SCOTCH SONGS.
Parodies of the Songs of Robert Burns, and other Scotch Authors appeared in Volume III., but the following were not included.
ANNIE LAURIE.
Supposed to have been modernised from an old Scotch song by Douglas, and dedicated by him to Annie Laurie, daughter of Sir Robert Laurie. Tradition says that Douglas was rejected by the young lady, and further, that he did not “lay him doun and dee.”
Maxwelton braes are bonnie,
Where early fa’s the dew;
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true;
Gied me her promise true,
Which ne’er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doun and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift,
Her throat is like the swan,
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on;
That e’er the sun shone on,
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doun and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying,
Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet;
Her voice is low and sweet,
And she’s all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doun and dee.
Old Sir Peter Laurie.
The Guildhall Bench is funny,
When prisoners stand in view,
For it’s there Sir Peter Laurie,
Gives them his promise true.
Gives them his promise true,
To “put ’em down,” he’ll try;
How that Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law—my eye
How that Old Sir Peter Laurie, &c.
His nose is like the roast beef,
The Civic board upon;
His phiz it is the ruddiest,
That e’er the gas shone on,
That e’er the gas shone on,
And grey his gooseberry eye;
And how Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law—my eye!
Like a dray through Cheapside going,
Is the fall of his heavy feet;
Like a windy knacker blowing,
His voice about as sweet.
His voice is just as sweet,
And to put down all he’ll try;
How that Old Sir Peter Laurie
Lays down the Law—my eye!
J. A. Hardwick.
In his day old Sir Peter Laurie was about as unpopular on the Bench as Mr. Newton is in this, and was scarcely less distinguished for the folly of his magisterial remarks. The actual circumstance which gave rise to the parody occurred in 1844, when a poor forlorn, half starved, and wholly ruined young woman was charged before this great and good Alderman.
“Sir Peter Laurie said he should send her to the Old Bailey for attempted suicide. It was a fit case for trial, and he had no doubt she would be transported. He had put an end to persons attempting to drown themselves; he would now try the same cure for attempted poisoning. He had no doubt that those who took poison did not do so for the purpose of self-destruction, but for the purpose of exciting sympathy.”
——:o:——
My Mother-in-Law.
(Air—Mary o’Argyle.)
I have heard the cats a-squealing
On the slates at early morn;
I have the seen the tiles a-stealing,
From the roof-tops in a storm;
But the sound which most doth fear me,
And disturb life’s sweet repose;
I have seen an eye still blacker,
Than the ink upon white clothes.
’Tis thy voice, my once dear-mother-
In-law, which doth me rile,
When you speak the house doth tremble,
So roof-lifting is your style.
Though thy voice may lose its gruffness,
And thine eye its pot-black hue;
And thy lengthy step its longness,
And thy hair its redness too;
Still to me thou’lt be more frightful,
Than I shall ever own;
I have shunn’d thee for thy harshness,
But not for that alone.
’Tis thy voice—hark—now ’tis stealing,
Down the garret stairs, the while,
Like sad funeral bells a pealing,
I must answer it, or I’ll——
David Welch.
Detroit Free Press. January 15, 1887.
——:o:——
Poor Joe.[72]
Oh, dear; what can the matter be?
Oh, dear; what can the matter be?
Oh, dear; what can the matter be?
Joseph’s so very much out.
He promised to give us a cow and three acres,
And make us contented and placid as Quakers,
But now we can’t even get bread at the bakers,
Joe was so very much out!
He told us that Erin was not to be trusted,
And that our friend William was very nigh “busted,”
But all his remarks with romance have been crusted,
Joe was so very much out!
“Our Imperial Integrity” was the foundation
Which lured us to “back up” poor Joe’s declamation,
But the words, it appears, meant a clap-trap oration,
By Joe, who was very much out!
Then let us rejoice to rejoin the old master,
Who never has led us to wrong or disaster,
Nor pretended to cure us with “Brummagem plaster,”
Like Joe, who was very much out!
Oh, dear; what can the matter be?
Oh, dear; what can this chatter be?
Oh, dear; what can this clatter be?
Why, Joseph’s so very much out.
Truth. July 15, 1886.
——:o:——
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
A new version of an old Scotch favourite, suggested by recent events, and dedicated to the Standard.
Kick him now the bold outlaw,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Show no mercy Tories a’,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Let your hands and hearts agree,
Let the cheeky laddie see
How we curse with muckle glee,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Long old Sal. has doom’d his fa’,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
For he spurned the Tory law,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
We can for our party dee,
We will e’er staunch Tories be
And can ne’er forget—forgie
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Ne’er again the Primrose pride,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Our reward must now abide,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Long from office let him pine,
We’re but glad he did resign,
Kick him, then, for auld lang syne,
Randy Randolph Churchill O!
Pall Mall Gazette. 1886.
——:o:——
BEHAVE YOURSEL’ BEFORE FOLK.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
And dinna be sae rude to me,
As kiss me sae before folk.
It wadna gi’e me meikle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak’ a kiss or grant ye are;
But, guidsake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
Whate’er ye do when out o’ view,
Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folks will crack,
And what a great affair they’ll mak’
O’ naething but a simple smack
That’s gi’en or ta’en before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
Nor gi’e the tongue o’ auld or young
Occasion to come o’er folk.
