BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
Better known as Barry Cornwall.
Born about 1787. Died October, 1874.
——:o:——
THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY.
Sing!—Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah! who is this lady fine?
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she
O’er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.
Drink!—Who drinks
To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah! who is this maid of thine?
The Grape, boys, the Grape!
O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she
Than Vine can be,
And very, very good company!
Dream!— Who dreams
Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah! who is this Spirit fine?
’Tis Wine, boys, ’tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he
Than Grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.
B. W. Procter.
An Omnibusian Song.
Ride! Who rides
In a ’bus that taketh twelve insides?
Ah! who is this lady fine
That falls on this lap of mine?
A lady is she,
As big as three.
I prefer her room to her company.
Smoke! Who smokes
To the great annoyance of other folks?
Ah! who is this snob so fine?
A gent, Sirs! a gent!
He comes with the noxious scent
Of tobacco, beer, and wine:
Far better that he
On the roof should be.
I prefer his room to his company.
Punch. September 17, 1853.
Sing! Who sings
Of him who weareth the fine gold rings,
Ah, who is the party fine?
The Jew I divine,
Who works the Brummagem line.
In “h’s” he
Is a dealer free,
And very unpleasant company.
Anonymous.
A Chaunt for the Choused.
Dine? who’d dine
At eight shillings a head, or even nine,
With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?
Ah! that house I know too well,
’Tis your “first-class” Hotel:
Sad “Tales of my Landlord” there they tell
Far better for me
To order tea,
And go dinnerless at that hostelry.
Sleep? who’d sleep
Where a standing army their quarters keep,
And in countless legions upon you creep?
Ah! whose form is that I see,—
A flea! Sirs, a flea!
He cometh to sup off me.
Far better, say I,
On the sofa to lie;
I prefer his room to his company.
Stay? who’d stay
To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,
And live at the rate of a fortune a day?
Ah! who’ll expose their crimes?
The Times, Sirs, the Times,
The waiter his fee declines;
Tell the landlord from me
Him further I’ll see,
Ere again I’ll be fleeced at his hostelry.
Punch. October, 1853.
——:o:——
THE SEA.
The sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever free:
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round:
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea,
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, O how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
Where every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft its tempest tune:
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west wind doth blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest—
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcom’d to life the ocean child.
I have lived since then in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover’s life,
With wealth to spend, and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!
B. W. Procter.
The Cam, the Cam.
The Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam!
The green, the brown, the black, the blue!
Of every shade, of every hue,
It runneth the list of colours through!
It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls,
Or like an o’erfilled kennel brawls.
I’m on the Cam! I’m on the Cam!
Where I never again will be, I am;
With the blue above, and the mud below,
And weeds are wheresoe’er I go—
From The Individual. November 29, 1836.
Cambridge: W. H. Smith.
The Pipe.
The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe!
The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe!
Its odorous puffs without a sound,
They float my head’s wide regions round;
They rise in clouds and mock the skies,
While Backy snugly cradled lies.
My hookha wide! my hookha deep!
I’ve that which I would ever keep;
With the smoke above, and smoke below,
And smoke wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring
What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing.
What matters, &c.
I love—oh! how I love to smoke,
And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak!
And when its waves have drowned my soul,
I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!”
Don’t ask me where the world is going,
Nor why the sou’-west blast is blowing.
I never breathed the dull tame air,
But I relished my great pipe mair and mair,
And back again flew for a soothing puff,
Like a bird—I’m sure that’s quick enough.
My mother it is, and I’ll prove it to ye,
(Much more of a mother than the open sea!)
For smoking, I am at it ever and ever!
I hope your comment on this line is “clever!”
For fear of growing at all lackadaisical
I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical;
In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat
’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come
I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon,
These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.
From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.
The Gin, The Gin!
The gin! the gin! Hodge’s Cordial Gin!
It fairly makes our heads to spin;
It gives us marks, and without bound,
It turneth our head completely round;
It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain,
And sends us rolling in the drain.
I love the gin! I love the gin!
And in a butt of it I could swim,
Or ever live among butts below,
For the juniper’s taste so well I know;
If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin,
What matter? We’ll settle it all with Gin.
I love, I love—oh, how I love to bide,
With a flowing gin-cask by my side;
Where every quartern gives relief,
We whistle a stave, and drown all grief;
And when our browns to the host we show,
The gin-cock then will merrily flow.
