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

by Unknown

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

(Born about 1618. Educated at Oxford. Imprisoned by the Long Parliament. Afterwards served in the French army. The latter part of his life was very miserable. He died in an alley near Shoe Lane, in 1658.)

TO ALTHEA.

When Love, with unconfinèd wings,

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,

The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crowned,

Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free—

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like, confinèd, I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty

And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,[67]

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.

R. Lovelace.

---

Song.—After Love-lace.

Grey hairs do not a prophet make,

Nor wrinkled brow a sage;

Though Innocence as such may take

These signs upon Life’s stage.

Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise,

And some a profit find

In hair—but then it is in dyes,

And braids to pin behind!

Though flowing locks will drop away,

The flowing cups remain.

The drops they hold will go, but they

Can still be filled again.

And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught,

That clay must ne’er be dry,

Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought

So, fill the Tankard high!

C. H. Waring.

From Hood’s Comic Annual. 1885.

The author of the above parody, Mr.C. H. Waring, is a frequent contributor to Fun, and other humorous periodicals. He was formerly associated with George Cruikshank in several literary ventures. The amusing parody on Lord Tennyson’s Revenge entitled “Retribution,” on page 42, Volume I. Parodies, was also from his pen.

---

A Frugal Mind.

Champagne will not a dinner make,

Nor Caviare a meal:

Men gluttonous and rich, may take

Those till they make them ill.

If I’ve potatoes to my chop,

And after chop have cheese,

Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop

Know no such luxuries!

Punch. April 3, 1875.

——:o:——

TO LUCASTA.

On Going to the Wars.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,—

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger love embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you, too, shall adore:

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more.

R. Lovelace.

---

The Grand Old O’Diddle to Miss Erin.

Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge

Because so swift I hie,

From making love to Molly Hodge

And wink at thee an eye!

True, a new charmer now I chase

Across wild Faction’s field,

Prepared, with shame-forgetting face,

Whate’er thou wilt, to yield.

Yet this apostacy is such

As thou, too, shalt adore:

I should not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not office more.

Moonshine. January 2, 1886.

——:o:——

HANG SORROW, LET’S CAST AWAY CARE.

The Rev. Mr. J. W. Ebsworth, a great authority on our early songs and ballads, supplies the following information as to the different existing versions of “Hang sorrow.”

The music of this old ballad was composed by William Lawes, and “published by John Hilton: printed for John Benson and John Playford, and to be sould in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard, and in the Inner Temple neare the Church doore, 1652.” It reappeared in ‘Windsor Drollery,’ 1672, with a few verbal alterations.

From J. Hilton’s ‘Catch that Catch Can,’ 1652 (music by William Lawes):—

Hang Sorrow and cast away Care,

and let us drink up our Sack;

They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,

and for to strengthen the back.

’Tis wine that makes the thoughts aspire,

and fills the body with heat;

Besides ’tis good, if well understood,

to fit a man for the feat:

Then call and drink up all,

The Drawer is ready to fill,

A Pox of care, what need we to spare?

my father has made his will.

Another version appeared in an excessively rare work, “The New Academy of Complements,” 1671, as, Song 276:—

Hang fear, cast away care,

The parish is bound to find us,

Thou and I and all must die,

And leave this world behinde us.

The Bells shall ring, the Clerk shall sing,

And the good old wife shall winde us,

And John shall lay our bones in clay

Where the Devil ne’er shall find us.

A later version is in Playford’s ‘Musical Companion,’ 1673. There is also a Roxburghe ballad beginning similarly, but quite distinct from these two songs. It is entitled, “Joy and Sorrow mixt together. To the tune of, Such a Rogue should be hang’d.” Which is the same tune as ‘Old Sir Simon the King.’ Here is the first of the fourteen stanzas for comparison. The ballad is preserved in the Roxburghe Collection (vol. 1. fol. 170), and has been reprinted in the Ballad Society’s publication, vol. 1 p. 509:—

Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care,

for now I do mean to be merry,

Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere,

With sugar, and clarret, and sherry.

Now I’le have a wife of mine own,

I shall have no need to borrow;

I would have it for to be known

that I shall be married to-morrow.

(Burden:) Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be,

Come pledge it you boon merry blades:

The day I much long for to see,

We will be as merry as the Maides, &c.

This ballad was written and signed by Richard Climsell, and was printed for John Wright the younger, dwelling in the Old Bayley.

Drinking Song.

Cast away care, he that loves sorrow

Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow;

Money is trash; and he that will spend it,

Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, Oh, ho!

Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.

*  *  *  *  *

John Ford. (About 1623.)

A play, ascribed to Fletcher, entitled The Bloody Brother; or Rollo, Duke of Normandy, printed as early as 1640, contains a somewhat similar defence of drinking:—

A Drinking Song

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow,

You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:

Best, while you have it, use your breath;

There is no drinking after death.

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,

There is no cure ’gainst age but it:

It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisick,

And is for all diseases physick.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;

Who drinks well, loves the Commonwealth.

And he that will to bed go sober

Falls with the leaf, still in October.[68]

---

Five reasons for Drinking.

There are five reasons, as I think,

Why man, being reasonable, should drink.

A friend—a bottle—being dry.

Or, that one may be, by and bye,

Or—any other reason why.

——:o:——

Three Band of Hope Boys.

(Anti-Bacchanalian Song, dedicated to the Temperance
Society, as an Aid to Moral Suasion.)

Air.—“Three Jolly Postboys.”

Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,

Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,

And they determinèd,

And they determinèd,

And they determined again to tap the kettle.

We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.

We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.

Fill us the teapot up,

Fill us the teapot up,

Fill us the teapot up, strong liquor’s self-slaughter.

Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,

Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,

And it not inebriates,

And it not inebriates,

And it not inebriates like potions alcoholic.

He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,

He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,

Lives as he shouldn’t do,

Lives as he shouldn’t do,

Lives as he shouldn’t do, and wakes a seedy fellow.

He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,

He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,

Lasts as the leaves do,

Lasts as the leaves do,

Lasts as the leaves do, bright green in October.

Punch. May 7, 1870.

——:o:——

The Boys for You!

(After the Earl of Dorset’s Song.)

Air.—“To all you Ladies now on Land.”

Ho! all you toilers in the land

Who freedom would promote,

We fain would have you understand

The way you ought to vote.

Old Whigs eschew,

And Tories too—

The Rads, they are the boys for you—

Boys for you!

With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la—

With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la—

With a fal-lal-lal, fal-lal-lal—

The Rads are the boys for you!

To Jingoes, of whatever ilk,

Who’d bid you with them march,

Proclaim for Chamberlain and Dilke,

And men like Burt and Arch.

Brave men and true,

Good work they’ll do,

And they’re the only boys for you—

Boys for you!

Abracadabra.

The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

——:o:——

Back from the Wars.

Sadly Lord Salisbury

Muttered “Oh, lor!”

As he was hobble-ing

Back from the war;

Wailing, “From Voterdom

Hither I come;

Party dear, Party dear,

Welcome me home!”

She at the thought of him

Mournfully wept;

Ruefully dreamt of him

Too, while she slept;

Wailing, “From Voterdom

Would thou could’st come

Victor—yet, Salisbury,

Hurry back home!”

Into her presence then

Slowly he came,

Seeking her sympathy,

Battered and lame;

Wailing, “From Voterdom

Vanquished I come:

Party dear, Party dear,

Soothe me at home!”

Fun. December 16, 1885.

---

Air.—“Gaily the Troubadour.”

Gaily the Grand Old Man

Spoke by the way,

As he was hurrying

Home from the fray,

Singing, “From Parliament

Hither I come;

Darling Midlothian,

Welcome me home.”

She for her veteran

Felt much distress’d;

Sadly she grieved for him,

By foes sore press’d,

Singing, “To succour thee,

Would I might come;

Grand Old Man! Grand Old Man!

Haste to thy home.”

Hark! ’twas the Grand Old Man

Breathing her name.

Through the applauding crowds

Swiftly he came,

Singing, “No need have I

Farther to roam.

Darling Midlothian,

Here is my home.”

Excelsior.

Truth. July 15, 1886.

---

The Chief of the Liberal Party.

Air—The King of the Cannibal Islands.

Now, all ye hungry Whigs, who wait

For pickings from your Premier’s plate,

Attend, while I predict the fate

Of the Chief of the Liberal Party.

No more he plays the daring game

That made all Europe fear his name;

The Temple now enshrines a Fame

Whose trumpet-notes are rather tame.

And he’s only saucy, “jaunty Pam”—

His boasted power’s an empty sham—

And his colleagues groan when he says, “I am

The Chief of the Liberal Party.”

Joking—poking feeble fun—

That is the way his work is done

By the Premier Palmerston—

The Chief of the Liberal Party.”

Pam’s oft the victim of his men—

For Gladstone’s tongue, or Russell’s pen

Brings into trouble, now and then,

The Chief of the Liberal Party.

Now Gladstone’s fancy decks finance

With all the charms of fair romance,

And shows an Income-tax advance.

Or cheapened rates on goods from France,

To be, in fact the nation’s gain—

While poor John Bull protests in vain,

And of his taxes doth complain

To the Chief of the Liberal Party.

Taxing, waxing, more and more,

We pay in peace the price of war—

Thanks to our brilliant Chancellor,

That not too “liberal” party.

Then Russell will despatches write,

And bark at States he dares not bite:

His every movement causes fright

To the Chief of the Liberal Party.

“Non-intervention” is his plan.