It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But, losh! I tak’ it sair amiss
To be sae teased before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
When we’re our lane, you may tak’ ane,
But fient a ane before folk.
I’m sure wi’ you I’ve been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet it doesna do to see
Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
I’ll ne’er submit again to it—
So mind you that—before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae, I dinna care;
But ne’er again gar’t blush sae sair
As ye hae done before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
Nor heat my cheeks wi’ your mad freaks,
But aye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet;
Sic tales I doubt are a’ deceit;
At ony rate, it’s hardly meet
To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
Gin that’s the case there’s time and place,
But surely no before folk.
But gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss’d,
Gae get a license frae the priest,
And mak’ me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel’ before folk,
Behave yoursel’ before folk;
And when we’re ane baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak’ ten before folk.
The Answer to “Behave Yoursel’ Before Folk.”
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When wily elf, your sleeky self,
Gars me gang gyte before folk?
In a’ ye do, in a’ ye say,
Ye’ve sic a pawkie coaxing way
That my poor wits ye lead astray,
And ding me doilt before folk.
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk;
While ye ensnare, can I forbear
A kissing ye before folk?
Can I behold that dimpling cheek,
Whar love ’mang sunny smiles might beek,
Yet howlet-like my eelids steek,
And shun sic light before folk?
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When ilka smile becomes a wile,
Enticing me before folk?
That lip, like Eve’s forbidden fruit,
Sweet, plump an’ ripe, sae tempts me to ’t,
That I maun pree’t though I should rue’t,
Ay twenty times before folk!
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When temptingly it offers me
So rich a treat before folk?
That gowden hair sae sunny bright,
That shapely neck o’ snowy white;
That tongue e’en when it tries to flyte,
Provokes me till’t before folk!
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When ilka charm, young, fresh, and warm,
Cries, “Kiss me now;” before folk?
An’, oh, that pawkie, rowin ee,
Sae roguishly it blinks on me,
I canna, for my soul, let be
Frae kissing you before folk!
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk,
When ilka glint conveys a hint
To tack a smack before folk?
Ye own that were we baith our lane,
Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane;
Weel, gin there be no harm in’t then,
What harm is in’t before folk?
Can I behave, can I behave,
Can I behave before folk?
Sly hypocrite, an anchorite
Could scarce desist before folk!
But after a’ that has been said,
Since ye are willing to be wed,
We’ll hae a “blythesome bridal” made,
When ye’ll be mine before folk.
Then I’ll behave, then I’ll behave,
Then I’ll behave before folk;
For whereas then ye’ll aft get ten,
It winna be before folk.
Alexander Rodger.
The Turtle Dove.
(Air—Jessy of Dunblayne.)
As lonely I sat on a calm summer morning,
To breathe the soft incense that flowed on the wind,
I mus’d on my Boots in their bright beauty dawning,
By Warren’s Jet Blacking—the pride of mankind.
On a maple-tree near sat a turtle bewailing,
With sorrowful cooings, the loss of her love;
Each note that she utter’d seemed sadness exhaling,
And plaintively echo’d around the still grove.
When, lo! in my Boots, the lone mourner perceiv’d
Her form, and suppos’d that her lover was there;
Even I, that the vision was real, half believ’d;
The Blacking reflected her image so clear.
She hover’d around, at the figure still gazing,
Anxiety seem’d but to heighten her woe;
She perch’d on the Boot with a courage amazing,
And fondled the vision that bloom’d in its glow.
I pity’d the dove, for my bosom was tender,—
I pity’d the strain that she gave to the wind;
But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendour
Of Warren’s Jet Blacking—the pride of mankind.
This easy-shining and brilliant Blacking, is prepared by Robert Warren, 30, Strand, London.
Old advertisement.
——:o:——
KELVIN GROVE.
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie Lassie, O,
Thro’ its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O;
Where the rose, in all her pride,
Paints the hollow dingle side,
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.
* * * * *
Let us haste and join the Chase.
Let us haste and join the Chase,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
See the morning’s peeping face,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
We’ll sound the lightsome horn,
Brush the dew-drop from the thorn,
And danger treat with scorn,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
Hark, hark, the barking pack,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
Bids us seek the courser’s back,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
So, mount! away we’ll go;
Give our victim a death-blow,
With laughter, mirth, soho!
Jolly huntsmen, O!
And then, when drowsy night,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
Brings the brown ale to our sight,
Jolly huntsmen, O!
Then we’ll quaff the flowing can,
And ugly care trepan,
With a health to every man
Jolly huntsmen, O!
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
——:o:——
Song of March.
March, March; daisies and buttercups
Put forth their petals in exquisite order.
March, March; crocuses springing up,
Give a gay aspect to bed and to border.
Little birds fly about; turkeys’ eggs lie about,
And the broad daylight gets broader and broader.
Boreas goes about; everything blows about;
Bonnets and hats are in dreadful disorder.
March, March; daisies and buttercups
Put forth their petals in exquisite order.
March, March; crocuses springing up,
Give a gay aspect to bed and to border.
Punch’s Almanac. 1846.
——:o:——
THE LAND O’ THE LEAL.
I’m wearin’ awa’, John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John,
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
I’ the land o’ the leal. &c.
* * * * *
Lady Nairne.
The land o’ the Leal.
