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

by Unknown

PARODIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.

“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” and “Through the Looking-Glass, and what Alice found there” have so long been familiar, and are so universally popular, that their recent production on the Stage at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre only causes a feeling of surprise that they have not been dramatised hitherto.

It is true, that Colonel Lynes, of the Royal Artillery, selected the subject of “Alice in Wonderland” for the Soldiers’ pantomime at Woolwich, more than six months ago, and at his suggestion Mr. J. Addison wrote a very ingenious play, which was produced in the Theatre of the Royal Artillery Barracks at Christmas 1886.

But this was far less complete as a representation of Alice’s adventures, than the Musical Dream Play, in two acts by H. Savile Clarke, produced at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre in December, 1886.

All who have read Alice’s Adventures (and who has not read them?) should see how admirably they have been realised on the boards, and recognise in Miss Phœbe Carlo the charming little heroine of Mr. Carroll’s invention. Mr. H. Savile Clarke thus introduces the subject of his play:—

A Nursery Magician took

All little children by the hand;

And led them laughing through the book,

Where Alice walks in Wonderland:

Ours is the task with Elfin dance

And song, to give to Childhood’s gaze

That Wonderland; and should it chance

To win a smile, be his the praise.

---

By the kind permission of Mr. Lewis Carroll the following poems are selected from his books, with some parodies and imitations of them.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.

The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might;

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright—

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done.

“It’s very rude of him,” she said,

“To come and spoil the fun.”

The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead—

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

“If this were only cleared away,”

They said, “It would be grand!”

“If seven maids, with seven mops,

Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,

“That they could get it clear?”

“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

“Oh, Oysters, come and walk with us!”

The Walrus did beseech.

“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beech;

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head—

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat—

And this was odd, because, you know,

They had’nt any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four:

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more—

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

Of cabbages-and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,

“Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!”

“No hurry!” said the Carpenter:

They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,

“Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed—

Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us,” the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

“After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!”

“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.

“Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come,

And you are very nice!”

The Carpenter said nothing, but

“Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf—

I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,

“To play them such a trick,

After we’ve brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!”

The Carpenter said nothing but

“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:

“I deeply sympathize.”

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

“Oh, Oysters,” said the Carpenter,

“You’ve had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?”

But answer came there none—

And this was scarcely odd, because

They’d eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass).

---

The Vulture and the Husbandman.

By Louisa Caroline.

(A Vulture is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey by plucking it limb from limb, with its powerful beak and talons. A Husbandman is a man in a low position of life who supports himself by the use of the plough.—Johnson’s Dictionary.)

The rain was raining cheerfully,

As if it had been May,

The senate-house appeared inside

Unusually gay;

And this was strange, because it was

A vivâ-voce day.

The men were sitting sulkily,

Their paper-work was done,

They wanted much to go away

To row, or ride, or run;

“It’s very rude,” they said, “to keep

Us here and spoil our fun.”

The papers they had finished lay

In piles of blue and white.

They answered everything they could,

And wrote with all their might;

But though they wrote it all by rote

They did not write it right.

The Vulture and the Husbandman

Beside these piles did stand,

They wept like anything to see

The work they had in hand;

“If this were only finished up,”

Said they “it would be grand.

If seven D’s or seven C’s

We give to all the crowd,

Do you suppose,” the Vulture said,

“That we could get them ploughed?”

“I think so,” said the Husbandman,

‘But, pray, don’t talk so loud.’

“O undergraduates, come up!”

The Vulture did beseech,

“And let us see if you can learn

As well as we can teach.

We cannot do with more than two,

To have a word with each.”

Two undergraduates came up,

And slowly took a seat,

They knit their brows and bit their thumbs

As if they found them sweet;

And this was odd, because, you know,

Thumbs are not good to eat.

“The time has come,” the Vulture said

“To talk of many things,

Of accidence and adjectives,

And names of Jewish kings,

How many notes a sackbut has,

And whether shawns have strings.”

“Please sir,” the undergraduates said

Turning a little blue,

“We did not know that was the sort

Of thing we had to do.”

“We thank you much,” the Vulture said,

“Send up another two.”

Two more came up, and then two more

And more, and more, and more,

And some looked upwards at the roof

Some down upon the floor;

But none were any wiser than

The pair that went before.

“I weep for you,” the Vulture said

“I deeply sympathize;”

With sobs and tears he gave them all

D’s of the largest size,

While at the Husbandman he winked

One of his streaming eyes.

“I think,” observed the Husbandman,

“We’re getting on too quick,

Are we not putting down the D’s

A little bit too thick?”

The Vulture said, with much disgust,

“Their answers make me sick!”

“Now, undergraduates,” he cried,

“Our fun is nearly done,

Will anybody else come up?”

But answer came there none,

And this was scarcely odd, because

They’d ploughed them every one.

The Light Green. Cambridge, 1872.

---

The Nyum—Nyum.

The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea,

And sipped the wavelets green:

He wondered how the sky could be

So very nice and clean;

He wondered if the chamber-maid

Had swept the dust away,

And if the scrumptious Jabberwock

Had mopped it up that day.

And then in sadness to his love

The Nyum Nyum weeping said,

I know no reason why the sea

Should not be white or red.

I know no reason why the sea

Should not be red, I say;

And why the slithy Bandersnatch

Has not been round to-day.

He swore he’d call at two o’clock.

And now its half-past four.

“Stay,” said the Nyum Nyum’s love, “I think

I hear him at the door.”

In twenty minutes in there came

A creature black as ink,

Which put its feet upon a chair

And called for beer to drink.

They gave him porter in a tub,

But, “Give me more!” he cried;

And then he drew a heavy sigh,

And laid him down, and died.

He died, and in the Nyum Nyum’s cave

A cry of mourning rose;

The Nyum Nyum sobbed a gentle sob,

And slily blew his nose.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, we need not state,

Was overwhelmed, and sad:

She said, “Oh, take the corpse away,

Or you will drive me mad!”

The Nyum Nyum in his supple arms

Took up the gruesome weight,

And, with a cry of bitter fear,

He threw it at his mate.

And then he wept, and tore his hair,

And threw it in the sea,

And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes

That such a thing could be.

The ox, that mumbled in his stall,

Perspired and gently sighed,

And then, in sympathy, it fell

Upon its back and died.

The hen that sat upon her eggs,

With high ambition fired,

Arose in simple majesty,

And, with a cluck, expired.

The jubejube bird, that carolled there,

Sat down upon a post,

And, with a reverential caw,

Gave up its little ghost.

And ere its kind and loving life

Eternally had ceased,

The donkey, in the ancient barn,

In agony deceased.

The raven, perched upon the elm.

Gave forth a scraping note,

And ere the sound had died away,

Had cut its tuneful throat.

The Nyum Nyum’s love, was sorrowful;

And, after she had cried,

She, with a brand-new carving knife,

Committed suicide.

“Alas!” the Nyum Nyum said, “alas!

With thee I will not part;”

And straightway seized a rolling-pin

And drove it through his heart.

The mourners came and gathered up

The bits that lay about;

But why the massacre had been,

They could not quite make out.

One said there was a mystery

Connected with the deaths;

But others thought the silent ones

Perhaps had lost their breaths.

The doctor soon arrived, and viewed

The corpses as they lay:

He could not give them life again;

So he was heard to say.

But, oh! It was a horrid sight

It made the blood run cold,

To see the bodies carried off

And covered up with mould.

The Toves across the briny sea

Wept buckets-full of tears;

They were relations of the dead,

And had been friends for years.

The Jabberwock upon the hill

Gave forth a gloomy wail,

When in his airy seat he sat,

And told the awful tale.

And who can wonder that it made

That loving creature cry?

For he had done the dreadful work,

And caused the things to die.

That Jabberwock was passing bad—

That Jabberwock was wrong.

And with this verdict, I conclude

One portion of my song.

I contend that there is a great deal of natural beauty in the poem of which this extract forms part. Some people say there isn’t a scrap. A man, I am aware, mixed up something of the sort in a book called “Alice through the Looking Glass.”

——:o:——

JABBERWOCKY.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogroves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

ame whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came.

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogroves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass).

---

Waggawocky.

(On the Tichborne Trial)

“Merely interpolating the note that the word ‘wabe’ is explained by the Poet to mean ‘a grassplot round a sundial,’ but that it also means a Court of Justice, being derived from the Saxon waube, a wig-shop, we proceed to dress the prophetic ode in plain English:—

’Twas May time, and the lawyer coves

Did jibe and jabber in the wabe,

All menaced were the Tichborne groves,

And their true lord, the Babe.

“Beware the Waggawock, my son,

The eyelid twitch, the knees’ incline,

Beware the Baigent network, spun

For gallant Ballantine.”

He took his ton-weight brief in hand,

Long time the hidden clue he sought,

Then rested he by the Hawkins tree,

And sat awhile in thought.

And as in toughish thought he rocks,

The Waggawock, sans truth or shame

Came lumbering to the witness box,

And perjured out his Claim.

“Untrue! untrue!” Then, through and through

The weary weeks he worked the rack;

But March had youth, ere with the Truth

He dealt the final whack.

“And hast thou slain the Waggawock

Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy!

O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!”

Punch chortled in his joy.

Shirley Brooks, 1872.

---

In Truth, October 4, 1883, twenty-one imitations of the Jabberwocky were printed. They are now rather heavy reading, and only the two following seem worth reprinting:—

The Cruise of the “P. C.” By A. T.[9]

Across the swiffling waves they went,

The gumly bark yoked to and fro;

The jupple crew on pleasure bent,

Galored, “This is a go!”

Beside the poo’s’l stood the Gom,

He chirked and murgled in his glee;

While near him, in a grue jipom,

The Bard was quite at sea.

“Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard!

Take pen (thy stylo) and endite

A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard,

And I will feast to-night.”

That wansome Bard he took his pen,

A flirgly look arnund he guv;

He squoffled once, he squirled, and then

He wrote what’s writ above.

Hermon.

---

The Burglar.

’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove

Had burgled through the shop,

When Bobbles caughtled him, and shove

Him into quod flip-flop.

He chore his hair right fistfully,

He rowled his squinty eyne;

He waggled, grovelling fitfully,

His lithy form and lean.

Then Bobbles sweart agin him straight,

So off they chustled him

To horrid Zone for seasons eight,

And chortled at his din.

So all ye pals, come gristle up

Unto my doleful tale:

Ne’er fake away, nor jumble sup,

Though nix my Dolly fail.

Alma.

——:o:——

Air.—“Will you walk into my parlour.”

“Can you move a little faster?” said a tall man to a stout,

“I’ve an enemy behind me, and I want to keep him out.

See how eagerly the flatterers all throng round the great man;

Now he is looking for their votes, can’t you spoil his little plan?

Can you, can’t you, can you, can’t you spoil his little plan?

Can you, can’t you, can you spoil his little plan?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it would be,

If you get into the House, you will have many a fee.”

And the stout one said, “No! I’ve worked in vain, I’m beat,

My opponent’s firmly settled, and I cannot take his seat.

Will not, cannot, cannot, will not now take his seat.

Will not, cannot, will not now take his seat.”

“What matters it? you are not beat!” his tall friend to him said,

“There’s another man to take your place, you know, when you are dead.

If you’ll leave Ireland alone, you’ll then get on like fun,

So don’t give up, but go and sup, and we will pay your dun.

Won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you soon cry.

Will you, won’t you, will you soon cry, ‘I’ve won!’”

Miss Shaw.

Truth. 15 July, 1886.

Not only has Lewis Carroll given many themes to the parodists, but he has himself produced some amusing parodies, a short one on Dr. Watts, that on Southey’s, “You are old, Father William,” already quoted on page 156, Volume III. of Parodies, and “Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup” given on [page 35], all appear in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

That this book should have been translated into German, French, and Italian, tells of its well deserved popularity:—

And, though the shadow of a sigh

May tremble through the story,

For happy summer days gone by,

And vanish’d summer glory—

It shall not touch with breath of bale

The pleasance of that fairy-tale.

——:o:——

MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT.

Meet me by moonlight alone,

And then I will tell you a tale,

Must be told by the moonlight alone,

In the grove at the end of the vale.

You must promise to come, for I said,

I would show the night-flowers their queen;

Nay, turn not away thy sweet head,

’Tis the loveliest ever was seen.

Oh! meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight may do for the gay,

The thoughtless, the heartless, the free;

But there’s something about the moon’s ray,

That is sweeter to you and to me.

Oh! remember, be sure to be there,

For though dearly the moonlight I prize,

I care not for all in the air,

If I want the sweet light of your eyes.

So meet me by moonlight alone.

J. A. Wade.

---

Meet Me, Miss Molly Malone.

Meet me, Miss Molly Malone,

At the grove at the end of the vale;

But be sure that you don’t come alone,

Bring a pot of your master’s strong ale,

With a nice bit of beef and some bread,

Some pickled, or cucumbers green,

Or a nice little dainty pig’s head,

’Tis the loveliest tit-bit e’er seen.

Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

Pastry may do for the gay,

Old maids may find comfort in tea;

But there’s something about ham and beef

That agrees a deal better with me.

Remember my cupboard is bare,

Then come, if my dear life you prize,

I’d have lived the last fortnight on air,

But you sent me two nice mutton pies.

Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

---

Meet Me this Evening Alone.

Meet me this evening alone,

Friend Bite, and we’ll hatch up a tale;

We’ll chat when the day’s work is done,

O’er a pipe and a jug of good ale:

A plate of cold meat and some bread,

With salad or cucumbers green,

And part of a sucking pig’s head

’Tis the loveliest of tit-bits e’er seen.

Then meet me &c.

Pastry may do for the gay,

The thoughtless, the young, and the free,

But there’s something in cold beef, they say,

More tempting to you and to me;

Then remember, be sure to be there,

If good eating and drinking you prize,

You’ve liv’d the last fortnight on air,

I can tell by those hollow-sunk eyes.

Then meet me, &c.

From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster. Dublin.

---

Many years ago (it was in February, 1844), Punch had a parody entitled “Meet me with Wimbush alone,” alluding to Wimbush’s omnibus, which then ran from Belgrave Square to the Bank. It was jocularly reported never to carry more than one passenger at a time. But the following parody, from the same source, is not only more modern, but also more likely to appeal to the present generation, than a satire on a long forgotten omnibus:—

Red Herrings.

Meet me at breakfast alone,

And then I will give you a dish

Which really deserves to be known,

Though it’s not the genteelest of fish.

You must promise to come, for I said

A splendid red Herring I’d buy—

Nay, turn not away your proud head;

You’ll like it, I know, when you try.

If moisture the Herring betray,

Drain, till from moisture ’tis free;

Warm it through in the usual way,

Then serve it for you and for me.

A piece of cold butter prepare,

To rub it when ready it lies;

Egg sauce and potatoes don’t spare,

And the flavour will cause you surprise.

Punch.

——:o:——

PARODIES OF “WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?”

Miss Emily Faithful’s paper was responsible for the following:—We saw a Christmas card the other day which had been sent to a young lady at a school of design. It represented a grotesque figure at a lecturer’s desk, and underneath were these lines:

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”

“I’m going to lecture, sir,” she said.

“And what is the subject, my pretty maid?”

“Total extinction of man,” she said.

“Then nobody’ll marry you, my pretty maid.”

“Advanced women don’t marry, good sir,” she said.

March 1, 1879.

---

Venus and Adonis.

“Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.”

Where are you going to, my pretty maid?

I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said.

May I go with you, my pretty maid?

Yes, if you like it, she calmly said.

What is your fortune, my pretty maid?

My face is my fortune, Sir, she said.

How do you live on’t, my pretty maid?

By selling my photos, she promptly said.

Then may I marry you, my pretty maid?

If you’ve a title, perhaps—she said.

Punch. June, 1878.

---

“Where are you going to, my Pretty Maid.”

(New Reading.)

With the pail for the milk hung over her arm,

Across the green fields tripped Mary;

The smiles on her face gave additional charm,

And caused you to call her a fairy.

Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride,

And happened to come across Mary;

Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride,

And make her keep me with her dairy.”

But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well,

As proud as a queen was our Mary;

Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell,

The sequel will show she was wary.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”

Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town;

“I am going a-milking, sir,” she said.

A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down.

“May I be your escort, my pretty maid?

Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red;

To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid,

And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.”

“What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid,

And around her lips a merry smile played.

“My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.”

“Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said.

---

True.

Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?”

“I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said.

And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo!

She had a ticket for the minstrel show.

Detroit Free Press. July 24, 1886.

(Chestnuts—Americanism for stale jokes.)

---

Where are you going to my pretty maid?

“I’m going to publish, sir,” she said.

Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid?

“My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said.

Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid,

There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid,

There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid!

In your rural retreat have you heard of the Trade?

Oh, where are you going to, my pretty maid?

Ernest Radford.

---

An Idyllic Duet.

(A New Version, as Sung under the Gallery with the Greatest Success by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the Junior Member for Northampton, Mr. Charles Bradlaugh.)

“Where are you going to, my stubborn head?

Where are you going to, my stubborn head?”

“I’m going a-swearing, Gosset,” he said;

“I’m going a-swearing, Gosset,” he said.

“Then I must come after you, my stubborn head;

Then I must come after you, my stubborn head,”

“You may come if you like, old Gosset,” he said;

“You may come if you like, old Gosset,” he said.

“Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head,

Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head.”

“Why,—my Oath is my fortune, Gosset,” he said;

“Why,—my Oath is my fortune, Gosset,” he said.

“Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head,

Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head.”

“Nobody axed you to, Gosset,” he said;

“Nobody axed you to, Gosset,” he said.

(Dance up the middle, touch shoulder, and down again.)

Punch, May 21, 1881.

---

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”

“I’m going to Spelling Bee, sir,” she said,

“Where is your lexicon, my pretty maid?”

“I do not want one, sir,” she said.

“What can you spell, pray, my pretty maid?”

“I can spell prize, kind sir,” she said.

“Let’s hear you spell it, my pretty maid!”

“P-r-e-y-e-s, prize,” she said.

“I wouldn’t give much for your ‘preyes,’ pretty maid!”

“’Cause you ain’t got it to give, sir,” she said.

[Exeunt ambo.

---

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”

“I’m going to a lecture, sir,” she said.

“May I come with you, my pretty maid?”

“You won’t understand it, sir,” she said.

“What is the subject, my pretty maid?”

“The final extinction of man,” she said,

“Then you won’t marry, my pretty maid?”

“Superior girls never marry,” she said.

Modern Society. September 12, 1885.

“Whizz,” the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times, 1880, has a long parody, entitled “A Bicyclist’s Song,” after My Rattling Mare and I; also a parody on “My Pretty Maid,” entitled The Wheelman and the Maid, which concludes thus:—

“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,

“Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid,

“You’ll often go over, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c.

“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,

“Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid,

“Then I’ll wish you good morning, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c.

And still another, commencing:—

“Will you come and see my Humber?” said the rider on the tri,

’Tis the scorchingest of trycycles that ever you did spy;

You’ve only got to pop your leg the easy saddle o’er,

And you’ll go along at such a pace as ne’er was seen before;

Will you, will you, will you, will you come and see my tri?

There is also a prose imitation of Captain Mayne Reid, entitled, On the Prairie, by Jak Strauz Karsel.

——:o:——

I’VE BEEN ROAMING.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Where the meadow dew is sweet,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

With its pearls upon my feet.

I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

O’er the rose and lily fair,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

With their blossoms in my hair.

I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Where the honey-suckle sips,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

With its kisses on my lips.

I’ve been roaming, &c.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming

Over hill and over plain,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

To my bower back again.

I’ve been roaming, &c.

Anonymous. 1832.

---

I’ve been Shopping.

I’ve been shopping—I’ve been shopping

To John Brown’s in Regent Street,

And I’m hopping—and I’m hopping

With his shoes upon my feet.

I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming,

For rose oil and lily rare,

And I’m coming—and I’m coming

With a bottle for my hair.

I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming

To the pastrycook’s, old Phipps,

And I’m coming—and I’m coming

With some kisses for my lips.

I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming

Up Bond Street and down Park Lane

And I’m coming—and I’m coming

To my own house back again.

---

The Wandering Jew.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Vid a merry, merry strain,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

Home to Rosemary Lane.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Through ev’ry street and square,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming

Vith the pargains I got there.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

I have upon my life,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

To my children and my vife.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming

For to pargain I’ve the knack,

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

Vith my pag upon my pack.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Quite hungry full of vo,

But I’m a coming, I’m a coming,

To eat fish and buckle yow.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,

Vere the people call out “Pork,”

But I am coming, I am coming,

To be rested from my vork.

I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming

But our shaboth it is nigh,

So I’m coming, so I’m coming,

To vish you all good-bye.

Universal Songster, Vol. 3.

---

I’ve been Eating.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,

In the north and in the south

And I’m coming, and I’m coming,

With the crumbs about my mouth.

I’ve been stuffing, I’ve been stuffing

Plates of beef, of pork and veal;

And my corporation’s puffing,

With an out-and-out good meal.

I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking,

Heavy wet and Hodges’ gin,

And I’m going, and I’m going,

To my attic back again.

I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating,

In the north and in the south;

From the shops I’m now retreating,

With the crumbs about my mouth!

---

Song by a Shifty Politician.

(Not dedicated to Mr. Robert Lowe.)

I’ve been turning—I’ve been turning,

Tory, Radical, and Whig,

And I’m earning, and I’m earning,

Something handsome by the rig.

I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning,

Over politic’s wide range,

But I’m earning, yes I’m earning,

Money by each little change.

I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning,

Till I have been made a Peer,

And I’m earning, oh, I’m earning,

Several thousand pounds a year.

I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning,

Almost every way ’tis plain,

And I’m yearning, yes I’m yearning

To be Chancellor again.

Almost every way, ’tis plain,

To be Chancellor again;

And I’m yearning, and I’m yearning,

To be Chancellor again.

——:o:——

Afloat.

In the steamer, O my darling! when the foghorns scream and blow,

And the footsteps of the steward softly come and softly go.

When the passengers are groaning with a deep and sincere woe,

Will you think of me and love me, as you did not long ago?

In the cabin, O my darling! think not bitterly of me,

Though I rushed away and left you in the middle of our tea:

I was seized with a sudden longing to gaze upon the damp, deep sea—

It was best to leave you then, dear; best for you and best for me.

Liverpool Weekly Post. January 1, 1887.

——:o:——

Some Day

(To an Extortionate Tailor.)

I know not when your bill I’ll see,

I know not when that bill fell due

What interest you will charge to me,

Or will you take my I.O.U.?

It may not be till years have passed,

Till chubby children’s locks are grey;

The tailor trusts us, but at last

His reckoning we must meet some day

Some day—some day—some day I must meet it,

Snip, I know not when or how,

Snip, I know not when or how;

Only this—only this—this that once you did me—

Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now—

I’ll do you now.

I know not are you far or near—

Are you at rest? or cutting still?

I know not who is held so dear!

Or who’s to pay your “little bill!”

But when it comes, some day—some day—

These eyes an awful tote may see;

And don’t you wish, my tailor gay,

That you may get your £ s. d.?

Some day—some day—some day I must meet it,

Snip, I know not when or how,

Snip, I know not when or how,

Only this—only this—this that once you did me—

Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now—

I’ll do you now!

From Sketches in Prose and Verse, by F. B. Doveton, author of Snatches of Song. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886. (This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Poe, and Swinburne.)

——:o:——

My Mother bids Me Find an Heir.

My mother bids me find an heir

And give up Cousin Hugh,

Who came so often to the square,

Poor cornet—Horse Guards Blue.

“For why,” she cries, “a younger son,

While plainer girls win peers,

Alas! another season’s done,

And still you’re all Miss Veres.”

The Post announces he has gone

To shoot and stalk the deer;

I canter through the lanes alone,

And wish it was next year:

And as I draw the amber thread,

His slippers to adorn,

No novel that I ever read,

Had heroine so forlorn.

Punch September 22, 1866.

---

Song.

My mother bids me spend my smiles,

On all who come and call me fair,

As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles

To all the sparrows of the air.

But I’ve a darling of my own

For whom I hoard my little stock,—

What if I chirp him all alone

And leave mamma to feed the flock?

Thomas Hood.

——:o:——

O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE!

O! ’Tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!

From woman’s bright eye glancing,

O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!

Every heart entrancing.

What claims the monarch’s duty?

What soothes the peasant’s pain?

What melts the haughty beauty,

And conquers her disdain?

O! ’tis love, &c.

O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!

The warrior doth inspire.

O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love!

That kindles soft desire.

On rocks or lonely mountains,

In palaces or vales,

In gay saloons near fountains,

’Tis love alone prevails.