And yet he’ll meddle where he can;

But nobody minds the little man,

Except perhaps poor, weak Japan,

And he’ll bully Prussia about the Danes,

And get a snubbing for his pains—

Till not a rag of respect remains

To the Chief of the Liberal Party!

Meddling, peddling everywhere—

Intervene and interfere—

Oh! what a Foreign Minister

Has the Chief of the Liberal Party!

But now the Whigs are in retreat—

At every poll they lose a seat—

So bid “good-bye” to Downing Street,

Oh, Chief of the Liberal Party!

The bench you fill, you soon shall face,—

Like your own jokes, be out of place!

And a better man your post shall grace—

The country’s fav’rite in the race;—

So clear the course for the Derby-day

Tories gather in strong array!

And Whigs prepare to clear the way

For the great Conservative Party!

Gladstone, Russell, Grey & Co.,

Nobody mourns your overthrow—

Your time is come—so out you go

With the Chief of the Liberal Party!

E. J. Goodman, 1864.

These verses were first sung at a dinner of the Edinburgh Conservative Club, on February 19, 1864, and were published in the Edinburgh Courant, February 21, 1864.

——:o:——

Sign the Bill Stamp, Sign.

(A Lay of the Downy One.)

Air.—“Dance, the Boatman, Dance.”

I lead a very merry and a rollicking life,

Each passing day with fun is rife,

I’ve hunters, I’ve a yacht, I’ve an Opera box,

And this is how I steer clear of rocks.

Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,

Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.

You may dance all night, ’neath the gay gas light,

If you only do a bill in the morning.

Heigho! I’m the regular doo,

Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.

I’m Director of ten railways, and a tip-top swell,

My villa’s at Richmond, my Club in Pall Mall.

I laugh at petty larcenies, and never cut my stick,

For this is the way we do the trick.

Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,

Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.

You may revel all night, and yet feel all right,

If you only do a bill in the morning.

Then heigho! for the regular doo,

Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.

The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.

——:o:——

LOVE’S RITORNELLA.

Gentle Zitella, whither away?

Love’s ritornella, list while I play.

No, I have linger’d too long on my road,—

Night is advancing, the Brigand’s abroad,

*  *  *  *  *

---

Real Havannah.

Real Havannah! precious cigar!

Gentle as manna, bright as a star;

Pleasant at fire-side, cheery on road,

Best of all perfumes at home or abroad:

Real Havannah!

Puff away care—

Blow my misfortunes

Into thin air.

Real Havannah! O who would dare,

Meerschaum or hookah with thee compare?

When thy bright tip any mortal may see,

Thou art his choice, and a smoker is he:

Real Havannah, &c.

Real Havannah! primest of stuff,

Sell me no humbug, vender of snuff;

Think not on me you can cut any jokes,

’Tis Toper Thomas himself who now smokes:

Real Havannah, &c.

——:o:——

JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT.

About forty years ago this was a very popular song. The music was accompanied by a picture representing a French soldier taking leave of a peasant girl, who is saying:—

“You are going far away, far away from poor Jeannette,

There’s no one left to love me now, and you, perhaps, may forget.

With your gun upon your shoulder, and your bayonet by your side,

You’ll be courting some fair lady, and making her your bride.”

*  *  *  *  *

---

The Lay of the Creditor.

You are going far away, far away from all your Debts,

There’s no one left to pay me now, for you have no assets,

My bill it will be with you, wherever you may go;

Can you look into my ledger, and deny me what you owe?

When you wear the light moustache, and the vest of brilliant blue,

I fear that you’ll forget then all about my I. O. U.

With the reins between your fingers, and a danseuse by your side,

You’ll spend your uncle’s legacy, and all your duns deride.

Oh, were I Lord John Russell, or still better Robert Peel,

I would pass a stringent measure that would make you debtors feel;

I would put a stop to swindling, or at least would find a way

That the man who had the goods should be the only one to pay.

The Puppet Show, April 1, 1848.

In the same paper there was another parody relating to the Company of French actors, whose appearance at Drury Lane Theatre led to some disgraceful disturbances on the part of the “gents” of the period.

A Monte Christo Ballad.

You are going to the play, if an order you can get,

And Monte Christo you’re to see; so mind you don’t forget

To take two days’ provisions, and remember ere you go,

That I want some cash to “keep the house” till you come back, dear Joe.

When you’re sitting in the pit, and when “part the first” is o’er,

You’ll be voting Monsieur Dumas a most terrific bore;

With your head upon your hand, and your hand upon your knee,

You will long to be at home again at Kensington with me.

When the playhouse doors are opened, you’ll be madly rushing on,

Never thinking if they squash you, that your only chance is gone;

For your hard eggs will be broken, and your brandy bottle cracked,

And you’ll faint from thirst and hunger in the pit so densely packed.

Oh! if I were Lord Chamherlain, or, better still, the Queen,

At Drury Lane, I’d take good care, no Frenchmen should be seen.

If they choose to bring out pieces which it took two nights to play,

They should keep such stuff for Paris, and from London stop away.

---

The Christmas Pudding.

If you wish to make a pudding in which everyone delights,

Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites;

Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine,

And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;

Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried,

A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside;

Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour,

And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;

Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,

Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot;

But though I don’t know which of these two methods I should praise,

I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.

Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome,

I’d have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home;

And as for other puddings whatever they might be,

Why, those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.

Punch.

PARODIES OF “TEN LITTLE NIGGER BOYS.”

There was a parody of this song in “The Rise and Fall of Richard III.,” a burlesque by F. C. Burnand, produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, in 1868. It possesses little interest apart from the context.

Song by Baron Albert Grant.

Ten Joint Stock Companies, none of which were mine,

One got into Chancery, and then there were Nine!

Nine Joint Stock Companies, all with prospects great,

One never paid at all, then there were Eight!

Eight Joint Stock Companies, one a mine in Devon,

The sea got into that, and then there were Seven!

Seven Joint Stock Companies, all their Boards played tricks;

One couldn’t pay its rent, and then there were Six!

Six Joint Stock Companies, scarcely kept alive,

One wound up amicably, and then there were Five!

Five Joint Stock Companies, dividends long o’er,

A liquidator bled one, and then there were Four!

Four Joint Stock Companies, as rotten as could be,

One ruined scores of folk, and then there were Three!

Three Joint Stock Companies, having naught to do,

A small panic killed one, and then there were Two!

Two Joint Stock Companies, their course well-nigh run,

One was tried as a fraud, and then there was One!

One Joint Stock Company, just kept on for fun,

The Chairman bolted with the books, and then there was None!

From Finis.

---

The “Barmaid Contest.”

Held in the North Woolwich Gardens, when under the management of Mr. William Holland.

“Good character, business habits, neatness of costume, and respectability, are the chief points.”—Advertisement.

Ten little barmaids, sitting in a line;

One answer’d saucily, and then there were nine.

Nine little barmaids, trying to be great;

One look’d too pompously, and then there were eight.

Eight little barmaids—one came from Devon—

Not quite genteel enough—and then there were seven—

Seven little barmaids—one was up to tricks,

Glancing at the gentlemen-and then there were six.

Six little barmaids, eager all to strive;

One fell to quarrelling, and then there were five.

Five little barmaids, counting up their store;

One show’d her dirty hands, and then there were four.

Four little barmaids evidenced their glee—

One not “respectably”—and then there were three.

Three little barmaids said it was “a do;”

One said it loudly—and then there were two.

Two little barmaids wish’d it all was done;

One yawn’d too plainly, and then there was one.

One little barmaid thought it “famous fun;”

She took the prizes—and then there were none.

Judy.

---

The Six Royal Persons.

Six royal persons in the realm alive,

One went to India, and then there were five.

Five royal persons, finding town a bore,

One went to Russia, and then there were four.

Four royal persons—pleasant sight to see—

One went to Gibraltar, and then there were three.

Three royal persons—nothing else to do—

One went to Nice for health, and then there were two.

Two royal persons, who together run,

Thus the second doesn’t count, and so there was one.

One royal person—Session not yet done!—

She went to Germany, and then there were none!

Reynolds’ Newspaper. April 16, 1876.

---

The Ten High Commissioners.

(A Song of the Conference.)

Ten High Commissioners in council did combine;

But Salisbury gave up at last, and then there were but nine.

Nine High Commissioners no longer would debate;

For next Ignatieff went off, and so there were but eight.

Eight High Commissioners tried Turkish rule to leaven

Count Corti he went back to Rome, and then there were but seven.

Seven High Commissioners were just in the same fix,

Till Count Calice started off—reducing them to six.

Six High Commissioners would fain see Turkey thrive,

But Werther back to Bismarck went, and then there were but five.

Five High Commissioners found they could do no more,

And so Count Zichy he went home, and left there only four.

Four High Commissioners still failed their way to see;

And even Elliott gave in—and so there were but three.

Three High Commissioners, of course, could nothing do;

And Chaudordy packed off to France, and left there only two.

Two High Commissioners found talking sorry fun;

So Bourgoing he quitted too; and then there was but one.

A Turk was he, who winked his eye, as one who is elate;

And, chuckling much, “Aha,” he said; “Bismillah! God is great!”

Judy. February 7, 1877.

---

The Irish Jurymen.

Twelve Irish Jurymen trying Prisoners seven,

One had a frightened wife, and then there were eleven!

Eleven Irish Jurymen consulting up in a pen,

One of them had oxen got, which left but only ten!

Ten Irish Jurymen brought there by a fine,

One dreaded “Boycotting,” then there were but nine!

Nine Irish Jurymen listening there in state,

One got a threatening note, and then there were but eight!