(New and improved version.)
I’m frichtened for ye a’ weans,
Sic merriment to shaw, weans,
That’s no the thing ava
For the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae lauchin’ there, weans,
Nor faces smilin’ fair, weans,
There’s noucht but looks o’ care,
In the land o’ the leal.
II.
Ye’ll winder hoo I ken, weans?
I’m no like ither men, weans,
I live juist but and ben
Frae the land o’ the leal.
An’ gloomy faces stare, weans,
Wi’ looks o’ wan despair, weans,
Upon me ilka where,
Frae the land o’ the leal.
III.
Then bend your little broos, weans,
An’ hing your bonny moos, weans,
An’ hear my blessed news,
Frae the land o’ the leal.
That thegither we may meet, weans,
An’ sab, an’ sigh, an’ greet, weans,
In happiness complete,
In the land o’ the leal.
The Kincardineshire Advertiser.—[On the occasion of a Scottish minister addressing an assembly of 300 children and forbidding them to applaud, as “there would be no laughter in Heaven.”]
A Corn Law Rhyme.
Where the poor cease to pay,
Go, lov’d one, and rest!
Thou art wearing away
To the land of the blest.
Our father is gone
Where the wrong’d are forgiven,
And that dearest one,
Thy husband, in heaven.
No toil in despair,
No tyrant, no slave,
No bread-tax is there,
With a maw like the grave.
But the poacher, thy pride,
Whelm’d in ocean afar;
And his brother, who died
Land-butcher’d in war;
And their mother, who sank
Broken-hearted to rest;
And the baby, that drank
’Till it froze on her breast;
With tears, and with smiles,
Are waiting for thee,
In the beautiful isles,
Where the wrong’d are the free.
Go, loved one, and rest
Where the poor cease to pay!
To the land of the blest
Thou art wearing away.
But the son of thy pain
Will yet stay with me,
And poor little Jane
Look sadly like thee.
From Corn Law Rhymes, by Ebenezer Elliott. London. B. Steill. 1844.
——:o:——
The Lament of the Lost One.
Residing in the Unprotectorate of Notting Hill.
Oh where, and oh where is our one policeman gone?
Each night (when it was light) we used to see him come;
And ’tis oh, in my heart, I fear we’re now not safe at home.
Suppose at my nose a cocked pistol I espy,
No policeman comes to save, tho’ Murder! loud I cry;
And for aid I must wait till somebody passeth by.
To “first catch your hare” is sound advice ’tis true;
But when my burglar’s caught, pray what am I to do?
One can’t hold him, like a baby, in one’s arms the whole night through.
For peace and police each half-year a rate I pay;
But, alas! I find them pass only once or twice a day;
And ’tis night when thieves delight to steal a march, they say.
Punch 1856.
Oh, Where, and oh, Where, does your Own True Lover Stray?
Oh, where, and oh, where does my own true lover stray?
He’s gone upon his travels, oh, he’s gone to Botany-Bay;
And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not stay.
Oh, where, and oh, where does your own true lover dwell?
He lived in Tothill-fields, at the sign of the Blue Bell;
And its oh, in my heart I loved him very well.
What cloth, and what cloth does your own true lover wear?
He’s clothed in wool and yarn, and they’ve shaved off all his hair.
And its oh, in my heart, I love him to dispair.
But what should I do if my own true love should die?
I’d fret myself to death, oh, I would lay me down and cry.
And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not die.
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
——:o:——
Ormonde, M.P.
An Election Song. June, 1886.
To the “House” at Westminster, ’twas wisdom that spoke,
The Home Rule of Gladstone is nothing but smoke;
Then each brave elector, who loves honour and me,
Let him stand by the flag of the kingdoms, all three.
Chorus—
Come fill up your cup, come fill up your can,
Come saddle your horses and follow your man;
Frustrate disunion, and let us gae free,
For its all up with Gladstone and his minis-trie.
The Light ’un is mounted, he rides up the street,
Bravo! cry the whigs, and the “rads” they retreat:
Whilst the Tory (douce mon) says just e’en let it be,
For we’ve had quite enough of Old Ver-bos-i-tie.
The horseman is loyal, in speech he is short,
He’s his country to serve, and has no other thought;
No seeker for pension, no time server he,
Nor lawyer, place hunter, nor peers pro-te-gée.
There are hills up to Highgate and lands as set forth,
There are Lords in the west, and Lads in the north;
And bold free electors, twice thousand times three,
Who can make Little Leighton our local M.P.!
Then awa’ to the highlands and meadows in cocks,
Eer I’d own with old Gladstone I’d crouch with the Fox:
Oh! tremble false whigs, in the midst of your glee,
Ye hae no seen the last o’ my colours or me.
Gladstone’s Address.
To the millions of England, ’twas Gladstone who spoke,
“I’ve freed you at last from the Squire’s strong yoke,
The march of the people to triumph I’ve led,
And, henceforth, the rule of the Tories is dead.
Come, follow me, men, for the fight that is near;
Come, gather and rank for the battle that’s here;
And again your old Leader to lead you, you’ll see,
And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me.
“You’ll fight as you fought when the people I led,
With Cobden and Bright, and with Peel, for cheap bread;
You’ll fight as you fought and you triumphed with me,
When commerce and trade we for ever set free.
