Algernon Charles Swinburne’s Question
AND
THE ANSWER.
1887.
Shall England consummate the crime
That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves
No surety for the trust of thieves?
Time pleads against it—truth and time—
And pity frowns and grieves.
The hoary henchman of the gang,
Lifts hands that never dew nor rain
May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again,
Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang
Thrills his pure heart with pain.
Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew,
The good grey recreant quakes and weeps,
To think that crime no longer creeps
Safe toward its end: that murderers too,
May die when mercy sleeps.
While all the lives were innocent
That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage,
Bland virtue sighed, “A former age
Taught murder: souls long discontent
Can aught save blood assuage?
“You blame not Russian hands that smite
By fierce and secret ways the power,
That leaves not life one chainless hour;
Have these than they less natural right
To claim life’s natural dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance: why should we,
Whom equal laws acclaim as free,
Think shame, if men too blindly brave
Steal, murder, skulk, and flee?
“At kings they strike in Russia: there
Men take their life in hand who slay
Kings: these, that have not heart to lay
Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair
Is made the patriot’s prey.
“These, whom the sight of old men slain
Makes bold to bid their children die,
Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie,
Claim loftier praise: could others deign
To stand in shame so high?
“Could others deign to dare such deeds
As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay,
But justice then makes plain our way:
Be laws burnt up like burning weeds
That vex the face of day.
“Shall bloodmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold
Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold
Bloodless and blameless: ever thus
Have good men held of old.
“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies,
Takes flight by night where murder lurks,
And broods on murderous ways and works,
Yet seems not hideous in our eyes
As Austrians or as Turks.
“Be it ours to undo a woful past,
To bid the bells of concord chime,
To break the bonds of suffering crime,
Slack now, that some would make more fast;
Such teaching comes of time.”
So pleads the gentlest heart that lives,
Whose pity, pitiless for all
Whom darkling terror holds in thrall,
Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives
Alms of warm tears—and gall.
Hear, England, and obey; for he
Who claims thy trust again to-day,
Is he who left thy sons a prey
To shame whence only death sets free;
Hear, England, and obey.
Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch;
Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave,
To death forlorn and sure he gave;
Nor now requires he overmuch
Who bids thee dig thy grave.
Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein
Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie;
Put thought of aught save terror by,
To strike and slay the slayer is sin;
And Murder must not die.
Bind fast the true man; loose the thief;
Shamed were the land, the laws accursed,
Were guilt, not innocence, amerced;
And dark the wrong and sore the grief,
Were tyrants too coerced.
The fiercest cowards that ever skulked,
The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped
Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped,
And justice claimed their lives for mulct,
Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.
Bow down for fear, then, England: bow,
Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear
That nought save pity, conscience, care
For truth and mercy, moves thee now
To call foul falsehood fair.
So shalt thou live in shame, and hear
The lips of all men laugh thee dead;
The wide world’s mockery round thy head
Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier
Shall be thine honour’s bed.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
The Daily Telegraph. April 29, 1887.
1887.
Shall England shirk the task sublime
That Justice to her honour leaves,
Of blotting out a shame that grieves
Her soul, because in raving rhyme
Slander a songster weaves?
The furious fugler of the gang
His rabid epithets may rain
On that grey head in vain, in vain,
Though England’s heart may feel a pang,
And England’s pride a stain.
Great shrieker of the shrieking crew,
The lyric recreant raves and rails
At Justice, who adjusts her scales,
At last, at last, for Erin too,
His fire of freedom fails.
When Italy was militant
For liberty, his muse could rage
In rolling rhetoric page on page,
His poet bosom swell and pant
With wrath—which songs assuage.
But blame not British hands that smite
Their brethren in fierce pride of power,
Leave Ireland not one chainless hour.
Is ruling not our native right,
Our Heaven-appointed dower?
“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free
In other lands may strike; but we
Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave
Our wrath, must cease to be.
At kings they strike in Russia; there
Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay
Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway
Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair,
He is no patriot’s prey.
Those whom the thought of fathers slain,
Of roofless children doomed to die
Starved, maddens by its memory—
These poets pardon not, nor deign
To lift a lyric sigh.
A sigh of pity for such deeds
As hapless Ireland harass? Nay,
Justice shall not make straight our way
Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds
All who dare disobey.
Shall soulmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold,
Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold
Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus,
Lest British Mammon scold.
Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies,
The tale of suffering blurs and burkes,
Hides his own murderous ways and works.
Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes—
In Russians, or in Turks.
What, prate about a shameful past?
Ask who began the tale of crime?
Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime?
The patriot poet in full blast
Shall brand you to all time.
So raves the fieriest bard that lives,
Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall,
Set to rich music’s rise and fall,
So nobly rang one half forgives
This recreant mud and gall.
Hear, England, and be sad; for he
Who peals this palinode to-day,
The oppressor once could scathe and flay.
Shame that his muse no more is free
When England blocks the way.
Our sore no patriot hand must touch
Even for healing: song shall rave
Against the Statesman old, but brave
Who dares—where youth, craven o’ermuch,
Shrinks—the sharp strokes that save.
Beware that grave of shame wherein
His fame, his honour—by a lie
Put with false lyric fervency—
You fain would thrust. His cause shall win,
His glory shall not die.
You voice their virulence—whose sheaf
Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst,
Fall blunt and harmless—you, the first
Of lyric freemen, once the chief
Of patriots? Fate accurst!
Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked
’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped
By patriot shams; you jingo-capped,
Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked
Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped
In chorus long; but will you bow
To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear
Her noblest champion? Have a care!
The fading laurels round your brow
Slander shall not make fair.
At least you have our Answer. Hear!
Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead,
Nor your fierce mockery bow his head
At whom fools shriek in hate and fear,
And despots howl in dread.
From The Daily News. April 30, 1887.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
On [page 93] a parody of the above song, entitled The Fine Old Standard Tragedy, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared in Albert Smith’s Town and Country Miscellany. The author of the parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was originally published in The Month for October, 1851, a small magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. The Month only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, The Month was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular amongst University men about 1845; the author’s name is not known.
The Fine Young English Gentleman.
I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate,
Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate,
But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate,
And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late,
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair,
And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for wear,
For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking there,
And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t care;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell,
Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some first-rate belle;
Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel,
Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well;
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say,
Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very gay;
And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next day;
And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten,
He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then;
And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely hold his pen;
But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!”
Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly,
And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the reason why;
And this good young man replies to him—for, he “scorns to tell a lie”—
That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of his memory!
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else intervenes.
And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as deans;
And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like bricks and beans;”
And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression means
A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.
Anonymous (about 1845.)
The Old English Publican.
I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before,
About an English publican who lived in days of yore,
The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door,
His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store,
The fine old English publican, who served in olden times.
Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees,
The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease;
’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to please,
’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like these.
The fine, &c.
They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack,
And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack:
Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track,
And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack,
The fine, &c.
You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease,
Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease;
And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please,
Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze.
The fine, &c.
You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free;
Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee;
No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see.
No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea.
The fine, &c.
I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land
May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand
To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band,
And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand.
For the fine, &c.
Anonymous (written about 1820.)
A Fine Old Heavy Villain.
Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age,
When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage;
Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain,
What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain,
When a fine old heavy villain
Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years,
The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears,
Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore,
He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore
All the fine old heavy villains
Of the Drama’s palmy days.
Lines in “Deep Red Rover,” an O’piratic burlesque, by Westmacott Chapman.
The Fine Old Common Councilman.
I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state,
Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great,
But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate,
Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.
His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows,
Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows,
And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes,
And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money goes?”
Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall,
And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and all.
And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way about,
And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him hout,’
Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.
Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to claim,
But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same,
And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne entrench
Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French,
Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.
But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called The Times,
Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes;
And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall,
They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would fall,
Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown,
When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put down,
Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown,
And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown,
These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.
The Month. August, 1851.
A Variety of Vicars.
Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date,
Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate,
Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate,
And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the great,
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed;
His house was ever open wide to all that were in need;
And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed;
And little children by the hand with loving care to lead;
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave,
Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave,
To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave,
And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave
Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!
But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see.
He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree,
And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be,
Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry,
Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete,
And rarely do you see his form about the village street;
His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet,
And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet
This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!
But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find
Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind!
And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined,
To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined,
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time.
He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes,
And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows;
But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes,
To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose;
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time!
The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim,
Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name;
And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became,
Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame;
Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent,
And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent—
That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event,
For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent,
Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
* * * * *
Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree:
They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be;
And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see,
They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea,
Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time!
Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low,
They all unite to hold their own against the common foe;
Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse glow,
Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow,
From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure,
In order that the masses may its services secure.
Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor,
From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure,
As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time!
* * * * *
(Seven verses omitted.)
Truth. November 5, 1885.
MY NELLIE’S BLUE EYES.
My Nellie’s eyes are blue,
Hair of bright and golden hue,
Like her eyes, her heart is true,
My Nellie my own!
Never reigned a queen more fair,
Who with Nellie could compare,
By her side my life I’d share,
My Nellie my own!
Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower
Half so sweet or rare a flower—
With my Nellie hour by hour,
My Nellie my own!
Chorus.
My Nellie’s blue eyes,
My Nellie’s blue eyes,
Bright as the stars that shine above,
My Nellie’s blue eyes.
* * * * *
The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern times, Two Lovely Black Eyes.
Two Lovely Black Eyes;
or, No more Politics for me.
Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,
This gay youth you might have seen,
Tompkins and I with his girl between;
Oh, what a surprise!
I praised the Conservatives frank and free,
Tompkins got angry so speedilee,
All in a moment he handed to me,
Two lovely black eyes.
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
Next time I argued I thought it best,
To give the Conservative side a rest,
The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed,
When oh, what a surprise!
The chap I had met was a Tory true,
Nothing the Liberals right could do,
This was my share of that argument too,
Two lovely black eyes!
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt,
Never on politics rave and shout,
Leave it to others to fight it out,
If you would be wise.
Better, far better, it is to let
Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet,
Unless you’re willing and anxious to get
Two lovely black eyes!
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh, what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr. Edmund Forman, and it is published by Francis Bros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.
“Two Lovely Black Eyes” created such a furore at the Trocadero Music Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened “The Trocadero Anthem,” and on February 8, 1887, The Pall Mall Gazette gave an account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as to the origin of the song.
“Oh, what a Surprise!”
“It was a fluke; in fact, I may say ‘a surprise.’ Such things generally are. ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ is a parody of an American song of which the chorus is ‘Nellie’s Lovely Blue Eyes.’ The air is the same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the Trocadero, long before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed ‘Nellie’s Blue Eyes,’ and thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the ‘blue’ eyes. I thought they would appreciate ‘black’ more. So I get my chorus—’Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ That is always my starting point. I had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So I got the first line:—
‘Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,’
Who? Why,
‘This gay youth you might have seen,’
You see, ‘seen,’ ‘green?’ Then you would naturally meet some one. I met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with ‘seen’ and ‘green,’ so I gave Tompkins a young lady:—
‘Tompkins and I with his girl between.”
I had written ‘Harry’ at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me ‘two lovely black eyes’? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming home in the train.” And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn will introduce into his patter. “I have sung it about one thousand times in English, French, and German,” and the popular comic gave me some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and his accent is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and German renderings:—
“Deux beaux yeux noirs,
Oh ciel! quel horreur,
Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort
Deux beaux yeux noirs.”
“Zwei Augen so schwartz,
Ach, ist dass ein Spass?
Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt,
Zwei Augen so schwartz!”
“I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. But the song has been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would like the chorus. But when I came to the ‘Trocadero’ I was a little doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor, and if he had said ‘yes’ I should have changed it at once. It is my principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice.”
Oh, What a Surprise!
The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.[27]
Air—“Two Lovely Black Eyes.”
Down at the House, in the days that have been,
This grave sage you might often have seen,
Harcourt and I, and the Chief between,
But oh, what a surprise!
I joined the Conservatives frank and free;
Gladstone got angry right speedilee,
All in a jiff to see G. J. G.
Rat to the To-ries.
Chorus.—I join the To-ries?
Oh, what a surprise!
Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong
To join the To-ries.
When to resign Randolph thought it was best,
The Chancellorship upon me was press’d.
A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed.
When oh, what a surprise!
A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true,
Less than a million, but what did I do?
By a neat little dodge made it more than two!
That opened their eyes!
Chorus.—Revenue on the rise!
Oh, what a surprise!
Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished;
Loud cheered the To-ries!
Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout?
Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt,
But the Tories may leave me to fight it out;
In that they’ll be wise.
Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt;
Penny off Income Tax—good bait, you bet,
Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get
That little surprise.
Chorus.—Long it has been on the rise.
Ah! what a surprise!
Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong?
This is penny-wise!
Working men’s ’baccy tax—give that a wipe,
Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe
Friend of the “Masses,” put that in your pipe,—
Ain’t that a surprise?
Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art.
Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart.
’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?—for a start,
With my new allies.
Chorus.—Give ’em a fall, not a rise!
Oh! what a surprise!
As for Retrenchment—well that in the sweetest
Of “sweet By-and Byes!”
Punch. April 30, 1887.
UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.
Gipsy Glee.
The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wildfire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos’d is every flower,
And waking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken,
Shrink on their murky way,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof, nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow,
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
Joanna Baillie.
A Seasonable Glee.
(To be sung in bed on any Frosty day.)
With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone,
My boot is on the tree;[28]
The weather out of doors this morn
(With a shiver.)
Is cold as charity.
(With several shivers.)
Is co-o-o-o-old as charity.
The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen-
-der with its steel array-ay-ay,
-der-with its steel array,
-der with it’s steel array.
(Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.)
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day.
Beneath the blankets full three deep
All snuggled up I cower,
All snuggled up I cower,
Above the counter-pane I peep
To see what is the hour,
To see what is the hour.
My watch I find says half-past ten,
Then dow-ow-own myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay.
(To the Footman.)
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day;
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day.
Some friends drop in to ask me “how
I am” (pray shut the door);
Drop in! Their frost is melting now,
And deluging the floor,
And de-lu-ging the floor!
“Get up!” No! no! I trust them when
They say ’tis an ice day,
They say ’tis an ice day.
They say ’tis an ice day.
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may;
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may!
(Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time.)
Punch. January 16, 1864.
There was a short political parody, of the same song, in Punch for August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.
Chant of Small Critics.
In the Royal Academy.
The Private Day and Feast are gone,
The public comes to see,
The poor Rejected grunt and groan.
Nor speak with charity.
The shillings flood the porter’s den,
The Red Star sheds its ray,[29]
Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.
Now for the witticisms cheap,
That sting with knat-bite power:
The sentence based on hasty peep,
And visit of an hour:
Bewildered boobies (nine in ten)
Admire our sportive way:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.
Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow,
The wolf he keeps from door,
The pale wife’s timid trust that, now,
His work shall swell their store?
Let’s scare his hope and chance again,
As boys pelt boys in play:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
And slang him as ye may.
Shirley Brooks. 1867.
Our Opening Day.
(Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen
at St. Stephen’s.)
The Ins and Outs from rest are back,
The Speaker’s in his chair.
The talk-mill now resumes its clack,
As birds begin to pair.
The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen,
Wit’s bow is strung to slay.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c.
Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake,
Unclosed are Tory’s eyes;
The morning papers now will make
Less room for fads and lies.
Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten
Once more will plod their way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c.
The Cloture’s power own we now
To silence faction’s jaw;
Pat shall not raise eternal row,
In spite of taste and law.
Home-legislation looms in ken,
England shall have her day.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
And use it as ye may!
Chorus:—
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men!
Uprouse ye then, I say!
Fill up your horns, and let the glen
Resound with echoes gay!
The hunt is up,
Brim high the cup,
Big game we’ll bring to bay.
Uprouse ye then,
My merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
Punch. February 17, 1883.
TO BE THERE.
Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song.
Now I have been a warm ’un in my time,
I have drank and been in rows by the score,
But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge,
And vowed that I would do so never more.
’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew,
That never, hardly ever, say sware;
The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice,
So I know what it is to be there.
When first I saw this very happy band,
They were singing hymns and preaching in the street,
A lady came and shook me by the hand,
And whispered words of piety so sweet;
I squeezed her little fingers rather tight,
And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair,
But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home,
You will know what it is to be there.
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
I very soon began to preach and prate,
And with the sisters played some funny pranks,
I was so good at nobbing with the plate,
They soon made me a Captain of the ranks;
And often when our meetings were dispersed,
With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer,
I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea,
For I knew what it was to be there.
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife,
And often sigh for liberty once more,
She leads me such a very wretched life,
And with the poker warms me on the floor;
She summoned me before the beak one day,
Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair,
Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell,
So I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
Encore Verses.
I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed,
Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs,
I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t succeed,
And so at last I took to sucking eggs;
My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got,
He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square,
And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin,
For I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
To Epsom I went down one Derby day,
And thought that I should have a jolly spree,
When a fellow came and wanted me to pay,
He said he backed the winning horse with me;
I told him I had never made a bet,
When a crowd got round and soon began to swear,
And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose,
Oh, I knew what it was to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs. Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.
——:o:——
THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.
A Parody of Jack’s Yarn.
’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn,
On which he’d been a blowing all the way;
He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan,
A going to Rye House to spend the day.
For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife,
But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain,
For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame,
So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!
When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay.
He showed us where his face and neck were scored;
When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy,
Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed!
And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run,
Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he;
’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell,
I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.
(Chorus.)—Singing, &c.
Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags,
Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree,
The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned,
And so the poor old snip was free.
So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife,
And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee.
All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again,
That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!
THE GUNPOWDER PLOT
I sing a doleful tragedy,—
Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters,
Who once blew up the House of Lords,
The King, and all his Ministers;
That is, he would have blown them up,
(And folks will ne’er forget him,)
His will was good to do the deed,—
That is, if they’d have let him!
Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!
He straightway came from Lambeth side,
And wished the State was undone,
And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge,
That way came into London:
That is, he would have come that way,
To perpetrate his guilt, sirs,
But a little thing prevented him—the bridge it wasn’t built, sirs!
Then sneaking through the dreary vault,
With portable gas light, sirs,
About to touch the powder train
At witching hour of night, sirs;
That is, I mean, he would have used
The gas, but was prevented,
’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time,
It had not been invented!
Now, James, you know, was always thought
To be a very sly fox,
So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault,
And there they found poor Guy Fawkes;
For that he meant to blow them up,
I think there’s little doubt, sirs,
That is, I mean, provided he
Had not been found out, sirs.
And when they caught him in the fact,
So very near the Crown’s end,
They straightway sent to Bow Street,
For that brave old runner, Townsend;
That is, they would have sent for him,
For fear he was no starter at,
But Townsend wasn’t living then—
He wasn’t born till after that!
So then they put poor Guy to death,
For ages to remember,
And boys now kill him once a year
In dreary dark November;
That is, I mean his effigy,
For truth is strong and steady,
Poor Guy, they cannot kill again,
Because he’s dead already!
Then bless her gracious Majesty
And bless her royal son, sirs,
And may he never get blown up
(That is, if she gets one, sirs)
And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign,
So prophecies my song, sirs,
And if he don’t, why then he won’t,
And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!
(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a much earlier date.)
New Lamps for Old Ones.
In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history,
A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery;
And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold ones.
The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”
Buy—Buy—Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,”
Buy—Buy—Buy.
Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity,
He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity;
That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one,
And he thought a sounding one of brass might bring him in a gold one.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
So, even in the present day, in almost every nation,
Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation,
They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings hovering,
And many are so fond of change, they cannot keep a Sovereign.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.”
“The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election;
With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones,
But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;”
They put the Whig small candles out, and introduced their mould ones;
But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the business,
They only splutter, and waste away, with a dismal, dizzy dizziness.
Buy—Buy—Buy,
“New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy—buy.”
In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging,
So they threw away a Louis[30] for a brass one from a dungeon.
But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring,
It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for Cooking and for Firing.
Buy—Buy—Buy,
The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.
In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and Pious Nino goosed, too;
The wily Pontiff said such a mass he wasn’t used to;
He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite glittering,
But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit again.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying,
“New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying;
But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir,
You’re ruined Muttons after all, all through the Golden fleece, Sir.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re in,
They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were in hearing (Erin);
They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished.
But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.
Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for glitter,
But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter,
And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one?
So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old one.
Don’t—Buy—Buy,
“New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.
J. A. Hardwick. About 1852.
The Unconscious Guy Fawkes; or, in the Wrong Cellar.
(On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.)
I sing a song of foolishness, of Guy Faux, chief of sinisters,
Who fain would blow the Commons up, the Premier and his Ministers:
That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it;
Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.
A sort of Guido Faux pour rire he seems for all his swaggering,
Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering,
That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile,
But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.
Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility,
At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility.
That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently
Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.
If you should call him Guy Faux, he’d deny it quite indignantly.
None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly.
That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive
About them he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.
But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous,
Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious.
That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates,
Though everybody—more or less—his rigid rule abominates.
His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure,
Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure.
That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation,
At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.
And so—and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him,
Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him.
That is, the game is worth a try, and—well—if not a bit of him.
Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.
The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted
To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.”
That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar,
But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got into the wrong cellar!
It is the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under,
And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder,
That is, they may in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter;
But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.
Punch. November 8, 1884.
A Bradlaugh Ballad.
I sing a comic-tragedy,
Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist,
Who once dethroned Victoria,
And stamped out every loyalist;
That is, he would have changed our rule,
That folks might ne’er forget him,
His will was good to do the deed,
That is—if they’d have let him.
With his bow, wow, wow,
B. the Bashful at the helm,
The Queen B. at the prow.
He marched his mob to Palace Yard,
Stalked right up to the Speaker,
Prostrated all the Treasury Bench,
Turned Brand into a squeaker;
That is, he fully meant to make
This brilliant coup de grace, sir,
But Bobbies don’t like rowdies,
So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir,
With his row, row, row.
He laid about him with the mace,
Sent statesmen sprawling left and right,
Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne
A ha’pennyworth of dynamite;
That is, he would have blown ’em up
(In metaphor, I mean, sir)
If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick,
But he wasn’t quite so green, sir.
Not just now—ow—ow.
When he’d made the Peerage disappear,
The Queen an abdicator,
He made the Chanc’llor his cashier,
And dubbed himself Dictator;
Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain,
Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,”
There’s something in’t,—but hopelessness
Of winning made him funky.
Bow—ow—ow.
He gave himself the Church’s spoils,
Crown lands to the Residuum,
Re-named our loved Victorian Realm,
The Republic of Besantium;
That is, he would this tribute pay,
To woman’s worth and station,
But the People’s will did sore confound
This moral combination.
Somehow—ow—ow.
And as for those Allegiance Oaths,
Let them remain he wouldn’t;
The poor must have no children,
Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;—
That is, he thought it just as well
The Statute Books to wipe out,
But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him,
And Juries put his pipe out,
And his yow—ow—ow.
He confiscated all the wealth,
That spoiled the upper classes,
But did not share it with his mob,
Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;”
That is, he feared that lucre might
Pollute the people’s mind, sir,
But then he never got the power,
Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir.
Bow—ow—ow.
And so, of ill-got property,
The rich he’d disencumber,
To secure the greatest benefit
For the greatest number;
That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk,
If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!”
For they guessed his greatest number might
Perhaps, be Number One, sir,
With his bow, wow, wow, sirs.
You can’t make silken purses from
The best ears of a sow, sirs.
Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, by Ion. London: Houlston & Sons.
A Damp Water Party.
I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir,
All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir,
That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to get, sir;
But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet, sir!
Oh! dear, oh!
Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?
At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables,
The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables;
That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir,
But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in your glass, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard,
And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered;
That is, there would have been had they been laid within the house, sir,
But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh &c.
Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was there,
And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there;
That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to get, sir,
But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was ended,
They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s splendid!”
That is, they would have said so, but—to use a vulgar name, sir—
The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
* * * * *
(Three verses omitted.)
And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the night, sir,
And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining bright, sir;
So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather, sir,
To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir,
So, be it so,
For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!
From Medley; by Cuthbert Bede, author of Verdant Green. London: J. Blackwood.
Home Rule all Round.
The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers,
’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the Sinisters,
A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical.
Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national,
The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational
A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety,
By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation,
Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation;
’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet ’em,
And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity,
For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community.
Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call;
But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is
The only thing to care about—therein our sole affiance is.
None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption
Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.
Punch. July 10, 1886.
The G.O.M. Fox.
I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir,
Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes, sir;
That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority,
But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority.
Bow, wow, wow!
What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now?
He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation,
His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the nation;
That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are ’cute, sir,
Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir,
And England—it is she who pays—there’s not the slightest doubt, sir;
That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it,
But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power,
All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower;
That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the starting won
But for his lack of openness—and Chamberlain and Hartington.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.
John Lowress.
The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.
THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.
Recitative.
Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain!
Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again,
A mimic voice repeats the name around,
And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.
Air.
A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me,
As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d;
The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me,
And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Blowsabel.
Recitative.
Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain,
Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again;
Her horrid voice repeats my name around,
And with her bawling all the streets resound.
Air.
A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me,
As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed;
The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me,
And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest.
Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,—
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes,
The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head;
My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses,
If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed;
No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,—
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
(The same volume contains another parody, entitled Raw Lobsters, which is vulgar, and not funny.)
The Victim of Love.
Recitative.
Angelina, my chickabiddy!
I calls upon Angelina! Angelina!
A bobby hears, and says “Move on!”
His comic voice repeats the name around,
And with “Angelina” all the streets resound!
Air.
A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney,
In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest,
This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me,
Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!
Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied,
“This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.”
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.
Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen,
You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls,
You shall ever wear the thingamys and your dear crinoline
Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls;
“Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool,
I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love.
Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes,
My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,”
But all that she did was to turn up her nose,
And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court.
Like a blighted young flower expire I shall,
For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.
Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.
The Song of the Seedy Common-Councillor
after a Week’s Festivities.
A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me,
As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed;
The able man paused on his way to accost me,
And proffered advice that would give me some rest.
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
“Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes;
I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head.
The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses,
And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.”
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”
Punch. July 3, 1886.
Paddy Flinn!
Recitative.
Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain
Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain
The dirty children mock me all around
And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound!
Air.
Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking,
I met near the bog at the end of the town;
He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking,
He was after knocking me up, but I knocked the varmint down.
’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at?
Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye flat,
And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again,
There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn.
So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling,
And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:—
Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling,
In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you.
But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in,
Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn.
J. W. Burden.
The Pilgrim of Hate.
(A popular song, sung by Mr. Chamberlain in Scotland and elsewhere.)
Recitative.
Chamberlain, my beloved!—he calls in vain.
Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again.
A grand old voice repeats the name around,
And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound.
Air.
A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me,
As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed;
The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me,
And offered—a sell!—in his Cabinet rest.
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait;
No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
“Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes;
Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head.
You’ll not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes?
Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.”
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with that bait.
No rest under you for the Pilgrim of Hate.”
Punch. April 30, 1887.
THE VICAR OF BRAY.
In good King Charles’s golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high Churchman I was,
And so I got preferment:
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn’d are those that do resist,
Or touch the Lord’s anointed.
And this is law I will maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James obtain’d the crown,
And Popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;
And had become a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, &c.
When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation’s grievance,
With this new wind about I steer’d,
And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When gracious Anne became our Queen,
The Church of England’s glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damned their moderation,
Although the Church in danger was
By such prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When George in pudding-time came o’er,
And moderate men look’d big, sir,
I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured,
From our new faith’s defender;
And almost every day abjured,
The Pope and the Pretender.
And this is law, &c.
Th’ illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant Succession;
To these I do allegiance swear—
While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty;
I never more will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be—
Until the times do alter.
And this is law, &c.
“The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature,” was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: “Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.”
In a note in Nichols’ Select Poems, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that The song of the Vicar of Bray “is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller’s regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.
As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories. According to one authority, “Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray,” became rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, in the City of London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, “I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies, takes no notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was Simon Alleyn or Allen, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take.”
Camden, in his Britannia, says of Alleyn: “This is he of whom is the proverb, ‘The Vicar of Bray still.’” The song however, refers to an entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and lasting until “the illustrious House of Hanover.” There was a Vicar of Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.
The Court Chaplain.
When Pitt array’d the British arms,
To check the Gallic ferment,
I spread the regicide alarms,
And so I got preferment;
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
“Reform is revolution,
“And damn’d are those that do assist
“To mend a Constitution.”
And this is law, I will aver,
Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir,
Whoe’er may be the Minister,
I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.
When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown
And peace came into fashion,
The lust of war I hooted down,
And puff’d pacification.
I vow’d the papists were agreed
To burn all honest men, sir:
And Methodism had been my creed—
But Pitt came in again, sir,
And this is law, &c.
When Grey and Grenville made the laws
For Britain’s tol’rant nation,
I took the cudgels for the cause
Of transubstantiation.
The Articles I made a joke,
(Finding I should not need ’em:)
And, Afric’s fetters being broke,
E’en grew a friend to Freedom.
And this is law, &c.
When Perceval advised our King,
(The Church of England’s glory)
My conscience was another thing,
For I had turn’d a Tory:
I cursed the Whigs, no more in place;
I damn’d their moderation,
And swore they shook the Church’s base,
By sinful toleration.
And this is law, &c.
Now that the Ministry relent,
And Erin’s sons look big, sir,
I feel a soft’ning sentiment,
Which makes me half a Whig, sir.
And thus preferment I procure,
In each new doctrine hearty—
Alike extol, neglect, abjure,
Pope, King, or Bonaparte.
At least ’tis law, &c.
The now prevailing politics,
The now administration,
On these allegiance do I fix—
While they can keep their station:
For in my faith and loyalty
I never more will falter,
To Liverpool and Castlereagh,
Until the times shall alter.
For thus I safely may aver,
However fools may sneer, sir,
That whoso be the Minister,
I must be Chaplain here, sir.
From Posthumous Parodies. London: John Miller. 1814.
Who’s Your Ratter?[32]
In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days,
When Tories were a faction,
We used his every word to praise,
And glorify each action.
To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d,
Their William was perfection,
And traitors those who dared resist,
Or move his bill’s rejection!
But this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
The People’s William lost his place,
And Dizzy was victorious;
The Tories we had called so base
Replaced the Liberals glorious.
But soon we found ’twould never do
To still support the latter;
We’d vow’d to do so, it is true,
But still that did not matter.
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
And see how well our “ratting” pays,
For Ministers are grateful,
And from their table drop some scraps
Enough to fill a plateful.
And when we up back stair-ways creep,
To Salisbury see, or Dizzy,
They rarely kick us down again,
Unless they’re very busy.
So this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
Another fight will soon begin,
And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir,
The Liberals will th’ elections win,
In that case we must hedge, sir.
For should the Tories have to yield,
They would no further use be;
Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield
Rare subject for abuse be!
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!
Truth Christmas Number. 1879.
Bradlaugh’s Bray.
In good Victoria’s palmy days,
When Chartism was prating,
I joined the Democratic craze,
And practised stump orating.
To teach my mob I never missed
That King-made law is bad law,
And damn’d be all who dare resist
The rise of righteous Bradlaugh.
For this is law, I will maintain,
Until my dying day, sir,
That over Parliament I’ll reign,
Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir.
When first my stump career began,
Rank heresy I spouted,
Belief in God as Lord of man,
As lunacy I scouted.
Disguised as great “Iconoclast,”
In wrangling I waxed foxy,
Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast,
And started my new ’doxy.
For this is The true faith, I swear,
Nor dare to say me nay, sir,
Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir,
And for his triumph bray, sir.
But finding Atheists weak and thin,
I sought a higher mission,
And found much greater profit in
The vending of sedition.
Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore,
They love a bright variety,
Which proved to me my forte was more
For politics than piety.
So this is law I do declare,
In this my trying day, sir,
That none shall judge me by my acts,
Nor yet by what I say, sir.
So down with Kings and Queens and Priests,
And Church and State and Pensions,
And up with Dilke’s Republic, and
My grand Freethought Conventions;
Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant—these
Are lights this dark world’s needing,
So up with population checks,
And down with all good breeding.
For if this had but been the law
In my good father’s day, sir,
One nuisance less of print and jaw,
Had not now blocked the way, sir.
Sometimes a nation’s destiny
By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir,
I found myself an M. P. by
M.P. rical harangues, sir,
And though my “lay” was strong and bold,
(For “takings” flowed in thereby)
The Crown I’d cursed—I’ll now uphold,
The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by!
For this should be the law, I say,
And shall do to my grave, sir,
A man may swear his soul away,
His path to power to pave, sir.
Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir,
And Protestant succession.
To each I will allegiance swear
(While they can keep possession),
So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer,
Have pity on my grievin’,
Please let me on that Bible swear
By Him I don’t believe in.
And when I’m Lord Protector, sir,
I’ll make the law to be, sir,
That whatsoe’er a man shall swear,
His conscience shall be free, sir.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet,
By Ion. London, Houlston & Sons.
The House of Lords.
When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate,
And sued for his divorce, sir,
He cast about, and found in us
His willing tools, of course, sir.
What for her grief? We laughed at that,
And left her in the lurch, sir,
While every one of us grew fat
By plunder of the Church, sir.
To hold a candle to Old Nick
Has ever been our way, sir,
And still we’ll play the self-same trick,
So long as it will pay, sir.
Two other queens that underwent
“The long divorce of steel,” sir—
Do you suppose that e’er we wept,
Or for their fate did feel, sir?
We only sought to please the King,
And his worst wishes further;
And gaily did our order join
In each judicial murther.
For us no trick was e’er too base,
No crime too foul to shock, sir,
Nor innocence availed to save
E’en women from the block, sir.
When Mary came with fire and stake
Poor pious folks to kill, sir,
No single protest did we make,
But let her work her will, sir;
But when the Church reclaimed her lands,
And looked for smooth compliance,
We quickly raised our armèd bands
And gave her bold defiance.
Thus did the Queen her error learn,
To think (how gross the blunder!)
That, though we let her rack and burn,
We’d e’er restore our plunder.
Elizabeth, the mighty Queen,
We quailed beneath her frown, sir,
With nought but fear and hate for one
So worthy of the crown, sir.
As abject traitors round her throne
We fulsome homage paid her,
Though more than half of us were known
To plot with the invader.
To her for ducal coronets
We never were beholden;
To us the days of “Good Queen Bess”
Were anything but “golden.”
When slobbering James of coin was short,
He baronets invented,
And to creating lords for gold
Right gladly he consented;
A handsome “tip” was all he asked
To make you duke or lord, sir—
No question ever of your worth,
’Twas what you could afford, sir.