Eight Irish Jurymen not without some leaven,

One had had a Landlord, then there were but seven!

Seven Irish Jurymen sitting in a fix,

One feared the highway shots, and then there were but six!

Six Irish Jurymen in the legal hive,

One knew a murderer, then there were but five!

Five Irish Jurymen springing from the poor,

One of them half-witted, leaving only four!

Four Irish Jurymen wishing to be “fhree,”

One spouted treason, and then there were but three!

Three Irish Jurymen softly whispering “Pooh!”

One backed out of it, and then there were but two!

Two Irish Jurymen loving not the fun,

Tossed up a half-penny, then there was but one!

One Irish Juryman a verdict had to give,

Nobly said “Not Guilty,” and was allowed to live!

Punch. January 22, 1881.

---

Ten Thousand Soldiers.

Ten thousand soldiers, too many in the line;

We’ll cut off a thousand, then there’ll be nine.

Nine thousand soldiers, a number far too great,

The country can’t afford them, let’s make it eight.

Chorus.

10,000, 9,000, 8,000, 7,000, 6,000 soldier boys,

5,000, 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, 1,000 soldier boys.

Eight thousand soldiers to guard us all, good heaven!

Can’t we do with fewer men, and show up only seven?

Seven thousand soldiers to help us in a fix,

Let’s reduce a little more, and bring them down to six.

Six thousand soldiers! as I am here alive,

I see no necessity for having more than five.

Five thousand soldiers, when there ain’t a war!

The Reserve is ten thousand, we can’t want more than four.

Four thousand soldiers—between you and me,

Don’t you think we’d be quite safe if we had only three?

Three thousand soldiers—between me and you,

I haven’t got rifles enough for more than two.

Two thousand soldiers shooting with a gun,

I like doing things by halves, and half of two is one.

One thousand soldiers wouldn’t be much fun,

Let’s sweep them all away, then there’ll be none.

When there’s no more soldiers there’ll be no more strife,

We shall live a little time a peaceful sort of life,

Till the Opposition come and kick us through the door,

Then they’ll raise an army of a hundred thousand more.

10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 soldiers more,

60,000, 70,000, 80,000, 90,000, 100,000 soldiers more!

St. James’s Gazette. June 29, 1881.

---

Small by Degrees.

Ten British Ironclads, floating on the brine:

Reed[69] went out of office, and then there were Nine!

Nine British Ironclads to defend the State:

Reed cocked his eye at them, and then there were Eight!

Eight British Ironclads lying safe in haven:

Reed raked ’em fore and aft, and then there were Seven!

Seven British Ironclads, sound from keel to sticks:

Reed wrote a pamphlet, and then there were Six!

Six British Ironclads—hooray! Jack’s alive!

Reed spoke in Parliament, and then there were Five!

Five British Ironclads cruising round the Nore:

Reed made a platform speech, and then there were Four!

Four British Ironclads ruling of the Sea:

Reed wrote unto the Times, and then there were Three!

Three British Ironclads buffeting the blue:

Reed had dyspepsia, and then there were Two!

Two British Ironclads, big in plate and gun:

Reed was snubbed by Brassey, and then there was One!

Oh, make him Chief Constructor once again, whate’er befall;

Or soon of British Ironclads we shall have—none at all!

Punch. April 25, 1885.

——:o:——

Send a Remittance from Home.

(Parody on “Write me a Letter from Home.”)

Wretched I sit here and cry,

Poorer than I’ve been for years,

Not a bad ha’p’ny have I,

Nothing but sorrows and tears.

Poor trust, at the cook-shop, is dead,

My creditors bully and foam,

Oh! how’s a poor man to be fed,

Without a remittance from home.

Post Office Orders or stamps,

What shall I do till they come?

Oh! go, wake the old people up,

To send a remittance from home.

I hope that they’ll send a good lot;

The last time they wrote to me here,

A blessing was all that I got

From father and mother so dear.

They hoped I’d be honest and true,

And ne’er in extravagance roam,

But what’s a poor devil to do

Without a remittance from home?

Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

I have not the money for stamps,

So when I write home ev’ry day,

They think me the worst of young scamps,

For twopence each time they’ve to pay.

My best suit is sold, I possess

But these clothes, one sock, and a comb,

And they, too, will vanish unless

They send a remittance from home.

Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

My candles are burnt, and my coals

Are out, but my taxes are in,

And as for my boots, poor old souls!

Like me, they’ve grown terribly thin.

Unless money comes I shall die,

And, chang’d to a goblin or gnome,

Shall haunt the old people, and cry,

“How ’bout that remittance from home?”

Post Office Orders or stamps. &c.

Anonymous.

---

Post me a Parcel from Home.

Lonely I sit here and long,

Charging the air with my sighs;

Whence comes a yearning so strong?

Fawcett, you know I surmise.

The products of garden and lea

Now haunt me wherever I roam,

Oh! tell the old people from me

To post me a parcel from home.

Have they forgotten my taste,

Or do they expect me to come?

At any rate bid them with haste

To post me a parcel from home.

I think of the butter and cream—

I’ve “boshed” it for many a year—

Of the plums and the apples I dream,

Why shouldn’t they comfort me here?

Some paper and string, don’t you see,

Can now bring me whiffs of the loam,

So do tell my people from me

To post me a parcel from home.

Have they forgotten, &c.

——:o:——

A Darwinian Ballad.

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old,

What a pleasant race they were,

And it seems most true that I and you

Are derived from an apish pair.

They all had nails, and some had tails

And some—no “accounts in arrear,”

They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the—these

Of course I will not mention here.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,

For they didn’t know how to make beds

They hadn’t got huts, they dined upon nuts,

Which they cracked upon each other’s heads.

They hadn’t much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,

Or towels, or kettle or fire.

They had no coats nor capes, for ne’er did these apes

Invent what they didn’t require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,

Nor made any boots for his toes,

Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief,

For no ape thought much of his nose;

They had cold collations, they ate poor relations:

Provided for thus, by-the-bye.

No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang—

He couldn’t, and so didn’t try.

From these though descended our manners are mended,

Though still we can grin and backbite!

We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,

And tales are the fashion—at night.

This origination is all speculation—

We gamble in various shapes;

So Mr. Darwin may speculate in

Our ancestors having been apes.

Anonymous.

——:o:——

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Over and over again,

No matter which way I turn,

I always find in the Book of Life

Some lessons I have to learn.

I must take my turn at the mill,

I must grind out the golden grain,

I must work at my task with a resolute will

Over and over again.

*  *  *  *  *

The path that has once been trod

Is never so rough to the feet;

And the lesson we once have learned

Is never so hard to repeat.

Though sorrowful tears may fall,

And the heart to its depth be driven

With storm and tempest, we need them all

To render us meet for Heaven.

---

Over and Over Again.

(As Parodied by Miss Seventeen.)

Over and over again,

No matter whom I may send,

They always find in the old brown box

Some stockings for me to mend.

I must put up my fancy crocheting,

I must go for that horrid old yarn,

And set to work at it, smiling,

Though I hate it—learning to darn.

I never can measure the hole

In even the tiniest stocking,

Nor number the stitches giving way

Of the ornamental clocking;

But the hole must somehow be darned,

And the clocking must be replaced,

And done, too, in such a way

That the stocking be not defaced.

Over and over again

The yarn through the needle goes,

And over and over again

I mend the heels and the toes;

Once doing will not suffice,

And the doing seems, sometimes, in vain

When, after mending it twice and thrice,

A stocking needs mending again.

But though socks that have once been darned

Are never so soft to the feet,

And, mending, if twenty times done,

Is just as hard to repeat;

While sorrowful tears may fall

As my heart grows weary with strife;

I must forget all and darn,

Would I ever be somebody’s wife.

Anonymous.

——:o:——

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND’S SONG.

Men say that I’m a humourist, and I can tell them why:

Upon the ways of life I look with keen observant eye.

So looked three centuries ago old England’s wondrous Will,

Whose magic pen immortal made the precincts of Gad’s Hill,

For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,

Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name.

Not to be poet I pretend—there are but two or three:

And dear old Thackeray’s caustic touch is not the thing for me.

I could have sketched in modern prose with tolerable skill,

The wild young Prince, and reckless Poins, and Falstaff on Gad’s Hill,

For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,

Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name.

Ay, sweet Jack Falstaff! Verily, his humour was sublime;

I introduce my Pickwick, the Falstaff of the time:

Imagine that rare hero engaging with a will,

A mob of men in buckram by moonlight on Gad’s Hill!

For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,

Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name.

All round the year men read me: and faith! I mean to write,

So long as these clear eyes of mine are filled with living light,

So long as oddities abound, and laughter lingers still,

So long as there is magic in the memory of Gad’s Hill.

For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys,

Gad’s Hill Charlie[70] is my name.

Echoes from the Clubs. September 25, 1867.

——:o:——

OVER THE GARDEN WALL.

Oh! my love stood under the walnut tree,

Over the garden wall,

She whispered and said she’d be true to me,

Over the garden wall.

She’d beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair,

She was not very tall, so she stood on a chair,

And many a time have I kissed her there,

Over the garden wall.

Chorus—Over the garden wall

The sweetest girl of all.

There never was yet, such eyes of jet,

And you may bet, I’ll never forget,

The night our lips in kisses met,

Over the garden wall.

*  *  *  *  *

---

Over the Handles.

One day I was riding my wheel so free,

Towards the garden wall;

A charmer was standing and looking at me,

From over the garden wall,

Her face was fair,

So saucy her air

I was rattled completely,

And right then and there

I took a bad header,

And flew through the air

Over the garden wall.