Come, follow me, men, for the fight that shall say
If you or the Tories shall rule from to-day;
And again your old leader to lead you you’ll see,
And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again under me.
“Think how we have fought for the people’s free Press,
For the schools that with knowledge your children shall bless,
For the laws that from Ireland swept wrong upon wrong,
In Church and in land, that she’d suffered so long;
So gather, my men, for the fight that is near,
And follow me, men, when the battle is here,
And again your old leader your leader shall be,
And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me.”
(Two verses omitted.)
He spoke, and the people arose at his word,
And the march of the millions to aid him, I heard;
“At my call how they gather to triumph,” said he,
“And they’ll conquer and conquer again yet with me;
For England’s I am till I yield up my breath,
Like Chatham, I’m her’s still in life and in death,
To the last, for the people, their leader I’ll be,
And they’ll conquer and conquer again, led by me.”
W. C. Bennett.
To the Peers.
To the Peers ’tis the People that sturdily spoke
’Ere Privilege rule us its power shall be broke;
So let the Lords tremble if hostile they be,
For the end of their House they will certainly see.
Chorus.
Then be it the duty of every man
To fight for the franchise as hard as he can,
And teach gilded puppets, whoever they be,
That England from fossilised claims will be free.
For who are the handful of lords who assume
The right thus to silence the millions to doom?
Why, the answer is plain, they are bubbles which dream
They rule, since they float upon Time’s mighty stream.
But the bubbles, though gilded and gay they appear,
The tempest of anger will find very near;
And ere they perceive that it speeds on its way
The bubbles called Peers will be blown far away.
J. Pratt.
The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.
A very good parody of Bonnie Dundee will also be found in “Three in Norway, by two of them,” published recently by Longmans & Co., London. The parody is entitled “An Ode to the Last Pot of (Keiller’s Dundee) Marmalade.” A parody of “A Highland Lad my Love was born,” entitled “The Grand Old Man,” and commencing “In Tory bonds our Bill was born,” appeared in Punch, December 16, 1882.
——:o:——
The Black Broom.
The Broom cam capouring doon to the Hoose,
Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon;
It sims the Exchequer can loosen a noose
Which the law too cruelly ties, mon;
So Looshington cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest,
We weesh ye much joy o’ the prize, mon;
’Tes a vera new grievance, but are o’ the best,
Whan the Trasury snubs the Excisemon.”
The Broom is commonly pawkie enoo;
Boot was, faith, ilka night, not a wise mon,
Ef he thought in the coontry, to make a hubboo,
Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon;
For the Trasury cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest,”
&c., &c.
* * * * *
(Two verses omitted.)
From The New Whig Guide. London. 1819.
Henry Brougham, M.P. (afterwards Lord Chancellor), brought a motion before the House of Commons on April 2, 1816, relative to the remission of Excise penalties.
The Riflemen’s Return.
The Belgians are coming,
Oh, dear! oh, dear!
The Belgians are coming,
Oh, dear! oh, dear!
Says Colonel Loyd Lindsay, M.P., M.P.,
We’ll take ’em our Sydenham Palace to see,
To Richmond and Windsor, and give ’em some tea,
In return for their great hospitalitee,
So let ’em be coming, oh, dear, &c.
* * * * *
The Belgians are coming,
My dears, my dears!
They’re coming, receive ’em—
With cheers, with cheers;
But Colonel Loyd Lindsay, I’m sure will be,
Delighted his Belgian friends to see.
And treat them at all events more handsomelee,
Than our Royaltee treats foreign Royaltee.
The Belgians are coming, &c.
Punch. May 25, 1867.
In October, 1866, a large number of English Volunteers went to the Tir National in Brussels, and were received with every mark of kindness and attention. The Belgians were lavish in their hospitality, and on October 20, the King gave a splendid dinner to all the English Volunteers then in Brussels.
In 1867, about 2,000 members of the Belgian Garde Civique paid a return visit, and were most cordially received by the London Volunteers. A great deal of money was spent in entertaining them, but the general arrangements were faulty in the extreme, and Royal hospitality was conspicuously absent.
——:o:——
A Dirge for the Departed.
BY AN OLD MEMBER.
Air.—“The flowers o’ the forest are a’ wede awa’.”
So mourn we to-night! Yet not all of them—nay!
But we miss many proud, Parliamentary, blossoms,
We lucky “survivals” assembled to-day,
Sad fog in our brains and soft pangs in our bosoms;
The fog for the future, the pangs for the past,
A past peopled fair with—we will call them flowers,
Whose petals were strewn by November’s chill blast,
Or beaten to earth by December’s dread showers.
Where are they, the bright ones who bloomed and looked brave,
Hardy annuals, year after year on these benches?
Some Villon should “wake” them with lachrymose stave,
The mild modern Muse from the tragical blenches.
“A Ballad of M.P.’s Unseated,” Good lack!
Master Francois would make it pathetic and pretty;
But he, too, is fled and will hardly come back,
Though tempted by Swinburne, though coaxed by Rossetti.
Oh, for yester-year’s snows! Where is Newdegate gone?
The House without him! ’Tis a thought that bewilders.
Shaw Lefevre, where’s he? Like the rose season gone
With rare Farrer Herschell and radiant Childers.