To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,”
O, Lord! how fine it sounded!
And thus, by shelling out of cash,
Were noblest houses founded.
When Charles the First, the public right
To crush but now applies him,
And willing help he gets from us;
As friends we stand beside him.
His acts of tyranny and fraud
Scarce one of us opposes—
The fine, the prison, or the whip,
Or slitting people’s noses.
To curb the tyrant of his will
Was no way in our line, sir,
All human rights were forfeited,
And merged in “Right Divine,” sir.
The Second Charles just suited us,
We joined his lewd carouses,
And concubines became the source
Of many ducal houses.
And, as reward of services
That history rarely mentions,
You still enjoy the privilege
Of paying us the pensions;
And this we swear, by all that’s blue,
Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!”
That whatsoever we may do
You’ll never find us blush, sir.
In James’s Court we flourished still;
Like sycophants we vied, sir;
To be a royal mistress formed
Our daughters’ highest pride, sir;
For Whigs though tortures were devised,
Their legs with wedges broke, sir,
We ate and drank, and laughed and played,
But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.
For mingled cruelty and wrong
We never did upbraid him;
But when a paying chance came round,
Right quickly we betrayed him.
When William came, with righteous rule,
We proved but glum consenters;
The King we deemed was but a fool,
To tolerate Dissenters;
Whilst on his part his Majesty
Distrusted us with reason,
For ’gainst our chosen lord and king
We still kept plotting treason.
And so against all righteous things
We’ve struggled from the first, sir,
To vex and thwart the better kings,
And sided with the worst, sir.
In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33]
Gave notice to the foe, sir,
Against his port and arsenal
We aimed a warlike blow, sir;
And thus were lost, in dire defeat,
Eight hundred sailors bold, sir—
But what of that, when France’s bribe
Our “noble duke” consoled, sir?
Betrayal of the State’s designs
By this colossal traitor—
What wonder now the lordlings praise
His humble imitator!
With George the Third it was essayed
To purge our code from blood, sir,
But we the arm of mercy stayed,
Its efforts all withstood, sir;
To hang for e’en a paltry theft—
Though tempted sore by hunger—
Was God’s own justice, so it seemed
To every boroughmonger.
And so poor wretches, one or more,
At every fair or wake, sir,
Performed “the dance without a floor,”
Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.
Yet had the self-same laws been tried
On us without distinction,
Their action surely had implied
The peerage’s extinction.
But while the gallows we upheld,
“Offence’s gilded hand,” sir,
Had all our lordly acres swelled
With thefts of common land, sir.
While wicked prizes thus we claw,
And justice shove aside, sir
“Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,”
Has ever been our guide, sir.
When Pitt the Irish Parliament
Resolved to bring to London,
He had to buy their peer’s consent
Or else his scheme was undone,
So English coronets galore
Were scattered through their tribe, sir,
Besides a million pounds or more—
Their stipulated bribe, sir.
And by this opportunity
They drove their dirty trade, sir,
To show to all posterity
How lords and dukes are made, sir.
When Wesleyans and Baptists, too,
For right of education,
At public universities
Did press their application,
’Twas we their just demand refused—
Denied their common right, sir,
And all our special powers abused
To gratify our spite, sir.
When Jews to sit in Parliament
Had duly been elected,
’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door,
Their right to vote rejected.
On Railway Bills our conduct calls
For no detailed narration;
No line could pass our lands without
Outrageous compensation.
Like gorging vultures at the feast,
Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir,
Our blackmail figured, at the least,
One hundred million pounds, sir.
Of pay-triotism we’ll never tire,
For it we’ll live and die, sir,
And, if the reason you inquire.
We spell it with a y, sir.
In reason’s name or righteousness,
You vainly may reprove us,
For scorn, contempt, and threats possess
The only power to move us.
To mutilate, reject, delay,
Obstruct whene’er we dare it,
We’ll persevere in our old way
So long as you will bear it.
Of this be sure, until that day
Such things shall ne’er be mended,
Till million voices join to say,
“The House of Lords is ended!”
C. F.
The Weekly Dispatch. December 7, 1884.
There was another short parody of the same song in The Weekly Dispatch of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House of Lords, and concluded:—
“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end
In signal dissolution.”
The New Vicar of Bray.
(Mr. Gladstone Loquitur.)
In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment;
To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed
To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay, sir.
When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in fashion,
Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation.
The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution;
And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.
And this is law, &c.
When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance,
With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance,
Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance.
And this is law, &c.
When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory,
A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory.
The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation,
And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication.
And this is law, &c.
When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic,
I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic.
Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation;
Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation.
And this is law, &c.
When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir,
That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir;
So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution,
And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution.
And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir—
That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir.
S. H.
The Globe. March 24, 1886.
——:o:——
OLD TOWLER.
Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Hark! hark! tantivy!
This day a stag must die.
The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, &c.
Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
With a hey, ho, &c.
Anonymous.
This Day a Stag must Die.
(An imitation of “Old Towler.”)
The op’ning morn dispels the night,
Her beauties to display,
The sun breaks forth, in glory bright,
And hails the new-born day;
Diana like, behold me then
The silver arrow wield,
And call on horses, dogs, and men,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy,
Hark forward tantivy!
Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise,
This day a stag must die.
O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales,
The fleet-foot coursers fly,
Nor heed whate’er the sport assails,
Resolved a stag shall die!
Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move,
Such joys does hunting yield;
While Health a handmaid deigns to prove,
When huntsmen take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.
Thus virgins are by man pursued,
And beauty made his aim,
’Till, by his wily craft subdued,
He hunts for other game;
And since e’en life is but a race
We run till forced to yield;
Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.
Song of the Matchmaking Mamma.
Bright chandeliers the room adorn,
Each thing’s arranged with care,
And gayest smiles and silks are worn
This night to catch the Heir.
With a heigho! Letty!
Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty,
To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r—
To-night we hunt the Heir!
Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore,
We read it in your face;
If you’ll propose to one—no more
You’ll find us give you chase.
With a sigh from Letty!
Or forward, too forward Miss Betty!
No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir—
No more we’ll hunt the Heir!
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.
A Hunting Song.
(Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee.)
Our chance at Eyre we claim this dawn—
Our witnesses are sworn—
A new indictment we have drawn,
Despite the public’s scorn.
Dogged hither by a yelping throng,
The Governor draws nigh—
So raise the burden of our song—
“Peccavi” he must cry!
Chorus—With a hey, oh, levy
Subscriptions our victim to chevy.
Law charges heavy!
(Here comes a yelping of hounds.)
“Peccavi” he must cry.
* * * * *
Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er,
The judge has spoilt our case;
“A colony preserved” no more
Can we pronounce disgrace.
The jury no true bill returns,—
To cheer the public dare!
No gratitude our labour earns—
We can’t hunt down our (H)Eyre.
Chorus.—With a heigho, heavy
The legal expenses to levy!
Vain our chevy!
(Here the yelping grows faint),
“Peccavimus,” we cry!
Fun. June 13, 1868.
Humanity Hunting Song.
“Opening Meet of the Windsor Garrison Drag-hounds.—On Saturday, in miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting season…. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and Saturday) during the season.”—Morning Paper.
We’re going to have a glorious run,
This murk and mizzling morn.
Our Hunt inferior is to none,
Except not even the Quorn.
A substitute will, scent as strong
As Reynard’s own, supply.
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!
Chorus—
With a hey, ho, chivy;
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!
Because, although a herring red
May, like a fox, be tracked,
The Drag is absolutely dead
In point of literal fact.
Yet hounds and horses after go,
With huntsmen’s horns, and cry
Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!”
This day a Drag must die!
Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c.
A Drag’s as good to ride behind
As ever a fox’s tail,
Well drawn about, with turn and wind,
O’er many a hill and dale.
Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate,
The rider’s pluck will try,
As much as though ’twere true to state,
This day a Drag must die!
Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c.
Each man as much risks life or limb
As when a fox is slain;
The sport is all the same to him,
And we give no animal pain.
Humane excitement whilst we seek,
No victim in our eye;
Except as now, when so to speak,
This day a Drag must die!
Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c.
Note.—William Cobbett, in one of his charming works, tells a delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy’s vexation.
Punch. November 5, 1881.
——:o:——
OLD KING COAL.
(Air: “Old King Cole.”)
I.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“I’ll move the world,” quoth he;
“My England’s high, and rich, and great,
But greater she shall be!”
And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade,
And he call’d for his miners bold;
“And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth;
You’ll find my treasures better worth
Than mines of Indian gold!”
II.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
Yet not content was he;
And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired,
Though ’tis but one of three.”
And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire,
For smiths and workmen true:
“Come, build me engines great and strong;
We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long;
We’ll try what Steam can do.”
III.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“’Tis fairly done,” quoth he,
When he saw the myriad wheels at work
O’er all the land and sea.
They spared the bones and strength of men,
They hammer’d, wove, and spun;
There was nought too great, too mean, or small,
The giant Steam had power for all;—
His task was never done.
IV.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
Quoth he, “We travel slow;
I should like to roam the wide world round,
As fast as the wild winds blow.”
And he call’d for his skilful engineers;
And soon through hills and vales,
O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast,
The flying trains like lightning pass’d,
On the ribs of the mighty Rails.
V.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul is he;
May he never fail in the land we love,
Who has made us great and free!
While his miners mine, and his engines work,
Through all our happy land,
We shall flourish fair in the morning light,
And our name and our fame, and our might and our right,
In the front of the world shall stand!
Charles Mackay.
Queen Cole.
Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul
As any in this company;
And she loved the King more than anything
Else—but a green monkey.
So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,—
As in truth, very oft did he,—
If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars,
Why, a sly little drop took she,
Why, a sly, &c.
But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul,
Strange though the fact may be)
She scolded the King like anything,
For smoking of tobaccy!
Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe,
She hated it mortally;
And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out,
Oh! most confoundedly.
Oh! most confoundedly.
Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul,
So she sent for her pianists three;
When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping,
Such a very nimble chap was he.
While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist,
As no mortal e’er did see;
And never till now was there heard such a row
On one poor piano-forte.
On one poor piano-forte.
Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul,
And she sent for her singers three,
And she liked the notes from the musical throats
Of Grisi and Persiani.
But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit,
’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.”
Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown;
So very soon snubb’d was he.
Oh, very soon, &c.
This was all very well, but I must also tell
That she hated the secretary;
For he always would look in the royal cash-book;
Such an aggravating chap was he.
“Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters
Three pounds; bless me!
Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound
Tuppence-ha’penny!”
“Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!”
Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll,
Fulfilled her destiny;
That is to say, in a genteel kind of way,
She had a large family.
So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul,
And with a deep sigh said he,
“Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em,
For to fill my treasury.”
“For to fill, &c.”
But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul,
As you’d find on a summer’s day;
So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.”
“We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they.
“For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes,
Vich is longer than it ought for to be!”
But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle,
And her subjects they went tax free.
And her subjects, &c.
But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named,
How she mangled for the whole family;
So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the “browns,”
Just in time for their old country.
For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low,
And a very fierce attack made he;
And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows quite),
If he’d gain’d the victory.
If he’d gained, &c.
From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book. No date.
Old King Coal.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he;
And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl,
In green fat, callipash, callipee.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people,
What a wrong that this should be!
And there’s none whate’er that can compare
To the sons of gluttony.
Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he:
And the City of London eat up the whole,
By consent of the Powers that be.
This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people;
This must not, shall not be;
And we now declare we’ll no longer bear
Such a monstrous robbery!
Punch. November 29, 1851.
(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch’s virtuous indignation the City of London still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.)
Henry Cole, C.B.[34]
“We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C.B.!!
Gentle Public pity us!
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., deal gently with us.
Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don’t be too hard on us.
We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh! inexhaustible Cole, consume us not in thine ire!
What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own? Listen while we praise thee.
Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.
Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest man of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the most immaculate statesman of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.
Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., will you forgive us now?”
The Coming “Strife.”
Old King Cole was a savage old soul,
And a savage old soul was he;
Captain Coles was his intimate friend,
And almost as savage as he.
Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be,
“My friend you must lend me a turret ship
In which I can put to sea?”
Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see,
“For what do you want a turret ship,
And why sail o’er the sea?”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash,
The Ed. of the Tomahawkie?”
Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see;
“I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound,
Of the finest gunpowder tea!”
Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“If you’ll only lend me a turret ship,
I’ll soon annihilate he!”
The Tomahawk. September 7, 1867.
Young King Coal.[35]
New Version of an Old Song.
Young King Coal was a merry young soul,
And a merry young soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
There was Chamberlainini, and Hartingtonini,
And, Goscheni to make up the three;
For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o,
Very fond of a trio was he.
Young King Coal left his rivals in the hole,
When he took the Chancelle-rie
Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker,
They slanged him unmercifull-y.
So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad Part-y,
Young King Coal their old mantle stole,
And a very smart Rad made he.
Young King Coal loved “smoking” in his soul,
And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye,
And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master
Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try.
And our young King C., and his fiddlers three,
Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume,
Mr. Irving’s worst witch-riot in a Faust-scene’s clear and quiet,
To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.
Young King Coal he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three,
And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin,
And they all played a symphonee.
Chamberlainini and Goscheni played like Strauss and like Zerbini,
And then Harting-ton-i-ni
Played “God Save the Queen!” and the others all joined in,
In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.
Young King Coal he laid down his bowl,
And a dickens of a speech made he;
And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd,
And broke up the symphonee.
At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “This music can’t be for us,”
But as for those fiddlers three,
Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically fiddled,
And muttered “O, fiddlededee!”
Young King Coal still waves his pipe and bowl,
Though they reek of Rad flavour still.
Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light,
And blow up like a gunpowder-mill.
But as for the whole of the “principles” of Coal,
When he was a true Toree,
If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum,
Or the writings of Lord Salisburee.
Punch. December 4, 1886.
——:o:——
WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.
From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads.
When this old cap was new—
’Tis since two hundred year—
No malice then we knew,
But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays,
(Believe me, this is true)
Which was not in those days,
When this old cap was new.
The nobles of our land
Were much delighted then
To have at their command
A crew of lusty men;
Which by their coats were known,
Of tawny, red, or blue,
With crests on their sleeves shown,
When this old cap was new.
Now pride hath banish’d all,
Unto our lands reproach,
When he whose means are small
Maintains both horse and coach:
Instead of an hundred men,
The coach allows but two;
This was not thought on then,
When this old cap was new.
Anonymous, about 1666.
A Change of Style.
When this old hat was new
The railroad was a stage;
And a six-mile team
Made plenty of steam,
For the broadest kind of gauge.
You caught a goose when you wanted a pen,
The ink you used was blue;
And the women you loved didn’t want to be men
When this old hat was new.
A Spade was only a spade,
And Jennie was just plain “Jane”
For his impudent lip
A boy would skip
At the end of a rattan cane.
There were sixteen ounces in every pound,
Four quarts made a gallon true;
But things don’t seem as they used to be
When this old hat was new.
But we’ve shortened the time since then,
And we’re running a faster heat,
And the boys of ten
Are full-blown men,
Who run the store and the street.
We blush to giggle and we should smile;
We’re cute and we never say die;
We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile;
And we’re just too awfully fly;
And father is governor, old man, dad,
And his old day is gone;
We run things fast and a little bad,
Since we put this new hat on.
Robert Jones Burdette.
The Cincinnati Inquirer.
When This Old Joke was New.
When this old joke was new,
This time worn heritage,
The monkey-man its points did scan
On pre-historic page.
His footmark was the only print;
His leaves were leaves that grew;
The only tint was Nature’s tint
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
Our literature was scant,
And literateurs had no reviewers
With hearts of adamant;
No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring”
We had our tails it’s true,
But novels were’nt a general thing
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
We drew an easier breath;
For we had then no funny men
To make us long for death;
There was no Punch austere and flat,
To paint our faces blue;
They wouldn’t have tolerated that
When this old joke was new.
When this old joke was new,
We somehow hadn’t hit
That loss of shame which builds a “name”
On other people’s wit.
Perhaps folks were more honest then;
Had consciences a few,
And different from our race of men,
When this old joke was new.
Hal Berte,
The Detroit Free Press.
——:o:——
SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.
Said a Smile to a Tear,
On the cheek of my dear,
And beamed like the sun in spring weather,
In sooth, lovely Tear,
It strange must appear,
That we should be both here together.
I came from the heart,
A soft balm to impart,
To yonder sad daughter of grief:
And I, said the Smile,
That heart now beguile,
Since you gave the poor mourner relief.
Oh! then, said the Tear,
Sweet Smile, it is clear,
We are twins, and soft Pity our mother:
And how lovely that face
Which together we grace,
For the woe and the bliss of another!
James Kenney.
An amusing parody of this song, entitled The Loves of the Plants will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster. Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in this collection.
The Steak and the Chop.
Said a steak to a chop,
On a hook in a shop,
In the dog-days, and very hot weather,
“Dear chop, it is clear,
If we long tarry here,
We shall certainly melt both together.”
Said the chop from the chump,
To the steak from the rump,
“Unless there’s a change in the weather,
Lovely steak, I agree,
In a mess we shall be,
And be kitchen-stuff made both together.”
“Oh!” then, with a sigh,
Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!”
Said the steak to the chop with emotion,
“A long or short six,
In some save-all to fix,
Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”
Said a Fox to a Goose.
Said a fox to a goose,
(From a farm-house let loose)
And chanced to be pluming a feather,
“Dear goose, how d’ye do?