Chorus—Over the garden wall, a terrible, terrible fall;

I never did yet a header get

That filled my soul with such regret,

As the time I struck, head-first in the wet,

Over the garden wall.

I picked myself up and said, “How do you do?”

Over the garden wall.

She said, “I’m certainly better than you,”

Over the garden wall;

“But much I should like,

To know why you strike,

And get so hot, and muddy, and dusty like,

And take such a header from off your bike,”

Over the garden wall, &c.

Chorus—Over the garden wall, &c.

“My dear,” said I, “I can surely explain,”

Over the garden wall;

“The case in a moment, if I may remain,”

Over the garden wall;

“Your glance was so shy,

I wished to be nigh,

So over the handles I went with a fly!

But now I’ll beware of a saucy black eye,”

Over the garden wall.

The Wheeling Annual. 1885.

---

Over the Garden Wall.

Willie M’Cann one midsummer night,

Over the garden wall;

Crept to greet his Julia bright,

Over the garden wall.

The daisies gemm’d the tender grass,

And flowers enshrin’d the lovely lass,

Said Willie, “the happiest hours I pass,

Over the garden wall.”

“Over the garden wall—the sweetest time of all!

I’m happy to come, delighted to stay,

Each hour I wish as long as a day;

And sorry I am to wander away

Over the garden wall.”

The hours flew by and an old man peer’d

Over the garden wall;

Then stealthily into the house he steer’d,

Over the garden wall,

But soon returned with a big thick stick,

And caught poor Willie a terrible lick,

That made him scramble excessively quick

Over the garden wall.

Over the garden wall—the sweetest time of all!

He was happy to come, delighted to stay,

But somehow that night I’m sorry to say,

He hurried extremely in getting away

Over the garden wall.

F. L. Richardson.

---

Popular Irish Chorus.

(As sung in April, 1887.)

Then down with the Castle wall!

Home Rule once for all!

On Gladstone yet

Our hearts are set

And you may bet

He’ll never forget

How the wishes of Ireland must be met.

Down with the Castle wall.

——:o:——

THE TWO OBADIAHS.

Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,

I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry.

Said the old Obadiah, to the young Obadiah,

Well, that’s queer, Obadiah, so am I.

So am I.

But the two Obadiahs had between them not a brown,

And all they sought to borrow from responded with a frown.

You must pay us what you owe before we lend you what you need,

Said the old Obadiah “that be d——d.”

*  *  *  *  *

This not very elegant song had a considerable music-hall popularity, it was parodied by L. M. Thornton in a version, entitled “The Two Marias,” which was rather more vulgar, and less amusing than the original.

---

The Two Tory Obadiahs.[71]

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,

“It’s my duty, Tory Leader, to complain.”

Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,

“What, again, Tory Leader? what again?

Of course, you ought by this time to know what you’re about;

But in thus of me complaining I myself have not a doubt

That you’ll find your indignation—as you’ve oft before found out—

Is in vain, Tory Leader, is in vain!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,

“But think, Tory Leader, what you said!”

Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,

“If my speech, Tory Leader, you have read,

You will know that I objected at more robbery to wink,

Or to let more public money in the City quagmire sink;

That, in short, I told the ‘Bumbles’ just exactly what I think—

So its not a bit of use to shake your head!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,

“But I must and I will, I say, protest!

For of all our trusted friends, who work hard for Tory ends,

Why the City Corporation is the best!

And yet you go and tell it that it sadly needs reform;

You denounce the Board of Works, too, in a manner very warm.

Let me tell you that already your mad speech has roused a storm!”

Said the Young Tory Leader, “Bah! you jest!”

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,

“Jesting matter, Tory Leader, this is none!”

Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,

“Do have done, Tory Leader, do have done!

For your talk at first amused me, but it now begins to bore,

So let me plainly tell you that I wish to hear no more;

Or you’ll make me put my foot down, as I’ve put it down before,

When, as you will not forget, I’ve always won!”

*  *  *  *  *

(Five verses omitted.)

Truth. November 25, 1886.

---

Duet.

The Tory Obadiah, by Mr. Marriott, M.P.

The Union Obadiah, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P.

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,

“We have both, Obadiah, turned our coats!”

Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah,

“That, our ’cuteness, Obadiah, but denotes!”

For we turned them to some purpose; for example, in my case,

Did I not receive, most promptly, from the Tories a good place?

Come, my worthy fellow-ratter, let us cordially embrace!”

Said the Union Obadiah, “Wait a bit!”

Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah,

“But surely, Obadiah, I am right?”

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,

“No, not quite, Obadiah; no, not quite!

It is true that when you ‘ratted’—by the way, I hate that word—

A by-no-means ill-paid office on you promptly was conferred

But that I have taken office, as a fact, I have not heard.”

Said the Tory Obadiah, “But you might!”

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,

“Self-respect, Obadiah, very strong,

Would compel me any offer from the Tories, Obadiah,

To reject, Obadiah, as most wrong!”

The Tory Obadiah merely winked with his left eye,

And the Union Obadiah, with one glance at his ally,

Fell back laughing in his chair so that he’d scarcely strength to cry,

“Go along, Obadiah, go along!”

Truth, Christmas Number. 1886.

——:o:——

Our Dear Old Church of England.

(Genuine Version.)

Our dear old Church of England,

Let’s rally round you now,

Though there’s not the least occasion

For kicking up a row:

You know you’re safe as ever,

And watched with loving eye,

But Dizzy (who’s so clever)

Suggests a little Cry.

So, dear Old Church of England,

(And none can tell you cheap)

We’ll make your name a war-cry,

For those who’d office keep.

Declare to win elections,

Old Mother Church so dear,

With these, our crack selections,

Yourself, and Gold, and Beer.

Shirley Brooks, 1868.

---

Song of the Church Union.

(Air—“And shall Trelawney Die?”)

And shall they strike at Ritual rites?

Shall Tooth in durance lie?

Then fourteen thousand Union Men

Will know the reason why!

For Church and conscience James’s days

Saw Bishop’s sev’n confined;

But Cornwall’s sons found means and ways,

To change the royal mind.

So we’ll resist Tait, Cairns, and Pen,

And Law, in them, defy,—

We, fourteen thousand Union men,

And not men to say die.

Matters of moment still we’ll make,

Of chasuble and stole;

With Tooth, in teeth of Law, we’ll take

The Mass of Rome for goal.

While we scorn Tait and Cairns and Pen,

And power of Law defy,—

In Union’s name Disunion Men,

Though with no reason why.

Our Roman candles high shall flare,

On Romish altar-plate,

And lace and flowers and frontals fair,

While Mass we celebrate.

So using tooth and tongue and pen

The Law Courts to defy,

We fourteen thousand Union Men

Will hang each other by!

We’ll under-creep or over-leap

All Acts our course that bar;

Obedience to our Bishops keep,

But while with us they are,

And till we stump Tait, Bench, and Pen,

Against the three we’ll cry:

If Law dares thwart Church-Union Men,

Shall they be bound thereby?

Punch. February 3, 1877.

---

Ex-Parliamentary.

(An Imaginary Dialogue that might be True)

Gladstone.—“Our party’s doing very well,

Amending ev’ry bad law,

I’ve silenced the O’Donnell’s yell,

And now I’ll shut up Bradlaugh.

My copious flow of words each night

Would any good-sized pan fill;

And what I say is always right——”

“You think it is,” says Granville.

Granville.—“I fear we’ve not done much as yet,

And daily I’m affrighted

That one of us may p’rhaps forget

We all should be united.

Against our party house of glass

That Harcourt’s thrown a bad stone.

I hope no damage, but——” “Alas!

He’s smashed a pane,” says Gladstone.

“A penny on the Income Tax

Who’s mean enough to grudge it,

When duties they on malt relax?

Indeed, a glorious Budget!

And ev’ry night my words fall fast,

Like hammer blows on anvil,

While wond’ring hearers gape aghast—”

“They do indeed,” says Granville.

“Yet somehow certain words you speak

Require explanation;

And when their Premier eats the leek

It don’t much please the nation.

You may not like our old Whig ways,

But we don’t like your Rad’s tone,

Nor can we bear your talking craze—”

“You’ll have to, though,” says Gladstone.

Judy. June 23, 1880.

There was also a parody, of the same original, in Judy, October 10, 1883, on the Election of Alderman Fowler as Lord Mayor of London; and another in Punch, February 9, 1884, relating to the elephant Jumbo, entitled “Jumbo and Taoung,” but neither is of any interest now.

——:o:——

“WE ARE A MERRY FAMILY.”

Song.—Miss Mary Anderson.

I am the pink of properness, and wheresoe’er I roam

I carry the accessories to make a happy home.

I bear about an old armchair, the very best of mothers

A step-papa, a cousin Jane, a time-piece and two brothers.

Chorus.—Oh! we’re a happy familee,

From Mary down to Jo,

Step-pa, mother, sister, brother,

I, and cousin Flo;

We have a very cosy hearth

Which scandals never mar,

We’re a devoted familee

We are! we are! we are!

I always hurry home to them when once the curtain’s down,

’Twould kill me were mamma to weep or step-dada to frown.

My servants fully understand “No followers allowed,”

And o’er my spotless domicile there rests no scandal cloud.

Chorus.—For we’re a happy familee, &c.

When interviewers visit me (I know not why they call),

I rattle in my artless way, and tell my little all;

How I work hard for mother dear, and teach my brother Jo.

