o’er India’s plain;)
No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky,
Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign.
O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping,
How fair was thy promise till treachery came!
Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping
And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame.
But long by Cabul’s rapid glacier-fed fountains
Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate
Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains
With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate.
And when the cold winter and snows are returning,
They’ll tell the old tale how the infidels fell;
As they huddle together around the logs burning
They’ll bitterly think of our vengeance as well.
The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing
His wares, will remember brave Roberts’ return
Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing
He carelessly leaves all the kabobs to burn.
Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him,
Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame;
High up on the roll of her heroes she’ll set him
Inscribed, that her children may honour his name.
Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion
With everything innocent, harmless and bright
Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion,
And candy to sweeten the wearisome night.
My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes,
My doctor shall ease thee whene’er thou’rt in pain;
I’ll willingly grant thee whate’er thy heart wishes,
But ne’er shalt thou see Afghanistan again.
Quantox.
——:o:——
The Fire-Worshippers.
Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never lov’d a tree or flower,
But ’twas the first to fade away.
I never nurs’d a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The Cutler’s Lament.
I never wrote up “Skates to Sell,”
Trusting to fickle Nature’s law,
But—when I’d advertised them well,
And puffed them—it was sure to thaw,
Yes, it was ever thus—the Fates
Seem adverse to the trade in skates
If a large stock I chanced to buy,
Thinking ’twas likely still to freeze,
Up the thermometer would fly—
All in a day—some ten degrees.
Their presence in my window-pane
Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain.
Punch, February, 1848.
’Twas Ever Thus.
I never loved a dear gazelle,
In fact, I never knew one;
And though I’ve loved a sweet mam’zelle
I’ve ne’er had pluck to woo one.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus
From boyhood’s early prime, sirs,
It’s been my fate to be too late—
I never was in time, sirs!
I never went to dance or ball,
But there I made a blunder;
My partners always had a fall,
And I was always under.
A martinet I’ve got to wife
Oh, quite an acid tartar:
She has all the sweets of life,
While I’m a bilious martyr.
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus;
I thought her parents wealthy;
I’ve found them poor—they live next door,
And are so beastly healthy.
I speculated all my cash
In her relations’ ventures;
Of course the comp’nies went to smash—
And I’d to pay debentures!
’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus:
My life is far from sweet, sirs,
My cash is gone, I’ve nought to pawn
So I must beat retreat, sirs.
I’ll take a trip across the seas
To-day for other nations;
For I shall never be at ease,
With wife, or wife’s relations.
’Twas never thus, ’twas never thus,
I’d ne’er in view such blisses;
In ecstasy I’d fly to thee,
Sweet freedom, joy, and kisses—
Oh, wretched dog, I now must jog,
For here comes dreadful missus.
Anonymous.
’Twas Ever Thus.
I never rear’d a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried;)
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on—
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have wither’d it away.
I’ve dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on—
I would he were a tree or flower!
From Carols of Cockayne. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto and Windus, London, 1874.)
A Few Muddled Metaphors
by a Moore-ose Melodist.
Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour,
I’ve seen my fondest hopes recede!
I never loved a tree or flow’r
That did’nt trump its partner’s lead.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its dappled hide,
But when it came to know me well,
It fell upon the buttered side.
I never taught a cockatoo
To whistle comic songs profound.
But, first when “Jolly Dogs” it knew
It failed for ninepence in the pound
I never reared a walrus-cub
In my aquarium to plunge,
But, when it learnt to love its tub
It placidly threw up the sponge!
I never strove a metaphor
To every bosom home to bring
But—just as it had reached the door
It went and cut a pigeon’s wing!
Tom Hood, the younger.
“I never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.”
Wus, Ever Wus.
Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s
My most exciting hopes are dashed;
I never wore my spotless ducks
But madly—wildly! they were splashed.
I never roved by Cynthia’s beam,
To gaze upon the starry sky;
But some old stiff-backed beetle came,
And charged into my pensive eye:
And oh! I never did the swell
In Regent street, amongst the beaux,
But smuts the most prodigious fell,
And always settled on my Nose!
From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
(Chatto and Windus, London,)
Disaster.
’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty
The Peartree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet—
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He’s imbecile, but lingers yet.
He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye
He’d look inimitable stuff’d
And knows it—but he will not die!
I had a kitten—I was rich
In pets—but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten,
And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d
One day beside her untouch’d plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog—a queen
Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug,
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don’t mind;
’Twere lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e’er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.
But Ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e’en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
From Fly Leaves by C. S. Calverley.