’Tis strange, and yet true,
That you and I meet here together!
Said the goose (with a stare),
“Mr. Fox, are you there?
And to see you indeed is a pleasure!
In truth I must say,
That your visit to-day,
Is really delight beyond measure!”
Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk,
And like friends so dear talk,
And never was seen finer weather.”
Says the goose, “Gander Grange
Has forbade me to range
Or else we would travel together.
Said the fox, “Let him be,
Take an airing with me,
And hear both the goldfinch and linnet!
On the love of a friend,
You can, goosy, depend,
And”—snapt off her head in a minute.
——:o:——
SONG.
(By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733.)
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart:
I, a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o’er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm’d in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia’s brows,
Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown’d.
Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
This mellifluous piece of nonsense was published in the Miscellanies of Alexander Pope, but it was also inserted amongst the poems of Dean Swift, where it was entitled A Love Song in Modern Taste. It ridiculed an affected style of poetry then much in vogue, and which continued in fashion for many years, culminating in the writings of a clique, known as the Della Cruscans, which was originated by a few English, of both sexes, assembled at Florence in 1785. They were named Della Cruscans because their leader, one Robert Merry, signed his trashy effusions as a member of the Acadamy Della Crusca at Florence. Merry wrote a tragedy, entitled Lorenzo, which was more successful than many comedies, for it made the audience laugh immoderately, besides innumerable poems long since forgotten. By a deliberate system of mutual puffing the Della Cruscans forced their absurd productions upon the public, and in the early years of the present century nearly every journal contained some of their poems, published over assumed names, such as Laura Maria, Edwin, Anna Matilda, &c. These were afterwards gathered into volumes, with a few poems by really able writers such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and published by subscription.
There is no knowing how long this twaddle might have held the public taste had not William Gifford (Editor of the Quarterly Review) produced his famous satires The Baviad, and The Maeviad, in which he mercilessly exposed the inflated nonsense written by the Della Cruscans; and by well chosen extracts from their poems turned the laugh so completely against them that they slunk back into their native obscurity.
Gifford’s satires are still read with pleasure, and the extracts given in the notes show that Pope’s nonsense verses were excelled by the would-be-serious Della Cruscans; as for example—
“Slighted love the soul subduing
Silent sorrow chills the heart,
Treach’rous fancy still pursuing,
Still repels the poisoned dart.
Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure
Pictur’d in the glowing breast,
Lavish of her sweetest treasure,
Anxious fear is charm’d to rest.
Fearless o’er the whiten’d billows,
Proudly rise, sweet bird of night,
Safely through the bending willows
Gently wing thy aery flight.”
When the brothers Smith projected their famous Rejected Addresses they included an imitation of the Della Cruscan poetry, entitled Drury’s Dirge, of which Lord Jeffery wrote “The verses are very smooth and very nonsensical—as was intended; but they are not so good as Swift’s celebrated song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.”
Drury’s Dirge.
BY LAURA MATILDA.[36]
“You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:
We want their strength, agreed; but we atone
For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.”—Gifford.
I.
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus’ summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
II.
Softly slept the dome of Drury,
O’er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto’s sister-fury,
Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.
III.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Cytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.
IV.
Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.
V.
See Erostratus the second
Fires again Diana’s fane;
By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,
Clouds envelope Drury Lane.
VI.
Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
Hand in hand reluctant dance:
While the God fulfils his mission,
Chivalry resign thy lance.
VII.
Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie,
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.
VIII.
See the bird of Ammon sailing,
Perches on the engine’s peak,
And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
Soothes them with its bickering beak.
IX.
Juno saw, and mad with malice,
Lost the prize that Paris gave:
Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice,
Mantling pours the orient wave.
X.
Pan beheld Patroclus dying,
Nox to Niobe was turn’d;
From Busiris Bacchus flying,
Saw his Semele inurn’d.
XI.
Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory,
Levell’d with the shuddering stones;
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans.
XII.
Hark! what soft Eolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.
XIII.
Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.
XIV.
Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.
XV.
Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part!
Horace Smith.
From The Rejected Addresses, 1812.
Album Verses.
By a Fond Lover.
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
Should these verses meet thine eye,
Clouds of absence soft dispelling,
Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
Trembles to the tuneful wave,
So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
Till it canopies the grave!
Though another’s smiles requited,
Envious fate my doom should be:
Joy for ever disunited,
Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft amid the spicy gloaming,
Where the brakes their songs instil,
Fond affection silent roaming,
Loves to linger by the rill—
There when echo’s voice consoling,
Hears the nightingale complain,
Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
Bind my soul in beauty’s chain.
Oft in slumbers deep recesses,
I thy mirror’d image see;
Fancy mocks the vain caresses,
I would lavish like a bee!
But how vain is glittering sadness!
Hark, I hear distraction’s knell!
Torture gilds my heart with madness!
Now for ever fare thee well!
From The Comic Latin Grammar by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh), illustrated by John Leech. London, David Bogue.
——:o:——
LORD LOVEL.
Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate,
Combing his milk-white steed,
When up came Lady Nancy Bell,
To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed,
Wishing her lover good speed.
“Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said),
Oh, where are you going?” said she;
“I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell,
Strange countries for to see, see, see,
Strange countries for to see.”
“When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she)
Oh, when will you come back?” said she.
“In a year or two, or three at most,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.”
But he had not been gone a year and a day,
Strange countries for to see,
When languishing thoughts came into his head,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see.
So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse,
Till he came to London town,
When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring,
And the people all mourning around, round, round,
And the people all mourning around.
“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said,
“Oh, what is the matter?” said he.
“A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said,
“And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
And some call her Lady Nancy.”
So he ordered the grave to be opened wide,
And the shroud to be turned down;
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips,
Till the tears came trickling down, down, down,
Till the tears came trickling down.
Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day,
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow;
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.
Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard,
Lord Lovel was laid in the choir,
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier,
And out of her lover’s a brier.
It grew and it grew to the church steeple top,
And then it could grow no higher;
So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot,
For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire,
For true lovers all to admire.
Fragment of a Bradlaughable Ballad.
He strode and he strode till he reached the landing,
And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher,
And there he saw Mister Inspector Denning,
Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire.
Suggesting that he should retire.
He tackled the Sergeant and his deputee,
A Messenger too in the Lobby,
When in came a lot of Constabularee,—
Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby—’obby—’obby;
But was collared too by that Bobby.
They fought and they tussled away down the stairs,
With many a gasp and a guggle,
And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers,
Lost his collar and tails in the struggle—’uggle—’uggle.
Lost his temper and tails in the struggle.
Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote,
Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler,
But as Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat,
’Tis a capital thing for his tailor—’ailor—’ailor,
A very good thing for the tailor.
Punch. August 13, 1881.
The Tale of Lord Lovell.
Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door,
Seeking the hole for the key;
His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore
A rent across either knee,
When down came the beauteous Lady Jane
In fair white draperee.
“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said:
“Oh, where have you been?” said she:
“I have not closed an eye in bed,
And the clock has just struck three.
Who has been standing you on your head
In the ash-barrel, perdee?”
“I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said:
“And so late it cannot be;
The clock struck one as I enter-ed—
I heard it two times or three;
It must be the salmon on which I fed
Has been too many for me.”
“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said:
“To the maritime cavalree,
To your grandam of the hoary head—
To any one but me.
The door is not used to be open-ed
With a cigarette for a key.”
The Tuneful Liar.
“Quips.” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.
Joe Muggins and Sally Bell.
Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door,
A-brushing down his black moke,
When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell,
And thus to her lovier she spoke—oke—oke—
And thus to her lovier she spoke.
Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said,
Oh! where are you going? said she.
I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt,
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey—key—key—
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey.
When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said,
When will you come back to me?
In an hour or two, or three at the most,
So get me a herring for tea—tea—tea—
So get me a herring for tea.
Now he had not been gone an hour or more,
To Smithfield, and sold his donkey,
When a thought of the herring came into his head
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he—he—he—
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he.
* * * * *
(Three coarse verses omitted.)
Lord Faddle’s Election for Bosh.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a,
And being tired of town and ennui
He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere,
A Parliament Member to be-e-e,
An honorable M.P. to be.
Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,”
Of his Tory friend, “W.B.”
It required, to get in for the City of Bosh,
And what the expenses might be-e-e,
And what the expenses would be.
Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,”
“You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly,
With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two,
Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree,
Or perhaps he may want, &c.”
Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend,
That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y;
Oh, dear, not at all!—not a shilling he’d spend,
But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry,
But what was quite, &c.
Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress
Pervading the coun-ter-y;
And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less,
Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree,
Than help the Electors so free.
Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide,
The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,”
And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied,
A few onion tears to roll down-own-own,
The crocodile tears to roll down.
He suddenly took a great interest in pigs,
The crops, and all kinds of manure;
Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs,
But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor,
That he was the real friend, &c.
Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow,
All got in the sun mer-ri-ly;
For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,”
They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly,
They kept up the game merrily.
’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots,
On a sudden, the Voters displayed;
And incredible, what a great number of suits
They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid,
They wore, for which, &c.
* * * * *
Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals beat,
But soon comes up petitions, to see
Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat,
For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y,
For treating, &c.
The Committee declare that corruption prevails,
But Lord Fitz didn’t know it—oh, no!
It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,”
That his four or five thousand did go-o-o,
That his four or five, &c.
Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day,
But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow;
And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray,
He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow,
He knows very well, &c.
So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails,
Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,”
And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails,
There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh,
That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.
——:o:——
THE BROWN JUG.
(From the Opera of the “Poor Soldier,” by J. O’Keeffe. The song itself is attributed to the Rev. Francis Fawkes, who imitated it from the Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)
Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale
(Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale),
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl.
In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And Time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug,
Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale,
So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.
“Dear Bill, This Stone-Jug.”
(Being an Epistle from Toby Cracksman, in Newgate, to Bill Sykes.)
Dear Bill, this stone-jug,[a] at which flats dare to rail,
(From which till the next Central sittings I hail)
Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole,
Where Macheath met his blowens, and Wylde floor’d his bowl.
In a ward with one’s pals,[c] not locked up in a cell,
To an old hand like me it’s a fam-ly[d]-hotel.
In the day-rooms the cuffins[e] we queer at our ease,
And at Darkman’s[f] we run the rig just as we please;
There’s your peck[g] and your lush, hot and reg’lar, each day.
All the same if you work, all the same if you play.
But the lark’s when a goney[h] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our lurks, our flash-putter,[j] and smut;
But soon in his eye nothing green will remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s quodded,[k] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[l]
But here comes a cuffin—which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is screevin’[m] to pals out o’ goal.
(The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.)
For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed Lord Mayor,
Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners,[n] I swear:
That long over Newgit their Worships may rule,
As the High-toby, mob, crack and screeve[o] model school;
For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench,
Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “the Pent” or “the Tench.”[p]
Note.—We subjoin a Glossary of Mr. Cracksman’s lingo:—
[a] Prison. Ladies of a certain description. [c] Comrades or fast friends. [d] Thieves speak of themselves as “family-men.” [e] Warders. [f] Night. [g] Meat and drink. [h] A greenhorn. Tricks of the trade. [j] Talking slang. [k] Imprisoned. [l] Up to prison ways. [m] Writing. [n] Thieves should pray on their knees. [o] Highway-robbers, swell-mobsmen, burglars, and forgers. [p] Slang names for Pentonville Model Prison, and Milbank Penitentiary.
Punch. January 31, 1857.
Fancy Portrait of a Bishop Fill-pots.[37]
Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall,
Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall,
Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul
As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal,
In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel,
And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell.
It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease,
In want of preferment, as hot as you please,
With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away,
That Wellington made him a Bishop one day;
In the Lords, as his mouth he could never keep shut,
He lied till he soon was the Chancellor’s butt.
Yes, ’gainst Catholics long time he had laboured for gain,
Till pay set his principle all on the wane,
When the Duke found him out in incognito snug,
And contrived to a Bishoprick Toby to lug,
Who sacred in office, but damned in himself,
Now is wholly divided ’twixt venom and pelf.
Figaro in London. July 14, 1832.
The White Mug.
“Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot’s, as jovial a sot,
As e’er drew a spigot, or drain’d a full pot.
In drinking, all round ’twas his joy to surpass,
And with all merry tipplers he swigg’d of his glass.”
“One morning in summer, while seated so snug,
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,
Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear,
And said, ‘Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;’
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.”
W. M. Thackeray.
THE GIPSY KING.
’Tis I am the Gipsy King,
And where is the king like me?
No troubles my dignities bring;
No other is half so free.
In my kingdom there is but one table,
All my subjects partake in my cheer;
We would all have champagne were we able,
As it is, we have plenty of beer;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
A king, and a true one, am I;
No courtiers nor ministers here!
I see everything with my own eye,
And hear everything with my own ear.
No conspiracies I apprehend,
Among brothers and equals I rule;
We all help both to gain and to spend,
And get drunk when the treasury’s full;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.
* * * * *
This song is founded upon a number of earlier songs recounting the supposed joys of a gipsy life, a few of which may be enumerated for comparison. The first is taken from an old play, entitled “More Dissemblers besides Women,” printed in 1657:—
Song of the Gipsies.
Come, my dainty doxies,
My dells, my dells most dear;
We have neither house nor land,
Yet never want good cheer.
We never want good cheer.
We take no care for candle rents,
We lie, we snort, we sport in tents,
Then rouse betimes and steal our dinners.
Our store is never taken
Without pigs, hens, or bacon,
And that’s good meat for sinners:
At wakes and fairs we cozen
Poor country folk by dozen.
If one have money, he disburses;
Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick purses?
Rather than be out of use,
We’ll steal garters, hose, or shoes,
Boots, or spurs, with gingling rowels,
Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels.
Come live with us, come live with us.
* * * * *
A somewhat similar song occurs in The Spanish Gipsy, first printed in 1653, it commences:—
Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine,
Show tricks and lofty capers;
At threading-needles we repine,
And leaping over rapiers:
Pindy pandy rascal toys!
We scorn cutting purses;
Though we live by making noise,
For cheating none can curse us.
The Railway King.
Oh! ’tis I am the Railway King,
And where’s there a king like me,
No trouble my shareholders bring,
No monarch is half so free;
In my kingdom there’s but one table,
And that is the time-table here,
We all go as fast as we’re able,
And steam is our charioteer!
For ’tis I am the Railway King!
Ha! ha!
’Tis I am the Railway King!
* * * * *
(Three verses omitted).
Joe Miller the younger. October 25, 1845.
Oh! ’Tis I am a Frisky King.
(As sung by his Majesty of Bavaria
with the greatest applause, at Munich.)
Oh! ’tis I am a frisky King
And where is the King like me?
Into trouble myself I shall bring,
For I am so easy and free.
My kingdom’s affairs are unstable;
My subjects suspect I am queer;
Lola Montez I’d wed were I able,
As it is, she’s my sweetheart so dear.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
A King, and a rum one am I,
No Jesuit nor minister fear;
Their counsels I think all my eye,
And give them a flea in their ear.
No conspiracy I apprehend,
To Lola I’ve given the rule,
She helps me to gain and to spend,
And in fact, she has got quite the pull.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
I confess that I am but a man,
My failings, who pleases, may know;
I’m fond of my girl, and I can,
If she likes, let her kick up a row,
My subjects are kind unto me,
They don’t mind my being an ass;
Nor yet that I hold on my knee,
At this moment, the prettiest lass,
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.
Charles Louis, King of Bavaria, caused great dissatisfaction in his dominions by his reckless extravagance, and his utter incapacity to fulfil the duties of his position. He formed a disgraceful liaison with a scheming adventuress generally known under the assumed name of Lola Montes, but whom he created Countess Von Landfeldt. At length the interference of Lola Montes in state affairs became too notorious, and she was banished the Kingdom. She afterwards led a wandering life, delivered some lectures in London in 1859, thence proceeding to the United States. She died in New York, January 17, 1861. Charles Louis was compelled to abdicate in March, 1848, but survived his fall for twenty years, living to see the throne occupied by his grandson, Louis II., the Mad King and patron of Wagner, who recently committed suicide.
The Gipsy “King.”
(A Caveat from the Dulwich Encampment.)
Oh, ’tis I am a gipsy king,
And where is there king like me?
From my freehold land defiance I fling,
And scoff at the powers that be;
For my court is my caravan,
Where in dozens my subjects “pig,”
And drink and fight like a riotous clan,
And for nobody trouble a fig.
They say that a nuisance am I
To the householders far and near,
That my ribald rabble make women fly,
And our raids fill tenants with fear.
We’re a pest, a disturbance, a curse
(So I hear that the gentlefolks say),
But they’d find it hard were we ten times worse
To frighten the gipsies away.
They may talk of the Vagrant Act,
And the Nuisance Inspector send
(My dog the medical officer pack’d),
And the School Board its aid may lend;
The Vestry its powers may bring,
And the Courts and the Parleyment,
But they’re only amusing the gipsy king,
And his court in the van and tent.
Funny Folks, June 22, 1878.
——:o:——
WHEN WE WENT OUT A GIPSYING.
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
The lads and lasses in their best,
Were drest from top to toe.
We danc’d and sung the jocund song,
Upon the forest green,
And nought but mirth and jollity,
Around us could be seen.