O! ’tis love! &c.

---

Oh ’Tis Beef!

Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,

(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),

Oh, ’tis Beef,

Affords relief,

When hunger’s most provoking.

Though many may doat upon mutton,

And some prefer veal or lamb,

Upon Beef I could feed like a glutton,

Nor sigh for poultry and ham;

Flank, brisket, or the sir-loin,

I never could let alone,

But nice tit-bits would I purloin

From buttock, round, or edgebone.

Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,

(’Pon my soul I’m not joking).

Oh,’tis Beef,

Affords relief,

When hunger’s most provoking.

Though Mrs. Glass I daily look in,

(No reflection on that cook, the chief),

Of all dishes her famous book in,

There’s none can compare with Beef.

How sweet when after my toiling,

And cutting joints up, down, across,

To behold on the gridiron broiling,

A rump-steak for my oyster sauce,

Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef,

(’Pon my soul I’m not joking),

Oh, ’tis Beef,

Affords relief,

When hunger’s most provoking.

D. A. O’Meara.

---

Oh! ’Tis Love!

Oh! ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love,

That makes the world go round;

Ev’ry day, beneath his sway,

Fools, old and young, abound;

Love often turns young ladies’ brains,

At which mamma will scold,

So, in revenge, Love thinks it fair

To shoot sometimes the old;

With love some folks go mad,

’Tis love makes some quite thin,

Some find themselves so bad,

The sea they must jump in.

Oh! ’tis love, &c.

The Universal Songster.

---

Oh! This Love! This Love!
To me’s a Funny Thing.

Oh! this love! this love! this love

To me’s a funny thing,

It smites the heart of every cove,

From beggar up to king.

It never is found absent,

From the breast of any one,

But, like a cruel stab sent,

One touch and you’re undone!

The cure, too, is so hard

That very few will try,

Then, girls, be on your guard

When love approaches nigh.

For this love! this love, &c.

Oh! this love! this love! this love!

It takes away one’s rest,

So, after all, as I can prove,

A single life is best,

As, when once you’re married,

You’ll find out to your cost,

You’ll wish you’d longer tarried,

Before your heart you’d lost,

For then, too late, repentance

Comes into your head,

And, after Hymen’s sentence,

A precious life is led,

For this love! this love &c.

The Universal Songster.

——:o:——

I KNOW A “HIGH.”

(Parody on John Oxenford’s song, “I Know an Eye.”)

I know a “High” so fair and bright,

When glistening ’neath the moon’s pale light,

Whence men, with many a glance behind,

To dodge the lurking Dons unkind,

Rush to the “Star,”[10] where, pure and clear,

They quaff their mild and sparkling beer.

Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”

Dear to my heart your memories are.

That “High,” where once, when violent blew

The gale of war the whole night through,

I fought the town with joyous glee,

Though pain with joy possessed me;

For whirled and kicked, ’mid scream and yell,

With two black orbs at last I fell.

Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”

Dear to my heart your triumphs are.

And when at last that radiant “High” shall be

Untrod, for e’er untrod by me;

When absence throws her dim pale light

O’er distant scenes of past delight;

That “High,” that “Star” shall ever shine

In Memory’s eye, with power divine;

Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,”

Dear to my heart your glories are.

C. E. W. B.
Worcester College, Oxford.

From College Rhymes. 1866.

——:o:——

ANOTHER MESSAGE.

I’d another message to send her,

To her whom my heart knows best,

But a twinge of gout came o’er me,

And I was compelled to rest.

And she was above—and dressing—

A duty to her most dear:

It was useless to shout to my darling,

For I knew she would never hear.

I’d another message to send her,

To hungry folks most sweet,

It was that the dinner was ready,

And the fire was spoiling the meat.

I tied it this summer’s evening

To her lapdog’s bushy breast,

But the canine rascal tore it,

And ate it with wondrous zest.

I gave it to baby next moment,

And saw him climb and climb,

But his little legs grew weary,

And he fell in a little time.

Then I yelled, in my hungry longing,

Has an invalid no friend,

Who will carry a wife a message

Her ravenous spouse would send?

Then I smelt a scent of cooking,

So savory and so sweet,

That my very heart stood silent,

And my pulse refused to beat.

It rose in enticing rushing

From meats and soups and things,

So I laid my anxious message

On its appetising wings.

Then I saw the steam rise higher,

In smell more telling than speech,

And I knew it would find her chamber,

I knew her dear nose ’twould reach.

Yes, I knew she would get my message,

And I should not have to wait,

So my soul grew calm and peaceful

Though dinner, alas! was late.

From The Corkscrew Papers,
London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row, 1876.

WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

Your Molly has never been false, she declares,

Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;

When I swore that I still would continue the same,

And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name.

When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you,

Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew?

To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d,

For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made.

Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall,

With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall,

In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,

And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.

Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized?

For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d;

Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,

Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make.

---

The Knightly Guerdon.

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be,

I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie,

Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,

And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er:

My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d,

As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your crest!

When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall,

Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball?

In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride,

Was there ever a smile save with Thee at my side?

Alone in my turret I loved to sit best,

To blazon your Banner and ’broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay!

Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée.

In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done,

And you gave to another the wreath you had won!

Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast,

As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine,

That others usurped for a time what was mine!

There’s a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me:

Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee;

Once more by the side of the knight I love best,

Shall I blazon his Banner and ’broider his crest.

W. M. Thackeray.

---

Ocean Melodies.

(Refined from the original Sea Songs, for the use of the Yacht Clubs.)

(The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.)

Adelina has flirted—not once, she declares,

Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears;

Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became,

And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name.

When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you,

Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true),

With my Alfred for hours at ecarté I played,

And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.

When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last bal,

And—goodness knows why—you deserted the salle,

I gave you a smile when you chose to appear,

Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.

Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised?

A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized—

So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take,

Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.

Punch. September 17, 1853.

---

The Almack’s Adieu.

Your Fanny was never false-hearted

And this she protests and she vows,

From the triste moment when we parted

On the staircase of Devonshire House!

I blushed when you asked me to marry,

I vowed I would never forget;

And at parting I gave my dear Harry

A beautiful vinegarette!

We spent en province all December,

And I ne’er condescended to look

At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,

Or even at that darling old Duke.

You were busy with dogs and with horses,

Alone in my chamber I sat,

And made you the nicest of purses,

And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances

(Je faisais moi tapisserie),

You danced every one of the dances

And never once thought of poor me!

Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver

I felt as she danced the last set,

And you gave, oh, mon Dieu! to revive her,

My beautiful vinegarette.

Return, love! away with coquetting;

This flirting disgraces a man!

And ah! all the while you’re forgetting

The heart of your poor little Fan!

Reviens! break away from those Circes,

Reviens, for a nice little chat;

And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses,

And a lovely black satin cravat!

W. M. Thackeray.

---

Advice to Old Women.

(Of both sexes.)

Your money will never be safe, Punch declares,

While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares:

It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain,

Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name.

Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground,

But shows how directors keep robbing around;

How the company’s funds to their own use they take,

Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make.

*  *  *  *  *

Punch. March 21, 1857.

——:o:——

TOM BOWLING.

Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;

No more he’ll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach’d him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft;

Faithful below he did his duty,

But now he’s gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many, and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah! many’s the time and oft;

But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When he who all commands,

Shall give (to call life’s crew together)

The word to pipe all hands,

Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom’s life has doff’d;

For tho’ his body’s under hatches

His soul is gone aloft.

Charles Dibdin.

---

A Carol for Cricketers.

Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling,

We mourn a batsman true;

No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling;

He’s battered black and blue.

Long at the stumps he did his duty,

And puzzled many a scout,

For though swift balls might spoil his beauty,

They rarely put him out.

Ne’er from the wicket he departed

Without a decent score;

And seldom were his timbers started

Until his legs were sore.

At pads and gloves, as things new-fangled,

With pleasant scorn he’d laugh;

But now so grievously he’s mangled,

No more we’ll fear his chaff.

Punch. September 22, 1855.

---

An Elegy of the Admiralty.

Here, on the floor stands famed Tom Brassey,

The darling of his friends,

He built the Arethusa saucy,

But did not plate her ends!

For Tom was faithful to his Party,

(His virtues were so rare!)

So economical and hearty,

He seemed upon the square!

His ships we took for things of beauty

(Though Reed, and others, scoffed),

And doubtless they would do their duty,

But ah! their ends are soft!

Yet still, comparatively little

They cost, as Reed admits;

Unlucky that they are so brittle,

They’ll get blown into bits!

And when the shot the foe dispatches

Has raked them, oft and oft,

The sea will pour beneath their hatches,

Because—their ends are soft.

Punch. March 21, 1885.

---

Lord Tom Noddy.

But, a sheer wreck, sits Lord Tom Noddy,

The last made of our Peers,

Who joins our legislative body

Amidst a nation’s jeers.

As M.P. he could not do duty,

His brain had grown too soft;

So—mark our Constitution’s beauty—

He’s now been sent aloft!—aloft!

He’s now-ow been—ah sen-n-n-n-t a-a-loft!

Lord Tom for nothing good was noted,

Of virtues he had none;

But with his side he always voted,

And was his father’s son.

So, as upon his last appearance

He publicly was scoff’d,

The Premier, to effect a clearance,

Has sent Lord Tom aloft!—aloft!

Has sen-n-n-nt Lord Tom-o-om ma-aloft!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

There is another parody on Tom Bowling, by L. M. Thornton, entitled Drunken Sally, but it is too vulgar to be inserted. It may occasionally be seen amongst the penny ballads on street walls.

——:o:——

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman,

Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply,

And he feather’d his oars with such skill and dexterity,

Winning each heart and delighting each eye.

He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily,

The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily,

And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,

That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft rowed in his wherry;

’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal;

He was always first oars when the fine city ladies

In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall;

And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering;

But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;

For loving or liking he little did care,

For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.

And yet, but to see how strange things happen,

As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all,

He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming,

That she smil’d, and so straight-way in love he did fall.

And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow

He’d wed her to-night—before to-morrow,

And how should this waterman ever know care

When he’s married, and never in want of a fare.

Charles Dibdin.

---

The Jolly Young Barrister.

And did you not hear of a jolly young Barrister,

At the Old Bailey who used for to ply?

He made out his case with such skill and dexterity,

Twisting each fact, while he glozed o’er each lie.

He stuck at nothing; and that so steadily,

The felons all sought his aid so readily,

And he saved from conviction so many a thief,

That this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

What sights of fine rogues he got off by his blarney;

His tongue was so glib, and so specious withal:

He was always retained by the great City forgers

To Newgate from Mansion House sent, or Guildhall.

And often the Press would be gibing and jeering,

But ’twas all one to him, its carping and sneering;

He’d swear black was white on behalf of a thief,

So this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief.

And yet, only think what strange morals have lawyers

The Bar of such conduct think nothing at all;

Whilst should any poor counsel report for a paper,

“To Coventry with him!” that instant they call;

From their mess they’ll expel him, he’ll find, to his sorrow;

But they’ll dine with the housebreaker’s hireling to-morrow.

Then hurrah!—though his client be swindler or thief,—

For the barrister never in want of a brief.

Punch. 1845.

---

The late Albert Smith wrote a piece entitled “Novelty Fair, or hints for 1851,” which was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, on May 21, 1850. In this, Father Thames enters with a goblet of dirty water in his hand, and exclaims:—

“Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water, man,

As at Blackfriars Bridge comes out of I?

No wonder they talk of my stream with severity,

Sickening each nose, and disgusting each eye!”

---

The Jolly Old Waterman.

And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman

Who at the cabstand used for to ply?

He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies,

Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye,

He looked so drunk—yet stood so steadily,

The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily;

And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air,

For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare.

What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very,

He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal,

As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims

Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall.

And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering,

And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering:

For laughing or chaffing he little did care,

For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen,

As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all,

He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent,

That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall.

But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow,

For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow;

And should this old Waterman act with more care,

He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare.

Punch. July 30, 1853.

---

The Handsome Young Clergyman.

Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman,

Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry?

He handled his text with such seeming sincerity,

Melting each heart and suffusing each eye.

He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily,

The ladies all flocked to his church so readily;

And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air,

That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair.

His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian,

So by both young and old he was made a great pet;

What teapots and slippers this predestinarian,

Young disciple of Calvin did constantly get!

He had won such credit and fame for piety,

That he had the run of the best society;

And a girl with lots of tin did pair

With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair.

Punch. May 31, 1856.

---

The Jolly Young Trilobite.

Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite,

That lived in Siluria once on a time,

And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright,

And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime;

But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags,

For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

Some doubt as to what was the cause of his fright,

Some say that the sea where he lived got too hot,

Some say too cold, and some vanished quite,

But one thing is certain, whatever is not,

That harden’d and stony, his tail no more wags

For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

The jolly young fellow has had his day out,

And doubtless once relished like others a spree,

Made love to the Lingulas roaming about,

Was lively and affable, funny and free,

But hardened and slaty his tail no more wags,

For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.

This parody refers to some rare specimens of trilobites contained in Dr. Grindrod’s Museum at Malvern.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1865.

---

The Luckless Young Gentleman.

And did you not hear of that luckless “Young Gentleman,”

Who at St. Stephen’s but lately did ply

His pencil and paper with skill and dexterity?

(Till his sly toil caught the Sullivan’s eye.)

He looked so calm, and he worked so steadily,

His Pitman’s Phonetics he marshalled so readily,

And he eyed the debate with such business-like air,

You’d have sworn his proceedings were all square and fair.

What sights of long speeches he heard in his gallery,

So frothy, so fierce, and so foolish withal!

How his ears must have ached when the Home-Rule Circassians

Gave the rein to their penchant for shindy and squall;

And oft times would they be snapping and sneering,

But ’twas all one to him their jibing and jeering;

Not a figs-end for party or brogue did he care,

His task was reporting them all square and fair.

And yet but to see now how strangely things happen!

As he scribbled on, thinking of nothing at all,

He was spotted by Sullivan, Power, and Callan,

Who “protisted,” and straightway began such a brawl!

“Obnoxious and unprecedented Reporther!”

The Shindyites yelled, and a world of hot wather

Was caused by that luckless “Young Gentleman” there,

Punch. July 26, 1879

---

The Jolly Old Woodcutter.

Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter,

Who at Hawarden Castle used for to stop;

He handled his axe with such skill and dexterity,

Treating his friends to a generous “chop.”

He looked so grand, and chopped so steadily,

That toadies all flocked to admire so readily;

And he eyed the old geese with an ogle so sweet,

That this woodcutter ne’er was in want of a seat.

What sights of soft folks he cajol’d with his speeches,

All polished so fair, and so “painted” withal;

His partisans stuck to his side like leeches,

And the G.O.M. lorded it over them all.

Oft times were his enemies gibing and jeering,

But ’twas all one to Bill, their groaning or cheering;

For praise or for blame he but little did care,

So long as he filled the Prime Minister’s chair.

And yet, but to see how strangely things happen!

As he chopped away, bowing and smiling as well,

He was ply’d by an Irishman, caught by his blarney,

One known by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell.

And would this Parnell but keep him in power,

He’d banish the clouds that o’er Erin did lower,

Defying old Salisbury, and “Randy” so glib,

E’en though it would cost him full many a fib.

Truth. July 15. 1886.

---

The Jolly Young Rifleman.

(A Roundelay for Ranelagh.)

Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young Rifleman,

Who as Adonis his charms used to try?

He curled his side-locks with such skill and dexterity,

Winning each heart and enchanting each eye.

He stood so straight, he marched so steadily,

The Volunteers came at his call so readily,

And he pranced at their head with so princely an air,

That he had the good word of the Brave and the Fair.

This Rifleman young never seemed to grow older,

So trim was his mien, and so chirpy withal;

He was always A 1 to each beauteous beholder,

And youths mustered proudly at Ranelagh’s[11] call

And though some folk might be chaffing or jeering,

’Twas all one to him their flouting and fleering,

For how should our Rifleman ever know care,

While he wins the good word of the Brave and the Fair?

Punch. March 24, 1883.

---

Too Jolly by Half.

Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman,

Writ of by Dibdin and sung of by Reeves?

He has gone up aloft, but his grandson surviving him,

Though jollier still, no such homage receives.

Said this jolly young sprig from a jolly old waterman,

“Dear Mr. Bull, I can steer in a style

Such as no foreigner ever could rival yet;

Do let me manage your boats on the Nile.

“I can shoot all the rapids and likewise your enemies,

Oh! how for nautical glory I pant!

Shall I be suffered to win it right jollily?”

Quoth dear Mr. Bull, “You’re too jolly. You shant!”

Judy. September 10, 1884.

(Canadian boatmen were employed in the Soudan Expedition.)

——:o:——

THE HIGH-METTLED RACER.

See, the course throng’d with gazers, the sports are begun,

What confusion, but hear!—“I’ll bet you, Sir!”—“Done, done!”

A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,

Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear;

While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,

Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast,

Scarcely snuffing the air, he’s so proud and elate,

The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.

Next Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge and ditch rush

Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;

They run him at length, and they have him at bay,

And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day;

While alike born for sports in the field or the course,

Always sure to come through—a staunch and fleet horse;

And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,

The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud,

Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood;

While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,

Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;

And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er,

As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door;

Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,

The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road.

At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late,

Bow’d down by diseases, he bends to his fate;

Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,

Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still;

And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view

In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;

Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds

The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.

Charles Dibdin.

This, being a sporting song, would be quite out of place here, but that Dibdin followed it up, by writing an imitation of it, on a naval topic. This is one of the somewhat rare cases of an author composing a parody on one of his own poems:—

The Pride of the Ocean.

See the shore lined with gazers, the tide comes in fast,

The confusion, but hear! bear a hand there, avast!

The blocks and the wedges the mallets obey,

And the shores and the stanchions are all cut away:

While with head like a lion, built tight fore and aft,

Broad amidships, lean bows, and taper abaft

In contempt of all danger from quicksands and rocks,

The pride of the ocean is launched from the stocks.

Now the signal is flying, and, fleet in her course,

She chases a sail, far superior her force;

And now the brisk broadside is merrily pour’d,

And splinters, cut ropes, and masts go by the board;

Next, yard-arm and yard-arm entangled they lie,

The tars loudly swearing to conquer or die;

’Till hull’d and cut up, getting more than she likes,

To the pride of the ocean the enemy strikes.

The prize is sent home, and, alert in a trice,

They make gaskets and points, and they knot and they splice;

While knowing Jack tars of their gallantry talk,

Tell who served well Boscawen, and Anson, and Hawke;

’Till, all of a sudden, a calm, then a scud,

A tempest brings on that the face of the flood,

The thunder and lightning, and wind, so deform,

The pride of the ocean scarce lives out the storm.

And now, having nobly defended the cause

Of the nation, of freedom, religion, and laws,

Her timbers all crazy, all open her seams,

Torn and wounded her planks, and quite rotten her beams,

To the last humbly fated her country to aid,

Near the very same slip where her keel was first laid,

No trace of her rate but her ports and her bulk,

The pride of the ocean’s cut down a sheer hulk.

Charles Dibdin.

---

The High-mettled Politician.

See, the house throng’d with members; debate is begun

The confusion—“hear, hear,” cries of “spoke,” and “well done.”

A hundred strange voices resound far and near,

Whigs, Tories, and Radicals greet the tir’d ear,

While with neck well cravatted, arranging his vest,

Proud, pert, and a puppy with hand on his breast,

Slightly turning his hair, with a dandyish grace,

The young politician first starts for a place.

Now the premier’s turn’d out, to succeed him they rush,

Whigs and Tories both making a desperate push.

They plot and intrigue, and by craft every day,

Expect into office to find a quick way;

While alike born for liberal or aristocrat,

Always sure to come over, a regular rat.

When the premier’s blown out by a party’s foul breath,

The young politician is in at the death.

Grown stale quite us’d up and turn’d out of the stud

Of treasury protégés yet with some blood,

While keen boroughmongers his pedigree trace,

How he made this long speech, how he gained that good place,

And what pensions he won his companions count o’er

As they stand with lank purse at the treasury door;

While disgrace sorely galls, with his remnant of nouse,

The young politician’s a hack in the house.

Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late,

To divide for his party he bends to his fate,

Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill,

Brought in by the minister’s paramount will,

And now blank and silent an object of scorn,

On the very same bench he was used to adorn,

While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs,

The young politician is gone to the dogs.

Figaro in London. October 13, 1832.

---

The High-Mettled Razor.

Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun,

Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun,

A thousand strange methods are found every year,

And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear,

When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest,

Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed,

Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate,

The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate.

The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush

To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush,

For we have one at length, and we need not say nay,

Should any one ask if we shave every day.

While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course,

Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse;

When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith,

The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death.

Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud,

Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood;

While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace,

Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;”

And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er,

As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore;

When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad.

The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road.

At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late,

And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate;

And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill,

If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still.

For now, with its works nearly hid from our view,

In the very same chair in which we must sit too,

While a music-box plays like a musical elf,

The High-mettled Razor doth shave us itself.”

Cuthbert Bede.

(This amusing parody, by the author of Verdant Green, originally appeared in Punch. It was afterwards included in Medley, a small shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856. The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst seated in an arm-chair.)

---

The High Mettled Guardsman.

See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun!

The soldiers are coming—“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!”

A thousand loud voices resound far and near,

With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.”

While with mien like a hero—erecting his crest,

Proud and pleas’d—with true courage inflaming his breast,

With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d,

The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East.

From the ship now turned out his way he must push,

Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush.

They leave him to struggle as well as he may

From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay.

Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field,

He is sure to come through, for he never will yield;

And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet,

The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet.

Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud,

Still ready to shed for his country his blood;

While knowing officials—the precedents trace,

Of what are the ancient traditions of place.

What appointments were made—in what heads will reside

The patronage Government has to divide.

Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen,

The victim becomes of official routine.

At length ill and weak, working early and late,

Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state;

Expos’d to the wet—a continual drench,

He feebly turns over the mud in the trench.

And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies

On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize:

Whilst official routine on contentedly jogs,

And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs.

Punch. January, 1855.

A parody, entitled The Village-Born Beauty, appeared in “The Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted in this collection.

——:o:——

THE BOATSWAIN CALLS.

My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service,

Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow;

I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis,

And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho!

Yet more ye shall be knowing,

I was coxon to Boscawen,

And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe.

Then put round the grog,

So we’ve that and our prog,

We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho!

*  *  *  *  *

And now at last laid up in a decentish condition,

For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe;

But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission.

Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho!

So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,

My boys shall well revenge my wrongs,

And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe;

Then to country and king,

Fate can no danger bring,

While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho!

Charles Dibdin.

---

A Word from Tom Tough.

Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service

Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling winds have blown,

And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is

Is a thing—I says it proudly—as I’ve never, never known.

No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content,

And never gone in for a railer,

But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent,

Like a honest and brave British sailor!

And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion.

Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men;

But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean.

And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then.

For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too,

More sober and cautious to make me;

For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do,

If disaster and death overtake me.

’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten;

I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see;

And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten,

And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir—not me!

But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough,

And no one to bother about him;

And if he comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough

That the world could get well on without him.

But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses,

Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam,

Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts surpasses,

Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home,

For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me,

Her heart, with the billows, time beating,

Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee—

A prayer for its father repeating.

Yes, it is for Polly’s sake, and the bairns, I’ve been attending,

To all that they’ve been saying of Shipowners and their craft,

And been brooding o’er those wrongs, sir, which the Board o’ Trade means mending,

And at which, when I was reckless, why, I only took and laughed.

So you, please, mustn’t think that Tom Tough is a shirk,

Nor in anyways flustered or frighted,

If he should ask you, whilst he sticks to his work,

To try if those wrongs can’t be righted.

For you see I ain’t no spouter, and I’ve not the gift o’ patter,

But all the same I knows full well that many things is wrong;

And drownding is for me and mine so serious a matter,

That if the case is put for us, it can’t be put too strong.

So whilst I continues my duty to do,

Until my last trip is completed,

I hope that the Board will do its dooty, too,

And see that Tom’s properly treated.

There’s such talk about insoorance and the likes, I’ve often wonder’d

If there’s any human feeling in this great and Christian land,

For all the while they’re chatt’ring, men is drownding by the hunderd,

Through the acts o’ greedy owners, if I rightly understand.

Aye, it’s this that is makin’ a coward of the best,

And turning good hands into railers:

It’s this that is crushing the pluck and the zest

From the hearts o’ your brave British sailors.