(George Bell and Sons, London, 1878.)
Oh, ever thus, since Childhood’s hour
We’ve seen our fondest hopes decay,
We never raised a Calf or Cow or
Hen that laid an Egg a day,
But it was marked and stol’n away,
We never raised a sucking pig
To glad us with its sunny eye
But when ’twas grown up fat and big
And fit to roast, or boil, or fry
We could not find it in the stye.
By Our Butcher.
I never loved a dear gazelle,
Nor would I care for one if cheap
All my affections centres on
Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep;
Yet often, when a little lamb,
Whose price was low, has caught my eye,
I’ve purchased it; but, sad to say,
Next morning it was sure to die;
I never bought a young gazelle.
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.
I never drilled a cockatoo,
To speak with almost human lip,
But, when a pretty phrase it knew,
’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.
I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,
But, when I thought a prize I’d found,
’Twas sure to bite my youngest child
I never kept a tabby kit
To cheer my leisure with its tricks,
But, when we all grew fond of it,
’Twas sure to catch the neighbour’s chicks,
I never reared a turtle-dove,
To coo all day with gentle breath,
But, when its life seemed one of love,
’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.
I never—well, I never yet—
And I have spent no end of pelt—
Invested money in a pet
That didn’t misconduct itself.
Funny Folks Annual, 1886.
The Young Gazelle.
A Moore-ish Tale.
In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied Moore.
Those touching lines from “Lalla Rookh”—
“Ah! ever thus”—you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished I had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
“To charm me with its soft black eye,”
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I’d learnt to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When some one gave me a Gazelle.
With care, and trouble, and expense,
’Twas brought from Afric’s northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.
The little creature grew so tame,
He “learned to know (the neighbours) well,”
And, then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they “nursed that dear Gazelle,”
But woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam in doors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
* * * * *
In short the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And truly, in a double sense
He proved a very “dear gazelle.”
At length I sighed—“Ah! ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But ’tis in vain to make a fuss
You’ll have to go, my antelope.”
I said “This antler’d desert child
In Turkish Palaces may roam
But he’s much too free and wild
To keep in any English home.”
Yes, though I gave him up with tears
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I’ll never have a young gazelle!
This humorous poem was written by Mr. Walter Parke the dramatist, and author of many skilful and amusing parodies. Lays of the Saintly, by the same gentleman, (Vizetelly and Co., London.) contains the lives of the principal Saints, told in rhymes imitating Swinburne, Tennyson, Longfellow, and other poets. One of the best of these legends is undoubtedly that devoted to the adventures of St. Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland. Most appropriately this is written after Moore’s style, and parodies of a number of his melodies are ingeniously woven into the narrative. Amongst these are “Eveleen’s Bower,” “Love’s Young Dream,” “She is far from the Land,” “Oft in the Stilly night,” “The Harp that Once,” “The Woodpecker,” “Let Erin remember,” and “The Meeting of the Waters.” Perhaps the last is the best imitation of style:—
There’s not in old Ireland an islet more sweet
Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet:
Oh! the last spark of faith from the land must depart
Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start.
It is not for Nature they go to the scene,
However romantic, sublime, or serene;
’Tis not just for pleasure or holiday’s sake,
They pay sixpence each to be row’d o’er the lake.
’Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray’r
With chapels and cells purgatorial there,
’Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave,
The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save.
Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg! by thy devotees blest,
If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest;
Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase,
And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece
Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector,
Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.”
If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre,
How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell!
Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter,
And may she grow ever more lovely and gay,
Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her,
Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.
But there is not a dull page in the whole of this dainty volume, it is full of fun and refined humour, and the imitations are in many cases, of exceptional literary merit.
——:o:——
THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.
Come hither, come hither—by night and by day
We linger in pleasures that never are gone
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o’er, in expiring gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on Earth,
It is this, it is this.
* * * * *
T. Moore.
The House of Commons.
Come hither, come hither: by night and by day,
We list to the members that never are gone—
Like the moan of the east wind, as one dies away,
Another as dull and as prosing comes on.
And the speech that is o’er, in expiring gives birth,
To a new one as wretched as barren of nous,
And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here Tories are raving—their voices are high,
As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound,
And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground.
Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth,
When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse,
Then own if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre’s vile love,
Have come down from their own vaunted honesty’s sphere
Who put power all former professions above,
And forgot pledges past in the places they’ve here.
And bless’d with the money our pockets give forth,
What placemen the sweets of his office would douse,
For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth,
It’s the house! it’s the house!