I never tasted watery swipes,
But I always found they gave me the gripes;
So back I flew to my favourite juice,
Until my sorrows were all reduced.
No three-outs I’ll have, but my whack to the brim.
For when I was born my mother gave me gin.
The gin it flow’d the glasses to adorn,
On the drunken hour when I was born;
The nurse she sang, but I did scream,
My mother called out for valley’s cream;
And never was known such a drunken crush,
As welcomed to life this child of lush!
I’ve lived since then in riot and din,
Full thirty winters quite warm with gin;
With ready blunt to the shops I range,
But where I find it good I never change;
And Death, whene’er it comes so grim,
Shall find me guzzling Hodge’s gin.
Anonymous.
The Mail! The Mail!
The Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail,
The black, the red, the never pale;
Without a bar, without a gate
She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight,
She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands,
Or like a tilted waggon stands.
I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail!
I am where I would ever sail,
With the dust before and the dust behind,
And driving straight before the wind,
If a storm should come, and disturb my ride,
What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.
I love, O! how I love to drive,
To urge the wheelers all alive,
While every loose stone strikes the box,
Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks,
And tells how goeth the road below,
Or why the panting leaders blow,
I never was in a dull post chaise,
But on the Mail was fain to gaze,
And jumped again on the buoyant box,
Like an ape that sits on its native rocks,
And my native place I always hail,
For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.”
The roads were rough, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung,
The leaders jobled, and out they flung,
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the coachman’s child.
I have lived since then on ale and gin,
Full fifty summers and not grown thin,
With a coach to run and a team to drive,
And never have sought or sighed to wive,
And love if ever in that I engage,
Must come on the fast light bounding Stage.
From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster, Dublin. No date.
The Road.
The road, the road, the turnpike road!
The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad,
Without a check, without an end,
Horses against horses on it contend;
Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls,
Or stop and pay like honest souls.
I’m on the road, I’m on the road,
I’m never so blithe as when abroad,
With the hills above, and the vales below,
And merry wheresoever I go,
If the opposition appears in sight
What matters—we’ll soon make that all right.
I love—oh! how I love to ride,
With a smiling damsel by my side,
Where every prad keeps well his pace,
Nor draws my eye from the sweet one’s face.
Nought tells how goeth the time of day,
Nor why the hours so fly away.
I never heard the angry sea roar,
But I love the dry land more and more;
And away have flown to my box and reins,
For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains;
On my team is all my care bestow’d,
For I was born on the turnpike road!
The clouds were dark, and grey the morn,
In the hazy hour when I was born;
The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d,
And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold,
And never was heard such a curious din,
As when the road-child the world popt in.
I have driven since then in fair and rough,
Full forty winters, a traveller tough,
With primest of cattle, and carriages neat,
And never had a spill or beat,
And death, whenever he looks for me,
Shall come on the road, and not on the sea.
From The London Singer’s Magazine.
The Steak.
Of steak, of steak—of prime rump steak—
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who’d cook a steak—who’d cook a steak,
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below.
In one delicious, genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You mustn’t put on your steak.
First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat,
The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat,
Impose the meat; and the fire soon,
Will make it sing a delicious tune,
And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er,
For a moment you broil your steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your steak.
When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your steak till done—nor let it burn:
For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice rump steak in the cooking spiled.
I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef;
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my steak I never wished to change:
For a steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.
Punch.
The Tea! The Tea!
The tea! the tea! the genuine tea!
Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea—
Without a leaf that was not found,
Growing on Noqua’s famous ground.
It fills the teapot, and from the spout,
The hand of beauty pours it out.
I’m for the tea! I’m for the tea!
No chocolate, coffee, or such for me—
No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow—
No silence when round doth the tea-tray go!
If friends drop in, we will hail with glee
Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea!
I love—oh! how I love to sip,
The green—green tea with my willing lip,
When the toast is brown and the muffins hot,
And there’s plenty of tea in the China pot,
And to talk some scandal and how below,
Matters and things in this world do go.
I never sat down with a dull tame “bore,”
But I loved a tea-party more and more;
And I backward flew to the cheerful sup
Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up;
And sugar it was, and more to me,
For ’twas blent with the flavour of good green tea.
The clouds were dull and rainy the morn—
So the gossips say when I was born.
The kettle sung and the jest was told,
And the teacups and saucers were green and gold.
And never was heard such a chattering wild,
As welcomed to Congo the China child.