So it ain’t for no great favour that Tom Tough just now is praying,

He wants to have fair chances in the struggle, that is all;

And if Englishmen loves justice, why there’ll be no more delaying

In list’ning and attending to his very urgent call.

Or, leastways, if they at my language still sneer,

And pass my petition unheeding,

I knows very well they won’t turn a deaf ear

To my wife and my little ones’ pleading!

Truth. March 27, 1884.

---

A Sailor’s Plea for the “Yo, Heave Ho!”

Yes, my name, d’ye know’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service,

Where the waves roll mountains high, and the stormy winds do blow;

But my heart’s as true as steel, and right taut my every nerve is,

As when, in eighteen forty, I first sung out, “Yo, heave ho!”

No, I’ve never yet been ailing,

Since the time I went a-sailing;

An’ though I’ve been around this world some twenty times or so;

Aye, although I ain’t a stranger,

To any kind o’ danger,

Yet I’m ready still to meet ’em with a “Yo, heave ho!”

But although I’m able-bodied, and still fit to furl a “topsel,”

Or to reef a “maintop-gallant” in a stiff nor’-eastern gale:

Though I’m sober and quick-handed, yet just like a hulk I’m stranded,

And I cannot get a skipper for to answer to my hail.

So as no one me engages,

Why, of course, my bit o’ wages

I’d saved up for a rainy day is bound to quickly go;

And my hopes, I own, is sinking,

For I somehow can’t help thinking

That I shan’t get the chance again to sing out “Yo, heave ho!”

Yes, the times is changed completely since I first sailed on the ocean,

For then a British ship, you see, was worked by British tars,

And every British skipper would have scoffed the very notion

Of having lots of furriners to man the capstan bars.

But now, I’ll take my davy,

’Cepting sometimes in the Navy,

You will not find a British ship in which they do not stow

Heaps o’ Danes, and Swedes, and Rooshians,

Greeks, Malays, and Fins, and Prooshians,

Who couldn’t, for to save their lives sing out a “Yo, heave ho!”

Why, the crews I used to ship with were all chaps with bone and muscle,

And with lots o’ pluck and courage, and with hearts to England true;

But what some calls “competition” has so changed the whole position,

That now to serve for sailors any furrin’ scum will do.

And if a crew you muster,

P’rhaps of English there’s a cluster,

But there’s Chinamen and Lascars, and there’s Coolies in a row,

All a-chattering in their lingo,

’Till it’s precious hard, by jingo,

To hear aboard a British ship the good old “Yo, heave ho!”

They say I shouldn’t grumble, seeing that which I complain of

Is all owing, as they tell us, to, “a known commercial cause”;

But it’s not much consolation to a chap what fears starvation

To tell him that his suff’ring’s due to “economic laws,”

With such things I cannot wrestle,

But I know a British vessel

Is very, very different to what ’twas years ago;

Since its crew now as a rule is,

Three parts furriners and Coolies

With scarcely British tars enough to give a “Yo, heave ho!”

Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the present,

To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me;

But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant,

And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be.

Say, for instance, there was fighting,

And the time came for uniting

The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe,

Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians,

And the Chinamen and Rooshians,

Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”?

Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country,

Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas?

No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry,

Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese;

Whilst the tars on whose assistance

May depend the land’s existence

In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know,

Will be found prepared no longer

England’s Navy to make stronger,

Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!”

Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars

And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire made?

Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean,

And opened every corner of the world up to her trade?

For the sake, then, of the story

Of old England’s naval glory,

You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show,

And let British brain and sinew

Still on British ships continue,

Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!”

Truth, April 15, 1886.

——:o:——

THE SAILOR’S JOURNAL.

’Twas post meridian, half-past four,

By signal I from Nancy parted,

At six she linger’d on the shore,

With uplift hands and broken hearted.

At seven, while taughtening the forestay,

I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy;

At eight we all got under weigh,

And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

*  *  *  *  *

At last,—’twas in the month of May,—

The crew, it being lovely weather,

At three A.M. discover’d day

And England’s chalky cliffs together.

At seven up Channel how we bore,

While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy,

At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,

And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy.

Charles Dibdin.

---

A Sailor’s Journal.

(Adapted from Dibdin to the sad Circumstances of the Day.)

’Twas Prime Meridian, twelve at noon,

By signal I from Nancy parted;

At eight she watched the rising moon,

With wringing hands, half broken-hearted.

At nine, while tautening the fore-stay,

I saw her faint, unless ’twas fancy:

At ten we all got under weigh,

And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

Night came. The theme of every tongue

Was the Meridian Conference. Weary

Of that at last, we piped and sung,

And chawed our quids in confab cheery;

But something weighed upon my mind,

The wildest dreams possessed my fancy,

And fate seemed whispering on the wind,

I ne’er again should meet my Nancy!

And now arrived the happy time

Which every true Tar’s spirit rouses,

When safe at home (Meridian Prime)

We hoped to meet sweethearts and spouses.

But round and round the world went we,

Seeking that Prime Meridian! Fancy!

The darned thing wasn’t fixed, ye see,

And I could not find home or Nancy!

It was, of course, the beastliest bore.

Those stupid Frenchmen had a notion

That fixing it on England’s shore,—

England, whose vessels scour the ocean,

And who is owned to rule the waves,—

Insulted France! A foolish fancy!

The vanity to which they’re slaves

Fooled them—and kept me from my Nancy.

We sailed about, all round we steered,

’Midst sunshine’s gleam and tempest’s rattle.

No Prime Meridian appeared!

The Conference was still at battle.

The Frenchman still maintained the strife

To please his egotistic fancy,

Kept many a Tar from his true wife,

And me from my beloved Nancy!

Alas! Confound the Frogs, I says!

Though fair the wind and fine the weather,

I cannot yet forecaste the day

When Nance and I shall come together.

That Prime Meridian serves to floor

My fondest hopes, my warmest fancy.

It’s still unfixed, and never more

I fear shall I see it or Nancy.

Punch. October 25, 1884.

——:o:——

THE LAST SHILLING.

As pensive one night in my garret I sate,

My last shilling produced on the table,

That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate,

If to think and to speak it were able.

Whether fancy or magic ’twas played me the freak,

The face seemed with life to be filling;

And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,

“Pay attention to me, thy last shilling!”

*  *  *  *  *

Charles Dibdin.

---

The Old Oak Table.

I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night,

Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping;

The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,—

I felt neither waking nor sleeping;

When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near,

You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable,

Directed towards me, said, audibly clear,

“List, list, list to me, thy oak table.”

“I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold,

“Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble;

“And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old

“Would under my branches assemble:

“Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,—

“Those rites to unfold I am able,

“But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree,

“And now I am but an oak table.

“When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough,

“And to form a ship I was converted,

“Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough,

“And by victory never deserted.

“But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck,

“Bereft of my anchor and cable,

“A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck,

“Made what you see me now—an oak table.

“Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,—

“But I fear I your patience am tiring.

“I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day,

“To be broke up and used for your firing.”

“No never,” cried I, as I started awake,

“I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able

“And each friend that my humble cheer will partake,

“Shall be welcome around my oak table.”

——:o:——

ALL’S WELL.

Deserted by the waning moon,

When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon,

On tower, or fort, or tented ground

The sentry walks his lonely round;

And should a footstep haply stray,

Where caution marks the guarded way,

“Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.”

“A friend”—“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.”

Or sailing on the midnight deep,

When weary messmates soundly sleep,

The careful watch patrols the deck,

To guard the ship from foes or wreck;

And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,

Some friendly voice salutes his ear—

“What cheer? Brother, quickly tell;

Above—below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.”

Thomas Dibdin

---

The Empty Purse.

Deserted by the waning purse,

When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse,

On garret’s high poetic ground,

The poor man walks his lonely round.

And should some bailiff chance to stray,

Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay,

Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell,

Pay this I can’t; to jail—All’s well!

Or gliding through this busy life,

With doctors, nurses, babies, wife;

The careful wight patrols the shop,

And guards the house from toe to top.

And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer,

Some well-known voice salutes his ear,

What cheer, old friend, old playmate tell?

Cash low, child sick, wife cross—All’s well!

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

---

Another Parody.

Deserted by declining day,

When weary wights benighted stray;

From bush, or cavern, we appear,

And scare the traveller’s frighted ear

With—“Stand or die, good night. All’s well.”

Or riding home from fair or feast,

Some farmer plodding o’er his beast;

His wit o’erstopped by humming ale,

While thus the joskins we assail;

“Down every stiver, quickly tell,

Your watch, your purse, good night. All’s well!”

Anonymous.

---

All’s Well.

Hot from the guard-room’s reeking stew,

His spongy great-coat sodden through,

His head with senseless shako crowned,

The sentry walks rheumatic round.

And should civilian querist stray,

And question in his saucy way,

“What cheer, oh! Sentry, quickly tell.”

“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

From guard-bed comrades’ steaming heap,

Turned out all standing, half-asleep,

Great-coat on back and stock on neck,

His perspiration gets a check;

And while, half-starved, he dreams of beer,

Could civil question catch his ear,

“What cheer, ho! Sentry, quickly tell.”

“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

Punch. March 13, 1858.

——:o:——

MAY WE NE’ER WANT A FRIEND,
NOR A BOTTLE TO GIVE HIM.

Since the first dawn of reason that beam’d on my mind

And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot,

To share that good fortune, I still was inclined,

And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not.

’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,

When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him,

And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,

“May we ne’er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.”

The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent,

Or by poverty bow’d, tho’ of evils the least,

The smiles of a friend may invite to content,

And we all know content is an excellent feast;

’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,

When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him.

And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,

“May we ne’er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him.

Thomas Dibdin.

---

A New Version.

(Addressed to the shades of Dibdin.)

Since the first dawn of reason on—Dibdin—your mind.

Very little experience, it seems, that you got:

If you—after your fortune was shared—did not find

That those you had shared it with, wanted you not

It’s a maxim of mine, if a friend you’d sift out

From the crowd, do not test with too searching a sieve him,

And this motto you then may adopt past a doubt—

“I shall not want a friend, while I’ve lots I can give him!”

But a grateful return of a farthing per cent

When by poverty bowed, don’t expect in the least:

With the fact, that you’ve proved you’re an ass be content,

And we all know content is as good as a feast;

Yet it makes one a little inclined to dispraise

To know from experience, as sure as you live, you

Of this motto the truth will learn, some of these days,

“May you ne’er want a friend—for no jot’ll he give you!”

Tom Hood, the Younger.

——:o:——

THE ARETHUSA.

(Words by Prince Hoare, F.S.A., Dramatic Author, born 1755, died December 22, 1834. Music by William Shield.)

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While English glory I unfold—

Huzza for the Arethusa!

She is a frigate tight and brave

As ever stemm’d the dashing wave;

Her men are staunch

To their fav’rite launch;

And when the foe shall meet our fire,

Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire

On board of the Arethusa.

’Twas with the spring fleet she went out

The English Channel to cruise about,

When four French sail, in shore so about,

Bore down on the Arethusa.

The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie—

The Arethusa seem’d to fly:

Not a sheet or a tack,

Or a brace did she slack;

Though the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff;

But they knew not the handful of men how tough

On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,

The stoutest they could find in France;

We with two hundred did advance

On board of the Arethusa.

Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, “Ho!”

The Frenchman then cried out, “Hollo!”

“Bear down, d’ye see,

To our admiral’s lee.”

“No, no!” says the Frenchman, “that can’t be”

“Then I must lug you along with me,”

Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman’s land;

We forced them back upon the strand;

For we fought till not a stick would stand

Of the gallant Arethusa.

And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,

Never to fight the Britons more,

Let each fill a glass

To his fav’rite lass,

A health to the captains and officers true,

And all that belong to the jovial crew

On board of the Arethusa.

---

The Ariel’s Crew, Sir.

Come every jolly rower bold,

Whose heart is cast in honour’s mould,

While Nuneham’s glories I unfold,

Huzza for the Ariel’s crew, Sir.

She is a vessel tight and brave

As ever skimm’d the ruffled wave;

Her lads are staunch to their fav’rite launch,

And when the race shall try our fire,

Sooner than yield we’ll all expire,

The dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

’Twas in the Regatta she went out

In Nuneham’s reach to cruise about,

Three rival boats, in show so stout,

Bore down on the “Ariel” crew, Sir;

The “Isis” bold straight ahead did ply,

The sprightly “Ariel” seemed to fly;

Not an arm, nor a back, nor a nerve did she slack;

Though the foemen laugh’d, and thought it was stuff,

Knowing not the handful of lads how tough

Were the dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

Eight strong-arm’d men on their oars did bend,

The stoutest Oxford Town could send;

We eight bold youngsters did contend,

The plucky “Ariel” crew, Sir.

Our cockswain hail’d the “Isis,” “Ho,”

The Isis-men roared out “Hallo!”

“You’ll ne’er win the cup, so you’d better give it up;”

“No, no,” cries the “Ariel,” “that can’t be,

For I mean to lug it along with me,

For the use of the ‘Ariel’ crew, Sir.”

The race was off the Nuneham shore,

(Such a race as ne’er was seen before,)

We pressed them hard, and beat them sore,

The youthful “Ariel” crew, Sir.

And now we’ve beat the rival crew,

And shown what skill and pluck can do,

Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass:

Here’s a health to Maclean and conservatives all,

And may success and honour befall

The lads of the “Ariel” crew, Sir,!

G. V. Cox.

August, 1839.

[“Oxford, in the long vacation 1839, was enlivened by a Nuneham Regatta, a conservative festivity, at which Mr. Maclean (M.P. for Oxford City, and M.A. of Balliol College) was the presiding genius, as well as the chief payer of the piper. I am tempted to introduce here a parody on the famous song of ‘The Gallant Arethusa,’ in honour of the nine young gentlemen, natives of Oxford, who, as the crew of the ‘Ariel’ carried off the chief honours of this regatta.” p. 309, Recollections of Oxford. 1789-1860, by G. V. Cox.]

---

The Man who Mended the Boiler.

“Mr. Benbow, the engineer of one of the steamers in which the rescue of General Gordon was attempted, arrived in London yesterday. Mr. Benbow was engineer of the steamer on which Lord Charles Beresford performed his deeds of gallantry on the Upper Nile; and among his friends he is popularly known as ‘the Man who Mended the Boiler.’ He has come to this country in response to an official telegram.”

Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold,

Whilst I this story do unfold—

(A better tale is seldom told)

The Man who Mended the Boiler!

An Engineer as deft as brave,

With a name that smacks of the salt sea wave,

And a heart as staunch

As the hull of his launch;

And whenever Britons must meet the foe,

May they have such fellows as brave Benbow,

The Man who Mended the Boiler!

’Twas with the Nile fleet he set out,

With Lord Charles Beresford, gay and stout,

Midst the cataract’s roar, and the Arabs’ shout,

The Man who Mended the Boiler.

Khartoum and Gordon ahead did lie,

When a plate in the boiler did start and fly,

With a puff and a crack,

And the pace did slack,

And the Arabs howled at that bang and that puff,

But they knew not that handful of tars so tough,

Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler!

Whilst the jubilant Arabs did howl and dance,

He surveyed the smash with a workman’s glance,

And saw at once that they couldn’t advance,

With a big blank hole in the boiler.

Did he turn up the job like a muff? Oh, no!

That wasn’t the fashion of brave Benbow,

Midstream and still

He worked with a will

Through a dark Nile night and by morning’s light,

He had patched up everything right and tight

The Man who Mended the Boiler!

The Arabs looked from the sandy strand,

And thought that the Britons were brought to a stand;

But those Britons they did not understand,

Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler.

Up steam once more! Midst a roar from the shore,

Away up the Nile the steamer bore.

Let each brim a glass,

Whether lad or lass,

In a health to Lord Charles and his gallant crew,

With a bumper to Benbow stout and true,

The Man who Mended the Boiler!

Punch. April 25, 1885.

——:o:——

THE BAY OF BISCAY, O!

Loud roared the dreadful thunder,

The rain a deluge showers,

The clouds were rent asunder

By lightning’s vivid powers;

The night both drear and dark,

Our poor devoted bark,

Till next day, there she lay,

In the Bay of Biscay, O!

*  *  *  *  *

Her yielding timbers sever,

Her pitchy seams are rent.

When Heaven, all bounteous ever,

Its boundless mercy sent;

A sail in sight appears,

We hail her with three cheers,

Now we sail, with the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay, O!

Andrew Cherry. (Comedian. 1762-1812.)

---

The New-Built Playhouse, O!

Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle,

Dust-bells began the din,

Announc’d the hour of battle!

’Twas half-price rushing in:

Whilst o’er the rascal crew,

Vast consternation flew

At the fight,

On that night,

In the new-built playhouse, O!

The catcalls next shrill sounding

’Midst O. P.’s vocal strain;

The magic dance, resounding,

Near rent the walls in twain!

Our victors strengthen’d grew,

O’er turned the Bow Street crew,

At the fight,

On that night,

In the new-built playhouse, O!

Then, must’ring up our forces,

Attack’d the thieves again;

But numbered in our losses

A few brave O. P. men.

The victory was ours,

Brave O. P. loudly roars,

At the fight,

On that night,

In the new-built playhouse, O!

From The Covent Garden Journal. Vol. 2, (London 1810). Containing an account of the O. P. (old prices) riots at the New Covent Garden Theatre.

---

The Bay of Chelsea, Oh!

Loud roar’d the smoking funnel,

The blacks came down in showers;

The steam-pipe coughs like one ill,

The smoke above us lowers;

The mud both thick and dark

Impedes our wretched bark:

There we lay,

Half a day,

In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

Now dashed against the gravel,

We crumble, crash, and creak;

At this rate we shan’t travel

A mile within a week

Cries of “Return the fare!”

Now rend the startled air:

“Did we pay,

Here to stay,

In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!”

At length a wished-for wherry

’Long side of us drew nigh;

The prospect made us merry,

The laugh rose loud and high;

But when, alas! we knew,

’Twould not hold half our crew,

None were gay,

As they lay

In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

A little ease to give her

(To make her float we meant),

At once into the river

Her heavy chimney sent.

To swim she now appears,

We give three hearty cheers,

As we scud

Off the mud,

In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

Punch 1847.

---

Air, “The Bay of Biscay.”

“I cut the ball right under

At least an inch or more;

It was a fatal blunder,

For forty was his score.

I gave him in the dark

Fifteen, so did remark,

’Odds I’ll lay

Any day,

If he’ll give me a bisque, heigh ho!”

*  *  *  *  *

From Tennis Cuts and Quips.
London: Field and Tuer, 1884.

——:o:——

HEARTS OF OAK.

Come, cheer up, my lads! ’tis to glory we steer,

To add something more to this wonderful year;

To honour we call you, not press you like slaves;

For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Hearts of oak are our ships,

Hearts of oak are our men,

We always are ready:

Steady, boys, steady!

We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay,

They never see us but they wish us away:

If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore;

For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more.

Hearts of oak, &c.

They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes!

They frighten our women, our children, and beaux;

But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o’er,

Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore.

Hearts of oak, &c.

Britannia, triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,

Her standard is Justice—her watchword, “Be free;”

Then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing,

“Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and king.”

Hearts of oak, &c.

David Garrick.

---

A New Song.

Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to Freedom we steer;

No tyrant dictators shall manage us here;

No more shall they send vile dependents on Court,

The birthright of Britons they ne’er will support.

United by Freedom, in freedom remain;

See Fox still is ready,

To our cause ever steady;

Huzza! we’ll elect him again and again.

Since first we adopted The Fox,[12] as our choice,

To injure the nation he ne’er lent his voice:

His unshaken heart, stout, manly, and bold,

Could ne’er be corrupted our cause to have sold.

United by Freedom &c.

*  *  *  *  *

From The History of the Westminster Election. 1784.

---

Come, Cheer up, My Lads, Merry Christmas is Near.

Come, cheer up, my lads, merry Christmas is near,

And I hope we shall all have a Happy New Year!

Then eat your plum-pudding and drink your strong ale,

And may plenty and peace, in old England ne’er fail;

O, still may our flag be with lustre unfurl’d!

Let’s ever be ready, steady boys, steady,

And true to ourselves we defy all the world.

Oh, still may our flag, &c.

*  *  *  *  *

---

There are five verses in all in this imitation, which may be found in Volume III. (page 37) of The Universal Songster.

---

Another New Song.

Come, cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,

To add something new to this wonderful year.

We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,

And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.

Chorus.—Then firm, my hearts of oak,

Your votes give like Freemen,

To Liberty steady,

With hearts always ready,

To fight and to conquer,

Again and again.

M’Kerrell declares when the times have proved good,

The people of England have three times too much food;

And Gladstone, his friend—deserter of our cause—

The King’s Jester has named, to help t’make our laws.

Then firm, my hearts of oak.

Your votes give like Freemen,

To Liberty steady,

You’ll always be ready

To keep out a Canning,

Again and again.

Then Tarleton comes forth with his vote-winning smile,

“If I have turned my coat, my heart’s yours all the while;

“Besides, my good friends, by constantly turning

“I must keep your interest on all sides from burning.

“Then listen to my ditty,

“And send me up once more,

“To changing sides steady,

“I always am ready

“To come to the side

“I deserted before,”

Our wise Corporation, poor Gascoyne descry—

His back one sad wound, and tearful his eye—

The flogging they gave him, his hopes had quite damped,

And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped.

Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne,

“Don’t take it so to heart.

“Indeed we didn’t mean it,

“Let Hollingshead clean it,

“And then, my dear fellow,

“You’ll soon lose the smart.”

Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,

To add something new to this wonderful year,

We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,

And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.

Then firm, my hearts of oak,

Your votes give like Freemen,

To Liberty steady,

With hearts always ready,

To fight and to conquer,

Again and again.

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election. October, 1812.

(The candidates were the Right Hon. George Cannings Lt.-General Isaac Gascoyne, Henry Brougham, Thomas Creevey, and General B. Tarleton. George Canning and General Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)

---

Down with the Lords.

Unfurl the old flag once again to the fore,

While firmly we march as our fathers of yore;

Our war-cry is “Freedom,” our cause is our right,

Our well-trusted leaders are Gladstone and Bright.

Chorus.

Then down with the Lords! our duty is plain;

For the fray we are ready;

Steady, men, steady;

We have conquered before, and we’ll conquer again.

The flouts and the sneers of these senators born,

And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn,

Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view,

For we are the million, and they are the few.

What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride?

Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside?

Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite,

When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their right?

Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim,

And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name;

Then let them beware in their tinselled array,

Ere a blast of our anger shall sweep them away!

James Tilson Wright.

The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.

---

Truth and Right.

The day dawns upon us, the fight is at hand,

When the voice of the people shall ring through the land;

Peace, Progress, Reform and Retrenchment—our guide—

Shall be the man’s watchword in whom we confide.

Chorus.

Truth and Right are our weapons, untarnished with stain;

Our forces are ready, trusty and steady—

We’ll vote for the men who can lead the campaign.

Deserted, forgotten, our rights, long ignored,

Have been tossed to the winds for coercion and sword—

The yoke of taxation has burdened our isle.

Our trades and our industries ne’er seem to smile.

We will send forth the men who will zealously toil

To improve the condition of “sons of the soil,”

Whose hearts beat with ours, who know what we feel—

The labouring masses who grind at the wheel.

And men who are staunch to the cause they profess,

Who will grapple each task to relieve our distress,

Who can write on their banner—for ever unfurled—

“A prosperous country, at peace with the world!”

Jesse H. Wheeler.

The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

---

Gladstone’s Policy.

Arouse, men of England, the strife’s drawing near,

Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere,

’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves:

Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves.

Chorus.

A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men;

They fear us already,

Steady, boys, steady,

For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed,

And boast how the game of the Tory they played;

Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store,

Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more.

Chorus.

We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men;

They fear us already,

Steady, boys, steady,

For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

D. Evans.

The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.

---

Gladstone’s Mistake.

Awake, sons of Britain, don’t let it be said

When comes the election that Reason was dead.

’Tis important to all that a measure so rash

As Gladstone’s should speedily fall with a crash.

Chorus.

He’s made a mistake, though the greatest of men;

The bill’s doomed already,

Then, Will, pray be steady,

You know you’ll be sorry again and again.

Admirers of William, who cling to him strong,

All seem to imagine he cannot do wrong;

By sticking to him through this “mad-headed” plan

Gives rise to the thought that they worship the “man,”

Chorus.

He’s made a mistake, so be honest, be men,

The bill’s doomed already,

Be up and ready;

If not, you’ll repent it again and again.

The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

——:o:——

The Skipper’s Song.

(Air—Obvious.)

A death on the ocean wave,

And a grave in the rolling deep,

For the Skipper whose owners save

On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!