And thus we pass’d the merry time,
Nor thought of care or woe,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
All hearts were light, and eyes were bright,
And nature’s face was gay,
The trees their leafy branches spread,
And perfume filled the May;
’Twas there we heard the cuckoo’s note,
Steal softly through the air,
While every scene around us look’d,
Most beautiful and fair,
And thus we pass’d, &c.
* * * * *
The Days when we went Gipsying.
Oh, the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
Though meant to be amusing trips,
Proved nothing else but woe.
The fire-place would never draw,
The wood was always green,
And naught but flies and creeping things
Were in the milkpot seen.
And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
The tea was always very bad,
The water never boiled;
We wore the smartest things we had,
And they were always spoiled.
And if along the meadows damp
We felt inclined to roam,
It usually began to rain,
Before we got safe home.
And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.
We never mean to pay again
A visit to the scene,
And seat ourselves on emmets’ nests—
We are not now so green.
We do not love it overmuch,
But when we want our tea,
We’ll take it on a table, where
It always ought to be.
And thus we’ll drink it properly,
Provided ’tis not sloe,
Much better than the gipsying
A long time ago!
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.
An Oxford Song.
Oh, the days we read those musty books, a short time ago,
Were certainly the seediest a man could ever know.
We filled no glass, we kissed no lass, our hacks grew fat and sleek,
We thought it dissipation if we rode them twice a week.
We rose up early in the morn, we sat up late at e’en,
And nought but horrid lexicons about us could be seen!
Unheeded lay our meerchaums then, our “Lopez” bound in green;
The undisturbed blue-bottle was on our team-whip seen;
The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux,
But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “Great go.”
We rose up early, &c.
We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed,
How harrowed all would be at home, if we perchance were ploughed:
And what was worse, those sordid duns an early payment wished,
’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely “fish’d.”
We rose up, &c.
’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves;
We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves;
And envious Under-graduates sigh forth as we draw near,
“O, crickey! how I wish I was a ‘new-made Bacalere.’
They rise up when they like at morn, they sit up late at e’en,
And hunt and quaff, and smoke and laugh, the whole Term thro’, I ween.”
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
The Lay of the Lover’s Friend.
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o’er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I’m touched myself,
For that I do not fear:
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But ’tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
When e’er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly described,
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way
“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”
But oh! it is the heaviest bore
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I really wish he’d do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood,
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o’er the sea.
For ’tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know.
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
William E. Aytoun.
Professor Aytoun died in 1865. These verses are taken from a collection, published in Boston, entitled The Humorous Poetry of the English Language, by J. Parton, but I do not know where they first appeared.
OLD SIMON THE CELLARER.
Old Simon, the cellarer, keeps a rare store—
Of malmsey and malvoisie,
And cyprus, and who can say how many more,
For a chary old soul is he,
Of sack and canary he never doth fail,
And all the year round there is brewing of ale;
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day;
But ho, ho, ho, his nose doth show,
How oft the black-jack to his lips doth go.
Dame Margery sits in her own still room,
And a matron sage is she;
From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume.
She says it is rosemary.
But there’s a small cupboard, behind the back stair,
And the maids say they often see Margery there—
Now Margery says she grows very old,
And must take a something to keep out the cold;
But ho, ho, ho, old Simon doth know—
Where many a flask of his best doth go.
Old Simon reclines in his high-backed chair,
And talks of taking a wife,
And Margery oft has been heard to declare,
She ought to be settled for life.
Now, Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue;
She’s not very handsome, nor yet very young;
So, somehow, it ends with a shake of the head,
And Simon he brews him a tankard instead—
With ho, ho, ho, he’ll chuckle and crow
What, marry old Margery! no, no, no.”
J. L. Hatton.[38]
Caveat Venditor.
Joe Podgers, the farmer, he keeps a rare store
Of sheep, as his neighbours can see,
And oxen, and I can’t tell how many more,
For a well-to-do fellow is he.
Of beef and of mutton he never doth fail,
And craftily qualified is his milk-pail;
But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say,
As his meat goes to London on each market day.
But oh! oh! oh! his books do show
Where many a cow of his worst doth go.
Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room,
For a butcher discreet is he:
But oft from his premises comes a queer fume,
He says it is “only his tea.”
But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair,
And folks say they see some strange carcases there;
But Choppers he says, and he looks very bold,
That the meat which he sells is the best ever sold.
But oh! oh! oh! Joe Podgers doth know
Where many a calf of his worst doth go.
Joe Podgers reclines in his easy chair
Without ever dreaming of strife:
But the dead-meat inspector is heard to declare
That the time for a summons is rife.
And the magistrate has a most critical tongue,
And condemns Podgers’ meat to the dogs to be flung.
So somehow Joe Podgers don’t go home to bed,
But finds himself lodged in a prison instead.
And oh! oh! oh! doth he chuckle and crow
As he tramps on the treadmill? Oh! no! no!
Fun. March 17, 1869.
“Old Tim the Teetotaller.”
Old Tim the Teetotaller keeps a rare store,
Of black and strong green tea,
Of Souchong—and who can tell how many more,
For a thirsty old Soul is he-e!
A thirsty old Soul is he.
Of Pekoe and Twankay he never doth fail,
Which all the day long he drinks out of a pail.
For he never ale-th, he quaintly doth say,
While he sticks to his fifty-two cups in a day—
For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim can’t know
How much of birch-broom there is in Pekoe.
Chorus—“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
His Landlady sits in her own still-room,
Alone with the cat sits she;
Except when she asks in the maid or the groom,
To join her in taking tea-e,
To join her in taking tea.
Now, Tim has a tea-chest, but isn’t aware,
That his Landlady helps herself freely from there.
Tho’ the maid and the groom of the Landlady told,
Yet Tim held his tongue,—it was no use to scold.
For ho! ho! ho!
He now doth know,
Where all his Bohea and Souchong doth go.
Chorus—“For ho! ho! ho!” &c.
Old Tim he reclines in his high-backed chair,
And plays a few tunes on a fife;
He blows it for joy for he doesn’t care,
Since he puzzled her out of her life.
Yes! his landlady out of her life,
For he’s got a lock on his tea-chest so strong,
And the Landlady tried it for ever so long
With hammer and tongs till she fainted away,
And was then handed over to P’liceman 1 A.
And ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow.
Chorus of Teetotallers in their Cups—
For ho! ho! ho!
Old Tim will show
His Landlady up in the Court of Bow!
Punch. February 4, 1871.
Taurus the Cellarer.
(During the Russian War scare.)
Old Taurus our cellarer keeps a rare store
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie,
Of Cyprus, and who shall say how many more?
For a chary old soul is he!
With sacks of canaries he never can fail
And all the year round he is hearty and hale,
And those who once cavilled are now heard to say,
“We are all of us proud of old Taurus to-day.”
And ho! ho! ho! Things seem to show
That England’s not like to the dogs to go!
Dame Ursa she sits in her cold, bare room,
A Christian dame is she,
From thence oft at curfew she steals in the gloom,
On errands of charity.
Now there’s half a turkey that’s not gone as yet,
Which folks say that Ursa would much like to get,
And Dame Ursa she says she is hungry and cold;
But old Taurus he wakes, and he thunders forth “Hold!”
With ho! ho! ho! that game is no go!
Caught napping by Ursa, no, no, no, no!
Judy. July 24, 1878.
A parody in three verses, entitled Simmonds, the Bellower, was written by J. A. Hardwick. The first verse is given, the other two are omitted, owing to their coarseness:—
Simmonds, the Bellower.
Old Simmonds, the Bellower, keeps a coal store,
Of “Clinkers,” and “Slates” nub-bel-y,
And light weights, and who can say what he does more?
For a pious old cock is he.
The sack to have holes in, he never does fail,
And all the day long he keeps “slanging” the scale;
Yet they’ll never nail him, he bluntly does say,
While he makes a ton out of six waggons a day.
And oh, dear! oh, his nose does show,
How oft the “three-out” to his lips does go.
* * * * *
William the Clôturer.
Old William the Clôturer sets great store
By his hard-won majoritee,
And he wants it in good working order once more,
For an ardent old toiler is he—
A tremendous old toiler is he.
Of business and progress the Commoners fail,
For all the year round they do nothing but rail;
But William declares he this shindy will stay,
And stick to his Clôture—his gag as some say.
And ho! ho! ho!
His demeanour would show
That he on this point to the country would go.
Chorus (heartily)—But ho! ho! ho! &c.
Old William the Clôturer weareth the air
Of one who is weary of strife,
And Salisbury oft has been heard to declare
He would have his—political—life,
His—strictly political—life.
And Salisbury hath a most terrible tongue;
But William is warlike, though no longer young;
And to prove that he isn’t—in politics—dead,
He his Clôture-gage hurls at sour Salisbury’s head.
While ho! ho! ho!
He’ll chuckle and crow,
What, cave in to Salisbury? No, no, no!
Chorus (lustily)—While ho! ho! ho! &c.
Punch. April 22, 1882.
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY,
From the Opera of “Merry Sherwood.”
I am a Friar of orders grey,
And down in the valleys I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Wherever I walk no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell—
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar.
After supper of Heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream,
Myself, by denial, I mortify—
With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I’m cloth’d in sack-cloth, for my sin;
With old sackwine I’m lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding, dong.
What baron or ’squire, &c.
J. O’Keeffe.
A Bradlaugh Ballad.
I am the Demagogue of the day,
And down ’mongst the mob I make my way,
It’s years since of poverty I felt a nip
Good store of the Sovereigns I love fill my scrip
Republican patter I merrily chant
Wherever I stump no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell—
Who fattens on martyrdom’s sure to live well:
No bishop or squire
Can hope to aspire
To the glorious height of the law defier.
After orating, of fame I dream,
And Cromwell-cum-Wilkes-cum Washington seem,
Myself as a model I mortify
With a thumping cupful of wine when dry;
I wear best broadcloth, black as sin,
My breeches pockets are lined with “tin;”
I’m Liberal with a strong Radical dash,
But I’m strictly Conservative of my cash.
No lord of the shire
Nor prince is higher
In my esteem than C. B., Esquire.
My dusk performances are my best
While working men work, I take my rest,
I bid my disciples prevent new lives,
Reading “Fruits of Philosophy” with their wives.
And to save their pence, as they’ve got no soul
To help me to win at Northampton poll,
For the House is the only Heaven I know
Though they say I make it a Hell below,
Where I’ll play the lyre
And kindle its ire,
Till oblivion swallows the law defier.
From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet.
By Ion. London. Houlston & Sons.
——:o:——
OLD SONG.
Gently touch the warbling lyre,
Chloe seems inclin’d to rest;
Fill her soul with fond desire,
Softest notes will soothe her breast:
Pleasing dreams assist in love,
Let them all propitious prove.
On the mossy bank she lies
(Nature’s verdant velvet bed),
Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,
Forming pillows for her head;
Zephyrs waft their odours round,
And indulging whispers sound.
A. Bradley.
How shall I Dine.
Gently blow and stir the fire,
Lay the mutton down to roast,
Dress it nicely I desire,
In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove:
Mutton is the meat I love.
On the dresser see it lie,
Oh! the charming white and red!
Finer meat ne’er met my eye,
On the sweetest grass it fed:
Let the jack go swiftly round,
Let me have it nicely browned.
On the table spread the cloth,
Let the knives be sharp and clean:
Pickles get and salad both,[39]
Let them each be fresh and green:
With small beer, good ale, and wine,
O ye gods! how I shall dine.
Attributed to Dean Swift.
——:o:——
WHY SO PALE AND WAN.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her,
The devil take her.
Sir John Suckling.
An Imitation of the Above.
I.
Why so sad and pale, fond lover?
Pr’ythee, why so dull?
How can tears the cause discover
Why these eyes are full?
Pr’ythee why so dull?
Shall a hopeful maiden take
A baby to her arms?
Oh, prove a man, and for her sake,
Caress, not grieve her charms.
II.
Thou hast no heart, fearful [wooer],
And love ye give, not gain;
Then, with the heart that ye gave to her,
Why give her not its pain?
Cease to murmur, hapless whiner,
Sigh that sob away,
Think, if caring much won’t win her,
Caring little may;
Then scorn, with scorning pay.
R. J.
From Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.
May, 1819.
Sir John Suckling also wrote what is, perhaps, the finest ballad in the English language, A Ballad upon a Wedding, this appears to have escaped parody. An imitation of it, however, is contained in Elegant Extracts from the British Poets, 1824. It is entitled Aylesbury Races, and is attributed to Sir J. H. Moore; it is very long, and does not sufficiently follow its original to entitle it to a place in this collection.
——:o:——
THE MAD SHEPHERDESS.[40]
My lodging is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare;
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy!
I’ll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I’ll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing;
O turn to me my dear love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man who alone canst
Procure my liberty.
But if thou wilt harden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan!
Then I must endure the smart still,
And lie in my straw all alone;
Yet still I cry, O turn love,
And I prithee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.
Song by Fusbos.
My lodging is in Leather-lane,
A parlour that’s next to the sky;
’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy:
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair,
Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill,
To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands;
Let others possess what they will,
Of learning, and houses and lands;
My parlour that’s next to the sky
I’d quit her blest mansions to share;
So happy to live and to die
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
And, oh! would this damsel be mine!
No other provision I’d seek;
On a look I could breakfast and dine,
And feast on a smile for a week.
But ah! should she false-hearted prove,
Suspended, I’d dangle in air;
A victim to delicate love,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
From Bombastes Furioso, by William Barnes Rhodes.
——:o:——
THE WOLF.
At the peaceful midnight hour,
Every sense and every power
Fetter’d lies in downy sleep,
Then our careful watch we keep.
When the wolf, in nightly prowl,
Bays the moon with hideous howl;
Gates are barr’d, a vain resistance;
Females shriek, but no assistance.
“Silence or you’ll meet your fate—
Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!”
Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder,
Then to rifle, rob and plunder!
J. O’Keeffe.
A Parody.
At the peaceful midnight hour,
When by love and hunger’s power,
I am kept from downy sleep,
Nightly I to Molly creep;
Whilst the cats upon the tiles
Mew their loves for many miles,
O’er the gutters lightly hopping,
Thro’ the garret window dropping.
Silence! or my master wakes,
Lay the cloth and broil the steaks;
Beef-steaks and onions crown our blisses;
Bread and cheese and balmy kisses.
——:o:——
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
The light of other days is faded
And all their glory’s past;
For grief with heavy wing hath shaded
The hopes too bright to last.
The world with morning’s mantle clouded,
Shines forth with purer rays;
But the heart ne’er feels in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.
The leaf which Autumn’s tempests wither,
The bird which then take wing,
When Winter’s blasts are past, come hither,
To welcome back the Spring.
The very ivy on the ruin,
In Spring new life displays;
But the heart alone sees no renewing
Of the light of other days.
Alfred Bunn.
The Coat of Other Days.
The coat of other days is faded,
And all its beauty past:
My shoes no longer look as they did,
But, like it, are fading fast!
When first I sported it, a new one,
My uncles cash ’twould raise,
But now no longer ’tis a new one,
The coat of other days.
The cuffs and collar now are greasy,
Not a bit of nap is there;
’Twas tight, but now it fits me easy,
’Twill soon be at Rag-fair!
My four-and-nine look rather rummy,
Expos’d to Sol’s bright rays,
And ’tis too late for renovating
The coat of other days!
Another parody of this song, by J. James, entitled The Foggy Gin-Fluenza Days occurs in Vol. II., of Punch’s Popular Song Book, but it is slangy and vulgar.
——:o:——
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass
A rose without a thorn.
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
I’d crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.
* * * * *
Mr. Upton, who wrote the above song, also wrote many others for the convivial entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. The music was composed by Mr. Hook, father of Theodore Hook, the celebrated wit and practical jokist.
The Lass of Richmond Ill.
[The Richmond Select Vestry, having sent to the Home Office a memorial with reference to the deplorable condition of the Thames in that district, Sir W. V. Harcourt has entered into communication with the Conservators, and has been informed by them that nothing can be done until a radical change is effected in the disposal of the London sewage.]
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
Who on a bright May morn,
By sweeps of sewage mud must pass,
On Thames’s waters borne.
What does she meet? Spring breezes sweet?
No, muck is master still.
“Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make
The Lass of Richmond ill!
How happy might that maiden be
If sweet Thames-tide might run.
But no; Conservators agree
That “Nothing can be done.”
Lips she must close, must nip her nose,—
The Stench-fiend lords it still,
And laughs with glee—grim ghoul—to see
The Lass of Richmond ill!
William’s Bill.
Of William’s bill we’ll see the last,
No more it holds the field;
We’ve nailed our standard to the mast,
The harp we’ll never yield.
The Irish fry in vain may try
To gild the Home Rule pill,
But soon we’ll see, ’twixt you and me,
The last of William’s bill.
’Tis past dispute, the kingdoms three
Together stand or fall,
And measures of autonomy
Should be the same for all;
But this that tends to part old friends
Shall ne’er have our goodwill;
No, no, friend Pat, we’ll veto that
By “chucking” William’s bill.
Darjew.
The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.
——:o:——
THE BRAVE OLD OAK.
A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who hath ruled in the green wood long,
Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There’s fear in his frown, when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out,
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here’s to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who stands in his pride alone,
And still flourish he a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
* * * * *
H. F. Chorley.
A Bit of a Parody.
A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes,
That have rul’d in the land so long;
With small renown to the Ducal crown,
By dint of legal wrong.
There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down,
And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out;
And they show him their spite in the Lords each night
That the subject is talk’d about.
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.