I’ve lived since then upon “heavy wet,”
And all sorts of drinks which a man can get,
With splitting headaches and purpled nose,
With empty pockets and tattered clothes!
But I’ve signed the pledge, and when death seeks me,
He shall find me over a cup of tea!
Anonymous.
The See.
The See, the See, the wealthy See!
I can’t resign it gratis free;
Within the mark—within fair bounds—
I think I may say six thousand pounds—
That is little enough—but one’s heart’s in the skies—
Therefore one can’t be worldly wise.
I’m in the See, I’m in the See,
I am where I may ever be.
Suppose I do not choose to go,
What do you say then; yes or no?
Of the whole of the income I stand possessed,
And I can’t be turn’d out of my mother’s nest,
For a Mother the Church has been to me,
And I was born for her fattest See.
I love my See, my wealthy See,
I scorn the idea of Simony;
But I must take care what I’m about,
Six thousand a-year and I’ll turn out.
My offer you had better take,
And you will, if you are wide awake,
For Death, whenever he comes to me,
Can alone compel me to quit my See.
Punch. August 2, 1856.
The Tea.
By Carry Bornwall.
The tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound,
The best for an invalid ’tis found;
It’s better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.
I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,
I’m satisfied, and aye shall be,
With the brew I love, with the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe’er I go.
If the price should rise, or meat be cheap
No matter! I’ll to beef-tea keep.
I love—oh, how I love to guide
The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon,
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth, or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.
I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird: as a child on that I messed—
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef—beef-tea!
Tom Hood, the younger.
Operatic Mem.
“When the C. from the chest is produced for the first time, the delight of the tenor is supposed to be so great that he bursts out into something like the following:
The C! The C!
The ALTO C!
Most singers never get past B,
Nor reach that most expensive sound.
The C, which now at last I’ve found,—
The C! that treasure which to gain,
Lessees shall hunt no more in vain.
I’m up to C!
I’m up to C!
I am where I ne’er hoped to be!”
Diogenes, Volume ii. 1853.
The Van-Demon.
The Van, the Van! the hurrying Van!
Terror alike of beast and man;
With awful rush and roaring sound
It thunders merrily over the ground.
It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies,
Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies.
I’m on the Van, I’m on the Van!
Let people get out of the way who can.
Jolly the day when the Van was born,
In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne;
Says they, “The people denounce as slow
The waggons so huge from our yards that go.
We’ll build a Van that hath equal space,
And horse it with horses that go the pace;
With a scowling blackguard the box we’ll man,
Let people get out of the way who can.”
I have lived since then in storm and strife,
The fierce Van-Demon’s right jovial life.
I drive like mad,—if a cove complains,
He gets an oath or a cut for his pains;
And right and left doth the traffic fly,
When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by.
I scrunch folks’ spokes as you’d scrunch a fan—
Let people get out of the way who can.
Shirley Brooks. 1859.
——:o:——
KING DEATH.
King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine,
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And pour’d out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine.
* * * * *
B. W. Procter.
Song of July.
July is a rare old fellow,
He’s a month when the sun does shine;
He makes the pear quite mellow,
Sagittarius is his sign.
Hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that rare old month—a hot July.
The Quail, that ne’er deceives us,
Now makes his morning call;
The fickle cuckoo leaves us,
But that’s the way with them all.
Then hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why,
For that blazing month—a hot July.
Punch’s Almanac. 1846.
THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.
How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea!
The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free,
The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running bright.
All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep,
Strange things come up to look at us—the masters of the deep!
In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark—
Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark!
Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day)
Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey!
Who’ve fought for him and conquered, who’ve won with sweat and gore
Nobility, which he shall have whene’er he touch the shore!
Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a word—
To lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord!
I’d shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee,
“Some day I’ll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!”
Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew,
Still talk’d he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew;
And he look’d up at the heavens, and he look’d down on the sea,
And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee!
He shook—’twas but an instant: for speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied;
It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath,
And he look’d like some grim warrior new risen up from death!
That night a horrid whisper fell on us where we lay—
And we knew our fine old admiral was changing into clay
And we heard the wash of waters, though nothing could we see—
A whistle and a plunge among the billows on our lee;
Till dawn we watched the body in its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening at sunset it was slung into the deep;
And never from that moment, save one shudder through the sea,
Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee!
B. W. Procter.
The Return of the Omnibus.
How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane,
The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train;
The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly,
Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry:
And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep;
Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep.