I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek,

Swede, Fin, and Portugee—

And all the lingoes they speak

Are heathen Greek to me!

So a death on the Ocean Wave,

And a grave in the rolling deep,

When I’m knived or knocked on the head,

Some night, when no watch I keep.

For they all of ’em wear long knives,

And some have got pistols too,

And mine and my mates’ dear lives

Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw!

They will take us unawares.

Like stuck pigs we shall die,

With no time to say our prayers,

And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.”

For a death on the Ocean Wave,

And a grave in the rolling deep,

Is the Skipper’s whose owners save

On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!

Punch. May 27, 1876.

---

A Life on the Ocean Waive.

(Composed by Mr. Twitters,
after a rough passage from Boulogne.)

A life on the ocean waive,

Don’t try for a home on the deep—

For your scattered senses rave,

If well you expect to keep.

Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine,

For the fresh and wholesome shore.

Or, heaving upon the brine,

For a “Basin, steward,” roar.

Then a life, &c.

On deck I tried to stand,

But I could not, with all my craft;

I asked them to let me land,

But the feelingless sailors laughed.

For to me was the sparkling foam

Ipecacuanah tea.

Oh! the tartar emetic’s home

Is certainly on the sea.

So a life, &c.

The sky turned to black from blue,

And didn’t the rain come down!

“You’d be better below,” said the crew.

I only replied by a frown!

But my counsel now shall be,

Unless you, a madman, rave,

Don’t live on the tossing sea—

A home on the billows waive.

Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c.

From The Man in the Moon. Vol. 3.

——:o:——

I’M AFLOAT.

(The Premier’s vacation parody on board Sir Donald Currie’s ship, “The Pembroke Castle.”)

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide.

In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride.

Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.

I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw,

They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;”

For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel

At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal.

Quick, quick, stoke her fires, and come calm or come wind,

I will warrant we’ll soon leave land worries behind.

Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.

Though that growler should carp, and this snarler be heard,

The steamer, unheeding, skims on like a bird.

What to us is the shout of Conservative pain?

As we’re well out of hearing, it’s uttered in vain.

The enemy’s strokes ineffectively fall,

Be they never so smart they’ve no power to appal,

As with fresh air on deck, and snug comfort below,

Through the holiday waters right onward we go.

Hurrah! then my mates, we may lounge, we may sleep,

Party rancour is hushed, we’re alone on the deep;

Our flag of defiance still waves o’er the sea—

We’re afloat!—we’re afloat! and the Old Man is free.

Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.

---

Song of the Pickpocket.

There’s a flat, there’s a flat, on the opposite side,

The country’s his home, and his nose is his guide,

Quick, quick, trip him up, knock his hat o’er his eyes,

And we’ll take out his wipe on the ground as he lies.

I heed not the beaks, I fear not their claws;

My object I’ll compass in spite of the laws;

I ne’er will give up to a tyrant of Peel’s,

Nor yield to a soul while I still have my heels.

The Puppet Show. April 1, 1848.

---

I’m a Shot.

I’m a shot, I’m a shot, I’m my Company’s pride,

The range is my home, and my rifle my bride,

Up, up with the flag, let it wave o’er the plain,

I’ve hit the bull’s eye, and I’ll hit it again.

I fear not the serjeant, I heed not the cells,

I’ve a ball in my pouch on the target that tells;

And ne’er as a slave, but a soldier I’ll kneel

With a most inconvenient seat on my heel.

I’m a shot, I’m a shot, &c.

---

The Song of the Float.

I’m a float! I’m a float; on the deep rolling tide,

I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride;

The bright crystal flood is my natural home,

Be it smooth as a mirror, or flashing with foam.

My body’s of cork, of an olive green hue,

And my tip as the needle magnetic is true.

I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest,

I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast;

And I think all the time how hot it must be

Over there where my master lies under the tree,

A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,

Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!

I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,

And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way,

I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee,

As a ducking I get when they top over me.

And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel,

With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel!

I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint,

At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint;

And then, if I see a big scaly’un look

With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook,

A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill,

And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still.

I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait,

To my master the news in a crack I relate—

Yes!—no!—eh?—bravo?—“bob!”—right under I go!

But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so.

Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make,

A big golden carp pulling well in my wake!

I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide,

I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride!

I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream,

No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream.

So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care,

For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share.

I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,

If the fishes below only give me a bob!

The Angler’s Journal. April 3, 1886.

——:o:——

OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?

Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began:—

Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt,

At the cook-shop a little up town,

How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass,

For the pannum you sent rolling down?

The other commenced thus:—

Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt,

Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown?

How she danced all the night, and drank with delight,

Just to keep up her fame and renown.

---

When “Bolt.”

Oh! dont you remember the days when “Bolt”

Was the dodge that did landlords so “brown,”

When on quarter day morns we have oft “shot the moon,”

And been off to a new part of town?

The old watchman always would let us then bolt,

Of our actions no knowledge would own;

But policeman are so wide awake now-adays,

We should surely be caught ere we’d flown.

Oh! don’t you remember our tradesmen, when “Bolt”

Was the way to stop duns for small bills—

When they knew that to claim their demands would entail

Declarations, court-fees, and such ills?

The system has gone to decay, and when “Bolt”

Is the rule, or some game of the sort,

They straight bring an action, and us they can take

For contempt of a vile County Court.

Oh! don’t you remember the days when “Bolt”

Was the word that the billmen overthrew—

When we left our acceptance, ne’er fearing a writ,

And at Boulogne moustaches we grew?

The sea is thought nothing, and now when “Bolt”

We do, we the law can’t defy;

For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue

The debtor where’er he may fly.

Diogenes. Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854.

I have not met with any other parodies of Ben Bolt, although it is probable that many have been written, as the song was very popular some years since.

——:o:——

THE STORM.

Cease, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer!

List, ye landsmen, all to me!

Messmates, hear a brother sailor

Sing the dangers of the sea;

From bounding billows, first in motion,

When the distant whirlwinds rise,

To the tempest troubled ocean,

Where the seas contend with skies!

*  *  *  *  *

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,

See all clear to reef each course;

Let the fore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys,

Though the weather should be worse.

Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,

Reef the mizen, see all clear,

Hands up, each preventure brace set,

Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!

G. A. Stevens (died 1784.)

---

Cease, Rude Boreas.

(By a worried Editor.)

Cease to bore us, and assail us,

Writers! with your pens so free!

List the tale—though’t won’t avail us,

And our troubles you shall see!

While around us roars the thunder,

Of the Postman’s double knocks;

Till our Housemaid stares with wonder,

And our Tiger’s nerves it shocks.

We have things oft sent that fright us,

And regard them all with scorn,

Pieces too that oft delight us,

And our breasts with rapture warm!

For the first—why we reject ’em

Or affront our readers sense,

For the second—we accept ’em,

Or we drive Subscribers hence!

Do not then too harsly judge us,

When we cast your trash aside;

Or of feelings good begrudge us

The exercise, both broad and wide!

We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us,

And to each give merit due;

Full as honest—though you flout us,

As the mass of Stockings Blue!

The Monthly Belle Assemblée. September, 1836.

---

Song for the Douche.

Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean,

Neptune’s is an easy couch,

Listen while a fellow patient

Sings the dangers of the Douche;

Stripped and shivering—quite defenceless—

Stunned by its terrific roar—

Now you’re shouting—now you’re senseless—

Now you’re dashed upon the floor.

Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,—

“Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;”

Still in vain for mercy calling,—

“Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.”

Now ’tis over, rub and dress you;

Now the nerves are in full play,

“Bathman I’m all glowing—bless you,

Can’t I have one every day?”

Now all you in sick beds lying,

Victims to each false alarm;

Pill and potion vainly trying

Only doing further harm.

Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors

Are but fancies of the brain,

They must smile at vulgar errors,

Who would health and strength regain.

Would you climb the rugged mountain,

Would you hear sweet warblers sing,

Come and taste the crystal fountain,—

Nature’s pure life-giving spring;

Breathe the tainted air no longer,

Leave your sickly painful couch,

Every bath shall make you stronger,

Nervous sufferers try the Douche.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.)

——:o:——

“POLY.”

(A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos of the “Polyphemus.”)

Do you want to know the ugliest craft

That ever put from port?

Well that’s the Poly, the steel ram’d Poly,

And she’s a rare rum sort.

Open your peepers and look my lads,

She’s lobbing agen the quay,

The sootiest craft afore and abaft

That ever shamed the sea.

Afloat, afloat, d’ye call her a boat?

Black deck, no white sails furled!

Poly, grim Poly,

Tame as “loblolly,’

The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want to know the latest thing

To make a true tar dull?

Well, that’s the Poly, this precious Poly,

And darn her dirty hull!

Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there,

Like a porpoise heavy with grog;

Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns,

Her hull like a lifeless log.

Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat,

Low down, no sail unfurled;

Poly, grim Poly,

Our nautical folly,

The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want a toast to-night, my lads,

Afore we says good-bye?

Well, here’s short life to the lumbering Poly,

And blarm her hulk, says I.

Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads,

Drink in sepulchral tones:

“May a storm soon send this confounded Poly

To supper with David Jones.”

Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat,

When the waves in heaps are hurled?

Poly, black Poly,

Fraud melancholy,

The ugliest craft in the world!

Punch. July 23, 1881.

——:o:——

THE DEATH OF NELSON.

From the Opera of “The Americans.”

RECITATIVE

O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed,

Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest;

But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years,

Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears.

AIR.

Twas in Trafalgar’s bay

We saw the Frenchmen lay;

Each heart was bounding then.

We scorn’d the foreign yoke,

Our ships were British oak,

And hearts of oak our men

Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave,

Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,

Nor thought of home and beauty.

Along the line this signal ran—

“England expects that every man

This day will do his duty.”

*  *  *  *  *

England confess’d that every man

That day had done his duty.

S. J. Arnold.

---

The Battle of Spithead.

Recitative.

O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest,

Britannia weeps,—that face with bandage dress’d,

But that bright nose shall never fade with years,

Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears.

’Twas in the Spithead Bay

We saw Bill Swiggins lay,

He loudly swearing, then;

We owed him for a joke

Which at the British Oak,

He levell’d at our men—

Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave,

Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave,

Nor thought of home or duty;

Before the shine this signal ran,

“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man;

This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

And now we ply the oar,

And stretching from the shore,

Our Thompson clove the spray;

His ship the Sarah named,

Long Sarah had been famed

For squabbles night and day;

But dearly was our victory bought,

Our hero’s nose a stinger caught,

For Sarah, home, and duty;

He cried, as to his foe he ran,

“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man,

This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

But, oh! the dreadful wound,

Which sent the “claret” round,

The hero’s nose received.

Then, sinking on his side,

“Our boat’s going o’er,” he cried;

“But long enough I’ve lived,

I’ve black’d his other eye at last,

Have had revenge for insults pass’d

On Sarah, home, and duty!”

Thus ends the row as it began—

Portsmouth confess’d that each brave man

Had spoilt the other’s beauty!

Diogenes. July, 1853.

---

The Great Unemployed.

(A Song for Scotland Yard.
Air—“The Death of Nelson.”)

’Twas in Trafalgar Square

We heard Sedition blare;

Each heart was sickened then.

We’d scorned the foreign Reds

Who cracked each other’s heads,

But here were madder men.

Henderson marked them howl and rave,

But little heed that hero gave.

Let Roughdom smash and loot, he

Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan.

And London owned at least one man

That day that shirked his duty.

And now the rabble roar,

And plunder as they pour;

No Bobbies stop the way.

London, for order famed,

Is startled, shocked, and shamed

By this disgraceful day!

Right dearly is experience bought,

The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought,

Unchecked, for drink and booty.

From mouth to mouth the murmur ran,

“London has found a trusted man

This day has shirked his duty.”

Pride feels a painful wound,

Dismay is spread around;

Our trust has been deceived.

But shirkers must be tried,

If need be, thrust aside,

Our credit be retrieved.

Policedom’s honour is at stake,

Policedom from its drowse must wake,

It guards home, wealth, age, beauty,

From Chief to youngest guardian,

London must know that every man

Is equal to his duty!

Punch. February, 1886.

---

Innes’s London Comic Songster—(London: Simpkin & Marshall, N. D.)—contained a coarse parody, entitled:—

Paddy’s Grave.

’Twas at the Pig and Cat

Where Judy met her Pat,

With his big nose so red:

“Oh!” says she, “you are untrue;

And faith, I’ll punish you,”

And then she broke his head!

Her brother Ted was standing by,

Who nately black’d her father’s eye,

For he was bold and frisky;

Yet through the bogs this was the cry,

Ireland expects you won’t be shy,

But fight for love and whiskey!

(Two verses omitted.)

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,

Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;

But of all the world’s brave heroes, there’s none that can compare,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadier.

Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon-ball,

Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;

But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,

Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadiers.

Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,

Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,

And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres,

Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.

Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades,

Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades;

We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman’s ears,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers.

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,

The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,—

Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears.

Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers.

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those

Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes.

May they and their commanders live happy all their years,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers!

Anonymous. (Written about 1760.)

---

The British Grenadiers.

Upon the plains of Flanders,

Our fathers long ago,

They fought like Alexanders

Beneath old Marlborough;

And still in fields of conquest,

Our valour bright has shown,

With Wolfe and Abercrombie,

And Moore and Wellington.

Our plumes have waved in combats,

That ne’er shall be forgot,

Where many a mighty squadron

Reeled backwards from our shot.

In charges with the bayonet,

We led our bold compeers;

But Frenchmen like to stay not

For British Grenadiers.

Once bravely at Vimiera

They hoped to play their parts,

And sing fal lira, lira,

To cheer their drooping hearts.

But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks,

We gave three hearty cheers,

And the French soon turned their backs

To the British Grenadiers.

At St. Sebastiano,

And Badajos’s town,

Though raging like volcanoes

The shell and shot came down,

With courage never wincing,

We scaled the ramparts high,

And waved the British ensign

In glorious victory.

And what could Bonaparte,

With all his cuirassiers,

In battle do, at Waterloo,

With British Grenadiers?

Then ever sweet the drum shall beat

That march unto our ears,

Whose martial roll awake the soul

Of British Grenadiers.

Thomas Campbell.

---

Brook Green Volunteer.

Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Wellington,

Of Blucher and Lysander,

And of Napoleon.

But of all the gallant heroes,

There’s none for to compare,

With his Quick march! to the right about! Face!

To the Brook Green Volunteer.

Without the least occasion,

He rushes to the field,

From peril of invasion

Old Hammersmith to shield.

The geese loud cackling round him,

The donkies braying near,

Appal not the truly British heart

Of the Brook Green Volunteer.

Retreating do not mention,

Nor talk of War’s alarms,

When Duty cries, Attention!

And Valour, Shoulder Arms!

The soul despises danger,

The bosom knows no fear

Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man,

The Brook Green Volunteer.

In spite of vilest weather

Erect, and proud of mien,

Each night, for hours together,

He guards his native Green;

Catarrh and cough defying,

No matter how severe;

What a downright, thorough-going trump

Is the Brook Green Volunteer!

At this inclement season

The hero must be bold,

For no particular reason

To brave a death of cold.

Then yield the palm of glory,

And stand a drop of beer

To that gay, gallant, promising recruit,

The Brook Green Volunteer.

Punch. February 28, 1846.

This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in Punch, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled “The Blackguard Grenadier,” commenced thus:—

“Most regiments have some varlet,

Some rascal mean and base,

A stain upon their scarlet,

Their scandal and disgrace.”

This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards stationed in London. Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed, clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments.

---

The Gallant Specials.

(During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn in as special constables.)

They may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red,

They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue;

They may boast if they please, of such troops as these,

And of all the exploits they’d do.

But London town acknowledges,

That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals,

They’re not up to the mark, in the street or the park,

Of the gallant Spe-ci-als.

The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade,

And partial to kitchen stuff;

The Detectives, too, are by no means a do,

But perfectly up to snuff,

For what are they, I should like to know,

When the voice of duty calls,

To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks

Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als?

Oh! ’tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob,

Who thought insurrection to hatch;

And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold,

But funk’d when it came to the scratch.

Who swore that they did not care one whit,

For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls;

But who cut right away, with the devil to pay,

At the sight of the Spe-ci-als.

The Man in the Moon, Vol. III.

---

The Thievish Privateer.

Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard;

Bill Sikes a hero call;

And some speak of a worthy,

Whose name it is Sam Hall;

But there’s a thief in our belief

Whose crimes e’en worse appear,

Who in war’s dark hour doth the ocean scour—

’Tis the thievish Privateer.

While nations are contending—

While principles at stake,

Upon the strife depending,

The world’s foundation shake.

No thought has he of liberty,

No hopes of glory cheer;

But alone for the pelf,

To enrich himself,

Fights the thievish Privateer.

*  *  *  *  *

Then shall we suffer longer,

That letters called “of Marque,”

Shall save from England’s vengeance,

Each cut-throat pirate bark?

Oh, no! let’s hope henceforth a rope

Shall be knotted ’neath the ear,

As pirates to hang

Every man of the gang

Of each thievish Privateer.

Diogenes, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854.

---

The Order of Valour (The V. C.)

Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

And many a great commander

As glorious as these;

But if you want a hero

Of genuine pluck and pith,

It’s perfectly clear there’s none comes near

To full British Private Smith.

Its easy to fight, with glory

At hand to gild your name,

And stick it up in story,

Among the sons of fame.

But Smith, full British private,

Is expected to be brave,

With the cold “cold shade” above his head,

At his feet a nameless grave.

For Generals there’s the peerage,

With grant of public tin;

There’s regiments for Colonels,

For Captains steps to win.

But for Private Smith the utmost,

(If he avoided beer)

Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth

Some fifteen pounds a-year.

Till now the stars and garters,

Were for birth’s or fortune’s son,

And as oft in snug home-quarters,

As in fields of fight were won.

But at length a star arises,

Which as glorious will shine

On Smith’s red serge vest as upon the breast

Of Smyth’s scarlet superfine.

Though carpet-knights may grumble,

Routine turn up its nose,

Though Cardigans and Lucans,

And Aireys may oppose,

Yet shall the star of valour

Defy their scoffs and jeers—

As its bronze rays shine on plain Smith of the Line,

And plain Smith of the Grenadiers.

Too long mere food for powder

We’ve deem’d our rank and file,

Now higher hopes and prouder.

Upon the soldier smile.

And if no Marshal’s bâton

Private Smith in his knapsack bears,

At least in the War, the chance of the star

With his General he shares.

Punch. February 23, 1856.

There was another parody of the same song in Punch, February 27, 1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled “Aitcheson’s Carabineers,” appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of Logan’s “Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs.”

---

Through Fire and Water;
or, The London Volunteers.

Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,—

The Chief whose martial dander,

Asked worlds to stand at ease—

The Sayers of the prize ring,

In high Olympian spheres,—

But both, I’ll be bound, now-a-days would be found

Enrolled in the Volunteers.

Our soldiers they are heroes,

We know, in facing fire;

Our tars reduce to zeros

All fears the seas inspire.

But for going through fire and water,

—To say nothing of small boys’ jeers—

There’s no service, I swear, that can compare

With the London Volunteers.

In June we’re now parading,

Last month was merry May,

But for Volunteer brigading

We’ve not had one dry day!

The aforesaid Alexander,

As a hero of Greece appears

Of our kin to be, for dripping are we

Poor London Volunteers!

Umbrellas and alpacas

We scorn, and oil-skin capes;

And the rain-drops from our shakos

May trickle down our napes.

We may continue drilling,

And manœvuring about for years,

But “Wetter’uns” some needn’t hope to become

In the London Volunteers.

But yet there’s no complaining;

Rheumatics we defy,

And though cats and dogs it’s raining,

We keep our powder dry.

Little think the small boys shouting

“Who shot the dog?” in our ears,

What an inward fire flares up to inspire

Us London Volunteers.

Then a fig for showers and sneerers,

Let’s show Sir Robert yet;

We can laugh at fire and fleerers,

As we’ve laughed at heavy wet.

And we hope to teach the foeman,

Who on our shore appears,

If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn,

As London Volunteers.

Three cheers for all who’re willing

To be wetted through and through!

For those who stick to drilling

Till all is damp and blue.

May none of us blow our heads off,

Whether privates or brigadiers,

And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day,

For reviewing the Volunteers.

Punch. June 16, 1860.

The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an exceptionally wet season.

---

The Soiree of the Civil Engineers.

Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose,

Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those,

But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer!

Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam,

Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream;

But ours are far more knowing:—their triumphs skill uprears,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,

Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car—

These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres,

Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers!

Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made,

Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade;

And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers!

And when their Soirée’s given, to George Street they repair,

And all the men most noted you’re sure to meet with there;

The most distinguished people adorning modern years,

Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers!

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these,

Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please,

For enterprise and genius we’ll gladly raise three cheers,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

Fun. June 9, 1866.

---

Haxell’s Volunteers.

(Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps).

Come all ye dilettanti bold

Who fear not Gladstone’s frown,

Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled

(The fee is half a crown.)

The uniform is cheap and bright,

And ought to last for years,

For it’s likely they’ll not have to fight

In the Haxell’s Volunteers.

To stem the Russian’s reeking tide

We’ve pilots stout of limb;

We’ve Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side,

And Captain Bedford Pim!

The Bard of Peterborough-court

With odes our efforts cheers,

And music-hall trouvères support

The Haxell’s Volunteers.

Think of old England’s righteous claims,

Her noble-minded fils;

Make haste and put down all your names—

They’re just concluding peace!

For craven Muscovite and Sclav

Are quaking with their fears;

Ah, what a muster we shall have

Of the Haxell’s Volunteers!

So seize a gun, the times are ripe

For Englishmen to act;

You’re bound to keep your names in type,

And eke your skins intact.

Perhaps there may be some brigade

Worth ours in distant spheres,

At least we’re mighty in parade,

We Haxell’s Volunteers.

Funny Folks. May, 1878.

Written during the War Fever, when some of the newspapers were clamouring for war with Russia. It was then proposed to form a Corps of Active Service Volunteers, but the Government discouraged the idea.

---

Stanza by a Sergeant-Major.

In Egypt there’s an old stream

A long time known to fame;

But now beside the Coldstream,

The Nile must yield his name.

For of all the finest fellahs

There’s none for to compare

(With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol)

To the British Grenadier!

Punch. September 16, 1882.

---

The British House of Peers.

Some swear by Wilfred Lawson,

And some by Labouchere,

And some applaud Joe Chamberlain,

While some by Bradlaugh swear.

Down, down with cant and caucas,

Let’s greet the right with cheers,

And praise their pluck, and wish them luck,

The British House of Peers.

For when they were commanded

To pass a Franchise Bill,

They bade a tyrant Premier

Inquire the nation’s will.

John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh,

And Rogers vent his sneers;

Let’s praise their pluck, and wish them luck,

The British House of Peers.

The Morning Post. August, 1884.

---

The Aston Riot.

(During the Birmingham Election in 1884.)

Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

But Chamberlain’s commander

Far, bigger far than these;

For he commands at his demands,

A power rather tough;

In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape

The blackguard Brummy Rough!

Chorus—With a blackguard Brum,

And a Brummy black,

And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

The Radical of Brummagem

Possesseth strength to bray,

With his beery mouth and black pipe stem,

In a beastly sort of way;

But we’d never known how bad he’s grown,

Had he not shown such stuff

At the Aston storm, in his proper form,

As the blackguard Brummy Rough!

Chorus—With a blackguard Brum,

And a Brummy black,

And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

*  *  *  *  *

England. October, 1884.

---

“The Song of Mrs. Jenny Geddes.

(Tune—’British Grenadiers.’)

“Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess,

And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles;

But o’er all the world’s brave women there’s one that bears the rule,

The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the four-legged stool.

With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool!

“’Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven,

On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles’, the solemn peal was given;

King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule:

He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.

With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—there’s danger in a stool!

“The Council and the Judges with ermined pomp elate,

The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state,

Fair-silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school,

Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool.

With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—there’s virtue in a stool!

“The Bishop and the Dean came wi’ mickle gravity,

Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e’e;

Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool;

They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool.

With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—they’ll feel a four-legged stool!

“The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look,

He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book:

In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full;

Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool!

With a row-dow—at them now!—firmly grasp the stool!

“As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small,

So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall;

Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool?

No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged stool.

With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool!

“A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware!

Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air,

With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool!

When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with a stool.

With a row-dow—at them now!—there’s nothing like a stool!

“The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear,

The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,

The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool,

And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool!

With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny show the stool!

“And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand,

Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land;

King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool,

But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool!

With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—she conquered by the stool!”