* * * * *
There’s a pest beyond all that the minstrel has told
When the Whigs that are bound in one powerful tie,
With principles changing and hearts ever cold,
Drain the country of wealth and drain on till ’tis dry.
One hour of so hateful a ministry’s worse,
Than whole ages of harm done by Tory or rat,
And oh! if there be an Inferno—or curse,
It is that! it is that!!
Figaro in London, September 1, 1832.
——:o:——
Sweet Borough of Tamworth.
(The following song, supposed to be sung by the late Sir Robert Peel, who long represented Tamworth, is a parody of “Fanny of Timmol.”
Sweet borough of Tamworth, when first I go in
To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl’d,
I found it a place of such pelf and such sin,
And for humbug the funniest place in the world.
For the Minister’s lips to their destiny true,
Seem’d to know I was born to be sold as anothers;
And to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
They whispered rich places for me and my brothers.
And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly,
Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming light;
Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye,
“Here’s a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite.”
So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet,
I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether
Of joy shame or guilt—’twas bitter yet sweet;
But my heart and my face got as tough as cow’s leather.
At length when arrived in my office I sat,
And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of pain,
But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat,
Dear Peel, you can never get office again.
Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any
Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true,
Of snug roguish places, you both had so many,
That my conscience was drill’d like a sieve through and through.
But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved,
That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey—
And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived
If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey.
Professions, manœuvres, smiles, bowing, I used,
Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting;
And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused,
Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting.
How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied,
Till I found my reward in a better place here;
When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied,
Saying “Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear.”
In vain did I whisper, there’s no danger nigh,
Bags, Bexley, and Sellis’s Duke did implore,
He promised a title, a sinecure sly;
I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more.
Was I right?—oh, I cannot believe I was wrong,
Though Whigs, King and People may shout their disdain;
In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long,
Sweet Tamworth, I’ll rat for thee over again.
By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I’d rather forswear—
The Reform Bill, I’d hug to my plausible breast—
Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share
Place, power and title—you know all the rest.
From The Blue Bag; or, Toryana. By the Speaker of the House of Commons. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)
The same little pamphlet contains another parody on Moore, supposed to be spoken by William Frederick, Duke of Gloucester, nephew of George III. Many amusing anecdotes of the stupidity of this Royal Duke were current during his lifetime, and earned for him the sobriquet Silly-Billy.
When in death I shall calm recline,
More dozy I can’t be than I have been here;
No power could rouse me by smiles or wine,
Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear.
I never could feel either joy or sorrow,
My heart is so spongy, my liver so white;
But very large sums from the taxes I borrow,
And humbug the people, by family right.
* * * * *
Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing
Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest;
My moon-calf uncle’s debt that’s owing,
Makes all people his name detest.
When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over,
England’s glad cup will flow over its brim;
John Bull our impudent rights will uncover,
Repaying the woes we’ve inflicted on him.
The Duke of Gloucester had been educated at Cambridge. He died in 1834, leaving the large fortune he had amassed from the numerous sinecure offices he held during his parsimonious lifetime, to his widow.
The Sweet Briar.
I thought t’other day while attempting to thin
A Briar which over my palings had curled,
As La Pompadour said, “If this were but a sin
It might be the jolliest job in the world.”
For its dear little thorns to their destiny true
Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and stingers,
And to show me what I was attempting to do
Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers.
And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet,
I muttered “d * * * n” and cannot tell whether
Through your fault or mine—but, O! Briar called sweet,
I think that we fell and we suffered together.
And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour,
And when I had brought you exceedingly low
I discovered that I had been spending my labour
On a plant he was very desirous should grow.
In vain did I mutter “There’s nobody nigh,”
In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door,
Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye,
And I left it at that, and I asked for no more.
Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong,
Though the Briar has grown through the paling again,
And the devil may guide it uninjured along
E’er I put myself twice to such horrible pain.
By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear
The pleasure that lies in a garden that’s neat
Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there,
Or banish the Briar which people call sweet!
C. S. K.
——:o:——
The Melbourne Punch for July 1, 1880, contained a long, and very dreary parody, entitled Paradise and the Berri. It dealt with local politics, and was chiefly devoted to insulting a politician named Berry, it had no literary merit whatever. The Melbourne Punch is published at double the price of its London namesake, of which it is but a very poor imitation.
Paradise and the Peeler is the title of another long parody contained in Lyrics and Lays, by Pips. Published in 1867, by Wyman, Bros., Calcutta. This relates how the Eden gardens in Calcutta were closed to the general public, by order of the Commissioner of the Police, until a general outcry forced him to withdraw the obnoxious edict.