The rose will return, and these twain in its train
May, like penitent peris, in Paradise sport on;
But ever henceforth may we hunger in vain
For the shout and the snuff-box of Bill-blocker Warton.
Where’s Firth? How the flushed City Fathers rejoice
At the fall of the foe who assailed them so rashly!
Where’s Alderman Lawrence’s soul-soothing voice?
And where, O ye Graces, is Evelyn Ashley?
Like Villon’s fair Echo, “beheld of no man”
Any more in the House; mute as Lesbia’s dumb pet,
Departed to Limbo the weary and wan,
With Lawson’s Joe Millers and Thomasson’s trumpet.
Where’s Briggs? Who’d suspect ’neath his Cymon-like air,
A consuming desire to coquet with the Muse hid?
Where poor “Toots” McIver? where’s Elliot? and where
Is Sir Patrick O’Brien, the luscious and lucid?
Campbell-Bannerman’s gone; we have no “Truthful James”
To o’erwhelm us with wild economical shoddy;
And—oh, ruthless fate! ’twas the sorest of shames
To deprive us of Wirtue’s palladium in Waddy!
That general fidus Achates, “dear Caine,”
Is a wanderer now, which seems cruel, most cruel.
Like Mossoo in his seat O’Shea “does not remain.”
Smug McArthur has got—and deserved it—his gruel.
Sidney Waterlow’s down ’tis low water with him.
Smart George Russell’s defeat Rads regard with abhorrence;
But few of them weep that Dame Fortune’s wild whim
Has upset Lambeth’s bête-noir, Sir “Jamie” Clarke Lawrence.
And Power, Ciceronian O’Connor? Alack!
Where was Kennington’s wit when, though loving, she lost him?
Well he, like poor Bo-peep’s strayed sheep, will come back
To the seat which his pluck, for the season, hath cost him.
But Wolff! Ah, Sir Henry, ’tis pitiful work.
To “Shoe the Gray Goose” Eastward-Ho you were summoned,
And while you were wasting your time with the Turk,
Fickle Portsmouth played jilt. ’Tis too bad, my dear Drummond!
Then Bright, Jacob Bright! But time fails us to tell
The whole sorrowful tale of our manifold losses.
Big Ben’s solemn boom strikes the ear like a knell,
As we muse on our Ecroyds, and moan o’er our Crosses.
Good Gosset, ’tis well you no longer are here,
For the Lobby strikes chill, and the Terrace looks sodden;
The winter wind wails, not a Happy New Year,
But a mournful lament like the dirge after Flodden.
So sounds it to one who remembers old days:
Yet dreams of the past are but bogies and spectres,
The House from to-night sets its foot in new ways,
Hurrah for the choice of the county electors!
We have the Grand Old One, at least, to the good;
Neither Time nor the Tory dished him in December.
One tear for the fallen may soften one’s mood,
Then face to the fray with the freshest New Member!
The Daily News. January 13, 1886.
——:o:——
MY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE.
My love is like the red red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.
But, fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my dear,
Though ’twere ten thousand mile.
R. Burns
My Love She has a Red Red Nose.
O my love has got a red red nose,
I long to see it soon,
O my love is like the mulberry,
All cover’d o’er with bloom.
As fond as thou my bonny lass,
Of full-proof gin am I;
For I will drink with thee, my dear,
And drain the bottle dry.
I’ll drain the bottle dry, my dear,
We’ll sing and dance for fun;
And if you wish for more, my dear,
Why for it I will run.
But I must cut my stick, my love,
And hop the twig ashore;
And we’ll get fou again, my dear,
A thousand times or more.
My love he has a great red nose—
Would that its hue were whiter!
Yet every day it larger grows,
And every hour gets brighter.
But still it is a useful nose
For on a winter’s night,
As bright as any fire it glows,
And gives a brilliant light.
* * * * *
(Two verses omitted.)
From The Humorous Works of the late Gifted Hopkins. London, James Blackwood.
“An Address to the Game Laws,” imitated from Burns, may be found in a 12mo. pamphlet with the singular title:—
“A small Note-Book on Wealth and True Wit.
“Pen sketch took by S. H. Hewitt.
“Not to be had of those who all books sell
“But only of the Author, M.R.C.S.L.” 1851.
——:o:——
The Home Rule War Song.
Men whose fathers crushed the wrong,
Men whose love for freedom’s strong;
Shall the rights you’ve won so long
Down be trod to-day?
Tories now and traitors threat
Fetters on your rights to set;
That you’re voters they forget;
Sweep the fools away.
Yours to-day are rule and power;
You, the People, reign this hour;
Do they dream you’ll basely cower?
At their threats, you scoff:
Up, you millions, for the fight;
Up, to rush your foes to flight;
Up, for freedom and for right;
Sweep these Tories off.
Tell them this is not the day
They, their tyrant tricks, can play
Up, and forward to the fray;
On, to war and win;
What you will you’ve strength to do;
Men, you’ll to yourselves be true;
Out with Salisbury and his crew;
In with Gladstone—in.
Thunder well your meaning out;
Leave the Whigs and rats no doubt,
All the turn-coats, out you’ll rout;
Even Joe and John.
If your teeth you plainly show,
They turn tail as well you know;
Will they wait your bite? No—no;
On to smash them—on!
From Radical Rhymes. By W. C. Bennett.