By Professor John Stuart Blackie.

The Inverness Courier. January 8, 1885.

---

Our British Premier.

Some talk of Bright and Cobden,

And some of Palmerston,

Of Chamberlain and Goschen,

And some of Hartington.

But of all old England’s heroes,

There’s none that can compare

To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,

Our British Premier!

Then up! for now he bids us

To rout the renegades.

Our Hawarden star is quenchless

By “Harden Star-Grenades!”

Up, up! with shouts and cheering

We’ll stun the traitor’s ear,

For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,

Our British Premier!

So, fill, fill up a bumper,

His health let none refuse;

Who wears the high, high collar,

Who wears the plaided trews.

Long may he live—our jewel,

Our stone without a peer;

The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,

Our British Premier!

Ambulator.

Truth. July 15, 1886.

——:o:——

LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.

O, let me like a soldier fall,

Upon some tented plain!

This breast expanding for the ball,

To blot out every stain.

Brave manly hearts confer my doom,

That gentler ones may tell,

Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,

I like a soldier fell.

I only ask, for that proud race,

Which ends its blaze in me,

To die the last, and not disgrace,

Its ancient chivalry.

Although no banners o’er me wave,

trumpet requiem swell

Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,

He like a soldier fell.

---

Let Me like a Feather Fall.

Yes, let me like a feather fall,

If tumble then I must;

Not I desire that vulgar sprawl

To rudely kiss the dust.

No, I’ll recline as gracefully

As if ’twas by a spell,

And they that stay and see shall say,

“He like a feather fell.”

Yes, from the pig skin I’ll descend.

And on the dust recline

So gently, that a smiling friend

May claim it all sublime.

But the pig skin I shall try to keep,

For to part like that’s a sell,

Yet they shall say, if we part that way,

“He like a feather fell.”

Yes, the vile cropper I despise,

The gentle I admire,

And all are free to criticise

The spill that I desire.

But when I tumble give the song,

And true that song shall tell,

How through what space, and with what grace

“He like a feather fell.”

Whizz; the Christmas number of
The Bicycling Times. 1880.

---

The Girls they’ve Left Behind Them.

Our gallant Guards have marched away,

Each eye with pleasure flashing,

On Eastern shores to join the fray,

And give the Bear a thrashing.

To Englishmen they still are dear,

And absent ties shall bind them,

Thus our first care shall be to cheer

The girls they’ve left behind them.

*  *  *  *  *

(Two verses omitted).

Diogenes, Vol. III., page 104. 1854.

---

The Wives they Left Behind Them.

We cheer our soldiers on their way,

We crowd and we huzza them,

And as they go to seek the fray

Effusively “Ta-ta” them.

Then ere they’re safe upon the foam,

And distance serves to blind them,

We cry, “Turn out of house and home,

The wives they’ve left behind them.”

And so our fighters meet the foe,

And bleed, should duty bid them;

A thrust may come to lay them low,

Of life a bullet rid them.

Oh, gladly must these heroes face

The dangers that may find them,

Who know how we, to our disgrace,

Treat those they’ve left behind them.

We don’t think much of Tommy A.’s—

Indeed, we rather scout them

In times of peace—yet these are days

When we can’t do without them.

In future, let us recollect

This fact, and oft remind them

That England’s ready to protect

The wives they’ve left behind them.

Funny Folks. March 7, 1885.

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.

When the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of strife,

Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for his life;

When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds and scars,

There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars.

They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and swoop,

With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar from the troop;

From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and pluck.

They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good luck!”

Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain,

The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again.

Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse!

To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse!

An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still,

He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will;

And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade,

He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade;

For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General’s praise,

Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper Hayes;

He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed, alone,

And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a soldier can—

“The Army’s proud of your valour; the Regiment’s proud of their man!”

Then across that lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise,

Came a cheer, then a quick short tremble on the lips of Trooper Hayes.

“Speak out,” said the kindly Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say;

Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!”

But the trooper gnawed his chin strap, then sheepishly hung his head;

“Speak out, old chap!” said his comrades. With an effort, at last, he said—

“There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to own!

He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to groan;

If I’ve done aught to deserve it,”—then the General smiled, “Of course!”—

“Give back to the Tenth their Colonel—the Man on the old White Horse!

“I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave old tars,

I’ve fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth Hussars;

I’m proud, of the fine old regiment!”—then the Colonel shook his hand—

“So I’ll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land!

“If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck,

And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed ill-luck—

That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and scars,

The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the sand,

And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native land,

Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel Prince will praise

The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayes!

Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that live;

For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word “Forgive!”

Punch. March 15, 1884.

---

A Tale of the Tenth Hussars.

(Not to-day, Baker.)

When the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of strife

Where the woman fought for her honour—far dearer to her than life;

When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside the cars,

It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars.

He was “charged” in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal troop,

With a “Follow me sharp!” from the “Bobby,” which made him tremble and droop;

And his staff, as the “Peeler” shewed it in glory of pride and pluck,

Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!”

Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain,

Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain.

Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse!

When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white horse.

An alien, not a stranger, but yet ’twould be stranger still,

Tho’ he’s borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good will;

For when Teb’s battle was over, and thousands there were slayed,

He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade;

But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General’s praise,

A thick and thin thoro’ Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze;

He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone,

He had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a General can:—

For once the swell and Private could speak as man to man;

And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise,

Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper Blaze.

“Speak out,” said the splendid Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say;

Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!”

But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his head;

“Speak out, old man,” said his comrades, and here’s what he should have said—

“There sits on your side by the Staff, sir, a man whom the world has known

As not a protector of woman, when one’s by herself alone;

And all he’s got he deserves it—the General smiled, “Of course;”

And nobody thought the better of the man on the old White Horse!

“I’ve fought very well for my pals here, along with the boys and tars,

And I have never—no, never—dishonoured the Tenth Hussars;

But one has done that for the regiment”—then the Colonel shook his hand—

“So I’ll ask one simple favour from my Queen and my native land!”

“If ever a man did wrong, sir, as a thing devoid of pluck,

And fought with a poor, weak woman, and trusted then to luck—

That man he sits before you, the hero of railway cars—

Don’t let that man be e’er replaced to d—n the Tenth Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from the regiment, and echoed across the sand,

And was borne on the wings of justice to a woman-loving land,

When the Queen on her throne will heed it, and the Colonel Prince won’t dare

To reinstate a man who tried a lady to ensnare.

Let the aristocrats call “mercy,” but let England’s honour live—

There are crimes to be forgotten—there is one we can’t forgive!

Valentine Baker, Colonel of the Tenth Hussars, was found guilty of having committed a dastardly attack on a young lady in a railway carriage, sentenced to imprisonment and dismissed from the English army. He subsequently took part in the Campaign, as an officer of the Egyptian government.

THE “JINGO” WAR SONG.

“The men of action got a nickname, they were dubbed the Jingo Party. The term, applied as one of ridicule and reproach, was adopted by chivalrous Jingoes as a name of pride. The Jingoes of London, like the Beggars of Flanders, accepted the word of contumely as a title of honour. In order to avoid the possibility of any historical misunderstanding hereafter about the meaning of Jingo, such as we have heard of concerning that of Whig and Tory, it is well to explain how the term came into existence. Some Tyrtaeus of the tap-tub, some Körner of the music-halls, had composed a ballad which was sung at one of these caves of harmony every night, amid the tumultuous applause of excited patriots. The refrain of this war song contained the spirit-stirring words:—

‘We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do

We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too.’

Some one whose pulses this lyrical outburst of national pride failed to stir, called the party of its enthusiasts the Jingoes. The writer of this book is under the impression that the invention of the name belongs to Mr. George Jacob Holyoake. The name was caught up at once, and the party were universally known as the Jingoes. The famous adjuration of the lady in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ had proved to be too prophetical; she had sworn ‘by the living Jingo,’ and now indeed the Jingo was alive.”—A History of Our Own Times, by Justin McCarthy, M.P. 1882.

So much for the words, as to the melody, which was not unmusical, Sir William Fraser wrote to Notes and Queries in May, 1886, saying that it was taken from Mozart’s Twelfth Mass. But next week the following denial appeared in N. & Q., “I beg to state, as author and composer of the above song, that this statement is unwarrantable and devoid of truth, and in justice to my reputation as a composer, I must request that you will insert this my denial.—G. W. Hunt.”

On the Warlike Newspapers.

We don’t want to fight,

But by Jingo! if you do,

We’ve got the ink, we’ve got the pens,

And we’ve got the papers too.

Punch.

---

The Duke of Connaught with the Reserves.

There’s Connaught does not want to fight,

But, by Jingo, if he do;

He has to be kept out of range,

And out of danger too.

He’s been to battle once,

But if report be true,

When he marched upon the field the fight was over!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

---

See, the Conquering Hero Comes!

(On the return of Lord Beaconsfield
from Berlin with “Peace and Honour.”)

See, the Conquering Jingo comes

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!

Let all Jingodom rejoice,

And raise to heaven its cheerful voice.

Come and join the rabble rout;

Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout!

Britons! hail his glorious feats;

Drag him, drag him through the streets!

Safe from lowering Channel fog:

Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog;

Safe from tedious long discussions

With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians.

On his brow are leaves of laurel—

Victor in the bloodless quarrel.

Honour sits upon his crest,

Secret treaties in his vest!

All his foemen swiftly dwindling,

Dished by most successful * * *

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!

See, the Conquering Jingo comes!

Lingo.

The Echo. July 17, 1878.

THE DREAM OF
THE BILIOUS BEADLE.

——:o:——

So many subscribers have asked for a copy of this clever parody of Thomas Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram that it is given here, although it somewhat interferes with the arrangement of the Song Parodies. “The Bilious Beadle” is admirably adapted for public recitation. The author, Mr. Arthur Shirley, is a well-known dramatist.

T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp,

And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp,

Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp;

And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan

They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can.

But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man—

His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze—

He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze,

So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease.

Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied,

It tortured him to see them eat, he couldn’t though he tried!

Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed,

At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took,

Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look,

And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book—

“You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good!

What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?”

“It’s Hessays on the Crumpet, sir, as a harticle of food!”

He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet,

His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it,

And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet.

“How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells,

Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells,

While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’

And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought,

The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.

With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught,

Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, ’tis best shun

All such tempting tasty things, tho’ nice beyond all question,

Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion!

One, who had ever made me long—a muffin man and old—

I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold,

And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled.

I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I’d got,

I gloated o’er them lying there elastic and all hot;

I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot!

I took them home, I toasted them, p’raps upwards of a score,

And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before,

‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’ll go to bed, and dream of eating more.’

All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side,

At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried;

And then I dreamt I was a ’bus, and gurgled ‘Full inside!’

I was a ’bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest,

Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop’d, and now compressed;

I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest!

I heard their bells—their horrid bells—in sound as loud as trumpets,

Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets!

I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets!

Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam;

I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream!

You pauper brat, remember that—all this was but a dream!”

The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were oozing,

And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing,

Made this remark, “Well, blow me tight, our Beadle’s been a-boozing!”

That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly;

He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly,

And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly!

Arthur Shirley.

Bob shave great George our King!

Make him look just the thing!

Bob shave the King!

Razor and razor rag,

Powder and powder bag,

Hold up your chin, my Lad,

Bob shave the King!

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

The subject of the following song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors. It is given in Volume II. of Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry, where it is stated that it was first printed in the reign of James the First. Bishop Percy says he found it among some poems and songs in a book entitled “Le Prince d’ Amour,” dated 1660.

It will at once be seen that it is the original of the more familiar song, The Fine Old English Gentleman, which immediately follows it, and which, has itself, been the subject of numerous imitations and parodies.

An old song made by an aged old pate,

Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,

And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;

Like an old courtier of the Queen’s,

And the Queen’s old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages;

They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,

And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,

But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study filled full of learned old books,

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,

With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,

And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,

With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,

And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose.

And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,

To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,

With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,

And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,

That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,

Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,

And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;

Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son, his house and land he assign’d,

Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,

To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind

But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d;

Like a young courtier of the King’s,

And the King’s young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,

Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,

And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land,

And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,

Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care,

Who buys gaudy-colour’d fans to play with wanton air,

And seven or eight different dressings of other women’s hair;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood,

Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,

With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,

And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne’er stood;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,

And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays.

With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days;

And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,

On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,

And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,

Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is compleat,

With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,

With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,

Who when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat;

Like a young courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour[13] bought with his father’s old gold,

For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold;

And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,

Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold,

Among the young courtiers of the King,

Or the King’s young courtiers.

Anonymous.

---

The Fine Old English Gentleman.

I’ll sing you a good old song,

Made by a good old pate,

Of a fine old English gentleman,

Who had an old estate;

And who kept up his old mansion

At a bountiful old rate;

With a good old porter to relieve

The old poor at his gate.

Like a fine old English gentleman,

All of the olden time.

His hall, so old, was hung around

With pikes, and guns, and bows,

And swords, and good old bucklers,

That had stood against old foes;

’Twas there “his worship” held his state,

In doublet and trunk hose;

And quaff’d his cup of good old sack,

To warm his good old nose.

Like a fine, &c.

When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow,

He open’d house to all;

And though three score and ten his years,

He fleetly led the ball;

Nor was the houseless wanderer,

E’er driven from his hall;

For while he feasted all the great,

He ne’er forgot the small.

Like a fine, &c.

But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight,

And years roll swiftly by;

And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d

The old man—he must die!

He laid him down right tranquilly,

Gave up life’s latest sigh;

And mournful stillness reign’d around,

And tears bedewed each eye.

For this good, &c.

Now surely this is better far

Than all the new parade,

Of Theatres and Fancy Balls,

“At Home,” and Masquerade:

And much more economical,

For all his bills were paid.

Then leave your new vagaries quite,

And take up the old trade

Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.

Anonymous.

---

The Fine Young English Gentleman.

I’ll sing you a prime new song,

That was made by a young chap’s pate,

Of a fine young English gentleman,

Who’d come to an estate;

Who kept his hunters and his hounds

At a d——d expensive rate.

With servants gay, to drive away

The poor folks from his gate;

Like a fine young English gentleman,

Born in the modern times.

His study it was strew’d around

With what?—Lord only knows!

Foils, boxing-gloves, and pistols,

Which he us’d with friends and foes:

’Twas there “the squire” took his wine

And cigar whene’er he chose;

Perusing the Court Journal,

Or Blackwood’s tedious prose.

Like a fine, &c.

He was, when merry winter came,

The gayest of them all;

At five-and-twenty he was seen

At ev’ry fancy ball.

At each theatre—masquerade—

This gentleman would call;

And while he feasted with the great,

He quite forgot the small.

Like a fine, &c.

But cash, alas! too soon takes flight,

And sov’reigns roll away;

And creditors, who have long bills,

At last will call for “pay;”

They came upon him tranquilly,

And caught him out one day;

“My cash is gone,” he cried, “so I

Must in the Queen’s Bench lay.”

Like a fine, &c.

Now this he thought was better far

Than all the old parade—

Of taking tea in peace at home,

Along with some old maid.

It must be economical,—

The bills were all unpaid;

You cannot show me one, I know,

Who does so much for trade

As a fine, &c.

Anonymous.

---

The Fast Young Undergraduate.

I’ll sing you a modern song, that was writ by a man of late,

Of an independent gentleman who had a small estate,

And kept up his rooms in Trinity at a d——d expensive rate,

And was always on the books of the porter at the gate,

Like a fast young Undergraduate, all of the modern time.

(Chorus)—Like a fast, &c.

These rooms so fine were hung about with boxing-gloves and sticks,

Wherewith when Town and Gown was cried, he floored the snobs like bricks;

And there he often used to sit, and his gin-and-water mix,

For he was also partial to the flooring of his lips.

(Chorus)—Like a fast, &c.

His custom was, when drunk, to go to Barnwell in a fly,

With Poll and Kate to joke and flirt, and that continually.

He was always getting into rows with the dons of Trinity.

For he never went to chapel but of necessity.

(Chorus)—Like a fast, &c.

But terms and seasons roll along: an idle man was he—

Examination came at last—he was plucked for his degree;

And when he mounted on the coach to leave the ’Varsity,

His creditors stood round about, a mournful sight to see.

(Chorus)—For this fast, &c.

But though this Undergraduate hath eloped and cut away,

But though other Undergraduates have got no cash to pay,

But though our credit may not be so boundless as before,

We’ve tradesmen left who’ll credit give as they were wont of yore.

(Chorus)—To other fast young Undergraduates,

All of the modern time.

From The Individual. Cambridge, November 29, 1836.

---

The Raal Ould Irish Gintleman, the Boy of the Olden Time.

I’ll sing you a dacent song, that was made by a Paddy’s pate,

Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman who had a fine estate,

Whose mansion, it was made of mud, wid thatch and all complate,

With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate;

Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show,

Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe,

And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose,

And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose,

Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair,

For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when there;

And while the rich they feasted him, he oft among the poor,

Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens roar,

Like a raal ould Irish Gintleman—the boy of the oulden time.

But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock,

And one that kilt him—’case he couldn’t overget the shock;

They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,

Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did ye die? och hone!

Then they wak’d this Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Tho’ all things in their course must change, and seasons pass away,

Yet Irish hearts of oulden time, were just as at this day.

Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man—

To serve a friend, and bate a foe, it always was the plan

Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

---

The Old and New Cantab.

There’s a fine old song for fine old gents, with fine old wine elate,

Of a fine old, etcetera—the rest I needn’t state;

And Punch unto that fine old air new-fashioned words would mate,

Of the fine old Cantab as he was before this change of late—

The fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

His rooms their range of ballet-girls and running-horses showed,

And a fox-brush, meant to indicate that up to hounds he rode;

There at vingt-un or loo he’d sit, until the cocks they crowed,

Nor ever thought of how to pay the various ticks he owed—

This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

From Eton or from Harrow he came cramm’d with longs and shorts,

An ambition to drive tandem, and a taste for fruity Ports;

And his hardest work was playing, till he deafened half the Courts,

Concertos on the cornet, in keys of different sorts—

This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

As a Freshman he wore sober ties, and gave a Don the wall,

But came out, his second year, in short coat and fancy shawl,

And treated the authorities with no respect at all.

Was seldom seen at lectures, and never dined in Hall—

This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

So he managed to forget the trifling all he once did know,

And by a very narrow shave got through his little-go,

And then he took “a coach” with cram what brains he’d left to stow—

Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, and some Algebra, also—

This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

Thus, loo, larks, liquor, and late hours, made time and money fly,

Till when three years brought on the Poll, he was plucked disgracefully,

And his disgusted gov’rnor came and paid off, with a sigh,

Ticks to a tune which nearly sucked the poor old pump quite dry,

For his fine old Cantab of a son, one of the olden time.

But times are changed henceforth, we know; for, from eighteen-forty-nine,

The sons of Alma Mater must choose a different line;

And if you try the Muses round, not a lady of the nine

Out of whom he won’t be qualified with ease to take the shine—

Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

For reading and not racing he’ll have to keep his book,

He’ll blush at his own pink, and hang his tops upon the hook;

And if e’er he use a cue, ’twill be for motion’s laws to look;

And for milk punch he’ll drink his toast—and water from the brook—

Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

He’ll put off the old Adam for the new one—Adam Smith;

Political Economy will bring private, p’r’aps, therewith:

At Ge— or else The—ology he’ll spend his pluck and pith,

Tea and Theorems ousting loo and lush, which will be all a myth

To our new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

Save for studying the pendulum, he’ll never try a tick;

A novel definition he’ll invent for the word “brick;”

Not one who braves the Proctor, or bargee can slang or lick,

But who digs up Hebrew roots like beans, and knocks off Morals slick—

Such our new Cantab is to be, all in the future time.

Old Dons will shake their heads, no doubt, and the good old days deplore,

When reading men were voted slow, and lectures all a bore;

But still let’s hope that Cambridge will furnish, as of yore,

All the wisdom of our ancestors, and perhaps a leetle more,

To the fine new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time!

Punch. November 25, 1848.

---

The Fine Rich Jewish Nobleman.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, that was penned by a Christian hand,

Of a fine new Jewish Baron with a foreign name so grand,

Whose money heaped around him was as plentiful as sand,

So he said, “By the beard of my forefathers, for the City I will stand,

Like a fine rich Jewish nobleman,

One of a wealthy kind.”

The Common-hall was crowded then with all the Christian’s foes,

And the Lord Mayor came forward there the Baron to propose,

Loud shouted many a Hebrew voice; and many a Hebrew nose

It’s hook up-raised and Rothschild praised, the man the Hebrews chose.

He was such a fine Jewish autocrat,

One of a wealthy kind!

When Manners came (a man whose name we all have heard before)

And raised his voice, the Hebrew choice to negative once more,

The Baron showed a wondrous zeal to help the voters poor,

None seeking his Committee-room unpitied left the door,

Of this fine rich Jewish millionaire,

One of a wealthy kind.

But gold, tho’ much, can’t all things do, and money’s power will fly—

An English House of Lords again the Baron’s seat deny!

He won’t resign quite tranquilly, and still again will try,

But tho’ his City friends may howl, they know it’s “all my eye,”

About this fine rich Jewish nobleman,

One of a wealthy kind.

But tho’ Free-trade our land may crush (to Cotton Lords the prey),

Still Christian is the Commons House that doth old England sway;

Tho’ Rome may thrive, and rank Dissent our Church assail to-day,

Our Christian test no Jewish gold shall ever thrust away.[14]

Not for this fine rich Jewish nobleman,

One of a wealthy kind.

From Protectionist Parodies, by a Tory. Oxford: J. Vincent. 1850.

---

The Fine Old English Innkeeper.

I’ll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,

Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date,

Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state,

And don’t forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate,

Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

His house, you’re told, is fitted up “regardless of expense,”

Although one half is obsolete, and t’other make pretence;

Exploded old four-posters, built in George the Second’s reign,

Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne;

At this fine old English Innkeeper’s, one of the olden time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,

Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;

And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day,

For “attendance” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay

To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get,

Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,

As a “bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set,

And however nasty it may be a nice sum you’re in debt,

To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,

And use a pair “of wax-lights” (with a muttony perfume),

For which you’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame

That whether they be lit or not, they’re charged for just the same,

By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,

For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:

And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel

Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,

As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

Punch. October 29, 1853.

---

The Fine Old Standard Tragedy.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, tho’ it’s subject’s out of date,

Of a fine old standard tragedy that was once pronounced first-rate,

To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state,

And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,”

Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of prose,

And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes;

And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze,

And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close

Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all,

Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet would bawl:

Nor was the slightest interest e’er given to enthral,

And, until five dull acts were o’er, the curtain would not fall,

On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

But better taste must come at last, and such plays be put by,

And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die;

They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh,

And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty,

Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

And surely this is better far when managers are made

To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade;

And much more economical—for actors then are paid—

Exchequers filled, and houses cramm’d, to see the dramas play’d,

In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

From Motley, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith’s Town and Country Miscellany.)

---

The Fine Old English Omnibus.

I’ll sing you a new song at once, before it is too late,

Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date,

Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can state,

Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate.

A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows,

And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows;

But how to get them open without breaking no one knows,

When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows,

In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days,

With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze;

But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red,

And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead,

In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its prime.

Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose,

And everybody’s forced to tread on everybody’s toes,

Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those

Who’ve corns or gout, and glare about as though you’re mortal foes,

In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time.

Then if outside for air you’d ride, the clambering to your seat

Would, if performed at Astley’s, be pronounced a “daring feat;”

For ere you’re half-way up you hear them coolly cry “All right!”

And then the “knife-board” cramps you so, with pain you can alight

From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.

And then the cad who tends the ’bus—his virtues who may tell?

How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell:

How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down

Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town,

By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins,

Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:”

And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail

Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail

This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time.

Now months have rolled since we were told this fine old ’bus must die,

That another and a cleanlier its place was to supply:

Yet for that “good ’bus coming, boys,” all vainly still we sigh,

And when we take our walks abroad that nuisance we espy—

The fine old English Omnibus: blot on the present time.

Punch. November 22, 1856.

---

The Fine Old British Subaltern.

I’ll sing you a right good song, made by an honest pate,

Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate,

And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate,

Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait,

This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.

His room, so small, was hung around with many a map and plan,

Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man,

And every regulation sword worn since the world began,

And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan.

This fine old, &c.

His room was open to a few each night when mess was o’er.

To those who’d laugh at his old jokes he’d never close his door,

And none of his old favourites e’er voted him a bore,

But kindly laughed at tales they’d heard a thousand times before,

From this fine old, &c.

And every year to town he went to state his wretched case,

And to Lord Fitzroy’s lévee never failed to show his face;

And though he gets some promises, and time wears on apace,

Still, still his name’s reposing in it’s old accustomed place,

This fine old, &c.