And how we spend our happy hours, and where to church we go.

Chorus.—For we’re a happy familee, &c.

Yet people dare to say that when a soap I recommend,

It’s not because I merely wish the maker to befriend;

And that when I am photographed (in somewhat scant attire),

’Tis not twelve copies for myself alone that I require.

Chorus.—Yet we’re are a happy familee, &c.

Truth, Christmas Number. 1884.

---

A Lay of the Law.

The Crusted Old Bencher sings.

We are a Corporation rich, with coffers filled with gold;

Our aspirations high we pitch; we’re proud and close and old;

We hold our honour very dear, our services likewise;

But ’tis a thumping sum per year most fervently we prize!

And so that we may get the more incessantly to waste,

Those blocks law students took of yore, we’re pulling down in haste;

And in their stead are running up palatial flats, wherein

Rich snobs can pose as barristers and reputation win.

Chorus (supported by all the performers).—To always take, our motto is, to give—we seldom can;

For he who gives the least, of course, becomes the richest man;

Ours is a strange morality, peculiar to the bar;

We are a grasping family—we are! we are! we are!

The Popular Common-Law Barrister sings.

We never ask for any fees, oh! no, we’ve too much pride;

But we’ve a clerk who always sees our briefs have cheques inside;

Who duns attorneys when they shirk refreshers to renew—

In short, does all the dirty work we’d rather die than do.

If any scandal should arise, quite safe is our fair fame;

We just repudiate his acts, and he gets all the blame;

But he is quite prepared for this, and knows his place ’twill cost

If, through some squeamishness of his, a fee is ever lost.

Chorus.—’Tis for this clerk, our strong right hand, we make our clients pay,

He costs us not one penny-piece, his stipend they defray;

So as you see, our trickiness is rather over par;

We are a grasping family—we are! we are! we are!

The Successful M.P.-Q.C. sings.

We take more work than we can do, and know it at the time;

But if a client’s case fall through, we don’t think that a crime!

For though his all he may have lost by our insatiate greed,

He cannot sue us for the cost, so what care we, indeed?

Besides, when we’ve received more briefs than we can ever read,

A surplus one enables us to do a kindly deed;

For we choose some young barrister, whose chance of work is dim,

And with a patronising nod, toss on the brief to him.

Chorus.—Oh, yes; we take the widow’s mite, the orphan’s little store,

And if a bigger fee come in, look at their briefs no more.

Our carelessness their lot may blight, their life, their honour mar,

But we’re a grasping family—we are! we are! we are!

The Incapable Barrister with a Connection sings.

We’re very jealous of our trade, and anxious to retain

Monopoly’s ill-omened aid our rivals to restrain;

We know solicitors are fit to plead in court their cause—

Nay, as a rule, they’re better up than we are in the laws.

But still to keep the barrier up protects all weaker men,

For if there were free trade in briefs, why, where would they be then?

So “Vive abuses old!” say we, and long live anything

That extra guineas to our purse more easily will bring.

Chorus.—So Vive th’ abuses of the past! Long live the good old days!

Why should we try to alter what such thumping income pays?

We’ll foster all the mystery that hangs about the Bar—

We are a grasping family—we are! we are!! we are!!!

Truth, Christmas Number. December 1882.

---

The Right Hon. Joseph Chamberlain, Loq.

“I am the cleverest of men! In all that I essay,

It is my rule on no account to second fiddle play.

There’s scarce a talent or a gift to which I lay not claim,

And “Chamberlain” has, thanks to me, become a famous name.

I brook no interference with the plans which I propose;

I’m dictatorial, to a fault, alike to friends and foes.

Nor am I satisfied applause for my own acts to win—

No! I demand the self-same praise for all my kith and kin.

For we’re a clever family,

From Arthur down to Dick;

My Nephews, cousins, quite by dozens,

And brother-in-law Ken-rick.

So who dares question aught we say,

Or our advance to bar?

For we’re a clever family,

We are! we are! we are!

“The nation must be daft to doubt a word of what I say,

Or think that Mr. Gladstone’s plan is equal to my way!

Poor man! What use is it for him his played-out brains to tax,

When all that Birmingham can give so notably he lacks?

He was not born there, has not been its Alderman or Mayor,

Nor tasted of those honours which our family still share.

O, foolish Gladstone! to suppose that any chance he runs

With me, the pride of Brummagem, and greatest of her sons!

And head of such a family, &c.

“And what can England be about to not at once agree

To simply leave her welfare to my family and me?

Why need she fear the rising storm will wreck or overwhelm?

Does she forget her Chamberlains have hurried to the helm?

Not Joseph only, for he’s called his brethren to his aid.

Oh! silly, silly England, to be, in spite of this, afraid!

For how can harm upon you come, or ill of any kind,

When, for your sake, the Chamberlains have openly combined?

For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And do those Radicals believe, who dare to me condemn,

That they can still exist without the Pride of Brummagem?

Do they suppose their Caucus can throughout one session last

If I withdraw the nerve and strength I gave it in the past?

Can they in sooth imagine that, however they may strive,

Their party possibly can hope my loss to long survive?

’Twould seem they can, and yet—no! no! it surely cannot be;

They must have learned the value of my family and me.

For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet how strange it is that though I’ve turned against my chief,

He still exists—such stubbornness is well-nigh past belief;

I’ve told him he must reckon with my family and me,

And yet he has not bowed as yet, not even on one knee.

I’ve warned him that he must my wrath most certainly expect,

And yet he positively dares to hold his head erect;

He must be mad, yes, very mad, to think that thus he can

Defy not me, the chief alone, but Caine and all my clan!

For we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet, as days and weeks go by, ’twould seem, I must confess,

That if my influence grows at all it only grows much less.

The Tories who two months ago knelt humbly at my feet,

Ignore the man who brought about the Government’s defeat;

The Whigs who warmly welcomed me as their most dear ally,

Already seem inclined to be reserved with me and shy.

In short, ’midst friends and foes alike a tendency I see

To underrate most shamefully my kith and kin and me.

Though we’re a clever family, &c.

“’Tis vain for me a caucus new to start, and it to man

With brothers and with relatives, all members of my clan,

If Radicals continue to ignore that caucus new,

And further dare my policy to laugh at and pooh-pooh;

In vain my family and I display our talents thus,

If the ungrateful State declares ’twill not be saved by us;

And ’tis in vain, too, that my foes I threaten and asperse,

When they are clearly for my threats in no wise aught the worse.

Though we’re a clever family, &c.

“And yet I scarce can bring myself to think I’ve had my day,

And ne’er again shall have the power a Ministry to slay.

Can it, indeed, have come to pass that Birmingham’s chief pride

Is now a pow’rless leader who is feared by neither side?

Can it, indeed, be true that I, spite all my brethren’s aid,

Shall see that Statesman triumph who so lately I betrayed,

And, hardest blow of all, live on to but too surely find

That England is a match for all us Chamberlains combined?

Though we’re a clever family,

From Arthur down to Dick,

With kith and kin, both stout and thin,

And brother-in-law Ken-rick.

But to the last, spite all that’s past,

This fact we’ll spread afar,

We are a clever family!

We are! we ARE!! we ARE!!!”

Truth. August 5, 1886.

---

The Political Happy Familee.

We are a Happy Familee,

And never, I engage,

Was known such peace and unity

As flourish in our cage!

For we are all true Unionists,

And it is good to see

With what delight we all unite,

How sweetly we agree!

Chorus—For we’re a Happy Familee,

From Peter to John B.!

From Joseph’s brothers, and sundry others,

To Hartington and me!

We are devoted, one and all,

And never snap nor spar,

For we’re a Happy Familee,

We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!

John Bright and Randolph Churchill make

A truly loving pair,

And gushing Goschen has no notion

Which Rylands does not share;

Collings and Caine would moan with pain

To be from Chaplin parted;

And Hartington, relieved of James

Would be quite broken-hearted!

Chorus—For we’re a Union Familee,

Whose hearts with fondness glow;

Peter and Otto ’ve but one motto,

And so have John and Joe.

No thought of rupture troubles us,

No split, no party jar,

For we’re a Happy Familee,

We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!!

Truth Christmas Number. December, 1886.

——:o:——

Wait till the Clouds Roll by.

Popular Premier Pipes to a Popular Air.

Willy, my own Grand Old One,

Afar from the House you be,

Out in the Hawarden woodlands,

Under the still home tree.

Doubtless Town misses you, my William.

Winds blow and storms are raging high;

Willy, my own Grand Old One,

Wait till the clouds roll by!

Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy,

Wait till the clouds roll by;

Willie, my own Grand Old One,

Wait till the clouds roll by!

*  *  *  *  *

(Two verses omitted.)

Willy, here’s time for thinking.

Salisbury’s pack is hushed;

But in affairs of empire,

Have you been fogged—or rushed?

Hodge has his boon, and is contented,

But foreign foes seem in full cry.

Willy look sharp, but take it coolly;

Wait till the clouds roll by!

Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by!

Willy, canards are flying,—

Cool skill will bring them down.

But, when the eagles gather,

Danger perchance may frown;

Give it your careful thought, my William,

Don’t be alarmed,—yet mind your eye!

But when the bogey-mongers croak, man,

Wait till the clouds roll by!

Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy,

Wait till the clouds roll by;

Willy, my own Grand Old One,

Wait till the clouds roll by!

Punch. January 24, 1885.

——:o:——

The Children’s Voices.

I hear the children’s voices

Shouting at their play,

And the tears don’t rise unbidden,

For I know well what they say.