During Oxford Commemoration in 1866, the S. S. Amateurs performed in the Masonic Hall an “Oriental Extravaganza,” entitled Lalla Rookh. This was written by Mr. Vincent Amcotts, of Balliol College, (founded upon Moore’s poem), and the numerous songs it contained were set to music selected from Offenbach’s “Barbe Bleu.” This amusing travestie was published by T. Shrimpton and Son, Broad Street, Oxford.
Another Extravaganza, with the same title, was produced at the unfortunate Novelty Theatre, London, in May, 1884. The libretto was written by Mr. Horace Lennard, the musical arrangements were by Mr. P. Bucalossi, and the caste included Miss Kate Vaughan, as Lalla Rookh, Mr. Harry Nicholls, and Mr. Fred Story; the piece, however, had but a brief career.
Several other dramatic arrangements of Lalla Rookh have been produced, there was a burletta by Horn; a cantata by Messrs. W. G. Wills and Frederick Clay; and forty years ago the famous Cerito delighted the opera-goers in a ballet founded on Moore’s poem.
——:o:——
One more Irish Melody.
I
O weep for the hour
When to Peers’ tranquil bower
The Premier of England with Church Bill came;
The Primate made light
Of the crisis that night,
But loudly Lord Derby declared ’twas a shame.
The Peers caved in soon,
Like the famous “gone ’coon,”
And the Commons protested they’d bear all the blame;
But none will see the day
When the mischief clears away
Which that dark hour left on the Parliament fame.
II
Strange arguments lay
On the crooked pathway
Where the Premier of England slipp’d off from the right;
And many a deep print
On his policy’s tint
Showed the track of his veering towards Lowe and towards Bright.
To-morrow’s new men
May undo all again
Every trace in our laws where the false chief came:
But the babes yet unborn
Shall record it with scorn,
That blot on the scutcheon of England’s fair fame!
Will-o’-the Wisp, July 24, 1869.
Lord Brougham.
“Now that the speedy ejection of the Whigs from office, is looked for on all sides and by all parties with a high anticipatory relish, the humane mind naturally turns with compassion to the fate of Lord Brougham, who is on the eve of losing that for which he staked and lost, all his once splendid popularity. He stands a detected apostate from the cause of liberality, and we can only pay to his deplorable condition the melancholy tribute of a commiserating melody.”
Air—Eveleen’s Bower.
Oh! weep for the hour
When to Brougham’s bower,
The Lord of the Treas’ry with large bribes came,
The Lib’rals held their light
From the House that night,
And staid to weep at home for their old chum’s shame.
The clouds have pass’d
From the Liberals at last,
And freedom smiles again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds will pass away,
Which taking office cast upon Brougham’s fame.
The road to place lay
Through a crooked path-way,
When Brougham cross’d over the House’s floor,
And many a deep hint,
Which I’ve seen in print,
Show’d the reason of his walk to the Treasury door.
But freedom’s ray
Will soon melt away,
Every trace of the ministry with which he came;
But there’s no light I fear,
Which ever can clear
The stain upon the brightness of Brougham’s fame.
Figaro in London, June 22, 1833.
——:o:——
Sixty or seventy years ago when Moore’s poems were in the height of their popularity they were made the subject of a vast number of parodies. Of these the majority would now be of no interest whatever, relating as they do to persons and events long since forgotten. Some of the best of these old parodies have already been given, a few others may be enumerated to which reference could easily be made by any reader desirous of seeing them.
The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1823 contained a great many travesties of Moore’s Irish melodies, nearly all of which were political. The first lines of these are as follows:—
- Go where Plutus waits thee.
- Remember the Deeds of Sir Billy the Fat.
- Rich and rare were the gems she wore
- If in death I should lie supine.
- When first I met thee, fat and fair.
- ’Tis the last squeak of Derry, left nearly alone.
- We can roam through the Town, and of Flats make a feast.
- Peggy hath a squinting eye. (See [page 245].)
- Come send round the wine. (See [page 243].)
- Though numerous our debts are.
- Oh! had I some nice little lass of my own.
- Come rest in this bosom, my sweet pretty dear!
- Rich and furred was the robe he wore. (See [page 238].)
- Fly not yet.
- Blesington hath a beaming eye.
- Go where Bennett waits thee.
- The Old Whig Club is meeting, Duke.