They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear;
And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore,
With old English beef and beer.
That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough;
It won’t even hoax an ass;
And don’t we know, they who tell us so,
The New Poor Law allow’d to pass?
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.
Punch. April 11, 1846.
——:o:——
FRAGMENT OF A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO.
Blessed as the immortal gods is he,
The Youth who fondly sits by thee;
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
’Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And rais’d such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow’d the subtle flame
Ran quickly thro’ my vital frame;
O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.
Ambrose Philips.
A Parody of the Foregoing.
Drunk as a dragon sure is he,
The youth who sups or dines with thee;
And sees and hears thee, full of fun,
Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.
’Twas this first made me love my dose,
And rais’d such pimples on my nose;
For while I fill’d to every toast,
My health was gone, my senses lost.
I found the claret and champagne
Inflame my blood, and mad my brain;
The toast fell falt’ring from my tongue,
I hardly heard the catch I sung.
I felt my gorge and sickness rise;
The candle danc’d before my eyes;
My sight grew dim, the room turn’d round,
I tumbled senseless to the ground.
Henry Erskine.
——:o:——
DEAR BETTY.
Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me how many I’d have?
I’m not to be stinted in pleasure;
Then prithee, dear Betty be kind;
For as I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I’ll not be confined.
Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,
Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven;
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you’ve given,
I still will be asking for more.
To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart, that dear Betty is thine;
In my arms I’ll for ever enfold thee,
And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent;
But those who can number their kisses,
Will always with few be content.
Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.
The Numbering of the Clergy.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do you ask us how many we crave?
Oh, there can’t be too many rich livings,
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker’s misgivings,
To numbers can ne’er be confin’d.
Count the cormorants hovering about,
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest’s in play,
And not minding the farmer’s distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many parsons you’ve given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment,
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
Thomas Moore.
(Suggested by the Bishop of London’s Charge, in which he said:—“We want more Churches, and more Clergymen.”)
——:o:——
Lines to an Editor.
(On sending a Book for Review.)
After Ben Jonson.
Print for me only just one word,
And I will pledge thee mine,
If thou wilt give a wholesome “puff,”
That I will not repine.
I think my work should be preferr’d
(’Tis very large and fine),
Though dullards may not like my stuff,
I would not change a line.
From the Same to the Same.
(On the non-appearance of a Notice.)
I sent thee late my able book,
Not so much honouring thee,
As hoping something would appear
That might bring L. S. D.
But thou thereon did’st neither look
Nor sent’st it back to me,
Since when I feel inclined to swear
Both at myself and thee.
——:o:——
Delight in Disorder.
(Adapted from Herrick.)
“There is nothing in the pit-brow work, nor in the costume necessitated, that tells against modesty. It makes fine, healthy, strapping women—not exactly after the pattern of Fenella or Miranda—but women who are the fit mates for the men whose wives and mothers they are.”—Mrs. Lynn Linton on the “Pit-brow Women.”
A fine frank roughness in the dress,
Is better than La Mode’s excess;
Flannel about the shoulders thrown,
A stayless bodice and loose zone;
Stout clogs or highlows and a pair
Of coarse hose much the worse for wear;
A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby,
Wild locks that flow confusedly;
A dual garb deserving note,
As more—or less—than petticoat;
A leathern shoe-string in whose tie
The slattern speaks to every eye,
Do more bewitch me, for my part,
Than Regent Street with all its Art.
Punch, May 28, 1887.
——:o:——
Herrick in the House.
After Herrick’s Lines to Ben Jonson.
(By a Troubled Tory.)
Ah, Ben![41]
Say how or when
Shall we, thy sheep,
Less scattered order keep?
Or have such fun
As when you led us on,
When we such musters had
As made us with great joy half mad?
Ah, sure one speech of thine
Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine.
My Ben!
Oh, come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit’s great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it.
Lest we that talent spend,
And, having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more!
Punch. February 5, 1887.
SONG.
On seeing the Speaker asleep in his Chair, in one of the Debates of the first Reformed Parliament.
(Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering.)
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair,
If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer now they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No,
Talking by night, and talking by day,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill;
You have more need of repose than they,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence;
Statesmen will howl and patriots bray:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
“Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time
When loyalty was not yet quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool.
Lord! how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.”
W. M. Praed.
——:o:——
MY HEART AND LUTE.
I give thee all,—I can no more,—
Though poor the offering be:
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee:
A lute whose gentle heart reveals
The soul of love full well,
And better far a heart who feels
Much more than lute can tell.
Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life’s clouds away,
At least ’twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay:
If ever care his discord flings
O’er life’s enchanted strain.
Let love but gently touch the strings,—
’Twill all be sweet again.
I give thee all, &c.
Stewed Duck and Peas.
I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
It’s early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.
Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One’s hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay.
If seasoned Duck an odour bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.
I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss’d from head to heels,
Then stew’d with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell.
When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring,
A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves—I make my language brief,
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck—the sauce improve
In the accustom’d way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain
And if the dish contentment brings,
You’ll dine with me again.
Punch.
——:o:——
Earnest Remonstrance.
Addressed to the Young Lady World,
on the “Fringes” now in Fashion.
Air.—“Long, Long Ago.”
Twine me the curls I delighted to see
Long, long ago—long, long ago;
Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me
Of long ago, long ago!
Since they are gone, all my grief has begun;
Those queer “waving fronts” do not please me, for one
I pine for the hair as it used to be done
Long, long ago, long ago!
Don’t you remember the ringlets that flow’d
Long, long ago—long, long ago;
The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode,
Long, long ago, long ago?
Some called them “corkscrews”—a gross malaprop,
Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop,
Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop,
Long, long ago, long ago!
Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew,
(Quite rococo—quite rococo)
And rival the glories of Brian Boroo,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Let them but give us, our thanks to secure,
Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor,
A Bill for removing the shady coiffure
Now all the go, all the go!
Punch.
——:o:——
The Beautiful Maid.
A Parody of Liston’s “Beautiful Maid.”
My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear,
I trembled to hear what he said;
For salmon and shrimps ’twas the wrong time of year,
So I pitched on a beautiful maid;
I brought home my beautiful maid:
“Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid;
Go boil it,—don’t spoil it,
But see it well done,
And I’ll dine on my beautiful maid!”
But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief,
My delicate tit-bit waylaid,
The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief
Ran off with my beautiful maid;
She clawed up my beautiful maid;
She swore o’er my beautiful maid;
Oh, pussy, you hussey,
Oh, what have you done?
You have eaten up my beautiful maid!
——:o:——
OH! SAY NOT WOMAN’S HEART IS BOUGHT.
From the Opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”
Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought
With vain and empty treasure.
Oh! say not woman’s heart is caught
By every idle pleasure.
When first her gentle bosom knows
Love’s flame, it wanders never,
Deep in her heart the passion glows,
She loves, and loves for ever.
Oh! say not woman’s false as fair,
That like the bee she ranges!
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare,
As fickle fancy changes.
Ah! no, the love that first can warm,
Will leave her bosom never;
No second passion e’er can charm,
She loves, and loves for ever.
T. L. Pocock.
Oh, Say Not that my Heart is Caught.
Oh, say not that my heart is caught,
By Mary’s face bewitching;
For other charms my love has bought,
Those charms her mind enriching;
Unfriendly fate may soon us part
And fickle fortune sever,
But she who holds this throbbing heart
I’ll love and love for ever.
And must I then those charms resign,
All I esteem a treasure,
And give up what I hoped was mine
To fix a rival’s pleasure?
The stars may fall, the sun decay,
The earth’s whole fabric waver,
But firm as heaven my love shall stay,
Unquenched, unceasing never.
Montague.
He Drinks, and Drinks for Ever.
Oh, say not life is dearly bought
By him who seeks for pleasure;
Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought
When whiskey’s thought a treasure!
When first a youthful toper knows
Its fumes he wanders never;
He gladdens at his rosy nose,
He drinks and drinks for ever.
Oh, say not whiskey does impair,
Nor like a poison rages;
Still seeking ev’ry vein to tear,
Nor cause such deadly changes!
Oh, no! the draught that first can warm
Will leave his stomach never,
Though all his friends may rant and storm,
He’ll drink, and drink for ever.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
DUNOIS THE BRAVE.
It was Dunois the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons
Before St. Mary’s shrine!
“Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,”
Was still the soldier’s prayer,
“That I may prove the bravest knight
And love the fairest fair.”
His oath of honour on the shrine,
He graved it with his sword,
And followed to the holy land
The banner of his Lord.
Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry filled the air:
Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.
They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege-lord said,
“The heart that has with honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid.
My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair;
For thou art bravest of the brave,—
She, fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot,
Before St. Mary’s shrine,
That makes a Paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine.
And every lord and lady bright,
That were in chapel there,
Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.”
This is a translation by Sir Walter Scott, of the French song Partant pour la Syrie, written by De Laborde, to music said to have been composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III. Under the Empire Partant pour la Syrie was the officially recognised French national song, but it never became so popular as La Marseillaise.
Partant Pour la Rue Baker.[42]
It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave,
Was in the tillage line,
But first he set his heart upon
His stock of beeves and swine;
His mind to cattle most was given,
And “darn,” he swore, “my wig!
But I will breed the hugest ox,
And rear the fattest pig.”
This point of honour, weight of swine,
And ox as highly scored,
He proved it at the Smithfield Club,
Before both squire and lord,
And cried as to the judges’ view
He bore the monsters big,
“Now bain’t this here the hugest ox?
That there the fattest pig?”
They owned his victory—due the palm—
And then the chairman said:
“The ox that is for honour grown,
On oilcake must be fed;
On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow,
And tubs of wash to swig;
That’s how you cram the hugest ox,
And stuff the fattest pig.”
So round his neck the prize was tied,
And then they went to dine,
Which makes a farmer’s heaven on earth,
When beef and beer combine;
And every yeoman, lord, and ’squire,
Conservative and Whig,
Drank “Honour to the hugest ox,
Be praised the fattest pig!”
Punch. December 17, 1859.
There was another parody commencing:—
It was Dunupp, the hard beset,
Was bound to far Boulogne;
But first a hansom he must get,
And money he had none!
“Alas,” he cried, “they’re safe to nab,
No time have I to spare;
If I can find the fastest cab
I’ll prove the fairest fare.”
in The Hornet for January 10, 1872, and another, of no interest or literary merit, on page 134 of The Literary Lounger, London 1826.
——:o:——
CHEVY-CHACE.
It is quite unnecessary to quote this noble old ballad in full, it may be found in Percy’s Reliques, Robert Bell’s Early Ballads, and many other collections of old English Songs and Ballads.
God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safetyes all;
A woefull hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;
To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.
The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer days to take;
The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and beare away.
The tydings to Erie Douglas came,
In Scottland where he lay:
Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort
With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts arright.
* * * * *
Lord Percy to the quarry went,
To view the slaughter’d deere;
Quoth he “Erle Douglas promised
This day to meet me heere:
But if I thought he would not come,
Noe longer wold I stay.”
With that, a brave young gentleman
Thus to the Erle did say:
“Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
His men in armour bright;
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
All marching in our sight.”
* * * * *
The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scottland’s king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine.
O heavy newes, King James did saye,
Scottland may my witnesse bee,
I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.
Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,
That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;
I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred good as hee.
Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:
I’ll be revenged on them all,
For brave Erle Percye’s sake.
This vow full well the king perform’d
After, at Humbledowne;
In one day, fifty knights were slaine;
With lords of great renowne:
And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye:
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
Made by the Erle Percy.
God save our king, and bless this land
With plentye, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth, that foule debate
’Twixt noblemen may cease.
Chevy Chace.[43]
God prosper long our noble King,
Our lives and safeties all:
A woeful story late there did
In Britain’s Isle befall.
Duke Smithson, of Northumberland,[44]
A vow to God did make,
The choicest gifts in fair England,
For him and his to take.
“Stand fast, my merry men all,” he cried,
“By Moira’s Earl and me,
And we will gain place, wealth, and pow’r,
As arm’d neutrality.
Excise and Customs, Church and Law,
I’ve begged from Master Rose;
The Garter too—but still the Blues
I’ll have, or I’ll oppose.”
“Now God be with him,” quoth the King,
“Sith ’twill no better be;
I trust we have within our realm,
Five hundred good as he.”
The Duke then join’d with Charley Fox
A leader ware and tried,
And Erskine, Sheridan, and Gray
Fought stoutly by his side.
Throughout our English Parliament
They dealt full many a wound;
But in his King’s and country’s cause,
Pitt firmly stood his ground.
And soon a law like arrow keen,
Or spear, or curtal-axe,
Struck poor Duke Smithson to the heart,
In shape of Powder-tax.[45]
Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,
“Crop, crop, my merry men all;
No guinea for your heads I’ll pay,
Though Church and State should fall.”
Again the taxing-man appeared—
No deadlier foe could be;
A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hands bore he.
“Yield thee, Duke Smithson, and behold
The assessment thou must pay;
Dogs, horses, houses, coaches, clocks,
And servants in array.”
“Nay,” quoth the Duke, “in thy black scroll,
Deductions I espye,
For those who, poor, and mean, and low,
With children burthen’d lie.
And though full sixty thousand pounds
My vassals pay to me,
From Cornwall to Northumberland,
Through many a fair countée;
Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws,
Its cause I value not,
Compar’d with this, my constant text—
A penny sav’d, is got.
No drop of Princely Percy’s blood
Through these cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur’s castles, blazon, name,
I still am poor Smithson.
Let England’s youth unite in arms,
And every liberal hand
With honest zeal subscribe their mite
To save the native land.
I at St. Martin’s Vestry Board,
To swear shall be content,
That I have children eight, and claim
Deductions, ten per cent.”
God bless us all from factious foes,
And French fraternal kiss;
And grant the King may never make,
Another Duke like this.
From The Anti-Jacobin, March, 1798.
Another parody of Chevy-Chace, entitled The Battle of Putney Hill appeared in the Morning Herald in 1799. It commenced thus:
God prosper long our noble King,
And guard our Statesmen all
From foul mishaps of every sort,
That vulgar folk enthral.
Two orators, whose venom tongues
Had left a point in doubt,
With weapons of more deadly mould
Resolv’d to fight it out.
The one a squire, of manners blunt,
A patriot staunch within;
The other of a lordly breed,
A courtier tall and thin.
Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn;
Ill luck such acts betide!
Was there no other to be found,
Of all the days beside?
* * * * *
The complete parody may be found in Vol. III of The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1799.
The New Chevy Chace.
(On the occasion of the O. P. Riots.)
God prosper long our noble King,
Our cash and comforts all,
In Covent Garden, while I sing,
The row that did befal.
To chase the Cat with howl and horn
John Bull went to the play;
And though she laughed him to scorn,
I trow he won the day.
The Kembles, Harris, Son and Co.
Did vow to God—God willing
That for Grimalkin and their show
They’d touch—the other shilling!
For they a theatre had made,
This famous Cat to squall in;
With “Annual Boxes” for the trade
No doubt of caterwalling;
John’s native drama to undo,
With foreign airs and vices—
And so they e’en impos’d their New
And banish’d his “Old Prices.”
Their bowmen bold from Bow Street brought,
All chosen men of might
Resolv’d to stuff down Johnny’s throat,
Their prices—wrong or right.
But John whose skull with brains is cramn’d,
Their schemes did soon unriddle,
“And if I have, may I be damn’d,
(Quoth he) your Cat and Fiddle!
“What! think you me to tax and gull,
“For building this here house!
“Or thinks a Cat to catch John Bull
“Just as she’d catch a mouse?
“Your modesty, upon my soul,
“Much with the ton increases,
“That fain would cram each pigeon-hole
“With seven-shilling pieces!
“No, no—it will not do, Black Jack
“It shall not do, by Jingo;
“Old plays and prices we’ll have back,
And no outlandish lingo!”
The orchestra struck up in vain,
Macbeth and wife were hiss’d!
And “Birnham Wood to Dunsinane”
Unnotic’d pass’d, I wist.
For “banners on the outward wall”
The tyrant had no use
Their scrolls within so thick did fall,
Though ne’er a flag of truce!
On Monday first the row begun.
Or call it what you may,
’Tis certain they kept up the fun
Until the Saturday.
The actors ran through every scene,
As fast as they could go—
As it a pantomime had been
Or eke, a puppet show.
And though the people that were there
Most loud did roar and rage,
Their backs they all, with special care,
Did turn upon the stage.
O Jove! it was a grief to see,
For word you could not hear—
(Except the speech of Mister Leigh)
A tragedy so queer.
To catgut, cat-call did reply,
With bell and bugle brazen!
And all the Gods, that sat on high,
Help’d out the diapason.
Yet bides Jack Kemble on the bent,
A Don of thorough blood;
With aitches though his head was rent,
Firm as a mule he stood.
“Show me,” said he, “what ’tis you want?
“What want ye here?” he cried
“We neither want your CAT or cant,”
Our Englishmen replied.
“Our notes, for her’s you shan’t command;
“And for her pipe, perdie,
“We trust we have within the land
“Five hundred good as she!”
With that there came a glorious roar,
Of rattles and of row-sticks;
As such there never did before
Confound the catacousticks!
Then look’d our manager, I trow,
Like one in doleful dumps;
His pride was humbled to a bow,
Almost upon his stumps.
As thus he said—“At length I yield,
“You’ve got what you have wish’d;
“You’ve won, John Bull, you’ve won the field,
“And so—the cat is dish’d!”