They use strange words, and call each other

Names that are forbid,

And their sole idea of repartee

Is “Didn’t!” “Yaas! ye did!”

Chorus—Sweet children’s voices haunt me night and day,

And how I wish those children’s voices far, far away.

I hear the children’s voices

Singing in the street,

And I do not like their singing,

For its neither low nor sweet.

They are not singing quite in tune,

The pitch is far too high,

And I do not like the tune they sing,

For its “Wait till the clouds roll by.”  Chorus.

I hear the children’s voices,

Behind my cottage door,

And I think I never heard them

So soft or low before.

I hear a gentle tapping,

I rush out in the rain,

And I hear their little voices shouting

“Hullo! sold again!”  Chorus.

I hear the children’s voices,

Murmuring in the lane,

As I saunter ’neath the elm trees,

To meet my pretty Jane.

We fondly sit together,

That little lass and I,

And they softly creep behind us both

And loudly call out “Hi!”  Chorus.

Written and composed by Corney Grain. Published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

---

The Volunteer’s Song.

(Air.—“I am a Simple Muleteer.”)

I am a Rifle Volunteer,

And quite particular to rules;

Nor march, nor drill, howe’er severe,

My military ardour cools.

I arm but in my country’s cause,

To keep her from the Eagle’s claws;

If they attempt a swoop to make,

Crack, crack! my course is clear;

They’ll find they’ve made a slight mistake—

I am a Volunteer!

*  *  *  *  *

Punch. July 21, 1860.

——:o:——

OH! GIVE ME BUT MY ARAB STEED.

Oh! give me but my Arab steed,

My shield and falchion bright,

And I will to the battle speed,

To save him in the fight.

His noble crest I’ll boldly wave,

And gird his scarf around;

But I must to the field repair,

For hark! the trumpets sound.

Oh! with my Arab steed I’ll go,

To brave the embattled plain,

Where warriors brave their valour show,

And drain each noble vein.

His brow that oft the battle braves

With fadeless laurels crown’d,

Shall guide me where his falchion waves,

But hark! the trumpets sound.

---

Oh! Give Me but my Donkey, Joe.

Oh! give me but my donkey, Joe,

His panniers fixed on tight;

And I will to my doxie go,

And do the thing what’s right!

Her bran new wipe I’ll proudly wear,

And pass the punch around,

But I must to my crib repair—

For, hark! the cleavers sound.

Oh! with my donkey I will go,

And greens and lettuce cry,

While my doxie patters with the foe,

I’ll toddle on the sly.

Their chaffing without fear she braves—

Her head with carrots crowned,

Shall guide me where her hand she waves—

But hark! the cleavers sound.

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

---

The Coachman’s Lament.

(Air—“Oh! give me but my Arab steed.”)

Farewell my ribbons, and, alack!

Farewell my tidy drag;

Mail-coachmen now have got the sack,

And engineers the bag.

My heart and whip alike are broke—

I’ve lost my varmint team,

That used to cut away like smoke,

But couldn’t go like steam.

It is, indeed, a bitter cup,

Thus to be sent to pot;

My bosom boils at boiling up,

A gallop or a trot.

My very brain with fury’s racked,

That railways are the rage;

I’m sure you’ll never find them act,

Like our old English stage.

A man whose passion’s crost, is sore,

Then pray excuse my pet;

I ne’er was overturn’d before,

But now am quite upset.

From The Comic Latin Grammar. By Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh). London. D. Bogue. 1848.

——:o:——

Just Before the Wedding, Mother.

Parody on “Just before the Battle, Mother.”

Just before the wedding, mother, what a lot there is to do,

Seeing after wreaths and dresses, and the wedding favors, too;

Bridesmaids six, around one crying, spoiling pretty bonnets gay,

Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.

Farewell, mother, we must sever,

We must sever, mother,

Cries the bride in tones of pain;

But oh! you’ll come and see us, mother,

You will come and see us,

When we’re back in town again.

Just before proposing, mother, oh! how nervous young men are,

Even after they’re accepted, and referred to dear papa.

For the settlements and breakfast, dear papa has got to pay,

And says, “Oh! what a comfort, mother; weddings don’t come every day.”

Just before the breakfast, mother, no one knows what to be at,

But when guests are round the table, they are more at home at that;

Billious wedding-cake and speeches—save me from such speeches, pray—

Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.

Just before departing, mother, and the carriage is outside,

Aunts and uncles, brothers, sisters, tearfully caress the bride;

Every slipper in the household after them is thrown away,

Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day.

Just before the christening, mother, such a fuss you never saw,

When the household is commanded by “dear mamma-in-law.”

“Pretty Poppet,” cry the ladies; “happy father,” people say.

Ah well! he has this consolation, christenings don’t come every day.

Dearest mother, did you ever—no, I never, mother,

See so fine a child before;

You may take the glove off, mother,

From the knocker on that door!

The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. May 28, 1887.

---

Just after the Wedding, Mother.

Parody on “Just after the Battle, Mother.”

Still upon my recent marriage I am thinking, Mother dear;

But the fatal step I’ve taken cannot now be help’d, ’tis clear;

She was such a duck, I told her that to eat her I’d be glad,

And now, between ourselves, dear Mother, don’t I only wish I had.

Mother dear, your boy is married; all regret is now in vain;

But oh, how gladly would I, Mother, be a bachelor again.

Oh, those callers in were fearful, Jones, and Robinson, and Brown,

Shower’d in congratulations, when we first returned to town.

All my darling wife’s relations came to breakfast, sup, and dine,

And oh! what appetites, dear Mother, oh! the fearful waste of wine.

Mother, dear, &c.

Oh! our dreadful cook and housemaid, oh! that boy we did engage,

In the hist’ry of our servants, gladly I’d blot out that page;

All our china he demolish’d, not a glass upon the shelves;

And oh! the only spoons remaining are our two unlucky selves.

Mother, dear, &c.

Sweet she look’d in gipsy bonnets blushing, like a damask rose,

Little did I think that angels wanted such a lot of clothes;

Wives, of course, are very charming, but be careful if you can,

And when you chose one take a warning by a henpeck’d married man.

Mother, dear, &c.

——:o:——

Sir William Harcourt, at Glasgow, in quoting from The Three Jovial Huntsmen, referred to it as “a delightful illustrated story-book,” which he advised all his hearers to buy. Quite so, Mr. Caldecott’s pictures are simply delicious, and the verses themselves are quaint and pithy. But the “bearings of ’em lie in their application.” And here’s their application—much at your service, Sir William.

It’s of Three Jovial Statesmen, and a-stumping they did go;

And they spouted and they flouted, and they blew their horns also.

Look ye there!

And one said “Mind your eye, Staff, there’s Reaction in the wind,

And soon, by hook or crook, we a winning cry shall find.”

Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the first thing they did find,

Was a tattered scare-crow-mummy-thing, which seemed much to their mind.

Look ye there!

One said it was a scare-crow, but another he said “Nay;

It’s the real farmer’s friend, Fair Trade, and I think this cry will pay.”

Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find

Was a swelling, swaggering Bogey, its arms waving in the wind.

Look ye there!

One said it was a Bogey, but another he said, “Nay;

It’s our dear old Jingo-Fi-Fo-Fum, not yet quite past away.”

Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find

Was a Bull who browsed at leisure, and seemed easy in his mind.

Look ye there!

One said ’twas brave John Bull himself, another he said “Nay;

It’s just a Boer-whipt Jackass, without even pluck to bray.”

Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find

Was a fat pig grunting in a stye, with anger almost blind.

Look ye there!

One said it was a fat pig, but another he said “Nay;

It’s just a worthy Alderman who fears Reform’s black day.”

Look ye there!

They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find,

Was two old Patriots trying to bring Pat to his right mind.

Look ye there!

One said they were two Patriots, but another he said, “Nay;

They’re just two ranting Demagogues. We’re sold! let’s come away.”

Look ye there!

So they spouted and they flouted, till the setting of the sun;

And they hadn’t got a cry at last, when their stumping-course was run.

Look ye there!

Then each unto the other said, “This stumping doesn’t pay;

But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.”

Look ye there!

Punch. November 5, 1881.

---

The Three Jovial Huntsmen.

(New and abbreviated version sung by Lord Salisbury, Sir Stafford Northcote, and Lord Randolph Churchill on their return from stumping the country.)

It’s of three Jovial Huntsmen, an’ a-hunting they did go;

And they hunted, an’ they hollo’d, and they blew their horns also.

Look ye there!

And one said, “Mind your eyes, and keep your noses right i’ the wind,

And in Leeds or in Midlothian some game we’re bound to find.”

Look ye there!

They hunted and they hollo’d, and the first thing they did find

Was that a previous huntsman little game had left behind.

Look ye there!

One said there was a chance for them, but another he said “Nay;

In these North Country moorlands we have been and lost our way.”

Look ye there!

*  *  *  *  *

They hunted and they hollo’d, and the last thing they did find

Was a Bull, safe in a Liberal fold, and that they left behind.

Look ye there!

One said he was John Bull still, but another, he said “Nay;

He’s no better than a jackass since he learned the Radical bray.”

Look ye there!

So they hunted and they hollo’d till their holiday course was ran,

And they’d nought to bring away at last when their hunting time was done.

Look ye there!

Then one unto the others said, “This hunting does not pay;

But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.”

Look ye there!

Punch. October 18, 1884.

——:o:——

Beautiful Snow.