The same Volume also contains a Burlesque review, or, as it is termed, a criticism extraordinary, upon a supposed poem, entitled Loves of the Mortals, by Timothy Tickle, Esq. This jeu d’esprit was published a few days after The Loves of the Angels, and the extracts given from the imaginary poem parody that work.
Figaro in London, a sarcastic paper published in London in 1831-32-33, contained many parodies of Moore’s Melodies, the best of these have already been given.
Punch for 1847 contained The Loves of the New Police, in several parts. In December 13, 1856, it had a set of verses addressed to a certain Mr. Morris Moore, parodying several of Moore’s Songs.
Funny Folks, May 10, 1884, on the Dynamite scare: “Believe me that all these explosive alarms.”
The Humourous Works of the late Theodore Hook (London, 1873), in addition to the parody quoted on page 238, contain another on The young May-Moon but it is quite out of date. A review of “Mr. Minus the Poet” is also included in the above collection; it is a skit upon Moore’s versification and philosophy, and contains a short imitation of his poetry, entitled Fanny’s Bower, somewhat resembling The Living Lustres in the Rejected Addresses.
“Jack Randall’s Diary, or proceedings at the House of Call for Genius,” written by Mr. Breakwindow. London, Simpkin, 1820.
This is a small book which cannot be found in the Library of the British Museum. J. C. Hotten, in his “Bibliography of Slang and Cant,” says (p. 103) this was written by Thomas Moore; but further information is wanted on this point.
——:o:——
Young Love.
Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed,
Where pigs were feeding
And, nowise heeding
What cause the god had thither led,
While wash they swilled, and were well fed,
They thrived and flourished,
For Stickem nourished
Their hog-ships with good new-made grains;
And pigs, though grubby, must be fed,
For even they feel Hunger’s pains.
Alas! that mankind’s greedy eye
Should e’er go thither,
Their loves to wither,
But pigs must know they’re born to die
And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh.
Stickem came that morning,
While love was yawning,
And seized him, with intent to slay;
“Oh, oh!” says Love, “this is all my eye!”
So he kicked him over, and flew away.
The Bencher; or, Whitewashing Day.
Air—“Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them.”
Though num’rous our debts are, yet soon we forget them,
When free from a bailiff’s or turnkey’s rude powers;
For never were hearts, if the nabmen would let them,
More formed to be jovial and light than ours.
But though without cash
We oft cut a dash,
And credit besprinkles our path with flowers,
Yet the day will come
When we’re found at home!
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But though ’twere the last little spark on our souls,
Let us light it up now—for ’tis whitewashing day!
The devil take tradesmen, who say we’re ungrateful;
Though we fly from grabs, to our friends we are true!
If we can’t pay, we can’t! then what is more hateful
Than taking one’s body for sums over-due?
Vile creditors blight
Our prospects outright;
And when they have nailed us, cry “Pay me, sir, pay!”
So unless we give bail,
We’re lugg’d off to jail;
But since I’m now up, were I summon’d next minute,
I’d laugh, drink, and sing, look cheerful and gay,
And shew what the head of a Bencher has in it,
Who has passed the ordeal of Whitewashing Day!
We no longer are green, and our sprees are recorded
By men who have suffer’d too much to forget;
With hope they were gull’d, and with promise rewarded,
While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt.
Their hearts may be broke,
Yet we laugh at the joke,
For nothing can make an old Bencher pay;
He’s up and he’s down
To the tricks of the Town;
He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part
With an impudent air that ne’er will decay;
Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art,
For he clears off all scores by Whitewashing Day,
From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.
——:o:——
THE LIVING LUSTRES.[126]
The following imitation of Tom Moore’s style is taken from The Rejected Addresses. It was written by Horace Smith. Early editions of The Rejected Addresses contained three verses which have recently been generally omitted. These are here supplied within parenthesis.
“Jam te juvaverit
Viros relinquere,
Doctæque conjugis
Sinu quiescere.”
Sir T. More.
I.
O Why should our dull retrospective addresses
Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?
Away with blue devils, away with distresses,
And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!
II.
Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,
The richest to me is when woman is there;
The question of houses I leave to the jury;
The fairest to me is the house of the fair.
III.
When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders,
And gilds while it carves, her dear form on the heart,
What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?
With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?
(IV.
Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle, is
Verdant antique, like Ninon de l’Enclos,
I’d ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules,
Give me but Rosa wherever I go.)
IV.
How well would our actors attend to their duties,
Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,
In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties
Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!
V.
The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize,
To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.
(VI.
Attun’d to the scene, when the pale yellow moon is on
Tower and tree they’d look sober and sage,
And when they all wink’d their dear peepers in unison,
Night, pitchy night, would envelop the stage.