Then let us hope this fine old sub will be promoted yet,

Though in these days a company’s no easy thing to get;

Yet we will hope that by ill-luck he’ll cease to be beset,

And look for his promotion in the very next Gazette,

This fine old, &c.

From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster. Dublin. No date.

---

The Fine Young English Officer,

(As he is to be,)

I sing of one whom now that we’ve begun to educate,

The House of Commons lately made the subject of debate:

Whose qualities each Member vied with each to numerate,

And what their fancy painted him I’ll now proceed to state;

’Tis the fine young English Officer, as he is to be—in time.

His head so old on shoulders young with knowledge overflows,

Acquaintance with all sciences and arts its stores disclose,

All books and in all languages by heart almost he knows,

And he’s able to write legibly, and what is more, compose:

Like a wise young English Officer, the reason of my rhyme.

Italian, French, and Spanish, and Dutch, high or low, he’ll speak,

Count Troy-weight like a Trojan, tell the time of day in Greek;

And if to serve in India he be a chosen man, he

Will astonish all the natives in the choicest Hindostanee;

Like a polyglot young officer, fit for the future time.

Nor are his powers of body less than are those of his mind;

Quick eye, strong arm, and foot so fleet as ne’er to lag behind;

Good lungs, and constitution such as no fatigue can feel,

With iron nerves and sinews, and a heart as true as steel,

Has this brave young English Officer, to serve us in his prime.

A Centaur in his horsemanship, an Angelo to fence,

In every manly pastime he makes way, nor makes pretence;

From battle-fight to fisticuffs good generalship he proves.

In glory’s race a winner, and a “wunner” with the gloves,

Like the plucky British Officer, of past and present time.

He can draw with equal credit an earthwork or a cheque,

Keeps a spotless reputation, and accounts without a speck,

Knows staff-duties and horseflesh, can out-bargain Greek or Jew,

Has ready wit at his command, and ready money too:

This accomplished English Officer, one of the coming time.

Punch. August 22, 1857.

---

A Fytte of the Blues.

Of woman’s rights and woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of late,

The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;

And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,

For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate

Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of Time!

The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,

That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;

But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find,

If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,

In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.

If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,

You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face;

The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,

And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand,

Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

And her dress will be peculiar both in fabric and in make,

An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake;

Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express

The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,

When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined

To join the progress movement for development of mind.

If you enquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best

Such matter should be understood, but never be express’d,

By a stern suggestive Bluestocking in this mystic modern time.

She’ll converse upon aesthetics, and then refer to figures,

And turn from angels bright and fair to sympathise with niggers,

Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs quite;

And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she’ll swear that black is white,

Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,

And if she’s got some little ones, they’re black and blue with dirt;

When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,

She’ll regenerate society instead of making tea,

Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking,

The plague of the modern time.

Moral.

The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”

For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges;

Let woman’s proud and honour’d place be still the fireside,

And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride,

In this our nineteenth century,

The favour’d child of Time.

Frank E. Smedley.

Gathered Leaves. London, Virtue Brothers, 1865.

(This parody originally appeared in Mirth and Metre.)

---

The Fine Old English Gentleman of the Present Time.

I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,

Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,

But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.

Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,

Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows,

Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows,

And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose;

For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,

Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

In winter’s cold, when poor and old, for some assistance call,

And come to beg a trifle at the portals of his hall,

He refers them to the workhouse, that stands open wide for all;

For this is how the parish great relieve the parish small,

Like this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

When any of his working men are bold enough to press

For a trifle more of wages in a season of distress,

He answers like a thorough-going man of business:—

“Must I pay this or that for work which I could get for less?”

Says the fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

But rolling years will onwards flow, and Time, alas! will fly,

And one of these fine days this fine Old Gentleman will die!

Ah! will he then bethink him as he heaves life’s last sigh,

That he has done to others quite as he would be done by?

As the true Old Englishman did all in the olden time.

Anonymous.

---

The Fine Young London Gentleman.

I’ll sing you a fine new song all about a fine young spark,

Who’s a fine Young London Gentleman quite up to any lark;

Who takes supper very early, and breakfasts in the dark;

Who’s a real “dear old chappie,” as I needn’t p’raps remark,

Of a fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

He’ll bet in “monkeys,” “ponies,” though he has seldom ready cash;

If his Tailor isn’t paid, yet he has rings and pins to flash;

At his fav’rite burlesque theatre he’s known as “such a Mash,”

When to a fifth-rate Actress he bouquets down will dash,

Like a fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

He round the corner hurries when the sparkling piece is o’er,

To see his favourite Beauties coming out by the stage-door;

He will jostle with his fellows to obtain a smile—nay, more,

To simply stare at her he’s seen some hundred times before,

Like a fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

He will hie him off to Hurlingham to join the dove battue;

He will “plank his pieces” down to join in battle with the Jew;

He will seek the same antagonist his “paper” to renew,

When he’s had the bank at baccarat, or “lost the quids” at loo,

Like a fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

He will say that port and sherry his nice palate always cloy;

He’ll drink nothing but “B. and S.” and big magnums of “the Boy;”

He’s the darling of the Barmaid, and the honest Waiter’s joy,

As he quaffs his Pommery “extra sec,” his “Giesler;” or “Irroy,”

Like a fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

On a Racecourse he imagines that he knows what he is at,

He talks so scornfully of “mugs,” and says he knows a “flat;”

So wisely speaks of “roping,” and he always “smells a rat,”

But it very often happens that he’s put “into a hat,”

Is this fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

But there comes a time when barmaids and when theatres are no go,

When the “Boy” is voted nasty, and burlesques considered slow,

When ev’rything too stale is, and when life has lost its flow,

And the spirits once so high become dull, sluggish, bad, and low,

Of the fine Young London Gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

Then he recognises sadly there are others come, like he,

To make merry with the “fizz,” and likewise quaff the “S. and B.”

He is growing old and weary, having just turned twenty-three,

Existence is so tedious, all “life” a vast ennui

To the fine young London gentleman,

Quite of the present style.

Punch. February 11, 1882.

---

A Fine Old English General.

I’ll sing you a good old song,

That was made by a good old pate,

Of a fine old English General,

Of a very modern date,

Who helped to keep his country

In a fit defensive state,

And every quarter drew his pay

At a bountiful old rate—

Like a fine old English General,

One of the modern time!

How Horatio kept the bridge

In the good old times you’ve read;

But this fine old English General

He kept, as a rule, his bed;

For he suffered from obeseness.

And had swimming in his head;

Whilst the gout, like an active foeman,

About his body fled—

This fine old English General, &c.

But like a brave old warrior,

Prepared to do and dare,

This fine old English General,

Kept ready his Bath-chair;

That if the foe should threaten,

He to the front might fare,

And with limbs swathed in flannel,

The victory he might share—

This brave old English General, &c.

He’d never been in actual fight,

But had in fun fought hard;

And right through many a desperate night

At the Bank had he kept guard;

Whilst many a day had he “relieved”

In St. James’s Palace Yard;

And once on duty in the streets

Was wounded by a shard—

This brave old English General, &c.

But though in no campaign he’s been,

Of medals he’s a score;

And every year that he can live

His honours will be more;

And should he reach four score and ten

Still higher he will soar;

For he will be Field-Marshal then,

Before his life is o’er—

This fine old English General, &c.

Nor let the country mourn that she

But one such General owns;

She has a hundred at the least,

That scarce can move their bones;

A hundred gouty sons of Mars,

Who, gulping down their groans,

May from their beds command their troops

Through patent Telephones—

These fine old English Generals, &c.

From Finis.

---

The Fine Old Atom-Molecule.

(To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and “Scientists”).

We’ll sing you a grand new song, evolved from a ’cute young pate,

Of a fine old Atom-Molecule of pre-historic date,

In size infinitesimal in potencies though great,

And self-formed for developing at a prodigious rate—

Like a fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it slept all the forces in our cosmos that run rife,

To stir Creation’s giants or its microscopic life;

Harmonious in discord, and coöperant in strife,

To this small cell committed, the World lived with his Wife—

In this fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In this autoplastic archetype of Protean protem lay

All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day,

From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey,

To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but bray—

So full was this Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove,

All that pains the sense or pleases, all the heart can loathe or love,

All instincts that drag downwards, all desires that upwards move,

Were caged a “happy family” cheek-by-jowl and hand in glove,

In this fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it Order grew from Chaos, Light out of Darkness shined,

Design sprang up by Accident, Law’s rule from Hazard blind,

The Soul-less Soul evolving—against, not after, kind—

As the Life-less Life developed, and the Mind-less ripened Mind,

In this fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

Then bow down, Mind, to Matter; from brain-fibre, Will, withdraw;

Fall Man’s heart to cell Ascidian, sink Man’s hand to Monkey’s paw;

And bend the knee to Protoplast in philosophic awe—

Both Creator and Created, at once work and source of Law,

And our Lord be the Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World’s proto-prime!

Anonymous.

---

On Sir Stafford Northcote.

Yes, I’ll sing you a good old song that, alas, seems out of date,

Of a fine old English statesman who for long had served the State,

And a sterling reputation had been able to create

For his courtesy and honour and strict fairness in debate,

Like a fine Old English Gentleman,

One of the good old kind.

He never stooped to treachery, nor can he comprehend,

How politicians can to tricks and throwing mud descend.

Nor will he principle forsake nor sacrifice a friend,

Though he is ready to the last his party to defend,

Like a fine Old English Statesman,

One of the good old times!

Truth Christmas Number, 1885.

---

The Grand Old Man.

I’ll sing to you a brave new song, about the Grand Old Man,

Whose tongue and pen are ever found to forward freedom’s plan,

Who in the march of liberty has always led the van,

And ever stretched his strong right hand to help his fellow man

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,

Who stands up for the right.

This Grand Old Man wears on his brow no coronet of gold,

He does not claim a long descent from titled rogues of old,

He owns no broad domains for which he hath his country sold,

But looks the whole world in the face, for honour makes him bold—

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,

Plain Gladstone is his name.

In times gone by this Grand Old Man the cause of Free Trade led,

With Bright and Cobden he has helped to give the poor man bread,

And in dark homes of poverty, the light of plenty shed,

And little children bless his name, for he their lips hath fed—

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,

Who pleads the people’s cause.

The page of knowledge to the poor had never been unrolled,

And poor men’s papers all were taxed to spare the rich man’s gold.

But the Grand Old Man removed the ban with purpose brave and bold,

And now we’ve schools—and papers too—and what we have we’ll hold—

Thanks to the brave and Grand Old Man,

Who is the poor man’s friend.

The Grand Old Man with tongue of fire St. Stephen’s echoes woke,

And wrong and cruelty stood ashamed whenever Gladstone spoke,

And as his strong and brave right hand could fell the noble oak,

So cowards and tyrants toppled down beneath the sturdy stroke

Of this brave, true-hearted Grand Old Man,

Who fights in Freedom’s cause.

With vision clear the Grand Old Man looked on Fair Erin’s Isle,

And saw the land lie desolate for many a barren mile;

He vowed he would our Sister save from force and fraud and guile,

And Ireland’s hills and fertile vales should wear their ancient smile—

So said the brave and Grand Old Man,

Who is Green Ireland’s friend.

Then weeping Ireland dried her tears, and took him at his word,

She knew his cry of Justice! is far mightier than the sword;

His plan it shall not fade and shrink like Prophet Jonah’s gourd,

But triumph still till Briton’s sons are all of one accord

With the bold and faithful Grand Old Man,

Who’ll triumph in the end.

Then Britons rally round his flag and aid him in the fight,

Though foes and traitors show their teeth he does not fear their bite,

For tyrant lords must hide their heads before the people’s might:

Then vote for the good old Liberal cause, for Justice and the right,

And for that brave and Grand Old Man

Who pleads in Ireland’s name.

J. F. B.

Published by the National Liberal Printing and Publishing Association, Limited. 1886.

---

An Oxford Parody.

I’ll sing you a sporting song, for you all love well the chase,

Of a gallant pack, and huntsman too, who go the fastest pace,

He rides right bravely to his hounds, whatever be his steed

And says “Let scent be ne’er so bad, this day the fox shall bleed,”

Like a first-rate English fox-hunter,

One of the present time.

His room at home is hung around with emblems of his pride,

With sporting prints and fox’s heads, which in good runs have died:

Th’ Oxonians on hacks, in “teams,” do gladly gather here

To view his hounds and horses, and to taste the hearty cheer,

Of this first rate, &c.

And when at break of early day he sallies to “the meet,”

How well appointed! ain’t it, boys? how sportsmanlike! how neat!

In Heythrop’s grassy avenue, a goodly sight, I ween,

Is Redesdale’s lordly turn out, and the lads in Lincoln green!

They’re first-rate English fox-hunters,

Men of the present time.

“The silent system” Jim forswears: how to his voice they run!

See now they’re in the covert: look out, my boys, for fun!

“The varmint” trembles as he hears the foe approaching nigh

And hopes it is the ——[15] or else he sure must die

For this first-rate, &c.

List! list! Old Vanguard challenges: the pack in turn reply;

And Jim’s “Hark forward!” now is heard as on they quickly fly:

He leads the van on Spangle: next Jack[16] upon his mare;

There’s neither wall nor water shall stop the gallant pair

Of first-rate, &c.

A check! a check! now freshman bold, “hold hard, Sir, if you please:”

Just watch Jim’s clever casts, Sir, just watch his “busy bees:[17]

He has it now! Right merrily “that sweetest music” rang;

So press your steeds, my gallant lads, and catch him if you can—

This first-rate English fox-hunter.

One of the present time.

And now the pace doth tell a tale: press on, ye happy few;

’Tis forty minutes racing speed—we run him now in view;

His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down, indeed!

Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed,

Ye first-rate English fox-hunters,

Men of the present time.

Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game;

His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same

And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times three,

May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see

This first-rate English fox-hunter,

One of the present time.

From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford.
Oxford. J. Vincent. No date.

---

The Special Correspondent.

I’ll sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth Estate,

Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date,

Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate,

And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable rate.

Chorus.—Like a Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides,

The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides,

As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he bestrides,

And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides.

Chorus.—Does this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He knows not fear—’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls,

As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles,

Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes;

And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.

Chorus.—Of the Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When incidents are dull or few, he’ll reckless lies invent,

Or he’ll date his telegrams from towns to which he never went;

To vilify a famous man he’ll readily consent,

And will act on orders sent from home to any base extent.

Chorus.—Will this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He loves to don a uniform and swagger with the best,

And when no English are about wears medals on his chest;

And for the news he cables home attention to arrest,

That British troops are cowardly curs he glibly will suggest.

Chorus.—Will this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

He has an altogether strange and wondrous sense of sight,

For he can see a brilliant moon upon a moonless night;

And has been known the lowest types of passion to excite,

By writing of a fabulous “Baboon and Potboy” fight.[18]

Chorus.—Has this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

“Untamed and ancient Savages” he also can espy,

And many other curious sights—if no one else be nigh!

But, if he should have company, why, then, his magic eye

No longer non-existent moons and mortals can descry.

Chorus.—For this Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

When brought to mix with gentlemen, he acts in such a way,

That they are bound to rid themselves of him without delay;

For he toadies to gain confidence, which straightway he’ll betray;

And there’s no trick too mean for him to readily essay.

Chorus.—This Special Correspondent, one of the modern time!

In short, he’s arrogant and false; he gushes to excess,

He makes his facts to suit the views his master may express;

His self-conceit’s contemptible, so are his style and dress,

And he’s brought already quite enough dishonour on the Press.

Chorus.—Has the Special Correspondent, all of the modern time!

Truth Christmas Number. 1882.

---

The Fine Young Agriculturist.

The winter comes, as winter came some fifty years ago—

Sometimes muggy, warm, and wet, and sometimes frost and snow;

And, weather notwithstanding, comes the Christmas Cattle Show;

But the modern English farmer our forefathers wouldn’t know,

In the fine Young Agriculturist—one of the modern time.

He don’t take days to travel up by daily coach and mail,

And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale.

Or waste his time to dine, and hear the landlord’s oft-told tale,

But speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail.

This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits,

A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-boots,

And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots,

And all his talk of ripening corn and rearing Christmas brutes.

Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite—

His coat made small, and cutaway—his trousers fitting tight.

His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light,

A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl’d brim, and small in height,

On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred—

A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed;

His goggle-eyes were lustreless—his bacon chops all red,

His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-head.

Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But the modern English farmer, now, ’tis pretty well agreed,

Is a very different person—of a very different breed;

He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed,

And doesn’t lounge about the town, and drink, and overfeed.

Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s quite a genteel fellow, nothing “fast,” and nothing “flash”;

Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash;

His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash,

And he cultivates your friendship—and a very large moustache.

Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He talks to you of chemical manures—salts and phosphates,

Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states;

In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates;

Can play the “fancy” science, too, for punishing rogue’s pates.

This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s not a Tony Lumpkin now, to muddle time away

In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay.

But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play,

Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet.

Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c.

Look round, too, at his Christmas stock—the same improvement own;

No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown:

No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan,

But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone.

By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

Now, isn’t this much better that the live-stock should be so,

Than as seen by our grandfathers some fifty years ago?

And may the price of butchers’ meat a great deal cheaper grow;

Then success attend exhibitors, and the Christmas Cattle Show!

And the fine Young Agriculturist, one of the modern time.

From Banter, Edited by G. A. Sala. December 9, 1867.

---

The Romance of Kelly’s Post-office Directory.

We hear of days long passed away, and glorious times of old,

And how Young England’s sons affirm we’re getting dull and cold;

But yet romance is not quite dead—in common daily life

She still exists; of which great fact you’ll find examples rife

In the Post-office Directory, all of the present year.

The mighty minds of every age you’ll meet therein combined,

John Milton, as a tea dealer, in Mary’bone you’ll find;

And Isaac Walton in the East, has stores of pens and quills;

And Hogarth trades in ham and beef, and Butler deals in pills,

In the Post-office Directory, &c.

(The Author continues to string notable names together
in this style for six more verses.)

In fact, there’s nought or nobody the keen compilers spare,

And all we have immortalised are bona fide, there;

Just turn to the last copy, and you’ll find them all forthwith,

Unless you chance to lose yourself amongst the tribes of Smith,

In Kelly’s last Directory, all of the present year.

From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith. 1848.

---

In the following notes, extracts are given from a few parodies which are not sufficiently amusing to be quoted in full.

An uninteresting political parody of the “The fine old English Gentleman” in eight verses, is contained in a small pamphlet entitled Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, published by Houlston and Sons, London, about 1883.

It commences thus:—

I sing a brand new song which may old faiths eradicate,

About the B. whose buzzing has been heard so much of late,

Whose craze it is to scheme to be Protector of the State,

And thinks that being bulky is the same as being great,

A much mistaken demagogue,

Of the self-anointed line.

The Christmas number of The World for 1885 had a parody commencing,

“A good old English gentleman, all of the olden school,

Is a person who our sympathy commands”

which dealt with political topics; whilst the very unpoetical subject of the Irish Land Acts was considered at great length, and in a rather heavy style, in a parody which appeared in Kottabos for 1881, over the signature M.

The Indefeasible Title.

I’ll sing you all a song that was made by an honest pate,

Of a fine old Irish gentleman, who mortgaged his estate

To a bluff old English mortgagee, who swore he couldn’t wait,

But would sell the lands at any price and at an early date,

Like a business-like old Englishman, all of the olden time.

*  *  *  *  *

(Nine verses omitted.)

Kottabos was a small magazine issued from Trinity College, Dublin, and published by William McGee.

——:o:——

A PARODY BY CHARLES DICKENS.

The following parody, written by Charles Dickens, appeared in The Examiner for Saturday, August 7, 1841. Mr. Forster thus refers to it in his Life of Charles Dickens: “The last of these rhymes I will give entire. This has no touch of personal satire in it, and he would himself, for that reason, have least objected to its revival.” Thereupon Mr. Forster quotes seven only out of the eight stanzas he professes to give in full, omitting one which quite destroys his assertion that there was no personal satire in the parody. Mr. Forster was once described by a cabman as “that ’ere harbitrary cove;” to give a garbled quotation, and state that it is the entire poem is indeed an arbitrary act. The following is a complete reproduction of Mr. Dickens’s parody:—

The Fine Old English Gentleman.

New version (to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners.)

I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,

Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;

When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate,

On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,

In the fine old English Tory times;

Soon may they come again!

The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains,

With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,

With rebel heads, and seas of blood, once hot in rebel veins;

For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains,

Of the fine old English Tory times;

Soon may they come again!

This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,

And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies,

To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,

Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries,

In the fine old English Tory times;

Soon may they come again!

The good old times for cutting throats, that cried out in their need,

The good old times for hunting men who held their father’s creed,

The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,

Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed.

Oh, the fine old English Tory times;

When will they come again?

In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,

But sweetly sang of men in power like any tuneful lark;

Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;

And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.

Oh, the fine old English Tory times;

Soon may they come again!

(The following stanza was omitted by Mr. Forster.)

Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din;

For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win;

For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,

Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin,

In the fine old English Tory times;

Soon may they come again!

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the main;

That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain;

The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;

A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,

With the fine old English Tory days,

All of the olden time.

The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land,

In England there shall be—dear bread! in Ireland—sword and brand,

And poverty and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,

So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,

Of the fine old English Tory days;

Hail to the coming time!

The allusions contained in the sixth stanza require some explanation. In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of The Examiner, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:—

“What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in The Morning Post, that this ‘Glory of the people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’ (Bravo, Morning Post!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness,’ was a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this delightful, blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true and immortal Prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity.” The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:—

Verses.

(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the
Examiner, whilst in prison.)

I am tenant of nine feet by four,

My title no lawyer denies,

From the ceiling quite down to the floor,

I am lord of the spiders and flies.

Oh, Justice! how awkward it is

To be griped by thy terrible squad!

I did but indulge in a quiz,

And the Quorum have sent me to quod.

Dear scandal is out of my reach,

I must pass my dull mornings alone.

Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech,

Nor get audience for one of my own!

The people, provokingly quiet,

My fate with indifference see:

They are so unaccustomed to riot,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Personality, libel, and lie,

Ye supports of our Jacobite train,

If I had but the courage to try,

How soon I would sport you again!

My ranklings I then might assuage

By renewing my efforts to vex,

By profaning the rev’rence of age,

And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold

Resides in that dear little word,

More rich than the silver and gold

Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity,

No stomach for high-season’d leaven,

And though we be never so witty,

They trim us when judgment is given.

O ye, who were present in Court,

In pity convey to me here

Some well-manufactured report,

Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell?

Does the public attend to my lines?

O say that my Newspapers sell

Though the money must go for my fines!

How fleet is the growth of a fib!

The astonishing speed of its flight

Outstrips the less mischievous squib

Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge,

“When he knows how it helps off his papers

Were it not—that the thought of the judge

Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his discharge—

The beast is let loose from his cover:

Like him I shall yet be at large,

When a couple of years shall be over.

For law must our liberty give,

Though Law for a while may retard it

Even I shall obtain it, who live

By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

Severe as was the punishment inflicted on the Hunts it did not have a deterrent effect; indeed the trial was a political blunder, it gave enormous publicity to a libel which would otherwise have been seen by few, and have soon been forgotten; it offended many, who whilst having no sympathy with the Hunts, were still in favour of a free Press; and finally it encouraged the publication and sale of many other attacks upon the Prince Regent, and his friends. The most active and zealous purveyor of this kind of literature was William Hone, of Ludgate Hill, who published numerous pamphlets, leaflets, parodies and squibs; most of these were written by Hone himself, and illustrated by George Cruikshank. The Prince Regent’s personal appearance, his intemperance, his vanity, and his conduct towards his wife, were mercilessly exposed and ridiculed; whilst the actions of the ministry were also held up to public scorn and contempt.

Eventually the government took legal proceedings against Hone for publishing political parodies, namely, John Wilkes’s Catechism, the Political Litany, and the Sinecurist’s Creed.

There were three separate trials held in the Guildhall, London, on December 18, 19 and 20, 1817, and in each trial the Jury found a verdict of Not Guilty. Here, again, the government prosecutions defeated their own ends. Hone became the hero of the day, the martyr in the cause of the liberty of the Press; a large sum of money was raised for him by public subscription, and what was worse, the parodies were republished, and, owing to the publicity given to them by the trials, the sales were enormous. Even now these little pamphlets are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curiosities, and of Cruikshankiana, especially those relating to the Prince Regent and his illtreated wife. The most successful example of Hone’s skill was a parody entitled “The House that Jack built,” of which more than fifty editions were rapidly sold off. A few extracts will show the bitter tone of this parody; and Cruikshank’s portrait of the Dandy of Sixty was scarcely more complimentary than Leigh Hunt’s written description of the “fat Adonis of fifty.” The subjects of Cruikshank’s illustrations are given within parenthesis.