(With a Drift)

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow

(This is a parody, please you to know;

Over and over again you may meet

Parodies writ on this poem so sweet;

Rhyming, chiming, skipping along

Comical bards think they do nothing wrong;

Striving to follow what others have done,

One to the number may keep up the fun).

Beautiful snow, so gently you scud,

Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

Here’s a fine mess you have left us below;

Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes;

Cheekily landing full pert on our nose;

Jinking, slinking, ever you try

’Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye;

Gamins await us at every new street,

Watching us carefully, guiding our feet,

Joking, mocking, ready to throw

A hard compressed ball of this beautiful snow.

Anonymous.

---

O, the snow! the beautiful snow!

Feathering down to the ground below.

Snow on the pavement and snow on the street,

Snow on the boots of the people you meet.

Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!—no!

Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow;

Nothing to go by and nowhere to go,

All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush!

Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush,

Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet,

Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat.

Into town—into country—wherever you rush

Nothing to-day but ineffable slush:

Bedraggled merino and velvet and plush

Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.

The Globe. January 28, 1886.

——:o:——

Where the Wet Comes In.

(Parody of “When the Tide Comes In.”)

He had a dull and beery look,

And I was ill at ease,

When from the kitchen came the cook:

“The plumber, if you please.”

His very first request of me

Was for a “drop o’ gin;”

And then he said, “I’ll quickly see

Where the wet comes in.”

He hammered there for many hours,

At what I couldn’t guess,

And broke some pots of winter flowers,

Making an awful mess;

Then said “he’d mended every crack,”

Departing with a grin,

Remarking, “I will soon be back

If the wet comes in.”

I saw the main with joy again

The empty cisterns fill.

When, at a sound like summer rain,

My heart began to thrill;

While o’er the furniture it ran,

A voice came through the din:

“We’re certain now,” cried that false man,

“Where the wet comes in!”

Funny Folks. February 8, 1879.

——:o:——

If Dirty Deeds.

(Sung by an inebriated Chimney-sweep.
After Sullivan’s “If Doughty Deeds.”)

I.

If dirty deeds my lady please,

I’m jest the man to soot ’er;

With me she’s sure to feel at ease,

Both now and in the futur’.

A dingy colour o’er me lies,

Wot pictur’s forth my art;

Wich, if it gets into my heyes,

It alwuss makes ’em smart.

Then say if I shall soot my love,

Oh, say if I shall soot ’er!

Or else—’weep ho!

I’ll drownd my woe

In this ’ere pot of pewter.

II.

But, if fond love ’er ’eart could gain,

I wish she’d tell me ’ow;

For love it is wot gives the pain

As haggeriwates me now.

Ah, yes! I’m weepin’ still—’weep ho!—

And likely to continner:

Not thinkin’ so to soothe my woe,

But trustin’ thus to win ’er.

Then say if I shall soot my love,

Oh, say if I shall soot ’er!

Hair from my grief

I seeks relief

In this ’ere pot of pewter.

From The Humorous Works of the late gifted Hopkins. London: James Blackwood & Co. An anonymous and undated book, with Eight Illustrations by Phiz. It also contains a few parodies of Longfellow, and E. A. Poe.

——:o:——

A WET SHEET.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like an eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

*  *  *  *  *

Allan Cunningham.

---

In the House of Commons.

(A Voice from the Ventilator.)

With wet feet, in a committee,

To our seats tied hard and fast,

We sit half-starved, and to our call

Comes Dr. Reid at last:

Comes Dr. Reid at last, my boys,

And turns the valves so free;

Away the cold air flies and leaves

The room at eighty-three.

“Oh, for a cool and gentle wind!”

I heard a member cry;

“But give it to me hot and hot,”

Another did reply:

Another did reply, my boys;

So Dr. Reid made free

To give it to us half and half,

And wretched men were we!

The Speaker sits at freezing point,

At fever heat the crowd;

In the reporters’ gallery

They all complain aloud:

They all complain aloud, my boys,

Of Reid in language free;

And say, not even Peel can blow

So hot and cold as he!

Punch. 1845.

At that time there were loud complaints about the bad ventilation of the House of Commons, and every remedy tried, seemed only to make matters worse. Nor was much improvement felt when the members were installed in Sir Charles Barry’s new Palace of Westminster, which has nearly every fault that it is possible a large public building can have. The site is probably the worst that could have been selected. The palace lies low, close to a polluted river, which smells intolerably in the summer, and gives off fog and damp in the winter. The style of architecture is totally unsuited for our climate, or for the purposes for which it is intended, and the stone of which it is built is rapidly crumbling away, whilst although the building covers nine acres of ground, the room in which the Commons meet will only accommodate a little more than half their number.

Every consideration of comfort and utility was sacrificed to gratify an architectural fad, and the requirements of the two legislative bodies who use the building were simply ignored. Frequent debates have been held, and divisions taken, to express the dissatisfaction of the members. Committees have been appointed to examine into, and report upon the heating and ventilation, the sanitary arrangements, and the possibility of enlarging the Commons chamber. Costly repairs are constantly going on, crumbling stonework is removed and replaced, and experiments of all kinds have been tried to remedy the structural defects. But all to no purpose, and the building remains a costly monument of a nation’s folly, and an architect’s vanity and incompetence.

Sir Percy and the Fearful Fogge.

(A new “Percy Relique.”)

Full seven hundred Members mayde aloude thys one remark—

“Scarce can we breathe, or speke, or thynke. Wee all are in the darke.”

Like unto pygmyes arm’d against great Basan’s Monarque Og,

So gasping, gallant gentlemen doe battell with the Fogge.

Stout Percy to the Commons went, all in Westministeere.

Quoth he, “Ye have good neede of help, the Fogge doth enter heere.

“I ventylate and drayne the House, and keep it sweet and cool.”

Cryed every man, “Who’ll stay the Fogge?” Quoth bold Percy, “I wool!”

“Now bless thee, Doctor Percy!” cry the Commons with a cheer,

“If thou the Fogge shall set at naught all in Westministeere;

“And if with cotton-wool thou pluggest cranny, hole, and crack,

The Lords we’ll dysestablyshe, and to thee give the Woolsàck.”

Stout Percy sniff’d a pynche of snuff, all of the olden schoole.

Quoth he, “And if I fayle I’ll get the Sack without the Wool.

“Natheless the cotton-wool I’ll try; my very best I’ll do.”

“No more can we expect,” sayde each to each. “Que woolley woo?”

Stout Percy hies him to the work, nor lists to knave nor fool.

“Plenty of ‘cry’ there be,” quoth he. “My ears hold cotton-wool.”

“As walls have ears, I trow,” quoth he, “those at Westministeere

Will thank me soe for saving them from much that else they’d heare.”

*  *  *  *  *

Then Heav’n send Doctor Percy may bring them light and peace!

May Fogge clear from Westministeere, and all obstruction cease!

Punch. March 19, 1887.

In August 1887, Mr. Plunket, questioned by Mr. Esslemont and Dr. Kenny, said “he had no reason to believe that the air of the House of Commons was noxious. As to the artificial system of ventilation, it simply consisted in drawing up the air through the ceiling when it had been breathed by members, in order that there might be a freer and more constant access of fresh air from below. That air passed over ice to make it cooler, and he could not recommend the discontinuance of the system. Straining the air through cotton wool had been tried, but the officials were waiting for the next fog before making another experiment.”

——:o:——

SHE AND I.

I in a mighty palace,

She in a lonely room,

I where the lights are shining,

She where there is but gloom,

I amid mirth and laughter,

She where no laugh is known,

I with gay friends around me,

She with her fears alone.

I where gay music soundeth,

She where the clock ticks loud,

I where the lights are shining,

She with her fair head bowed,

I noble, rich, and courted,

Chief of a mighty throng.

She by her kin deserted,

Burdened with care and wrong.

Could I but share her sorrow,

One aching thought beguile,

Gladden her heart to-morrow,

Woo from her lips one smile,

Oh, then I would give how gladly

The joys that the world may prize,

For one touch of her gentle fingers,

One glance of her loving eyes.

G. Courtenay Boyle.

---

I and She.

She in a gay gin palace,

I in a lonely room,

She where the gas is shining,

I where there is but gloom,

She amid mirth and laughter,

I where no mirth is known,

She with young swells around her,

I with my pipe alone.

She where the money clinketh,

I where no tick’s allowed,

She where the masher drinketh,

I with my poor head bowed,

She pretty, young, and courted,

Chief of the Barmaid throng,

I by my friends deserted,

One more good man gone wrong.

Ah! she could soothe my sorrow,

This aching heart beguile,

If from her I could borrow

Ten shillings for a while.

And, oh, I would take it gladly,

Altho’ it perhaps sounds queer,

If she drew me with gentle fingers

One glass of her bitter beer.

From The Keys ‘At Home.’ By J. M. Lowry. London. Field and Tuer, 1885.

---

Wild West-minster!

Air—“Do you ken John Peel?”

Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray?

Do you ken Arthur Peel at the break of day?

Do you think he won’t wish himself far far away,

Ere the House rises early in the morning?

Chorus—

For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed,

And the Tory horse bolts if you give him his head,

And the row of the Rads, by sly Labouchere led,

At Wild West-minster sounds until morning.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel, with his seat so true,

And he needs it indeed on that buck-jumping screw,

Which to fling Arthur Peel has done all that it knew,

The bit and the bridle still scorning.

Chorus—For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will,

And the “hand” that is worthy of Buffalo Bill?

Do you think the buck-jumper would not like to spill

The cool hand on its back ere the morning!

Chorus—For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body,

At handling a rogue almost equal to Cody,

And down like a hammer on noodle and noddy,

Though kept in the saddle till morning.