A parody in a somewhat similar strain will be found in Punch, June 26, 1886, relating to Mr. Gladstone’s election tour in Scotland.
Love and Liberty.
Where’s the girl can fear disdain?
Where’s the man can woman pain?
Where’s the heart not proud to gain
Love and Liberty?
Where’s the wretch can woman shun?
(Woman! life’s meridian sun!)
Cold, and not by beauty won!
Poltroon let him be!
Fill the glass to Beauty’s power!
Fill the glass to Freedom’s hour!
Naught that breathes should live to sour
Love and Liberty!
The Universal Songster.
——:o:——
The “Model” Suit.
Should old habiliments be forgot,
Especially such as mine?
Oh, no, I venerate the lot,
For the sake of Auld Langsyne!
For Auld Langsyne my boys,
Though them and I decline,
And they shabby get, I’ll stick to ’em yet,
For the sake of Auld Langsyne.
Now, here’s a beaver, look at that,
This old chapeau of mine;
’Tis the first Policeman’s left off hat,
In eighteen twenty-nine,
In eighteen twenty-nine, my boys,
Yet still to make it shine,
I dip it into the water butt,
For the sake of Auld Langsyne.
There’s a coat, my boys, that saw the days
Of poor Queen Caroline,
Of the fit and cloth, that George the Fourth,
In as Regent used to shine.
That is it was a fit, my boys,
But I don’t too often dine,
So it’s rather loose, and worse for use,
Still I don it, for Auld Langsyne.
* * * * *
J. A. Hardwick.
——:o:——
Auld Lang Syne
Let auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind,
Oh! from your memory ever blot
The days of auld lang syne.
No steam—no gas, rail-road to pass,
O’er Menai Bridge so fine;
The present hour is worth a power
Of days of auld lang syne.
* * * * *
For friend of auld lang syne, dear ma’am,
Was never friend of mine—
Depend on me, no enemy
Like friend of auld lang syne!
The ancient fair with youthful air
Who’d pass for twenty-nine,
Finds no such bore, when past twa score,
As friend of auld lang syne.
Take this advice of mine, dear ma’am,
Cut friends of auld lang syne;—
The twaddling sage who tells one’s age,
Is—friend of auld lang syne!
By Lady Clarke, in “The Comic Offering” for 1832. London. Smith, Elder & Co.
A Song for Small Germans, in 1871.
Ye German Princes puir an’ proud,
You sae do Commerce scorn,
Ye wadna hae Louise allowed
To wed the Lord o’ Lorne,
In trade’s honest line, you fools,
In trade’s honest line;
Because o’ kinsmen to Argyll,
In trade’s honest line!
Your wealth and wits alike are sma’,
Ye pack o’ lazy loons,
You that were in your mouths born a’
Wi’ German siller spoons.
In trade’s honest line, you fools,
In trade’s honest line;
Wad ye’d the wit your bread to get
In trade’s honest line!
Are ye na blate, ye pauper chiels,
Ye burdens on the soil,
To think ye’re owin’ for your meals
To ither people’s toil?
In trade’s honest line, ye fools,
In trade’s honest line;
Their livin’ whilst your betters earn
In trade’s honest line?
Punch. February 4, 1871.
Should Brandy ever be Forgot?
Should brandy ever be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should brandy ever be forgot,
For port or sherry wine?
For port or sherry wine my friend,
For port or sherry wine;
We’ll tak’ a glass of brandy yet,
And kick away the wine.
And, surely, you’ll your quartern be,
And, surely, I’ll be mine;
And we will drink so merrily,
But we’ll not call for wine.
But we’ll not, &c.
And here’s six-pence, my own good friend
Give me six-pence of thine;
We’ll for another quartern call,
To wile away the time.
To wile away, &c.
The Universal Songster. Volume III.
——:o:——
A Rink’s a Rink for a’ That.
Is there, at jolly skating rinks,
Who shakes his head and a’ that,
Who from the fun of skating shrinks?
We still will rink for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Whate’er it cost and a’ that,
The entrance is but half-a-crown—
At least we’re good for a’ that.
What tho’ we get an ugly spill,
And break our limbs and a’ that,
We will not bear it any ill,
A rink’s a rink for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
We do not care for a’ that,
And rinking, spite of all its risks,
Is king o’ sports for a’ that.
You see your party blithe and gay,
Who bats and bowls, and a’ that,
Though hundreds go to see him play,
He cannot rink for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
His bat, and ball, and a’ that;
The man who feels at home on wheels,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may
As come it will and a’ that,
That roller skates and skating rinks,
May hold their own and a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
The time will come, and a’ that,
When every man and woman, too,
Shall skate and rink and a’ that.
From Idyls of the Rink. By A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London: Hardwicke & Bogue. 1877.
——:o:——
A Gladstonite’s Lament.
There’s nought but loss on ev’ry han’
As each election passes, oh!
What signifies the Grand Old Man?—
He cannot move the masses, oh!
Chorus.
A’ fools and asses, oh,
Ding doon “the classes,” oh!
In spite of breath and siller spent
We cannot move the masses, oh!
For power and place the Tories race
(The Whigs too seldom shy them, oh!)
But though at last they catch them fast,
We’ll see if they’ll enjoy them, oh!