VII.
Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick,
I’d love her as long as she blossomed in youth;
Oh! white is the ivory case of her tooth pick,
But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth.)
VI.
There too is the lash which, all statues controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling,
Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.
VII.
Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!
And flourish, ye pillars,[127] as green as the rushes
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!
VIII.
For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,
Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion,
Tho’ joyous are sober—tho’ peaceful, are brave.
IX.
The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,
Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;
Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,
Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.
X.
O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles
Which each panting bosom indignantly names,
Until not one goose at the capital cackles
Against the grand question of Catholic claims.
XI.
And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,
Hold the helm of the State, and dispense in a jiffy
More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.
XII.
And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,
In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,
When bred to our bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows,
Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.
XIII.
For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,
As Dian excels each encircling star;
And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune
Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!
——:o:——
The great Christopher North (Professor Wilson) had but a poor opinion of Thomas Moore, and in Noctes Ambrosianæ (Blackwood’s Magazine July 1823) he thus expressed himself;—
“Moore will not live long as a song writer, he has not the stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty, glittering, anything you please in that line; but they have defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity. His strong party views, his affectation of learning, his parade of his knowledge of botany, zoology, and the other ’ologies, these are serious defects, and then the mixed metaphors, and often down-right nonsense to be found in his songs, all detract from his chances of immortality.”
“Here” says Wilson “is a song he intended to be sung by:—
A Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-punch.
Heap on more coal there,
And keep the glass moving,
The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving.
Here’s the dear creature,
No skylights—a bumper;
He who leaves heel taps
I vote him a mumper.
With hey cow rumble O,
Whack! populorum,
Merrily, merry men,
Push round the jorum.
What are Heaven’s pleasures
That so very sweet are?
Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Planked on a wet cloud
Without any breeches,
Just like the Celtic,
Met to make speeches.
With hey cow rumble &c.
Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies,
Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap’d to the full is.
Then if some wise one
Thinks that up “yonder”
Is pleasant as we are,
Why—he’s in a blunder.
With hey cow rumble, &c.
——:o:——
Love and the Flimsies.
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.
The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the Miller’s veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind.
And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.
And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air,
Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity,
Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates there.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone.
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown.
Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.
Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.
“Oh, mother,” he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?
If you think them worth having, we’ll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John!”
“My darling,” says Venus, “away from you throw them,
They’re a sort of fool’s gold among mortals ’tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.”
Thomas Love Peacock.
(From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial
panic, in the winter 1825-26.)
——:o:——
Another imitation of Moore’s style is given in The Book of Ballads, edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by William Blackwood & Sons. These Ballads were written by Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore Martin. A few of them may be considered amusing as parodies, but the greater number are really clever imitations of style, with a little burlesque introduced here and there. Thus, the following would pass very well for one of Moore’s lighter songs:
The Bard of Erin’s Lament.
Oh! weep for the hours when the little blind boy
Wove around me the spells of his Paphian bower;
When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy,
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour!
From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind;
Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening’s close.
* * * * *
But weep for the hour! Life’s summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life’s lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire tête-à-tête with a friend.
——:o:——
Old Sherry.
(A Parody on the Anacreontic Song.)
To old Sheridan once as he sat in full glee,
A few duns for hard money sent a petition;
And prayed that his cash or bank notes they might see,
But this answer received from the sturdy old Grecian:—
“My friends, I declare
I have no cash to spare,
And for all your distresses one damn I dont care,
But then I’ll instruct you like me how to dine,
And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine.”
By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared,
And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing,
But their time and their talking they well might have spared,
For old Sherry’s grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing.
“My good friends,” says he,
“The thing cannot be,
For my purse can’t produce to you one mar’vedie;
But if to discount some more bills you incline,
You all shall partake of my banquet and wine.”
The duns with amazement on each other gazed,
Then threatened attornies, arrests, executions,
But old Sheridan smiled, and was mightily pleased
At their impotent threats, and their vain resolutions.
“Goods and chattels,” says he,
“You can’t get from me,
And from all your arrests, I’m by privilege free;
Disappointed and vex’d, let my creditors whine,
I’ll still make them pay for my banquets and wine.
“Dame Justice, that hobbling old Beldam I’ve found,
With brisk Generosity ne’er can keep pacing;
All my debts I would pay if the cash could be found,
But my wants my finances are always outracing.
Then submit with good grace,
For while I’m out of place
All payment of debt is quite out of the case;
But if once I get in, ’tis my serious design,
That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine.”