God save the King, and bless the land,
Our liberties and laws,
And thus may Britons ever stand,
United in their cause.
From The Morning Chronicle. September 30, 1809.
This parody refers to the most extraordinary series of disturbances, known as the O.P. Riots, which took place in the new Covent Garden Theatre, commencing on the opening night, September 18, 1809, and lasting, almost without intermission, till December 16, when the old charges were restored. John Philip Kemble, the tragedian, and manager of the theatre, was singled out for special disapproval, the outcries against the Cat (Madame Catalani) were also very bitter, as it was generally supposed the prices had been raised owing to her exorbitant salary. Madame Catalani’s business agent used to ask five hundred guineas for her appearance at a concert, which was considered an enormous sum in those days.
Kemble (styled Black Jack, on account of his dark complexion and black hair), had a pedantic way of pronouncing ache as aitche.
A Protectionist Parody.
God prosper long our noble Queen,
Our lands and purses all;
A woeful ruin once there did
In Parliament befall.
The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,[46]
A solemn vow did make,
To scout the aristocracy,
And make the farmers quake.
The Landowners to terrify,
The Corn-laws to repeal.
These tidings to Lord Bentinck came,
Who wished his country’s weal.
He sent Sir Robert present word,
He shouldn’t pass his bill;
Sir Turnabout, not fearing this,
Replied, “Indeed, I will.”
For full three hundred backed him up,
A force in numbers strong,
Who knew full well in time of need
To give their votes a-wrong.
The “Turncoats” mustered in the “House,”
Taunts able to endure;
Their faces all that day were made
Of brass, you may be sure.
And long before midnight they had
Their pledges rendered vain;
And when they’d dined, the whipper-in
Soon drove them back again.
Sir Robert went—his speech complete—
To view his friends so queer;
Quoth he, “Lord Bentinck promised
This night should cost me dear:
Now, if I thought he would not come,
I’d have my Com-mit-tee.”
With that, says Bright, “Friend Turnabout,
A sight you now may see.
Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand,
His friends replete with spite;
Two hundred stout Protectionists,
To cheer the live-long night;
All sturdy agriculturists,
True to their pledges still.”
“Then leave your dinners,” Bobby said,
“And Treasury benches fill,
And now with me, my Turnabouts,
Set forth fallacious words,
For never was there statesman yet,
In Commons House, or Lords,
That e’er did with statistics come,
But if he proved too strong,
I durst cook up some others quick,
To show that his were wrong.”
Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse,
Most like an honest man,
Stood foremost of his company,
And straightway thus began:
“Show me,” said he, “What right have ye,
The farmer’s gains to steal,
To rob the agriculturists,
The Corn-laws to Repeal?”
The man who longest answer made,
Was turn-coat Bobby, he
Who said, “We have the right of power
And of majority.”
* * * * *
Forth stept a manufacturer
(Dick Cobden was his name)
Who said, “I would not have it told
Unto ‘The League’ for shame,
That e’er this bill was fairly passed,
To make our traffic free,
And I took not that time t’abuse
The Aristocracy.
I’ll jaw as long as jaw I may,
Although I’m proved quite wrong,
Whilst I have place in Parliament
I’ll never hold my tongue.”
* * * * *
The fight did last twelve live long nights,
(The matter was so deep;)
And when they cleared the gallery,
The Speaker fell asleep!
Two hundred men and seventy
That day remained true;
The rest did rat with Turnabout,
And voted black was blue.
Then tidings to Lord Stanley came,
That Bentinck’s lord was beat,
And that at last Protection’s cause
Had suffered sore defeat.
“Now heaven be with us,” Stanley said,
“And Robert, what is he?
I trust we have within this Isle,
Leaders more trustworthy.
Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say,
But we will vengeance take:
We’ll be revenged upon them all,
For our good farmers’ sake.
This vow full well the chief performed,
As Irish bills explain,
For Turnabout was then kicked out,
And won’t come in again.
Honour to you, Protectionists,
Bob and his lot shall fall,
For if they kept their places, you
Have kept your pledges all!
(26 verses are here given, the complete Parody contains 48.)
From Protectionist Parodies. By a Tory. J. Vincent Oxford. 1850.
Chevy Chase.
New Version of the old Ballad of Chivalry,
adapted to our unchivalric days.
God prosper long our gracious Queen,
And may no more befall,
So foul a fight as that rude fray,
Which Chevy[47] Chase we call.
To lead the House, with care and pain,
Grey Gladstone did essay.
The churl may shame that is unborn
The manners of that day.
The suave Sir Stafford[48] to oppose
His devoir did with grace;
A gentler pair of gallant foes
Stood never face to face.
But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire,
Randolpho[49] was his name,
Who cried, “You don’t call this a fight?
Your style is much too tame!
“You shall not fool about like this,
And I stand looking on.
You be too muffs,” Randolpho[49] said,
“I’d lick the pair alone!
“I’ll do the best that do I may,
Although not Old or Grand.
All this punctilio is rot;
I’ll fight for my own hand!”
Then straight arose a vulgar row,
Shaming good hearts and true;
Coarse words like poisoned arrows went,
And smirched where they not slew.
To still the storm, with broken voice,
Grey Gladstone did his best;
A Captain he of mickle might,
Who never stooped his crest.
But howls rose fast on every side,
No courtesy was found;
And yahoo yells of laughter rude,
His struggling accents drowned.
O Saints! it was great grief to see
How pale he did appear,
While flout and shout flew all about,
Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer.
This fight did last till Gladstone grey
Shamed some of such coarse fun.
Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell,
That long-tried strength foredone.
Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks,[50]
A Knight of courtesie;
On that black bench churl hearts might blench,
And fail of their cad glee.
For Randolpho needs must I wail
As one in doleful dumps,
Aping the rough who kicks his foe,
And on his body jumps.
Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight,
Him pity ’tis to see
Hounding rude clowns on, in despite
Of gallant Chivalry.
Let Irish churls of small account
Thus play the unknightly lout;
Let inarticulate Tory sumphs
Thus rudely yell and shout;
But one of brain and gentle blood
Should deem it less disgrace
To join some Cockney Epping Hunt
Than lead a Chevy Chase!
God save the Queen, and bless the land
With plenty, joy, and peace;
And grant henceforth that foul debate
’Twixt gentlemen may cease!
Punch. May 30, 1885.
LORD BATEMAN.
One of the best known of our old Ballads is Lord Beichan, or Buchan. This is corrupted in the modern English form to Lord Bateman; the ballad commences thus:
“Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself on board a ship,
He longed strange countries for to see.”
Cruikshank collectors will remember that the artist chose this ballad for illustrating, and small as is the book, a copy of the original 1839 edition sold for £5 15s. at Sotherby’s last year. Of course Cruikshank’s version is comic, and the history of it is that he sang the ballad at a dinner of the Antiquarian society, to the air, and with the cockney pronunciation he had heard given to it by a street ballad singer. Dickens was present at the dinner, and offered to supply the illustrative notes (which are exceedingly humorous), Cruikshank etched the plates, and almost innumerable editions of the little book have been published; the most recent having been issued a few years since by Messrs. Bell and Daldy, London.
The New Ballad of Lord Bateman.
Lord Bateman wos a noble Lord,
Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee;
So he up and he moved in the House of Peers,
In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee!
He maundered here, he meandered there,
For a good two hours, or, some say, three,
In the style of oration called roundaboutation,
Until his hearers they wos wearee.
For forty long years he had held the opinion,
And still his belief in that same wos strong,
That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely,
Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong.
We’d abandon’d our old lady-love, Protection,
In favour of a minx wot wos far too free:
We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries,
Wich those foreign countries had failed to see.
He would not go back to the old love wholly,
He wosn’t quite a Dodo, he wosn’t—not he.
The name of Protection he would rayther not mention,
But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee.
Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce.
Wot man would marry an unloving bride?
He failed to see wy it wos only in trading
Reciprocity ought to be all o’ won side.
Then up and answered another noble Lord,—
Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,—
And he “sat on” poor Lord Bateman in a scientific manner,
Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee.
Says he,—“Reciprocity’s a hollow phantom,
Though I swore ’twos a substance wonce, I know;
But you won’t raise the dead with a dusty recital
Of my musty phrases of forty years ago.”
Then Free-Trade’s old lovyers they cheered and chuckled,
And the gallant Granville he smiled for to see
The Bogey young Dizzy so cleverly vamped up,
So coolly torn to pieces by the old Lord B.
But the crusted Lord Bateman, his sad face veiling
From his country’s sorrows and his party’s crimes,
Went homeward, and endeavoured to solace his sorrow,
By buying a stuffed Dodo, and burning of the Times.
Punch. May 10, 1879.
Lord Bateman’s motion in favour of Reciprocity met with little encouragement in the House of Lords, and Lord Beaconsfield spoke strongly against it.
——:o:——
LILLI BURLERO.
This song, now all but forgotten, deserves to be recorded, for it contributed not a little to the Revolution of 1688. A contemporary writer said of it, “A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden, said to be Irish words, “Lero, lero, liliburlero,” that made an impression on the King’s army that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, were singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.”
One of the principal tools of James II. was General Richard Talbot, who was nominated to the Lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, in this position his arbitrary and cruel treatment of the Protestants recommended him to the favour of his bigoted master, who rewarded him by creating him Earl of Tyrconnel, and sending him a second time, and on this occasion as Viceroy, to Ireland. It was at this time that Lilliburlero was written; Lilliburlero and Bullen-a-lah are said to have been the sign and countersign used among the Irish papists during their warfare with the protestants.
The song has been ascribed to Lord Dorset, but also, and with more probability, to Lord Wharton, who openly boasted that he had sung King James out of three kingdoms.
Ho! Broder Teague, dost hear de decree
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Dat we shall have a new deputie,
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
(This refrain is to be repeated after each two lines.)
Ho! by St. Tyburn, it is de Talbote:
And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate.
Lilli, &c.
Dough by my shoul de English do praat,
De law’s on dare side, and Chrish knows what,
Lilli, &c.
But if dispence do come from de Pope,
We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope.
For de good Talbote is made a lord,
And with brave lads is coming aboard.
Who all in France have taken a sware,
Dat dey will have no Protestant heir.
Arrah! but why does he stay behind?
Ho! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind.
But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,
And we shall have commissions gallore.
And he dat will not go to de mass,
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.
Now, now de hereticks all go down,
By Crish and Saint Patrick, de nation’s our own.
Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,
Ireland shall be ruled by an ass, and a dog.
And now dis prophesy is come to pass,
For Talbot’s de dog, and James is de ass.
Lilli burlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.
The melody was said to be the same as that which accompanies the convivial chant:—
“Very good song, very well sung,
Jolly companions, every one.”
And Lord Macaulay wrote of Lilliburlero:—“The verses and the tune caught the fancy of the nation. It was especially the delight of the English army.” Whilst Sterne also mentions it in “Tristram Shandy,” as the favourite air of Uncle Toby, who had been a soldier in the army of William III.
The following imitation alludes to the attempts being made in 1798 to bring about the legislative union of England and Ireland, but which did not actually take place until 1801. At that date the Irish Parliament was induced, by bribery and fraud to consent to its incorporation with that of Great Britain. The parody is a somewhat remarkable prophecy of what has actually occurred.
The New Lilla Bulero.
Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree?
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha,
United men we shall all of us be,
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha.
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha,
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha.
Says England, since Union’s de ting dat you want,
By Jasus I’ll give you a belly full on’t
And if green is de colour you like, by de mass,
You’ll be plas’d when all Dublin is cover’d wid grass.
But, says Teague, now, by Union, what is it dey mane?
Sure ’tis binding three nations all fast in one chain.
’Tis a shame which quite bodder’s one’s brain faith and troth,
For ’tis worse for de one yet it’s better for both.
Is not Johnny Fitzgibbon gone straight to de King?
Oh! between ’em how nately dey’ll settle de ting!
He’ll drive a rare job for us all, you may swear,
And anoder as good for Lord Chancellor Clare.
And since we’ve a parliament not to our mind,
Sure to take it away now, is wonderful kind.
Would a minister wish for his jobs better tools
Dan a cargo of knaves, when exported by fools?
And, by Christ, we’ll not send him such blundering elves,
Who will tink of deir country and not of demselves.
Oh! when Paddy in Westminster takes his own sate,
By my shoul he’ll enliven de British debate.
Should de Spaker call order, he’ll huff and look big,
Till he makes ev’ry hair stand on an end on his wig.
Should a member prasume on his spache to remark
Sure he’ll beg just to mate him next day in de Park.
For a park like our Phanix in London dey’ve got,
By jontlemen us’d for exchanging a shot.
Won’t it be a vast benefit now to our trade,
When all laws to promote it in England are made?
You have seen, Teague, a cur, to whose draggled backside,
Butcher boys have a broken old canister tied.
Now, if England’s de dog whom French butchers assail,
Will not we be de canister tied to her tail?
Not a great while ago, sure, we heard a vast dale
About renunciation and simple repale:
But this schame now will strike ev’ry orator mute,
And de Union will settle de simple dispute;
And ’twill den to our fearce Orange yeomen be known,
Dat in cutting our troats dey’ve been cutting deir own.
Lilla Lero, &c.
The Morning Chronicle. 1798.
The New “Lilli Burlero.”
(To be sung by Nationalists to the old air.)
Ho! Broder League, dost hear the decree?
Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la,
“Saunderson ought to be sub-Secretree.”
Bully Bullero, Buller a-la.[51]
Lero, Lero, Redvers Bullero,
Lero, Lero, Buller o-la.
Oranges come to us from foreign climes,
Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la,
Is the blood-orange a sign of the Times?
Lilli Bullero Buller a-la.
Lero, &c.
Down with Moon-lighters and up with the Laws!
Lillo Bullero, Buller a-la,
And save us from Fire-and-Sworderson’s claws!
Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la!
Lero, &c.
Punch. March 19, 1887.
——:o:——
The style of the old ballad has been often so successfully imitated as to deceive even the most accomplished literary critics. Amongst these may be noted the “New-Old Ballads,” written by Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) which were republished by that clever but unscrupulous satirist in a collection, entitled Tears and Smiles, published in 1801, with the following “Advertisement to the Reader. These ballads were composed several years ago, in imitation of authors of the reigns of Harry the Eighth, Elizabeth, and James, and sent to some of my literary friends as innocent deceptions.—P. P.”
There were also “The Cornish Ballads,” written by Mrs. Gervis, and “The Bristow Tragedy, or Death of Sir Charles Bawdin,” by Thomas Chatterton, and others too numerous to mention, especially as they cannot exactly be styled Parodies in the strict sense of the term.
The finest burlesque ballad in the language is undoubtedly that entitled “The Queen in France,” contained in The Book of Ballads edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by W. Blackwood and Sons. This clever book of parodies and burlesques was the joint production of Sir Theodore Martin, and the late Professor W. E. Aytoun. The burlesque ballad in question was probably composed by Aytoun, it describes the Queen’s visit to Louis Phillippe in France in 1843, and closely imitates the metre and diction of “Sir Patrick Spens” an old Scotch ballad. The old ballad may be found in Percy’s Reliques, in Sir Walter Scott’s Border Minstrelsy, and in Early Ballads, edited by Robert Bell. “The Queen in France” is very long, and disjointed extracts would give but a faint idea of its quaint humour, and simple pathos, besides which The Bon Gaultier Ballads is a readily accessible book.
In the same volume there is another, but inferior, burlesque ballad, entitled Little John and the Red Friar, which deals with the vexed question of ecclesiastical titles. Little John representing Lord John Russell, and the Red Friar, Cardinal Wiseman, who, in 1850, was appointed by the Pope, Lord Archbishop of Westminster, a nomination which gave rise to much agitation and angry controversy.
——:o:——
The “Lay” of the Good Lord Rosebery.
A Modern Ballad.
It was the good Lord Rosebery
And he sat at the Durdans fair,
By the hour of noon in his heel-less shoon,
And the ease of an easy-chair.
“Come hither, come hither, my private scribe;
Come hither and soothly say,
What wild ducks fly, be it low, be it high,
Over London town this day.”
“O the talk flies high,” said the private scribe,
“That to-day we cross the sea,
To Calais and Brussels and fair Cologne,
And the City upon the Spree.
“And its O, but I know, when the loud winds blow
And the sea climbs high on the strand,
It is I that am wan as the wan water
Or ever I win to land.”
“Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“Till the actual qualms befall,
And tell me, I pray, what men may say
Of the mails which we travel withal.”
“O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout,
But and a Gladstone bag,
With a bottle of blacking and brush inside
Wrapped up in the British flag.”
“But tell me, O tell me, my private scribe,
Come tell me, and soothly say,
How fared you with yon smart interviewèr
Who interviewed you this day?
“What learnt he of us and our secret plans?
Sith he comes of a questing tribe,
Did he ask what we’re at? hath he smelt of a rat?
Say soothly, my private scribe.”
“Now Heaven be good to thee, good my lord!”
Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin,
“Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk
That his mother him bore yestreen?
“O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known
And many a one sent back
With the saut, saut scent of the red herring
Drawn featly across his track.”
“’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“’Tis well that the rogues should stray.
But tell me, my scribe, what think they of us?
What of our little game think they?”
“O some there were who talked full wise
Of the Germans beyond the sea,
And the purposes dark of the grim Bismarck
On the coast of New Guinea;
“And who seemed cocksure you were seeking the Prince—
’Twas thus that the rumour ran—
With additional swag in the Gladstone bag
As a bribe from the grand old man.”