A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road—
Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load!
And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may,
Of twice three people (in and out) who’ll each a shilling pay;
He’s proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard
The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard.
Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word,
That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord,
I’d shout unto the free-school boy who’s hanging on our lee,
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.’
Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along,
Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song;
And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight;
And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’
He shook—’twas but an instant—we saw his fearful plight,
The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right.
He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath,
And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.
We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again!
We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’
And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see,
But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee.
We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep,
Then back again t’wards home with all our luggage did we creep;
But never from that moment, having once been ‘sold,’ again
We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train.
From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith.
The Alderman.
(By a Parishioner of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook.)
How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way;
Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day!
The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright,
Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.
All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep,
Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they keep.
In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and stark;
Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark?
* * * * *
(Five verses omitted.)
Punch. 1844.
The Cruize of the Old Admiral.
How crazily, how lazily,
We creep along the sea;
Our upper works are straining,
Our hull is rolling free;
Our lower ports they baffle
Attempts to caulk ’em tight,
Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams
The water runs outright!
E’en coal-brigs o’er us triumph,
Smart yachts about us sweep;
Green’s ships come up to look at us—
The slow-coach of the deep!
In their wake, like any servant,
We sail from day to dark;
Oh, proud must be our Admiral-
-ty Lords of such a barque!
And proud must be our Admiral
(He’s seventy-four to-day)
Of turning out on duty,
Whate’er the doctors say;
He has fought with them and conquered,
Although ’twas mad, they swore,
To go to sea, when he should have
Been laid up snug on shore.
Oh, if I were an Admiral
I wouldn’t be on board,
I’d stay in London, if I could,
And be made a Junior Lord;
I’d write to the Prime Minister,
“Just find a place for me,
For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling,
No longer fit for sea?”
Our Admiral grew paler,
And bluer and more blue,
’Midst the sniggers of the officers,
And the broad grins of the crew;
For at sixes and at sevens
His stomach well might be,
’Twas so long, the poor old creature!
Since he had been at sea.
He heaved—’twas but an instant—
For the old sailor’s pride
Succeeded in the effort
His nausea to hide.
So he mopped his poor old forehead,
And held hard his wheezy breath;
And, like a steamboat passenger,
Sat, looking grim as death!
That night the surgeon’s whisper
Went round the mess to say,
That our poor old used-up Admiral
Was in a dreadful way:
Next day we beat to quarters,
In a Bath-chair wheeled was he,
With a Welsh wig, and his legs
Wrapped in fleecy hosiery!
That night a glass of toddy
Sent him cozily to sleep,
And next morning into harbour
The old ship made shift to creep.
And never from that moment,
(Lest again sick he might be)
Excepting in fine weather,
Did we venture out to sea.
Punch. January 15, 1853.
The Return of the Members.
From the great Naval Review in 1853.
How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail,
The M.P.’s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail;
And now they’re going back to town to sit again to-night,
Like creatures who’ve no Factory Bill to guard their labour’s right;
And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep,
And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep;
But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark,
“How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!”
* * * * *
Said Bright, “For no inducement’s sake an admiral I’d be,
No Peace Societies again would ask me out to tea;
And people all would think that I demeaned me, as they say,
That Mr. Buckstone does the fighting Quaker in the play.”
“I would not be an admiral,” Mackinnon said, “until
Each cannon were subjected to my smoke-prevention Bill,
Else should I fire a single gun ’twould drive me wild to see
A curl of smoke upon the air, or even on the sea.”
* * * * *
Diogenes. Volume ii. 1853.
The Term of the Freshman.
How jollily, how joyously we live at B. N. C.[53]
Our reading is all moonshine—the wind is not more free:
The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night,
Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright.
All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep;
Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so deep;
In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go,
And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro.
Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say,
Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey,
Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour sore,
The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er.
Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word,
His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord?
I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be—
Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see.
Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew,
Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few;
And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see,
And at last there came the fearful time for what we call “degree.”
We read—’twas but an instant! for speedily the pride
Of being plucked twice for “little go,” all chance of ours defied;
This gave boldness to th’ examiners, as, sitting in a row,
They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go.
That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay,
And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away;
And we heard the wash of waters—hard by the gutter we—
And a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be.
Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep,
And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep;
And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see,
The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee.
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
(An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon Hole.)
The Return to Tyrol.
I.
How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep,
Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep;
The green Inn rushes foamingly, far down beneath our path,
And chafes against the stocks and stones, like an M.P. in wrath.