Gie me some more o’ Parnell’s men,
(Great Parnell’s William’s dearie, oh!)
And Unionists an’ Upper Ten
Shall a’ gae tapsalteerie, oh!
Now John and Joe ye’ll smile at this?
(Ye’re naething else but asses, oh!)
The langest tongue the warld e’er saw
Has ceased to move the masses, oh!
Dame Gladstone swears the Nobs and Peers
Are clean against the masses, oh!
Her ’prentice han’ for Grand Old Man
Had failed to drive the classes, oh!
Chorus.
A’ fools and asses, oh!
Ding doon the classes, oh!
In spite of breath an’ siller spent,
We cannot move the masses, oh!
G.
The Globe. London, July 9, 1886.
“GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!”
There’s naught but care on every han’,
In every hour that passes, O!
What signifies the life of man,
An’ ’twere not for the lasses, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may flee thee, O!
And when at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
Give me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my deary, O!
Then warly cares and warly men
May all gang tapsalteery, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
For ye sae douce ye sneer at this,
Ye’re naught but senseless asses, O!
The wisest man the warld e’er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
Dame Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O!
Her prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,
Were spent among the lasses, O!
Robert Burns.
Curæ corrodunt Urbem, Rus,
Et sapientûm cellulas,
Nec vitâ vellem frui plus
Nî foret ob puellulas—
Virent arundines!
At me tenellulas
Tædet horarum nisi queis
Inter fui puellulas
Divitias avaro dem,
Insudet auri cumulo,
Quærat quocumque modo rem,
Inops abibit tumulo.
Virent arundines
At me tenellulas
Tædet horarum nisi queis
Inter fui puellulas!
Cùm Sol obscurat spicula,
Mî brachio tunc niveo,
Stringente, fit, amiculâ,
Rerum dulcis oblivio!
Virent arundines!
At me tenellulas
Tædet horarum nisi queis
Inter fui puellulas!
Num dices contrà? canum grex!
An fuit vir sagacior
Quàm Solomon? aut unquam rex
In virgines salacior?
Virent arundines!
At me tenellulas
Tædet horarum nisi queis
Inter fui puellulas!
Quas cum de terræ vasculo
Natura finxit bellulas,
Tentavit manum masculo
Formavit tunc puellulas.
Virent arundines!
At me tenellulas,
Tædet horarum nisi queis
Inter fui puellulas!
Father Prout.
(The Rev. Francis Mahony.)
In the “Works of Father Prout,” published by George Routledge & Sons, London, there will also be found a Latin translation of “John Anderson, my jo, John.”
The Wearing o’ the Sashes, Oh!
All people bow at Fashion’s Shrine,
Especially where there cash is, O!
And the latest thing in Fashion’s line
Is most extensive sashes, O!
Chorus.
We’ve seen those sashes, O!
Red and yellow sashes, O!
In fact, all hues the ladies choose
For vast and varied sashes, O!
That lovely and all-conquering sex,
Who in man’s heart makes gashes, O!
Will now still more man’s mind perplex
By flying such big sashes, O!—(Chorus.)
For now, where Fashion’s nymphs are seen,
Through man this thought now flashes, O!
That maybe all the darlings mean
To hide themselves in sashes, O!—(Chorus.)
And, oh! if Woman should do this,
We’d need sackcloth and ashes, O!
Then do not rob us of our bliss
You fine and large new sashes, O!—(Chorus.)
Who but reveres the lovely dears?
Love meant us for their “mashes,” O!
And so, why plan to draw poor man
By adding large-sized sashes, O!
Chorus.
But still they wear those sashes, O!
And sweet are all those sashes, O!
Like window-frames our maids and dames
Now need a lot of sashes, O!
Fun. August 4, 1886.
My Kitty O!
Dull books, good bye! No more shall I
In you seek recreation, O;
I’ll pore no more o’er musty lore
For fruitless information, O,
I’ll o’er the foam, I’ll hie me home,
I’ll leave the dreary city, O,
O’er hill and dale, through glen and vale,
I’ll roam alone with Kitty, O,
My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O!
Oh, what are joys of city, O,
Long years compared with one hour shared
In converse sweet with Kitty O?
Her eye is bright, her step so light
It scarcely bends the daisy, O.
If men her laugh like wine could quaff
’Twould surely send them crazy, O.
Soft ringlets press in fond caress
Around her ears so pretty, O,
And brow of snow, and lips aglow,
And rosy cheeks has Kitty, O.
My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O!
She’s handsome, winsome, witty, O;
Seek far and near, from Bann to Clear,
You’ll meet no peer for Kitty. O!
From Irish Songs and Poems. By M. Fahy. 1887.
——:o:——
A Man’s a Man for a’ that.
I.
‘A man’s a man,’ says Robert Burns,
’For a’ that, and a’ that;’
But though the song be clear and strong,
It lacks a note for a’ that.
The lout who’d shirk his daily work,
Yet claim his wage and a’ that,
Or beg when he might earn his bread,
Is not a man for a’ that.
II.
If all who ‘dine on homely fare’
Were true and brave and a’ that,
And none whose garb is ‘hodden grey’
Was fool or knave and a’ that,
The vice and crime that shame our time
Would disappear and a’ that,
And ploughmen be as good as Kings,
And churls as earls for a’ that.
III.