The duns one and all from his presence withdrew,
In sullen despair of e’er touching the rhino.
And they’d never come there if old Sherry they knew
But one half so truly as you or I know.
In passing this quiz,
So flushed was his phiz,
That the nose of old Bardolph were ice matched to his;
He returned to his friends, who’d just helped him to dine,
And laughed at the dupes who found banquet and wine.
From The Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828.
The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan here referred to, the celebrated wit, orator, and dramatist, was continually in debt, and as, in addition to being thriftless and extravagant, he was intemperate, his once handsome features became, in the later years of his life, so bloated, distorted, and discoloured, that he seemed but a hideous caricature of his former self.
——:o:——
The Shy Bo-Peep.
(A sea-side fact.)
The shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone,
In a bathing frock you’ll find her;
A swimming belt she has girded on,
And a life buoy slung behind her.
“Bathe, I wont!” said this maiden shy,
“Tho’ disappointment rankles,
“In such a garb some man might spy
My pettitoes and ankles!”
Her friends protest, but the task is vain
To make Bo-peep knock under,
The frock was never worn again,
For she tore its seams asunder;
And said, “No more embarrass me
“Thou cumbersome monstrosity!
“I’ll bathe ‘au naturel’ and free
In despite of curiosity!”
A.H.S.
——:o:——
ANACREON’S ODE XXI.
Observe when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean’s misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking
Since Nature’s holy law is drinking;
I’ll make the laws of Nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine.
T. Moore.
Moore has been often accused of plagiarism, and more often perhaps in connection with the above translation from Anacreon than any other poem. A few examples of the versions of earlier writers will show how far the charge can be substantiated.
Pierre de Ronsard (who died in 1585) wrote a version; which, given in the old orthography, runs thus:—
“La terre, les eaux va boivant.
L’arbre la boit par sa racine.
La mer salée boit le vent,
Et le soleil boit la marine.
Le soleil est beu de la lune,
Tout boit soit en haut ou en bas.
Suivant ceste règle commune
Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas?”
Capilupus imitated the ode, in an epitaph on a drunkard, which has thus been rendered:—
While life was mine, the little hour
In drinking still unvaried flew;
I drank as earth imbibes the shower,
Or as the rainbow drinks the dew;
As ocean quaffs the rivers up,
Or flushing sun inhales the sea:
Silenus trembled at my cup,
And Bacchus was outdone by me!
In scene 3, act iv., of Timon of Athens, Shakespeare has a similar passage;—
“I’ll example you with thievery.
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;
The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears.”
Another version:—
The heavens carouse each day a cup,
No wonder Atlas holds them up!
The trees suck up the earth and ground,
And in their brown bowls drink around;
The sea, too, whom the salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten thousand rivers drink, and then
Gets drunk, and brings them up again.
The sun, and who as right as he?
Sits up all night to drink the sea;
The moon quaffs up the sun, her brother,
And wishes she could tope another;
If all things fuddle; why should I,
Of all things, be the one that’s dry?
Well, I’ll be content to thirst,
But too much drink shall make me first.
Lord Rochester (Died 1680).
The Thirsty Earth.
(Freely translated from Anacreon.)
Abraham Cowley (Died 1667.)
The thirsty earth drinks up the rain
And thirsts, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun,
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in nature’s sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses here; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Whilst referring to Thomas Moore’s plagiarisms mention must be made of an article on the subject contained in Fraser’s Magazine, June 1841. It is too long to quote in full, but some of its principal statements may be given:
“Moore’s plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the whole range of his works,—from the Posthumous Poems of Tom Little to his last dying speech—The Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion. Even the title of this nonsense is stolen from Erasmus’s Peregrinatio Religionis ergo. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios of the fathers of the church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a sinner. You have asked me for some specimens of his plagiarisms. You shall have them. Time will permit me to expose only a very few, so I shall plunge at once in medias res:—
Little’s Poems.
“Your mother says, my little Venus,
There’s something not correct between us,
And you’re in fault as well as I;
Now on my soul, my little Venus,
I think ’twould not be right between us,
To let your mother tell a lie.”
This is plagiarised from an old collection of English epigrams published in 1785:—
“The lying world says naughty words
Of you and I, my dearest love;
You know, my dear, the world’s the Lord’s
Let ’em no longer liars prove.”
LITTLE’S POEMS. To Julia
“Why let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o’er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool.”
Lloyd
“Must thou whose judgment dull and cool
Is muddy as the stagnant pool.”