All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam,
The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam;
So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the Gastwirth[54] grin,
He sees the Nirgend’s[55] Wanderer come very soppy in:
(Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots:—)
The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in!
II.
Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day,
Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way.
The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow,
Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe!
He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried,
“Bring me a glass of your Brantwein,[56] and a masz of Bier beside!”
It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath,
And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death:
(Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory:—)
Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death.
III.
The Wanderer grew merrier, and merrier still he grew,
Joining in all the harmless fun of that Tyrolean crew;
He sang Italian Opera airs, French chansons,[57] English songs,
And Burschen lieder,[58] that were chorused as by Chinese gongs.
He looked in his deep beer-glass: the kellnerin[59] knew the sign,
And fill’d it up: he took one sup, and then set-to at wine.
That night a horrid whisper pass’d, with calumny imbued,
It said “The long-hair’d Wanderer got regularly screw’d!”
(Chorus, unanimous and valedictory.)
Of course ’twas false, but how he got to bed he never knewed!
Joseph Woodfall Ebsworth.
Innspruchk. 1854.
The Baby in the Train.
“Why is there not a Compartment ‘for Babies only’?”
The Crusty Philosopher.
How merrily, how cheerily, we ride along the rail!
We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale!
I’m comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat,
With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet;
I’ve all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap,
I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap;
A nap indeed? Impossible! You’ll find it all in vain,
To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train!
He’s autocratic as to rule, and as to language terse,
He’ll freely fist his dear Mamma, and domineer o’er Nurse!
He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee’s,
And babbles of the “puff-puff,” and prattles of “gee-gees:”
He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.
I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain—
But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train!
I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect—
In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect?
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is “kitchee-kitchee” fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of “doggie-oggies,” or prate of “ittle dears”?
Is “peep-bo” fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I’m thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!
He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I’d pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he’ll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train!
O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys,
To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup flow!
Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain
A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train!
Punch. March 24, 1883.
The News.
(After “The Sea! The Sea!”)
The News! the News! the motley News!
Oh, how I love the motley News!
’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere,
At market, statute, wake and fair,
And tells to all the country round,
Where rogues and knaves may soon be found.
I love the News! I love the News!
And when I’m bothered with “the blues,”
I turn me to the motley page,
Where barbers boast, and patriots rage,
And if it tells of bankrupt Jews,
What matter? I’m among the News!
I love, oh, how I love the News!
It’s gay bon-mots and keen reviews—
To loll at ease from morn till night,
With nought but News within my sight,
While lords attend the huntsman’s becks,
And set no value on their necks.
I never see the motley News,
But love the more its new-born dews;
And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose,
As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose,
That come to his hand from wits and blues,
Ambitious of places within the News.
The devil was black, ’twas early morn,
And the pressmen sweat, when the News was born;
A proof had been in the editor’s gripe,
And there wasn’t a single misplaced type.
Each pig was set, the galleys were high,
No column could crumble into pie—
The forme was so well lock’d up with quoin,
And the chase was proud of every line.
I love, I love, the motley page,
And if I live to well-fed age,
And e’er-so-often change my views,
What matter? I’ll always love the News!
From “Songs of the Press, and other Poems relative to the art of Printing, original and selected.” Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845.
The Press.
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
The deep, the fresh, the ever free,
Without a mark, without a bound,
It searcheth the earth’s wide regions round.
It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen,
Or like a flaming rod is seen.
I’m on the Press! I’m on the Press!
I am where I would ever be,
With the ink above, and the paper below,
And the devil to pay wherever I go.
If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall,
What matter? what matter? I can beat them all.
It loves, oh! how it loves to ride
On the lordly voice of the popular tide,
When every madcap speaks his mind,
Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind.
And tells how goeth the National Debt,
And why at taxes the people fret.
I never reported for one short hour,
But I loved the free Press more and more,
And backwards flew to my devils and type,
Like a bear cub that loveth its mother’s gripe;
And kinder and kinder it is to me,
For the Press was born to be useful and free!
The world was changed, and the Pope looked round,
When the hydra head of the Press was unbound,
And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled,
And tyrants offered their bags of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As strove to smother the free-born child.
It has stood since then with great strength and weight,
In spite of prisons and engines great,
With Truth to guide, and Power to range,
And never may England see its change;
And life,—whenever it loves me less,
Shall see me bound to the glorious Press!
From Songs of the Press.