This is the House that Jack Built.

(A Temple of Liberty.)

This is the Wealth that lay in the House that Jack built.

(Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, Bill of Rights.)

These are the Vermin that plunder the Wealth,
that lay in the House that Jack built.

(Court Official, Bishops, Lawyers, Army, Tax-collectors.)

This is the Thing, that in spite of new Acts,

And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,

Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth,

That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(A Printing Press.)

This is the Public Informer,

Who would put down the Thing,

That in spite of new Acts,

And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,

Will poison the Vermin, that plunder the Wealth,

That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(The Attorney General.)

These are the Reasons of Lawless Power,

That back the Public Informer,

Who would put down the Thing,

That in spite of new Acts, &c., &c.

(A Gaoler, an Artilleryman, a Horse Guard, and a Grenadier.)

This is The Man—all shaven and shorn,

All cover’d with Orders—and all forlorn;

The Dandy of Sixty,

Who bows with a grace,

And has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses, and lace;

Who, to tricksters and fools, leaves the State and its treasure,

And, when Britain’s in tears, sails about at his pleasure,

Who spurn’d from his presence the Friends of his youth,

And now has not one who will tell him the truth;

Who took to his counsels, in evil hour,

The Friends to the Reasons of Lawless Power;

That back the Public Informer

Who would put down the Thing,

That, in spite of New Acts,

And attempts to restrain it, by Soldiers or Tax,

Will poison the Vermin,

That plunder the Wealth,

That lay in the House that Jack Built.

(A crowd of starving people.)

These are the People

All tattered and torn,

Who curse the day wherein they were born,

On account of taxation too great to be borne,

And pray for relief, from night to morn:

Who, in vain, Petition in every form,

Who, peaceably meeting to ask for Reform,

Were sabred by Yeomanry Cavalry,

Who were thanked by The Man,

All shaven and shorn, all covered with Orders

And all forlorn;

The Dandy of Sixty,

Who bows with a grace, &c., &c.

*  *  *  *  *

The Report of Hone’s three Trials is an interesting work, full of curious parodies, of which a detailed account will be given in the Bibliographical Volume of this Collection. But for the present Leigh Hunt, William Hone, George Cruikshank, and George, Regent, and King, must be dismissed, and Thackeray’s burlesque Epitaph will fitly close this chapter.

GEORGE IV.

He never acted well, by man or woman.

And was as false to his mistress as to his wife.

He deserted his friends and his principles.

He was so ignorant he could scarcely spell;

But he had skill in cutting out coats,

And an undeniable taste for cookery.

He built the palaces of Brighton

And of Buckingham,

And for these qualities and proofs of genius,

An admiring aristocracy

Christened him the “First Gentleman in Europe.”

Friends, respect the King whose statue is here,

And the generous aristocracy who admired him.

W. M. THACKERAY.

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food,

It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;

Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.

Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England,

And, oh! for Old England’s Roast Beef!

Then, Britons, from all nice dainties refrain,

Which effeminate Italy, France, and Spain;

And mighty roast beef shall command on the main.

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

But since we have learnt from effeminate France,

To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance;

We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong,

And kept open house, with good cheer all day long,

Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,—

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,

Ere coffee and tea and such slipslops were known;

The world was in terror if e’en she did frown,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,

They seldom or never returned back again,

As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Oh! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight.

And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right,—

But now, we’re a—hum!—I could, but Good night,

Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

This song was first printed complete in Walsh’s “British Miscellany” about 1740. It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the exception of the first two verses which were written by Henry Fielding, for a comedy entitled “Don Quixote in England.” This piece was acted at the New-Theatre in the Haymarket, 1733.

---

Kail-Brose o’ Auld Scotland.

When our ancient forefathers agreed wi’ the laird

For a piece o’gude ground to be a kail-yard,

It was to the brose that they paid their regard:

O! the kail-brose o’ auld Scotland,

And O! the Scottish kail-brose.

When Fergus, the first of our Kings, I suppose.

At the head of his nobles, had vanquished our foes,

Just before they began, they’d been feasting on brose,

O! the Kail-brose, &c.

Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose,

Wi’ their bonnets and belts, which their dress did compose,

And a bag of oatmeal on their backs to be brose,

O! the Kail-brose, &c.

But now since the thistle is joined to the rose,

And the English nae longer are counted our foes,

We’ve lost a great deal o’our relish for brose.

O! the Kail-brose &c.

Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,

Likes always to feed on a cog o’ gude brose,

And, thanks be to heaven, we’ve yet plenty of those.

O! the Kail-brose, &c.

Anonymous.

---

The Grocer’s Delight, or a Sugar Plum for Master Billy.

When good George the Second did sit on the throne,

A Pitt we could boast, and a Pitt of our own,

A true Whig was he to the very back-bone.

Oh, the true Whigs of old England,

And oh, the Old English true Whigs.

He went to the city to dine with the mayor,

The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there,

The people huzza’d him, which made the King stare.

Oh, the true Whigs, &c.

The feast of the Grocers is not the same thing,

His son, Master Billy, is all for the King,

And therefore a different song we must sing

Oh, the back-stairs of St. James’s,

And oh, the St. James’s back-stairs.

Billy bluster’d and vapour’d, and gave himself airs,

He spoke for the people, and swore he was theirs,

Till Jenkinson usher’d him up the back stairs.

Oh, the back stairs, &c.

Dundas is his counsel, and Thurlow his guide,

The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide,

The bishops, God mend’em, are all of his side.

Oh, the back stairs, &c.

He holds his head high and he talks very big,

For the Commons of England he don’t care a fig;

But the House of Lords swear he’s an excellent Whig.

Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England!

And oh, the poor Old English Whigs.

Since the fortunate days of King William the Third,

When Nassau to Stuart was wisely prefer’d,

Such doctrines as these are, sure never were heard,

By the staunch Whigs of Old England,

By the Old English staunch Whigs.

Then as Billy[19] stands up for Prerogative strong,

If the Father was right, sure the Son must be wrong,

So let every Englishman join in my song,

Success to the Whigs of Old England!

Success to the Old English Whigs!

From The History of the Westminster Election, 1784.

---

Oh! the White Vests of Young England!

Oh! the vests of Young England are perfectly white,

And they’re cut very neatly and sit very tight;

And they serve to distinguish our Young Englishmen

From the juvenile Manners to Coningsby Ben;

Sing, “Oh! the white vests of Young England,

And Oh! the Young English white vests!”

Now the Old English vest was some two yards about,

For Old England was rather inclined to be stout;

But the Young English waist is extremely compress’d,

By the very close fit of the Young English vest.

Sing, “Oh! &c.”

The Young English white vest, upon one little score,

May perhaps be considered a bit of a bore,

For it makes the resemblance exceedingly near

’Twixt the Young English Waiter and Young English Peer.

Sing, “Oh! &c.”

But what are the odds as concerning the vest,

So long as felicity reigns in the breast?

And Young England to wear what it pleases may claim,

Let us hope all its tailors are paid for the same.

Sing, “Oh! &c.”

Punch 1844.

---

O! The Brown Beer of Old England.

When humming brown beer was the Englishman’s taste,

Our wives they were merry, our daughters were chaste;

Their breath smelt like roses whenever embraced;

O! the brown beer of old England,

And, O! the Old English brown beer.

Ere coffee and tea found their way to the town,

Our ancestors by their own fire-sides sat down,

Their bread it was white, and their beer it was brown.

O! the brown beer &c.

Our heroes of old, of whose conquests we boast,

Could make a good meal of a pot and a toast;

O! did we so now, we should soon rule the roast.

O! the brown beer &c.

When the great Spanish fleet on our coast did appear,

Our sailors, each one, drank a jorum of beer

And sent them away with a flea in their ear.

O! the brown beer, &c.

Our clergymen then took a cup of good beer;

Ere they mounted the rostrum, their spirits to cheer;

Then preached against vice, though courtiers were near.

O! the brown beer, &c.

Their doctrines were then authentic and bold,

Well grounded on scripture and fathers of old

But now they preach nothing but what they are told.

O! the brown beer, &c.

For since the geneva and strong ratafee,

We are dwindled to nothing,—but stay—let me see

Faith, nothing at all but mere fiddle-de-dee.

O! the brown beer, &c.

Anonymous.

From The Universal Songster. Vol. III.

---

The Frog and the Bull.

As once on a time a young frog, pert and vain,

Beheld a large ox grazing on the wide plain,

He boasted his size he could quickly attain.

Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,

And O for Old England’s Roast Beef.

Then eagerly stretching his weak little frame;

Mamma, who stood by, like a cunning old dame.

Cried, “Son, to attempt it you’re surely to blame,”

Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

But, deaf to advice, he for glory did thirst,

An effort he ventured more strong than the first,

Till swelling and straining too hard made him burst.

Oh, the Roast Beef, &c.

Then Britons, be careful, the moral is clear;

The ox is Old England, the frog is Monsieur,

Whose threats and bravadoes we never need fear,

While we have Roast Beef in Old England.

Sing O for Old England’s Roast Beef.

Anonymous.

---

The Boiled Beef of Old England.

That mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food,

And spoon-meat the Frenchman’s was once understood,

And mess-bugles at dinner-time still stir the blood,

With “Oh, the Roast Beef of Old England,

And Oh, for Old English Roast Beef.”

Yes, “Oh, for Roast Beef,” well our soldiers may sigh,

They may sniff it down areas, in cook-shops may eye;

But save in that music, bid life-long good bye,

To the famous Roast Beef of Old England,

The mighty Old English Roast Beef.

For as if we’d ta’en lesson from soup-stewing France,

In our barracks Roast Beef is a dream of romance,

And the man who enlists is condemned in advance,

To sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,”

And “Blow that Old English Boiled Beef!”

If against civil broils barrack-rules still must preach,

And our troops rule the roast, but in figure of speech,

Then surely we’re bound our mess-bugles to teach

To play “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,”

And “Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”

What’s the odds if at Bouilli the soldier looks blue?

’Tis the rule of the service, and can’t be broke through.

Against roast, fry, or bake Colonel North in a stew

Would cry, “Where’s the Boiled Beef of Old England,

Oh, where’s the Old English Boiled Beef?”

What with those leather collars, their throttles that lock,

And those weary camp-kettles, their hunger that mock,

Our poor British soldiers must surely hate stock,

And sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,

Oh, Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”

With the shako that lets the rain into his neck,

And the pack, pouch, and cross-belts, his breathing that check,

And the barrack-room reeking like any slave-deck,

Keep up the Boiled Beef of Old England.

Keep up the Old English Boiled Beef.

At huge cost let recruits still be drilled, dressed, and taught,

To have them die off twice as fast as they ought,

Let General Routine still set reason at nought,

And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,”

And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”

By all means let our soldiers be served, in the way,

That famed Dr. Kitch’ner said cucumbers may,

First dress ’em with care, and then throw them away,

And sing, “Oh, the Boiled Beef of Old England,”

And “Oh, the Old English Boiled Beef!”

Punch. March 6, 1858.

---

The Pauper’s Chaunt.[20]

O we’re very well fed, so we must not repine,

Though turkey we’ve cut, and likewise the chine

But, oh! once a year we should just like to dine

On the Roast Beef of Old England,

Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef.

O, the gruel’s delicious, the taters divine—

And our very small beer is uncommonly fine;

But with us we think you would not like to dine,

Without the Roast-Beef of Old England,

Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Our soup’s very good, we really must own.

But of what it is made arn’t very well-known;

So, without any soup we would much rather dine

On the Roast-Beef of Old England,

Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

Mince-pies they are nice, and plum-pudding is fine,

But we’d give up them both for “ribs” or “Sir Line,”

If for once in the year we could but just dine

On the Roast-Beef of Old England,

Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

“Roast Beef and plum-pudding” is true Christmas fare,

But they think that our morals such dainties won’t bear.

Oh, oh! it is plain ne’er more shall we share

In the Roast-Beef of Old England,

Oh, the Old English Roast-Beef!

From George Cruikshank’s Omnibus.

---

The Sirloin Superseded.

Once mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food.

It has now grown so dear that ’tis nearly tabooed.

But Australian beef, potted, is cheap and is good.

O, the Boiled Beef of Australia!

And O, the Australian Boiled Beef!

It is capital cold; it is excellent hot;

And, if a large number of children you’ve got,

’Twill greatly assist you in boiling the pot.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

First-rate is Australian mutton, likewise,

For curries, and rissoles and puddings, and pies.

The thrifty good housewife no butcher’s meat buys.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

It will make you a hash that is fit for a king.

And the young ones all like it, and that’s a great thing.

So Paterfamilias it causes to sing,

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

For the small boys and girls eat the fat with the lean,

Don’t leave underdone, but their plates nicely clean—

Where pigs are not kept which helps make all serene.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Australian meat from the bone being free,

The more economical needs must it be.

As there are no joints there’s no carving you see.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The fleshpots of Egypt were once in high fame;

Australian fleshpots have more than the same,

Old England’s roast beef is now rivalled in name.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

The privileged victims who Income-tax pay,

Whose earnings precarious are taken away,

While ceasing to deal with a Butcher, can say

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

’Tis true that your servants, fastidious and fine,

Australian meat in their folly decline.

On skilligolee they hereafter may dine.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Now pour out the wine which we could not afford

Except for Antipodes’ meat on the board.

Its inventors’ good health!—whilst my helping’s encored.

O, the Boiled Beef, &c.

Punch. August 24, 1872.

---

Stirring the Pudding,

A Song for the Christmas Season.

The National Padding all parties protest

By themselves is best planned, and compounded the best,

And each eager spoon wielder will stoutly aver

All would turn out quite well had himself but a stir.

At the glorious Plum-Padding of England,

Old England’s unequalled Plum-Pudding!

The Stirrers-in-Chief, who’ve their spoons in the pan,

Have been stirring away on their own special plan

For a tidy long time, and triumphantly say

That no Season has shown, for this many a day,

Such a splendid Plum-Pudding for England,

Such a genuine English Plum-Padding!

Well we know the old Saw about too many cooks;

But a Saw is not always so sage as it looks;

And a Pudding so big as John Bull’s may require

All the hands and the spoons that toil on and ne’er tire

Of stirring the Pudding of England,

The mighty old English Plum-Pudding!

The proof of the Pudding’s in eating, they say;

And John Bull, who must eat it has likewise to pay;

And so, at this season, let’s wish them success,

And hope that among them they won’t make a mess

Of the rare old Plum-Pudding of England,

The old English Christmas Plum-Pudding!

(Four verses omitted.)

Punch. Dec. 27, 1879.

——:o:——

THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

Oh, Britannia, the pride of the ocean,

The home of the brave and the free,

It is time that with zealous devotion,

We saw to the Navy for thee.

If tyrants thou still wouldst make tremble,

Thou needest some armour-clads new,

Or else—it is vain to dissemble—

It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue.

It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue,

It’s all up with the Red, White, and Blue;

It is useless to longer dissemble,

’Tis all up with the Red, White, and Blue.

Truth Christmas Number. 1884.

---

The Election.

Great, great is the task set before us—

Once more ’tis for us to decide

The men who shall freely rule o’er us,

And still by our bidding abide.

Then choose we the leaders whose story

Will ever bear telling anew,

Whose work in the past is their glory,

And stamps them as honest and true.

Chorus.

Then choose we the tried, wise, and true,

Then seek we the tried, wise, and true;

Let truth and consistency rule us,

And choose we the tried, wise, and true.

We know what the task is whose splendour

Our country will light on its way,

When Justice and Progress attend her,

And class has forgotten its sway;

When hope for the thousands who labour

Is real in their toil-weary view—

When right for each man and his neighbour

Shall end in a union that’s true!

J. Pratt.

The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

---

An American Imitation.

Oh, Columbia, the gem of the ocean,

The home of the brave and the free;

The shrine of each patriot’s devotion,

A world offers homage to thee.

Thy mandates make heroes assemble,

When liberty’s form stands in view;

Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white and blue.

When borne by the red, white and blue.

When borne by the red, white and blue,

Thy banners make tyranny tremble,

When borne by the red, white and blue.

When war waged its wide desolation,

And threatened our land to deform,

The ark then of freedom’s foundation,

Columbia rode safe through the storm.

With her garland of victory o’er her,

When so proudly she bore her bold crew,

With her flag proudly floating before her,

The boast of the red, white and blue.

The wine cup, the wine cup bring hither,

And fill you it up to the brim,

May the memory of Washington ne’er wither,

Nor the star of his glory grow dim.

May the service united ne’er sever

And each to our colors prove true:

The army and navy forever,

Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

Three cheers for the red, white and blue,

Three cheers for the red, white and blue,

The army and navy forever,

Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

——:o:——

THE ENGLISHMAN.

There’s a paper bears a well-known name,

Though it is but a sorry lot;

On the English journals’ scroll of fame

It seems but a dirty blot.

On the scribbling ones who by it live

I’ll not waste word of song;

Nor for all the ex-Q.C.[21] could give

To that paper would I belong.

It’s a scurrilous journal, deny it who can—

A disgrace to the name of Englishman.

From Faust and ’Phisto. 1876.

---

The Jingo-Englishman.

(New Version of an old Song, adapted to the tastes
of the Patriot of the Period.)

There’s a Land that’s Cock of Creation’s walk,

Though it is but a tiny isle,

And to hear its brag, and its tall tall talk,

Might make e’en Bombastes smile.

It holds itself holiest, first in fight,

Most brave, most wise, most strong,

And will ne’er admit what it fancies right

Can by any chance be wrong.

’Tis the pink of perfection, deny it who can,

The Home of the Jingo Englishman!

There’s a Flag that floats o’er every sea,

And claims to control the brine;

And if any dare hint that it makes too free,

The result is a deuce of a shine.

For the bouncing boys who walk the deck

Deem the Ocean their own little lot,

And if foreign fools at their pride should check,

They will catch it exceedingly hot.

Right-divine’s in its bunting, deny it who can,

Is the Flag of the Jingo-Englishman!

There’s a Heart that leaps with a generous glow

A paying cause to defend,

Lets interest rule it in fixing a foe,

And profit in choosing a friend.

It nurtures a deep and abiding love

For possession of power and pelf,

And deems that the duty all others above

Is enshrined in that sweet word “self.”

’Tis a rare tough organ, deny it who can,

The Heart of your Jingo-Englishman!

The Briton may traverse the Pole or the Zone,

And annex on sea or shore;

He calls an immense domain his own,

But he means going in for more.

Let the wandering stranger seek to know

To what charter such “rights” are owed,

And a flush will rise to the Briton’s brow

As he answers—“You be blowed!”

There’s no end of a pull, deny it who can,

In the words, “I’m a Jingo-Englishman!”

Punch. November 9, 1878.

---

The Chancery Court.

There’s a place that bears a well-known name,

Tho’ ’tis but a seedy spot;

’Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame,

And who dare say it is not?

Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live

On laws, on “Flats” and fees,

The choicest the Devil to earth can give

In this little spot one sees;

For a gem in its way, as we’ve always been taught,

Is that grand Institution—a Chancery Court.

There’s a thing that’s a terror to every tongue,

No matter when or where,

And to treat that thing as a mere old song

Is more than the richest dare.

For the foolish spirits, who seek that Court,

To its Vultures once fallen a prey,

May struggle in vain to’ escape what they sought—

They never can get away.

’Tis a gem in its way, spite of evil repute,

No friend sticks so close as a Chancery suit.

The Briton may traverse each legal port

And pay, yet have something to spare;

He may pass the “Insolvent Debtors’ Court,”

And merge at the most nearly bare.

But if once in a Chancery suit he’s caught,

Though the world be all his own,

In those hungry clutches, ’twill be as nought,

And they’ll fight for his skin and bone.

For a gem in its way, spite of evil report,

Is the sacred shade of a Chancery Court.

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political,
(London, W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.)

——:o:——

RULE BRITANNIA.

---

Robert Southey calls this “the political hymn of our Country,” and it may certainly be regarded as the British National Song. There has been some controversy as to its authorship, it is generally ascribed to James Thomson, author of “The Seasons,” whilst others have assigned it to David Mallet. The arguments are too lengthy to be reproduced here, but the chief points of the discussion are to be found in letters from Mr. William Chappell, and Mr. Julian Marshall, published in “Notes and Queries,” August 14, November 20, and December 18, 1886. Possibly both Thomson and Mallet joined in the composition of the ode (as they styled it), but this question can now never be authoritatively settled. No doubt exists however that the music was composed by Dr. Thomas Arne, and by it, and the chorus, Rule Britannia is known all the world over.

On the 1st August, 1740, a Masque styled Alfred, written by James Thomson and David Mallet, was performed in the gardens of Cliefdon House, in commemoration of the accession of George I., before the Prince and Princess of Wales. The plot of the Masque was based on the gallant struggles of King Alfred with the Danes, it abounded with patriotic allusions, and Rule Britannia was thus introduced in scene 5, Act 2.

“Here is seen the Ocean in prospect, and ships sailing along. Two boats land their crews. One Sailor sings the following ode; after which the rest join in a lively Dance.”

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command,

Arose from out the azure main;

This was the charter, the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung the strain;

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!

Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,

Must in their turns to tyrants fall;

While thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

Rule, Britannia! &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blast that rends the skies,

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule, Britannia! &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:

All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame—

And work their woe, and thy renown.

Rule, Britannia! &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign:

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main,

And ev’ry shore it circles thine.

Rule Britannia! &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coasts repair,

Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d,

And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!

Britons never will be slaves.

---

Latin Version.

Jubente cum primum Deo Britannia

Pelagi cavis recessibus caput extulit,

Ei in manus hæc charta magna tradita est,

Cælestiumque omnis melos cæcinit chorus;

Fluctus regas, domina regas Britannia;

Nunquam Britannus imperanti serviet.

Sua quamque gentium minus felicium

Manet vicissim sors, jugum hostile: interim

Tu, Nostra, pulcra, tu vigebis libera,

Gens invidenda, gens timendaque omnibus.

Fluctus, &c.

Per damna tu cædesque surges celsior,

Ferrumque opes dabit peregrinum tibi:

Procella ceu, quæ miscet æthera et salum,

Novas tuis vires ministrat quercubus.

Fluctus, &c.

Non te tyrannus perdomabit insolens,

Ut sæviat thronoque te dejectum eat:

Virtus tua, acriore calcare incita,

Illi ruinam, gloriam tibi pariet.

Fluctus, &c.

Ruris colonos imperia beant tua;

Cives beant in urbibus commercia;

Tibi æquor omne obtemperabit subditum,

Et omne, cujus alluit litus, solum.

Fluctus, &c.

Camæna, Libertatis usque hæc est comes,

Viset tuam, visamque amabit insulam;

Felix nimis! nam filias armat Venus,

Et filias qui protegant, Mars filios.

Fluctus regas, domina regas Brittania;

Nunquam Brittanus imperanti serviet.

From Blackwood’s Magazine. April, 1819.

---

Election Song.

When Canning’s name was first proclaim’d,

Resounding Mersey’s strand along;

A man for worth and talents fam’d,

This was the Freemen’s fav’rite song:

Hail great Statesman! the Statesman of our choice!

We bid thee welcome and rejoice!

The Candidates opposing thee,

Must daily find their ardour cool;

Whilst thou our pride shall surely be,

Declar’d triumphant at the poll.

Hail &c.

Still as their friends assemble round,

With energy our cause to gain;

Thy foes shall sicken at the sound,

To hear the Freeman’s fav’rite strain.

Hail &c.

Our commerce round the world shall flow,

Surpassing any former time;

To thee our native town shall owe,

The right to trade to every clime.

Hail, &c.

From An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election, October 1812.

---

Rule Britannia.

When Britain first, impell’d by pride,

Usurp’d dominion o’er the main,

Blest peace she vainly threw aside,

And gave her sons the galling chain.

View, Britannia, Britannia view the waves,

On which thy darling sons are slaves.

The nations now more blest than thee

Shall see their haughty Despots fall,

What time thy hapless fate shall be

The scorn and pity of them all.

View, Britannia, &c.

Thy haughty Tyrants ne’er shall bend

The glorious cause of Freedom down;

Their rage shall fan the sacred flame,

And work their woes and her renown.

View, Britannia, &c.

Thee best becomes the contrite strain,

For cities drench’d with human gore,

For crimes which tinge the orient main,

And banish peace from Afric’s shore

View, Britannia, &c.