Chorus—For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong,

Prepared for a contest that’s dour and ding-dong,

For a rally that’s sharp and a struggle that’s long,

Which may last all the night until morning?

Chorus—For the sound, &c.

Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel,

Which the stubbornest buck-jumper’s bound for to feel,

And flinch at the punishment dealt out by Peel,

While Wild West-minster howls in the morning?

Chorus—For the sound, &c.

Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won’t shirk;

But his mount of to-day is a tiger, a Turk,

And to break it to harness he’ll have all his work,

Though he leathers and spurs night and morning.

Chorus—

For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet

Show this buck-jumping brute is a teaser to beat,

And Peel will do well if he still keeps his seat

When Wild West-minster shuts some fine morning.

Punch. May 14, 1887.

——:o:——

Boatswain Chamberlain.

Air—“Sailing, sailing.”

The Liberal Barque is on the wave,

And manned by seamen stout and brave,

And though the Tory shoals are near,

The gallant ship will danger clear,

For Chamberlain

The bo’san’s pipe will blow,

And a hardy crew

Stand ready for the foe—

Then here’s to the captain,

With grand old heart so true.

To Harcourt, Dilke, and Hartington,

Who lead a gallant crew——

Sailing sailing,

Over the bounding main,

Ready and ripe,

At the sound of the pipe,

Of Boatswain Chamberlain.

Joe Chamberlain is bold and free,

And skipper some day he will be,

For never a heart more true and brave,

A murmuring people counsel gave;

No false step marks

His actions or career;

And he sounds his pipe

For action now to clear—

Then here’s to the captain, &c.

From Songs for Liberal Electors.
Manchester, A. Heywood, 1885.

(This parody was written before Mr. Chamberlain and Lord Hartington joined the Conservative party.)

——:o:——

“JOLLY NOSE.”

The late Mr. William Bates writing to Notes and Queries in December, 1863, pointed out that this capital drinking song is a translation of one of the Vaux-de-Vire of the fine old Norman Anacreon, Olivier Basselin. W. H. Ainsworth puts the song into the mouth of “Blueskin” in his novel Jack Sheppard, but it was made famous by the late Paul Bedford, who sang it in his celebrated impersonation of “Blueskin” at the Adelphi Theatre, London.

À Son Nez.

Beau Nez, dont les rubis ont cousté mainte pipe

Du vin blanc et clairet,

Et duquel le couleur richement participe

Du rouge et violet;

Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre,

Te juge encore plus beau.

Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère

Qui ne boit que de l’eau.

Un coq d’inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte:

Combien de riches gens

N’ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte,

Il faut beaucoup de temps.

Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t’enlumine;

Le vin est la couleur

Dont on t’a peint ainsi plus rouge qu’une guisgne

En beuvant du meilleur.

On dit qu’il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres?

Le vin est la guarison

De mes maux: J’aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres

Que toute la maison.

Drinking Song.

Jolly Nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip

Were dug from the mines of Canary;

And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip

With hogsheads of claret and sherry.

Jolly Nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass,

Beholds thee in all thy perfection;

And to the pale snout of a temperate ass

Entertains the profoundest objection.

(For a turkey-cock’s neck one might surely mistake thee:

Why there’s many a well-to-do fellow

Can’t boast such a nose! what a time it must take thee

To get to a colouring so mellow.)

For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,

And the choicest of wine is my colour;

And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues,

The fuller I fill it,—the fuller.

Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight

Such dullards know nothing about it;

’Tis better with wine to extinguish the light,

Than live always in darkness without it.

Mr. Ainsworth had omitted the third verse, this is supplied in the above version by Mr. Bates, but it will readily be seen that his lines are inferior to the gay sparkling verses of Mr. Ainsworth’s translation.

——:o:——

Derby and Jones.

(With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy.)

The Derby’s here, and I’m getting grey,

By Jove I’m fifty if I’m a day;

But through dust and sun, I like my fun

As the cab rolls on.

So we, that is Jones my friend and I,

Have each to our wives made this reply:

“Yes, we’re going,—like two staid elderly men,

But don’t mean, my dear, to do it again.”

And its always the same! Serious tones,—

Then a nice little game with my old friend Jones.

A nice little game with my old friend Jones.

Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day,

Arm-in-arm,—well we made our way:

And everything spun round and round like fun

As the cab bowled on!

Arm-in-arm, we managed to slide,

Though the streets and lamps all took the wrong side;

And we never could quite tell how or when

Each of us got safe home again!

Always the same!—Banjo and Bones—

Always the same with my old friend Jones.

Always the same with my old friend Jones.

Punch. June 4, 1881.

---

Gladstone sings:—

(Addressing the Earl of Derby.)

Derby, dear, I am old and grey,

Fifty years since my Newark day;

Changes will come to every one

As the years roll on.

Derby, dear, when the votes went wry,

Out in the cold and alone was I;

Ah! but the thought of you cheered me then,

“’Tis not for long he can hold with Ben.”

Always the same, Derby, my own,

Always the same to your old Glad-stone!

Always the same to your old Glad-stone!

Derby, dear, but I did feel riled,

When the Jingoes with joy went wild,

Until hope whispered Knowsley’s lord

“Loveth not the sword.”

Derby, dear, ’twas your backing out

Showed the way for the Tories’ rout,

Ah, dear! how you stilled my fear,

Life appeared better and office near.

Always the same, Derby, my own,

Always the same to your old Glad-stone!

Always the same to your old Glad-stone!

Punch. December 23, 1882.

---

Song of the Railway Clerk.

Come dwell with me, and be my own,

For a joyful lot is mine;

I’ve a sunny bank, with turf o’ergrown,

And a cottage on the line.

And two policemen own my sway,

And strive to be my slaves,

And daren’t receive gratuities,

Though each one well behaves.

Then, dearest, be for ever mine,

In that small station on the line.

And though my lot’s all day to stamp

Those slips of card-board blue,

When faded is the mail’s red lamp,

I come to love and you.

Then, dearest, you must not refuse,

But to my prayers incline;

I’ll fetter thee, in Hymen’s noose,

Not in—but on—a line.

And let me link my lot with thine,

And love thee on the banks of line.

From The Man in the Moon.
Edited by Albert Smith.

---

Mutton Chops.

Come dine with me, come dine with me,

And our dish shall be, our dish shall be,

A mutton chop from the butcher’s shop

And how I cook it you shall see.

The chop I choose is not too lean;

For to cut off the fat I mean.

Then to the fire I put it down,

And let it fry until ’tis brown.

Come dine with me; yes dine with me, etc.

I’ll fry some bread cut rather fine,

To place betwixt each chop of mine;

Some spinach, or some cauliflowers,

May ornament this dish of ours.

I will not let thee once repine

At having come with me to dine:

’Twill be my pride to hear thee say,

“I have enjoy’d my chop, to-day.”

Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me;

Dine, dine, dine, with me, &c.

——:o:——

Don’t Dye your Hair when you Grow Old.

(Parody on “Silver Threads among the Gold.”)

Don’t dye your hair when you grow old,

Or you surely will be sold,

As I found myself one day

When my hair was turning grey,

On a pretty girl, named Grace,

I was spooney, quite a case,

But her hair was black and bright,

Whereas mine was turning white.

Don’t dye your hair when you grow old,

Either black, or brown, or gold,

Or the day you’ll surely rue,

“Ne’er say dye” what’er you do.

Then to myself I said, said I,

I’ll try a bottle of hair dye;

Out I rush’d, and hurried back

With a bottle labell’d black.

When I’d rubb’d it on my head,

I look’d beautiful, folks said,

But when I’d embraced dear Grace

I found out I’d dyed her face.

Don’t dye your hair, &c.

And in the morning, I declare,

Bright magenta was my hair.

To the hairdresser I flew,

“Sir,” said he, “that’s nothing new,

Try our ostrich marrow grease,

Try it, and your fretting cease;”

So I did, and next was seen

With my hair a light pea green.

Don’t dye your hair, &c.

Next day, alas! ’twas dirty pink,

Then the colour of red ink;

Next ’twas purple, then ’twas blue,

Every colour it’s gone through.

Now content with homely grey,

Often to dear Grace I say,

“Locks may lose their black or gold,

But true love will ne’er grow old.”

Don’t dye your hair, &c.

——:o:——

A CHILD’S HYMN OF PRAISE

I.

I thank the goodness and the grace,

Which on my birth have smiled,

And made me in these Christian days,

A happy English child.

*  *  *  *  *

From Hymns for Infant Minds. By Jane & Ann Taylor.

---

A Parody.

Upon my childhood’s pallid morn,

No tropic summer smiled,

In foreign lands I was not born,

A happy heathen child.

Alas! but in a colder clime,

A cultured clime I dwell,

All in the foremost ranks of Time,

They say: I know it well.

You never learn geography,

No grammar makes you wild.

A book, a slate you never see,

You happy heathen child.

I know in forest and in glade,

Your games are odd, but gay.

Think of the little British maid,

Who has no place for play.

When ended is the day’s long joy,

And you to rest have gone,

Think of the little British boy,

Who still is toiling on.

The many things we learn about

We cannot understand,

Oh, send your missionaries out

To this benighted land!

You blessed little foreigner,

In weather fair and mild,

Think of the tiny Britisher,

Oh, happy heathen child.

Ah! highly favoured Pagan, born

In some far hemisphere,

Pity the British child forlorn

And drop one sorrowing tear.

From “That very Mab.” Published by Longmans.