“But said they nought,” said the Minister bold;
Come tell me, my follower good,
Of the Muscovite pranks on the Murghab’s banks,
And the banks of the Heri Rud?”
“O ay! O ay! there were some who deemed
Of your mission to Germany thus:
That you go to engage the honest brokèr
To square the advancing Russ.”
Full loud the good Lord Rosebery laughed,
And his head went to and fro;
Jack-fools are they who suppose that to-day
One needs over sea to go.
“A word flies fleet on the lightning’s feet,
And ’twere best without ‘mission’ or fuss;
Let the wire give hints to the broker-Prince
To square the advancing Russ.”
But the scribe look’d up from his newspapèr,
And a white-faced scribe was he;
“Too late may a man be, dear my lord,
Though he wait not to cross the sea.
“For the foot of a Fate that is bent on war
May outstrip a surrendering wire;
Our allies and our foes are already at blows,
And the fat’s in the Afghan fire.”
The Saturday Review. April 11, 1885.
——:o:——
A BALLAD OF THE GREAT ELECTION BATTLE.
December, 1885.
(Some way after
Drayton’s Ballad of Agincourt.)
Fair stood the wind (we thought),
Ere the great fight was fought,
Much hoping, fearing nought,
On marched our heroes.
But when, whilst banners flew,
First Orange closed with Blue,
Our hopes soon tumbled to
Chillest of zeros!
When in his height of pride,
Joe did the foe deride,
And “Ransom” loudly cried,
Many offending;
When he forgot the while
Rob Roy’s not English style,
Cecil did darkly smile,
Mischief portending.
And, turning to his men,
Quoth our sage William then,
“Bearded in our own den?
I am amazéd!
But battles ill begun
By pluck are often won.
Close ranks, and fight like fun!
Joe has gone craséd.
“But for myself,” quoth he,
This my last fight may be.
England will mock at me,
No more esteem me,
If vanquished I remain,
In this great fray fall slain;
Close up and charge again
Loss to redeem me!
“’Eighty’ our foes may tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
Not less our skill is
Than when great Ben we beat;
That conquest we’ll repeat
If you but follow fleet
One standard—Willie’s!”
* * * * *
(Five verses omitted.)
Dilke held a stubborn pike,
Harcourt as Thor did strike,
Smiting down smashers like
Hammer on anvil;
Morley his axe did ply,
Bright and young Rosebery
Bore them right doughtily,
Derby and Granville!
All in December grey
Fought was this wondrous fray,
Brave Britons, as when they
Lopped the French lillies!
Acts these to fill a pen!
Must not all Englishmen
Hops we may breed again
Hearts like Auld Willie’s?
Punch. December 19, 1885.
The Battle of the Ballot.
(Another imitation of Drayton’s Ballad,)
See, where the hosts advance,
As on their steeds they prance,
Flashing the sword and lance,
Eager for glory!
Hear ye the battle din;
Who will be “Out” or “In”—
Which of the twain will win—
Lib’ral or Tory?
Salisbury, helmetless,
On with his lance doth press
Theat’ning with dire distress
Will o’ the Collars!
He, with uplifted axe,
Never true valour lacks—
Sore doth his vigour tax
“Squire” G., who “follers.”
Randolph, the Slangy Knight,
Joins in the furious fight—
See, too, Free-Trader Bright—
“Joe,” too, of Land-fame!
See while the Tories “fake,”
Lib’rals the cry awake—
“Win, Gladstone, win, and make
Grander your grand fame!”
Fun. December 2, 1885.
——:o:——
THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS.
God rest you merry, gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic plats
Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;
Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights—they’re sure to come—
When “waits” attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar grey;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet—in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you merry gentlemen,
May none of these dismay!
Funny Folks. January, 1880.
——:o:——
KING JOHN IN A COCKED HAT.
A Parody on the famous old Grimaldian song, called “The Frog in the Opera Hat.”
John Kemble he would an acting go,
Heigho! says Kemble;
He raised the price which he thought too low,
Whether the public would let him or no;
With his roly-poly, gammon and spinnage,
And ho! say manager Kemble.
The mob at the door made a mighty din,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They dashed like devils thro’ thick and thin,
And over the benches came tumbling in,
With their roly, &c.
’Twill do, says manager Kemble.
Soon as they pass’d Will Shakespeare’s hall,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They thought the lobbies were much too small,
So they gave a loud roar, and they gave a loud bawl,
With roly, &c.
Hollo! says manager Kemble.
Pray what do you want? (in a sort of a huff)
Heigho! says Kemble;
Says Mr. Leigh—“Nonsensical stuff,
Pho, none of your gammon, you know well enough.
With your roly, &c.
You do, great manager Kemble;
He held by the tip his opera-hat,
Heigho! says Kemble;
“Indeed the concern’s as poor as a rat;”
Says Bull, “No dam’me, we won’t stand that,”
With our roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He folded his arms, in a sad nonplus,
Heigho! says Kemble;
With Queen Anne’s prices he made a fuss,
Says Bull, “what the devil’s Queen Anne to us,”
With roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.
He swore to himself an oath, by Styx,
Heigho! says Kemble.
Kind ladies and gentlemen, none of your tricks,
I love seven shillings much better than six,
With my roly, &c.
I do, says manager Kemble.
Then roar’d the gallery, gentle souls,
Heigho! says Kemble;
No private boxes, no pigeon-holes,
We’ll dowse your glims, in a crack, by goles,
With roly, &c.
No, don’t, says manager Kemble.
The Morning Chronicle. November, 7, 1809.
During the O.P. riots at Covent Garden Theatre, in 1809, a certain Mr. Henry Clifford was a very conspicuous opponent to the new prices as fixed by John Kemble. Finally the management of the Theatre had to concede nearly all the claims advanced by the O.P. party through their spokesman, Clifford, and the victory was celebrated in the following lines:—
Hal Clifford would once a reforming go,
Heigho! says Clifford;
He swore by the mass, that he’d nonsuit his foe,
And under his jerkin he hid his flambeau;
With his roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“I’ll do it” roar’d patriot Clifford.
He went to the pit, where he saw a great fray,
Heigho! says Clifford;
“We want” cried O.P. “those vile boxes away,”
For if they don’t sin there, I’m sure that they may,”
With a roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“They shall vanish” said patriot Clifford.
* * * * *
Now he swears reformation has got a new tune,
Heigho! said Clifford;
Lo! he and John Kemble, like loon scratching loon,
Sip their dramatic broth with the very same spoon;
With roly, poly, gammon and spinnage,
“It’s over” said patriot Clifford.
The last lines refer to the Dinner of Reconciliation which took place at the Crown and Anchor Tavern on January 4th, 1810, when Mr. Clifford took the chair, supported by the most prominent of the O. P. party, and Messrs. John Kemble and Harris represented the management of Covent Garden Theatre. For full details of these extraordinary proceedings the reader is referred to the Covent Garden Journal (J. J. Stockdale, London), 1810.
The New Magazine.
Campbell would a writing go,
Heigh ho! said Colburn.
Campbell would a writing go,
Whether the people would let him or no,
With a Cockrane, Pickersgill, gammon and spinage—
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
Off he set with the “Pleasures of Hope,”
Heigh ho! said Colburn.
On the road he spouted from Pope,
With his absent, thoughtless!—gammon and spinage—
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.
He soon arrived at the Union Club,
Heigh ho! said Redding;
And he knocked at the door with a rub-a-dub-dub,
And an English, Irish—gammon and spinage—
Heigh ho! said Cyrus Redding.
Pray Mr. Redding, Are you within?
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Yes, dear Tom, I’m drinking my gin,
With a lemon, sugar—gammon and spinach—
Heigh ho! said the longing Campbell.
Well Mr. Redding, I’ll have some too,
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Aye, if you pay for it, that you may do,
With a spoon and tumbler—gammon and spinage—
Heigh ho and the devil! said Campbell.
Pray Mr. Campbell, what brought you here?
Heigh ho said a Lady;—
I’m making a new magazine, my dear,
A Metropolitan—gammon and spinage—
Heigh ho, indeed! said the Lady.
I’ve left the “New Monthly” once and for all,
Well done, said Redding;
And now I’m determined to work for its fall,
With its portraits, memoirs—gammon and spinage—
I’m very glad of it, said Redding.
Perhaps you’ll help me over the style;
That I will, said Redding:
So they sat down with a smirk and a smile,
With pens and paper—gammon and spinage—
Tom Campbell and Cyrus Redding.
They had written prospectus—quaff’d their gin.
I’m devilish tired, said Redding.
When Picken and Roscoe came tumbling in
With James and Marryatt—gammon and spinage—
You’re the King’s Own, said Redding.
Campbell rose, and with voice so sweet,
Gentlemen all, said Campbell,
I’ll give you fifteen guineas a sheet
For your tales and politics—gammon and spinage
So you ought to write well, said Campbell.
I mean to be independent quite,—
The devil you do? said Roscoe.
I begin to think it’s nothing but right,
And better than puffing, gammon and spinage,
To be sure so it is, said Roscoe.
They then retired, each and all,
All alone was Campbell;
And they finished their articles, great and small,
Poems, advertisements, gammon and spinage,
And sent them away to Campbell.
Under a cover the numbers were bound,
Heigh ho! said the reader:
Cochrane and partner sent them round
To the nobles, gentry, gammon and spinage,
Heigh ho! said the gentle reader.
The National Omnibus. May 13, 1831.
Thomas Campbell, the Poet, was editor of The New Monthly Magazine, Cyrus Redding was his literary subordinate, and Henry Colburn was the publisher. The Lady here referred to was doubtless intended for Lady Morgan.
LEAP FROG.
Dedicated to Prince Napoleon, The Duke of Malakhoff, Marshals Canrobert, Bosquet, and the other French officers present at the late Crimean banquet at Paris.
Froggy must a warring go—
Heigh ho, so slowly!
Froggy must a warring go,
By the Emperor’s orders, like it or no,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
Heigh ho, so growly,
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
And there found John Bull with a soldier or two,
With his good-natured Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so scowly!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run—
Heigh ho, so easy!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run,
It was Froggy, of course took the one captured gun,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so easy!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue—
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue,
To John Bull, of course, the delay was due,
With his easy Lord Raglan, Lucan and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so growlly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack”—
Heigh ho, so slowly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack,”
Of course, Froggy held left and right attack,
With his bouncing Pelissier, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight—
Heigh ho, so boldly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight,
It was Froggy, of course, that defended the height,
With his terrible Chasseurs, Zouaves, and Indigénes,
Heigh ho, so boldly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse—
Heigh ho, so quickly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse,
The “thin red line” was Froggy’s of course,
With his blundering Lucan, Campbell, and Highlanders,
Heigh ho, so quickly!
When the Allies’ assault was repulsed in June—
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the Allies’ attack was repulsed in June,
’Twasn’t Froggy began the attack too soon,
With his Duke of Malakhoff, Bosquet, and Company,
Heigh ho, so foully!
When at last Sebastopol city was ta’en—
Heigh ho, so slowly
It was Froggy did all—except lose the Redan,
With his thundering D’Angely, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so slowly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol—
Heigh ho, so wholly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol,
Was Froggy’s achievement, whole and sole,
With his Admiral Hamelin, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so wholly!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear—
Heigh ho, so seedy!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear,
Of course, Froggy claims the Lion’s share,
With his Dukes and his Marshals, Bosquet and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so greedy!
Punch. January 31, 1857.
The Frog who would a-wooing Go.
A Premier would a-wooing go,
(“Boo! boo!” says Randy)
Whether his Party liked it or no,
With a Salisbury, Halsbury gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says pert little Randy.)
So off he went in a terrible pet,
(“Ta-ta!” says Randy)
And a Whiggy Peer was the first he met,
With a Hartington haughty tone gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says smart little Randy.)
“Pray, Mr. Marquis, come with me?”
(“Yah! yah!” says Randy)
“And help us to govern our great countree,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Pooh! pooh!” says little Lord Randy.)
“You shall be Premier if you wish,”
(“Heigho!” says Randy)
“The principal spoon in the Tory dish
Of Salisbury, Halsbury, gammon and spinach.”
(“Boo! boo!” says cross little Randy.)
“Our Tory colours we’ll change about,”
(“Hurroo!” says Randy)
“If you’ll help to keep old Gladstone out,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Yah! yah!” says sharp little Randy.)
“No! Mr. Sarum, I can’t go with you.”
(“Neither could I,” says Randy)
“If I did the bargain I quickly should rue,
With your Marshall and Snelgrove gammon and spinach.”
(“Just so!” says little Lord Randy.)
“But on my support you may depend,”
(“Oh, indeed!” says Randy)
“In need I’ll always prove your friend,
With my Liberal Unionist gammon and spinach,”
(“Oh! oh!” says spry little Randy.)
“There’s no one now but Goschen left,”
(“Invertebrate!” sneers Randy)
A chief of followers bereft,”
With a Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach,
(“Quite so!” says smart little Randy)
So off he went to Mr. G.
(“Silly Bob,” says Randy)
Who said he’d accept the Chancell’rie,
With a Northbrook, Lansdowne gammon and spinach,
(“Pooh, pooh,” says bad little Randy.)
But when he reached his home again,
(“All in the dumps,” says Randy)
Upon his head reproaches rain;
With a hurly-burly gammon and spinach.
(“Yo, ho!” sings chuckling Randy.)
It was who’s to go and who’s to rise?
(“That’s the rub!” says Randy)
Each marked the other with jealous eyes,
With a grumbling, rumbling gammon and spinach.
(“What fun!” says mischievous Randy.)
The kindest and the truest man,
(“Go it, Bob!” says Randy)
To turn him out they plot and plan,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“He’s old!” says cruel young Randy.)
Upon one point they all agree—
(“Only one,” adds Randy)
To banish dear Lord Iddesleigh,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“Hurroo!” shouts little Lord Randy.)
“But what’s to be the end of this?”
(“Deuced queer!” says Randy)
“Such a chance old Gladstone never will miss,
With his Homer, Home Rule, gammon and spinach.”
(“Heigho!” sighs sad little Randy.)
The Premier was swimming along one day,
(“What’ll come next?” says Randy)
A grand old duck came and gobbled him up,
With his Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen, and spinach.
(“All up” says little Lord Randy.)
Pall Mall Gazette. January 20, 1887.
When Lord Randolph Churchill resigned the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, on account of the extravagance in the votes for the War Office, and the Admiralty, the Marquis of Salisbury had some difficulty in finding a successor, but at length prevailed on Mr. Goschen to accept the post, although he had previously held office in a Liberal Cabinet.
“Old Rowley!”
[Mr. and Mrs. Kendal and Mr. Rowley Cathcart played Uncle’s Will, and Sweethearts at Osborne. Her Majesty presented Mrs. Kendal with a diamond brooch in the shape of an imperial crown, gave Mr. Kendal a cheque for the night’s expenses of the St. James’s Theatre, and Mr. R. Cathcart a cheque for himself. Subsequently it was announced that, as a memorial of the performance of David Garrick at Sandringham, H.R.H. had presented Mr. Charles Wyndham with a gold cup.]
Off they went to Osborne to play,
(“Heigho!” say Rowley.)
Off they went to Osborne to play;
There were only Mrs. and Mr. K.,
With their Rowley Cathcart.
(“Would it were Greenwich.
Heigho!” sighs elderly Rowley.)
The first piece played was Uncle’s Will.
(“Ho! Ho!” laughs Rowley.)
They all three played in Uncle’s Will,
And Sweethearts to follow completed the bill,
Both with Rowley Cathcart.
(“Glad to get finidg’d,
Heigho!” growls elderly Rowley.)
They greatly delighted Her Majestee,
(“Hooray!” cries Rowley.)
They highly delighted Her Majestee,
Did Mister and Missus and little Rowlee,
With their tact in actin’
Little space pack’d in.
(“Heigho!” says elderly Rowley.)
With a brooch did her Her Majesty Mrs. K. deck.
(“Hooray!” shouts Rowley.)
Crown diamonds shining in front of her neck;
A cheque to her Hub; then the Queen drew a cheque
For their Rowley, slowly,
(“Solely and wholly
For me!” cries elderly Rowley.)
Postscript.
Charles Wyndham on hearing it threw his hands up
(“Hallo!” says Davy.)
Charles Wyndham on hearing it threw his hands up,
And into them H.R.H. chucked a gold cup,
For command obeying,
Sandringham playing,
“Hooray!” cries Wyndham as Davy!
Punch. February 26, 1887.
The Crafty Hawarden Fox and
the Sour Unionist Grapes.
A grey old fox sat under a vine
(Heigho! says Morley),
Ogling the grapes so plump and fine,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“Oh, come and be gobbled up, grapes,” said he
(Heigho! says Morley)
“It’s really a treat to be swallowed by me,
With my Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)
But the grapes stuck fast to the parent stem
(Heigho! says Morley)
“We shan’t get much out of blarneying them,
With our Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)
Then the old fox jumped, but ’twas all in vain
(Heigho! says Morley).
For he came bump on his haunches again,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
The more he jumped the fiercer he grew
(Heigho! says Morley)
And he growled all the naughtiest growls he knew,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).
“The grapes are sour, and not fit to eat.”
(Just so, says Morley);
So the pair crawled off to their den dead beat,
With their Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
The grey old fox and his Morley.
J. W. P.
St. Stephen’s Review. June 18, 1887.