The Muses still with Freedom found,

Shall from thy venal court repair,

To sing on Gallia’s freer ground,

Or breathe Columbia’s purer air.

View, Britannia, &c.

From The Wreath of Freedom, or Patriot’s Song Book. Newcastle 1820.

---

A Corn Law Rhyme.

When Freedom’s foes mock’d labours’ groan,

And, drunk with power, contemn’d the throne,

God bade great William rule the waves;

And William scorn’d to govern slaves.

Rule, great William, rule the free!

William Britain’s shield will be!

On their hard hearts they ground their words,

And made them sharp as traitors’ swords,

But cower’d, like dogs, beneath his eye,

When millions shouted to the sky,

Rule, great William, rule the free!

William Freedom’s shield shall be!

He broke his bonds o’er Rapine’s head;

“Free men! Free bread!” great William said,

And like a second Alfred stood,

King of the happy and the good;

While the free, from sea to sea,

Sang, Great William rules the free!

Ebenezer Elliott.

In this, Elliott’s wish was father to the thought, for William IV., did not live to see the repeal of the Corn Laws. Another long imitation of Rule Britannia, entitled “The Triumph of Reform,” also appears amongst the Corn Law Rhymes, which were collected and published by Benjamin Steill, London, in 1844.

---

Rule Slaveownia.

(The National Hymn of the Confederate States.)

When first the South, to fury fanned,

Arose and broke the Union’s chain,

This was the Charter, the Charter of the land,

And Mr. Davis sang the strain:

Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves

“Christians ever, ever, ever have had slaves.”

The Northerns, not so blest as thee,

At Aby Lincoln’s foot may fall,

While thou shalt flourish, shalt flourish fierce and free,

The whip, that makes the Nigger bawl,

Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves

“Christians ever, ever, ever should have slaves.”

Thou, dully savage, shalt despise

Each freeman’s argument, or joke:

Each law that Congress, that Congress thought so wise,

Serves but to light thy pipes for smoke.

Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves

“Christians ever, ever, ever must have slaves.”

And Trade, that knows no God but gold,

Shall to thy pirate ports repair:

Blest land, where flesh—where human flesh is sold,

And manly arms may flog that air,

Rule Slaveownia, Slaveownia rules, and raves

“Christians ever, ever, ever shall have slaves.”

Shirley Brooks, 1861.

---

Home-Rule Hibernia!

When Faction at the De’il’s command

Arose within the Em’rald Isle,

This was the chorus through the land,

And traitors sang it in this style:

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

The Scotchmen not so blest as thee,

Put up with Richmond at Whitehall,

Whilst thou, with flourish fierce and free,

Wilt have Home Rule, or none at all.

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Still more cantank’rous shalt thou rise

More dreadful from each Parnell stroke,

Till Commerce from the country flies,

And all thy native banks are broke.

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Thee haughty Viceroys ne’er shall tame,

All their attempts to rub thee down

Will but arouse the “pathriot’s” flame,

And work their woe, but thy renown.

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

To thee belongs red Terror’s reign;

Thy cities shall with arson shine;

All thine be the shillelah’s bane,

And every head it circles thine.

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Thee Furies, oft in Erin found,

To thy unhappy coast repair;

Green Isle, with matchless folly crown’d.

And hearts that blackguard all that’s fair.

Home Rule, Hibernia! Britannia her rule waives!

Britons ne’er shall make us slaves.

Moonshine. January 2, 1886.

---

Imperium et Libertas.

Competition Parodies in The World.

First Prize.

When Beaconsfield, at civic board,

Uprose ’mid fellow-guests’ acclaim,

This was the welcome London roared,

Filling a bumper to his name—

Hail, Imperial, Imperial Statesman, hail!

Thy majority shall never, never fail!

Let Gladstone boast of silver axe,

And prate of upas-trees cut down;

Thine be the care of income-tax,

And thine be Turnerelli’s crown.

So hail, &c.

‘Great Gladstone, less astute than we,

From place and power defeated fell;

I taught an Empire to be free,

And grow Conservative as well.

Then hail, Imperial freedom, hail!

My majority shall never fail.

Me dissolution ne’er shall shock,

Midlothian voters ne’er dismay;

The epigrams I have in stock

Will serve me in the coming fray.

Then hail, &c.

“Libertas et Imperium,”

My watchword and my battle-call,

Will silence, when the elections come,

The loudest varlet of them all.

Then hail, &c.

Still more secure shall be my lease

Of Downing-street and county votes,

Whilst licensed victuallers increase,

And borough members turn their coats.

So hail, &c.

Here, when November days come round,

Is happiness enough for me:

Blest halls, where every bowl is crowned

With calipash and calipee!

Then hail, &c.

So Truscott,[22] when the circling year

Has withered all thy civic bays,

Again I’ll sip my turtle here,

And sing again an Empire’s praise.

Then hail, &c.’

Common Pleas.

Second Prize.

When on us burst, at thy command,

A party legend once again,

This was the cry throughout the land—

At least the Liberals sang the strain—

Fools! how can ye, how can ye trust such shaves?

Jingoes ever will be knaves!

The motto duly blessed by thee,

Great Earl, and by thy Tory class,

Runs ‘Government and Liberty’

(Imperium et Libertas).

Fools, &c.

*  *  *  *  *

(Six stanzas omitted).

Lindenfield.

The World. December 3, 1879.

A so-called comic song, entitled “Brickbats never will be Slates,” was brought out about two years ago, but it possesses no literary interest as a parody.

GOD SAVE THE KING.

The most remarkable feature about “God save the King,” (or Queen) is the great uncertainty which exists as to its origin. There seems little doubt that the melody is German, but it is not known when, or by whom, it was imported, whilst the words have been handed down, with slight verbal alterations, since the days when James the First was congratulated on his escape from the Gunpowder Plot.

The words as they were then sung were written by Dr. John Bull, to whom some also ascribe the melody; Germans assert that it was imported into England by Handel, whilst others state that either Lulli, or Purcell, was the composer.

George Saville Carey claimed both the words and the melody as the productions of his father, Henry Carey (the author of “Sally in our Alley,”) and one hypothesis is, that no other song writer could have been guilty of such atrocious rhymes as are to be found in the anthem:

Victorious.	| Laws.
Glorious.	| Cause.
Over us.	| Voice.

There is no doubt that Henry Carey had some part in settling the words, as they are now known, whilst as to the melody the most likely supposition is that he adopted German music in honour of the House of Brunswick, for the same air was at once the Royal Hymn for Prussia, Saxony, Weimar, Brunswick and Hanover; the German version known as “Heil Dir im Sieger Kranz” is still the official anthem of the German Empire. This theory is far more probable than are the various other conjectures as to its origin, such as that it was either a Scotch, French, or Jacobite Song. The grand simplicity of the air is almost sufficient proof of its German origin, and it is far more probable that it was introduced here with the Hanoverian dynasty than that an English melody should have been adopted as the Royal Hymn by nearly all the states of central Europe.

A good many years ago it was stated in Edinburgh that the manuscript memoirs of the Duchess of Perth contained an account of the establishment of St. Cyr, in which she stated that—“When the most Christian king Louis XIV entered the chapel, all the choir of noble damsels sung each time the following words, to a very fine air by the Sieur de Sully:—

Grand Dieu, sauvez le Roy!

Grand Dieu, vengez le Roy

Vive le Roy!

Que toujours glorieux,

Louis victorieux!

Voye ses ennemis,

Toujours soumis!

Grand Dieu, sauvez le Roy!

Grand Dieu, vengez le Roy!

Vive le Roy!

The tradition is, that the composer Handel, obtained leave to copy the air and words, which he submitted to George the First as his own composition.”

The importation of the air of “God save the King,” appears undeniable, but it certainly did not come from France, neither is there anything to show that Handel passed it off as his own composition. Indeed in a court mainly composed of Germans, and before a German King, to whom the air must have been familiar from early childhood, such an attempt would have been ridiculous.

Many interesting facts bearing on these disputed questions will be found in an account of the National Anthem, entitled, “God save the King,” by Richard Clarke; London, W. Wright, Fleet Street, 1822; also in “Old National Airs,” by W. Chappell; “The Music of the Church,” by Thomas Hirst; and “An Introduction to the study of National Music,” by Carl Engel, London, 1866.

These authorities are not agreed as to the origin of the melody, but they all assert that words, somewhat similar to those now in use, were written to congratulate James the First on his escape from the Gunpowder Plot, and were sung for the first time at an entertainment given to that King in July 1607 in the Hall of the Merchant Tailors’ Company, in the City of London.

Indeed, the balance of evidence tends to prove that the song never was intended for the House of Hanover, whose anthem it has become, but for the Stuart family. Up to the time of Charles I. the national anthem-sung in honour of the king was “Vive le Roy”—an English song with a Norman burden. After the revolution that made Cromwell Protector, the Cavaliers, without utterly discarding the old song, made themselves a new one—“When the King shall enjoy his own again,” which, with its by no means contemptible poetry, and its exceedingly fine music, kept up the heart of the party in their adversity, and did more for the royal cause than an army.

In the reigns of Charles II. and James II., when the King had come into the full possession of his own, the loyal song was, “Here’s a Health unto his Majesty.” Later on, when the Stuarts were in exile, it would seem that Carey revived “God save the King,” but that it did not become popular until 1745, about two years after his death.

George Saville Carey in The Balnea (London, 1801) gives the following account of the origin of God save the King:

“In spite of all literary cavil and conjectural assertion there has not yet appeared one identity to invalidate the truth that my father was the author of that important song, some have given the music to Handel, others to Purcell, some have signified that it was produced in the time of Charles I. others James I. and some, in their slumbers, have dreamed that it made its appearance in the reign of Henry VIII. it might as well have been carried still further back, to the reign of song-singing Solomon, or psalm singing David. I have heard the late Mr. Pearce Galliard assert, time after time, that my father was the author of “God save the King”; that it was produced in the year 1745-6, and printed in the year 1750, for John Johnson, opposite Bow Church, in Cheapside. But, for the satisfaction of my readers, I will insert the song of ‘God save the King,’ as it is printed in the original text, where it is called a song for two voices:—

I.

God save Great George our King

Long Live our noble King,

God save the King,

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the King.

II.

O Lord our God, arise,

Scatter our enemies,

And make them fall;

Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

On him our hopes we fix,

God save us all.

III.

Thy choicest gifts in store,

On him be pleased to pour,

Long may he reign,

May he defend our laws,

And ever give us cause

To sing, with heart and voice

God save the King.

IV.

Lord grant that Marshall Wade,[23]

May, by thy Mighty aid,

Victory bring;

May he sedition hush,

And like a torrent rush,

Rebellious Scots to crush,

God save the King.

There can be little doubt that Henry Carey was the author of the first three verses of this particular version of the song, but he could not have written the fourth verse, as he committed suicide in 1743, two years before the Scotch rebellion to which the verse refers.

The first time that the song or anthem of “God save the King” was made known generally to the public was at the end of the month of September, 1745 after the young Pretender’s forces had beaten Sir John Cope, and Prince Charles himself had made his triumphant entry into Holyrood Palace. “On Saturday night,” says the Daily Advertiser of September 30th, 1745, “the audience at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane were agreeably surprised by the gentlemen belonging to that house performing the anthem of ‘God save our noble King.’” Another paper, the General Advertiser, of October 2nd, said—“At the Theatre in Goodman’s Fields, by desire, ‘God save the King,’ as it was performed at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, was sung with great applause.” That the song was a novelty is proved not only by these records, but by a letter from Benjamin Victor to David Garrick, bearing date October, 1745. The writer says—“The stage at both houses is the most pious as well as the most loyal place in the three kingdoms. Twenty men appear at the end of every play, and one stepping forward from the rest, with uplifted hands and eyes, begins singing to an old anthem tune the following words:—

‘Oh, Lord our God, arise,

Confound the enemies

Of George our King;

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us

God save the King.

He adds, “These are the very words and music of an old anthem that was sung at St James’s Chapel for King James II., when the Prince of Orange landed to deliver us from Popery and Slavery, which God Almighty, in his goodness, was pleased not to grant.”

From that time God save the King became the recognised official and loyal song, or anthem, but it is, of course, incorrect to style it the National Anthem, in the sense that Rule Britannia is National, as it is simply a prayer for the Royal Family. Richard Brinsley Sheridan wrote an impromptu verse, which was sung at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1800, on the night when Hatfield fired from the pit of that theatre at George III. It is scarcely necessary to observe that Sheridan’s verse, as poetry, is immeasurably superior to the older portion of the anthem:—

“From every latent foe,

From the assassin’s blow,

God save the King!

O’er him thine arm extend,

For Britain’s sake defend

Our father, prince and friend—

God save the King!”

---

In 1795 The Gentleman’s Magazine published the following Latin version:—

“DOMINE, SALVUM FAC REGEM.

O vivas, omnibus,

Salvus ab hostibus,

Georgi, O Rex!

Tibi victoriam

Deus, et Gloriam

Det, et memoriam

Optime rex.

Hostes, O Domine

Ut cadant omine

Horrido, da;

Praebe, cœlicolens,

Deus omnipotens!

Atque omnisciens,

Auxilia.

Fiat clarissimus

Et beatissimus

Georgius Rex;

Cujus judicio,

Cujus auspicio,

Et beneficio

Floreat lex!”

---

On the accession of William IV. a new version of the anthem was prepared:—

God save our noble King,

William the Fourth we sing.

God save the King.

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the King.

O Lord our God arise,

Guard him from enemies,

Or make them fall;

May peace with plenty crown’d

Throughout his realms abound,

So be his name renown’d,

God save us all.

Or should some foreign band

Dare to this favour’d land

Discord to bring,

May our brave William’s name,

Proud in the lists of fame,

Bring them to scorn and shame.

God save the King.

Thy choicest gifts in store

On William deign to pour,

Joy round him fling;

May he defend our laws,

And ever give us cause

To sing with heart and voice

God save the King.

---

VICTORY! FREEDOM! AND FOX.

Britons, let’s all unite

In defence of our right

And liberty:

For us we’ll distance drive

Scare-Crow Prerogative

Nor ever, whilst alive,

Cease to be free.

Time-servers, wond’ring, shall

View us determin’d all

Spite of the Court;

Spite of their wily tricks,

And Back-stair politics,

Fox is the man we fix

On to support.

We, like Sir Judas Wray,

Will not our friends betray,

But, orthodox

In aid of liberty,

Let the whole nation see

True and staunch we will be

Ever to Fox.

Void of all treachery,

To guard our liberty,

Foremost stands Fox:

Let, then, be this our cry

Conquer, or let us die.

Huzza! boys, Victory!

Freedom, and Fox.

From The History of the Westminster Election, 1784.

---

In 1790 Charles James Fox brought forward a motion in the House of Commons for the repeal of the test and corporation acts. Pitt and Burke opposed any such concession to the dissenters, and the motion was rejected by nearly three to one. A great agitation was got up, all over the country, by the Tory party, against the dissenters, who were ridiculed and abused in pamphlets, poems, and caricatures. Councillor Morfit, of Birmingham, composed a parody of God save the King which became very popular, it was extensively printed with a large caricatured representation of the chief dissenters brooding over sedition. It was entitled:—

Our Mother Church.

God save great George our King!

Long live our noble King,

God save the King,

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the King!

Old mother Church disdains

The vile dissenting strains,

That round her ring;

She keeps her dignity,

And, scorning faction’s cry,

Sings with sincerity,

God save the King!

Sedition is their creed;

Feigned sheep, but wolves indeed,

How can we trust?

Gunpowder Priestley would

Deluge the throne with blood,

And lay the great and good

Low in the dust.

History, thy page unfold,

Did not their sires of old

Murder their King!

And they would overthrow

King, lords and bishops too,

And, while they gave the blow,

Loyally sing,

“O Lord our God arise

Scatter our enemies,

And make them fall;

Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks;

On thee our hopes we fix,

God save us all.”

---

Old Prices.

A parody of God Save the King circulated in Covent Garden Theatre, on the night of October 18, 1809, during the celebrated O.P. riots.

God save great Johnny Bull,

Long live our noble Bull,

God save John Bull.

Send him victorious,

Loud and uproarious,

With lungs like Boreas,

God save John Bull.

O Johnny Bull be true,

Oppose the prices new,

And make them fall;

Curse Kemble’s politics,

Frustrate his knavish tricks,

On thee our hopes we fix.

Confound them all.

No private boxes let

Intriguing ladies get,

Thy right, John Bull.

From little pigeon-holes

Defend us jolly souls;

And we will sing, by goles,

God save John Bull.

The Covent Garden Journal.
Vol. II. London, 1810.

These volumes contain full accounts of the O.P. Riots in the new Covent Garden Theatre, which arose from some injudicious alterations made in the prices, and structural arrangements by John Kemble. He raised the prices partly in order to pay high salaries to Madame Catalani and other foreigners. The war cries of the rioters were “Old Prices! No Private Boxes! No Catalani! The English Drama!”, many songs and parodies were written to annoy Kemble, who had, eventually, to compromise matters, and Madame Catalani’s name was withdrawn from the bills. This lady had a fine voice, but was so ignorant of the English language that the following version of “God save the King” was prepared to assist her pronunciation when she had to sing the solo:—

Oh, Lord avar God

Arais, schaeter

Is enemis and

Mece them fol

Confond tear

Politekse frosstre

Their nevise trix

On George avar hopes

We fix. God save the Kin.

---

Hail! Masonry Divine.

Hail! Masonry divine

Glory of ages shine,

Long may’st thou hold;

Where’er thy lodges stand

May they have great command,

And always grace the land:

Thou Art divine.

Great fabrics still arise,

And touch the azure skies,

Great are thy schemes;

Thy noble orders are

Matchless beyond compare,

No art with thee can share,

Thou art divine.

Hiram, the architect,

Did all the craft direct

How they should build;

Solomon, great Israel’s King,

Did mighty blessings bring,

And left us room to sing,

Hail! Royal Art.

From The Universal Songster.

---

God Save the Rights of Man.

God save the Rights of Man,

Give him a heart to scan

Blessings so dear:

Let them be spread around,

Where ever man is found,

And with the welcome sound

Ravish his ear.

See, from the universe,

Darkness and clouds disperse;

Mankind awake;

Reason and Truth appear,

Freedom advances near,

Monarchs with terror hear;

See how they quake!

O’er the Germanic Powers

Loud indignation showers,

Ready to fall.

Let the rude savage host,

In their long numbers boast,

Freedom’s Almighty trust,

Laughs at them all.

Let us with Spain agree,

And bid the world be free,

Leading the way:

Let tyrants all conspire,

Fearless of sword and fire,

Freedom shall ne’er retire,

Freedom shall sway.

Fame let thy trumpet sound,

Tell all the world around,

Tell each degree;

Tell ribbons, crowns, and stars,

Kings, traitors, troops, and wars,

Holy Leagues, plots, and jars,

Spaniards are free.

God save the Rights of Man,

Give him a heart to scan

Blessings so dear:

Let them be spread around,

Wherever man is found,

And with the welcome sound

Ravish his ear.

From The Wreath of Freedom,
or Patriot’s Song Book.
(J. Marshall, Newcastle. 1820.)

---

Save Yourselves.

In 1871, Mr. Gladstone addressed a large meeting of the electors of Greenwich on Blackheath. In the course of his speech he referred to the number of reforms that had been carried out during his political career; but, he added, that whilst much remained to be done, we must not flatter ourselves that all the evils of humanity could be cured by legislation. He then quoted the first verse of the following parody, stating that he had met with it in a “questionable book.” The “questionable book” was The Secularist’s Manual of Songs and Ceremonies. Edited by Austin Holyoake and Charles Watts, with a Preface by Charles Bradlaugh. There was a loud outcry against Mr. Gladstone for quoting from such a source.

People throughout the land,

Join in one social band,

And save yourselves;

If you would happy be,

Free from all slavery,

Banish all knavery,

And save yourselves.

Why will you always toil,

While others share the spoil?

Work for yourselves!

Let them who live so high

Work for themselves, or try,

Tell them ’tis time to try

To keep themselves.

Parsons and peers may preach,

And endless falsehoods teach,

Think for yourselves;

Then let your watchword be

“Justice and Liberty”—

And toil unwearedly

To save yourselves.

---

The National Anthem.

(For use in the Bradlaughable Republic.)

God = X. Title of Freethinker’s Text Book.

“X” save our graceless Chief,

Reward his unbelief,

“X” save our B.

O’er Church victorious,

And Throne, once glorious,

Now sole Lord over us—

Xtol our B!

Science, our “X”! arise!

Xplode B.’s enemies,

And squash them small!

Confound their politics!

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

Oh “X”! these heretics

Xtinguish all!

Thy Xcellent gifts in store.

Great “X”! be pleased to pour,

On sacred B.!

May he repeal the laws

Which make our conscience pause,

(Oaths merely move our jaws)

And win loud lip-applause.

“X”! (pelled) M.P.

From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, London: Houlston & Sons. About 1884.

---

“A clergyman—decidedly of the Church militant—sends us the following proposed ‘national anathema.’ His motto is from the ‘Magnificat’”:—

Deposuit Potentes de Sede.

Down with their lofty seats,

Down with their vain conceits,

Down with the Lords!

Confound their false pretence,

Confound their want of sense,

Confound their impudence,

Down with the Lords!

Down with their arrogant,

Reckless, extravagant,

Insolent words!

Shall they reject the bill?

Shall they dissolve at will?

Shall they obstruct us still?

Down with the Lords!

Commons of England, yet

Shall the proud Lords regret

Their futile aim.

Make then our hearts rejoice,

You are the People’s choice,

You are the People’s voice,

They but a name.

The Pall Mall Gazette. October 3, 1884.

---

God Save Gladstone.

God save the People’s Friend!

May he our cause defend!

Trusted and brave.

Lengthen his span of years,

Deepen the tyrants fears,

Until the right appears,

Gladstone still save!

God save the noble band

Who long have led the van

Of Freedom’s host!

May faith and courage be

Watchwords of Liberty!

Until the goal we see,

Each to his post!

Gladstone, the People’s Friend!

Our aid we gladly lend

Thy work to do:

Yielding no inch of ground

He will his foes confound,

So shall our cause abound—

Liberty true.

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

---

A National Anthem.

(The Queen was to open Parliament on the 21st January.)

Soon will our gracious Queen

In town again be seen—

Our long-lost Queen;

Let us be glorious,

Yea, quite laborious

With mirth uproarious

To—oo—oo greet our Queen!

Thus will Victoria Reg.

Give us this privilege

Too seldom seen.

For she (oh, great event!)

Hath stated her intent

To o—o—open Parliament Parliament—

O—o—oh! gracious Queen!

Hail, then, with all your pow’r,

That joyous brief half-hour,

When she’ll be seen!

Thanks to our politics

(Which, through our M.P.’s tricks,

Often are in a fix)

We—e shall see our Queen!

Fun. January 20, 1886.

---

Additional Verse composed
on the Queen’s Marriage.

O, grant our earnest prayer,

Smile on the Royal pair,

Bless Prince and Queen!

May Albert’s name be dear

To every Briton’s ear,

The peasant and the peer—

God save the Queen.

---

A Jubilee Version.

The Vicar of Ryde, at the conclusion of an entertainment recently held at the Town Hall, Ryde, in aid of parochial charities, called upon the audience to join in singing the National Anthem, and “gave out” an additional verse which had been written “for the occasion” was as follows:—

God bless her Majesty,

In this her Jubilee,

Long may she reign!

May she be near to us,

Ever more dear to us,

Oftener appear to us,

God save the Queen!

Truth. February 17, 1887.

---

An Improved “National Anthem.”

At the opening of the People’s Park, Manchester, by Prince Albert, a greatly improved “National Anthem” was sung, it would make an excellent substitute for the objectionable old version. As an improved “National Anthem,” perhaps there is none more worthy than the following, by Mr. W. E. Hickson, and its adoption would be an excellent Jubilee memento:—

God bless our native land,

May heaven’s protecting hand

Still guard our shore;

May peace her power extend,

Foe be transformed to friend,

And Britain’s power depend

On war no more.

Thro’ every changing scene

O Lord preserve our Queen,

Well may she reign.

Her heart inspire and move

With wisdom from above,

And in the nation’s love

Her throne maintain.

May just and prudent laws

Uphold the public cause,

And bless our Isle;

Home of the brave and free,

The land of liberty,

We pray that still on thee

Kind heaven may smile.

And not this land alone,

But be Thy mercies known

From shore to shore.

Let all the nations see

That men should brothers be,

And form one family

The wide world o’er.

THE SONGS OF