Little’s poems.
“Here is one leaf reserved for me
From all thy sweet memorials free,
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus within thy mind
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh, it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there.”
These are stolen from some lines of Pope’s:—
“With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her book an emblem of her breast,
As I from that all former marks efface,
And, uncontroll’d, put new ones in their place,
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart;
But ah! how short the bliss would prove if he
Who seized it next might do the same by me.”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“Oh, shall we not say thou art Love’s duodecimo;
Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know,
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms,
Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms.”
Wit restored. In several select poems. 1658.
“A woman is a book, and often found
To prove far better in the sheets than bound;
No marvail, then, why men take such delight
Above all things to study in the night,”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“If Mahomet would but receive me,
And Paradise be as he paints,
I’m greatly afraid (God forgive me)
I’d worship the eyes of his saints.”
Dryden. Epilogue to “Constantine the Great.”
“Th’ original Trimmer, though a friend to no man,
Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman,
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer,
And, which was more than mortal man e’er tasted,
One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lasted,
To burn for this may surely be forgiven,
Who’d not be circumcised for such a heaven?”
LITTLE’S POEMS.
“Weep on, and as thy sorrows flow
I’ll taste the luxury of woe.”
Langhorne. Precepts of Conjugal Happiness
“For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at least the luxury of woe.”
Moore. Anacreon.
“When the sunshine of the bowl
Thaws the ice about the soul.”
Cawthorne.
“However, when the sprightly bowl
Had thaw’d the ice about the soul,”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“And when he said, Heaven rest her soul
Round the lake-like music stole,
And her ghost was seen to glide
Smiling o’er the fatal tide.”
Kirke White. Gondoline.
“The maid was seen no more; but oft
Her ghost is known to glide
At midnight’s silent, solemn hour
Along the ocean’s tide.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest
In the bosom of shade with the friends I love best;
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
This simile of friendly hearts blending together like waters is as old as
Sir John Suckling. Aglaura, act iv.
“Alas! we two
Have mingled souls more than two meeting brooks.”
Dryden. All for Love, act iii., sc. 3.
“We were so closed within each other’s breasts,
The rivets were not found that join’d us first,
That does not reach us yet,—we were so mixt
As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost.”
Wilson. City of the Plague, act iii. sc. 3.
“We shall die
Like two glad waves, that, meeting on the shore
In moonlight and in music melt away
Quietly mid the quiet wilderness.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“My only book
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they’ve taught me.”
John Heywood. Of a most noble Ladye.
“The vertue of her looks
Excels the precious stone,
Ye need none other books
To read or look upon.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go tell our invaders, the Danes,
That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.”
Addison. Cato, act ii. sc. 1.
“A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill’d;
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will.
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.”
Sir John Suckling. Brennoralt, act v.
“Thou motion’st well, nor have I taken leave.
It keeps a sweetness yet, [Kisses her].
As stills from roses when the flowers are gone.”
Philip Massinger. Roman Actor, act iv. sc. 2.
“But that thou, whom oft I’ve seen
To personate a gentleman, noble, wise,
Faithful and gainsome, and what virtues else
The poet pleases to adorn you with;
But that (as vessels still partake the odour
Of the sweet precious liquors they contain’d)
Thou must be really in some degree
The thing thou dost present.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.”
James Mervyn. On Shirley’s Plays.
“They might, like waters in the sunshine set,
Retain his image, not impart his heat.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this.”
Sir William Jones.
“The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flowers see but one moon.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“Though dark are our sorrows to-day, we’ll forget them,
And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in showers.”
Sir E. Brydges. Restituta, vol. ii. p. 337.
“Golden storms
Fell from their eyes, as when the sun appears;
And yet it rains, so shew’d their eyes their tears.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“I flew to her chamber, ’twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;
Ah, would it were death and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbb’d to a proud rival’s kiss.”
Thomas Heywood. A Woman Killed with Kindness. Grief of Frankford after discovering his wife’s infidelity.
“Nic. Master, here’s her lute flung in a corner!
Frank. Her lute! Oh, God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have ran quick division,
Swifter than that which now divides our hearts.
* * * Oh, Master Cranwell!
Oft hath she made this melancholy wood
(Now mute and dumb, for her disastrous change)
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain,
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!”
These are specimens of Moore’s rogueries; and now having heard them, will you not agree with me in the propriety of addressing him with the same compliment which Homer pays to Mercury.—
“Immortal honour awaits thee, oh, Thomas Little! for thou shalt be known to all posterity as the chief of thieves.”