But ’tis not so; yon brawny fool,
Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that,
And thinks because his strong right arm
Might fell an ox and a’ that,
That he’s as noble, man for man,
As Duke or Lord and a’ that,
Is but an animal at best,
And not a man for a’ that.
IV.
A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park, and a’ that,
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a’ that.
And Donald herding on the moor,
Who beats his wife and a’ that,
Is nothing but a brutal boor,
Nor half a man for a’ that.
V.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,
The truth is old and a’ that,
‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’
And though you’d put the self-same mark
On copper, brass, and a’ that,
The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass for a’ that.
VI.
For a’ that and a’ that,
’Tis soul and heart and a’ that
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown and a’ that,
And whether he be rich or poor,
The best is he for a’ that
Who stands erect in self-respect,
And acts the man for a’ that.
Charles Mackay.
He’s the Man for a’ that.
Is there for tenets Liberal
That hangs his head and a’ that,
And thinks the de’il is in us all—
Bah! he’s a fool for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Perhaps he’s right for a’ that;
But what’s the odds, we’ve ta’en an oath
To vote wi’ Glad. for a’ that.
What tho’ he beaten ten times o’er is,
Cried down, despised and a’ that,
By fools of Rads and knaves of Tories.
Why, he’s the man for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Perhaps he’s wrong for a’ that;
But what’s the odds if he mistake,
We’re pledged to him for a’ that.
Ye see yon members, Liberals ca’ed,
They fume and fret and a’ that,
When asked to vote they hummed and ha’ed,
They’ve a just cause for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
They’re honest perhaps for a’ that;
But whoso hangs by Gladstone’s tail
He scoffs at them for a’ that.
Moonshine. May 8, 1886.
A parody on the same song, but taking exactly the opposite view of the question, appeared in The Liberal Home Ruler for January 8, 1887. It was written by W. E. Sadler, and commenced, “Is there for honest policy.”
——:o:——
A Radical’s Lament.
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,
“When we were first acquent,”
Your speech was like a Radical’s,
With us your life was spent;
But now you’ve sadly changed, Joe,
Your voice we hardly know,
While Tories have your sympathy,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe.
(Two verses omitted.)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,
The right is on our side;
And we have gallant leaders, Joe,
All trusty, true, and tried.
And though you have deserted us
And gone to join the foe,
We mean to fight and conquer yet,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,
With us you climbed the hill;
And hand to hand we helped you up,
With Radical good-will.
Now, hand in hand with Salisbury,
You down again will go,
And you’ll “sleep together at the foot,”
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
The Liberal Home Ruler. April 9, 1887.
Punch for June 21, 1879, contained a parody of this song relative to the Golden Wedding of the Emperor of Germany, and there were also political parodies of it in England for May 30, 1885, and the St. James’s Gazette for March 19, 1886.
——:o:——
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Thomas Campbell’s version of the above song was given (as well as several parodies based upon it) in Volume III. (Part 26), but no mention was made of the fact that Campbell had borrowed the main idea from the following old song by Martyn Parker:—
Ye gentlemen of England.
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy, &c.
If enemies oppose us
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We fear not wound or scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach ’em
Our valour for to know,
Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow.
And the stormy, &c.
Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay’d,
Whilst we have bold adventurers,
We ne’er shall want a trade:
Our merchants will employ us
To fetch them wealth, we know;
Then be bold—work for gold,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy, &c.
Ye Pugilists of England.[73]
I.
Ye Pugilists of England,
Who guard your native sod,
Whose pluck has braved a thousand years,
Cross-buttock, blow, and blood,
Your corky canvas sport again,
To mill another foe,
As you spring, round the ring,
While the betters noisy grow;
While the banging rages loud and long,
And the betters noisy grow.
II.
A Briton needs no poniards,
No bravos ’long his street—
His trust is in a strong roped ring,
A square of twenty feet.
With one-twos from his horny fists,
He floors the coves below,
As they crash, on the grass,
When the betters noisy grow;
When the banging rages loud and long,
And the betters noisy grow.
III.
The spirits of prime pugilists
Shall rise at every round;
For the ring it was their field of fame,
To them ’tis holy-ground.
Where Slack and mighty Belcher fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As you peel, true as steel.
While the betters noisy grow.
While the banging rages loud and long,
And the betters noisy grow.
IV.
The Randal-rag of England
Must yet terrific burn,
Till Ireland’s troublesome knight be beat,
And the star of Crib return!
Then, then, ye glutton-pugilists,
The claret red shall flow,
To the fame, of your name,
When the noise of bets is low.
When Sir Dan lies levelled loud and long,
And the noise of bets is low.
Blackwood’s Magazine. September, 1819.
Mark Sprot’s Lament.
Ye President’s and L’Amy’s men,
Who drill on foot at ease,
O, little do you think upon
The dangers of our knees!
My song shall make your legs to shake
Within your pantaloons:
We such woe undergo
When we ride with the Dragoons.
Our Quarter-Master, Donald,
Is up at peep of day;
A whacking fine he doth design,
If you remain away.
When he doth call the muster-roll,
His pipe each yeoman times—
Spare me, lo! here I go,
To ride with the Dragoons.
Then out speaks Sergeant Whigham,
And an angry man is he;
If you’ve that day forgot pipe-clay,
Or put your belt ajee,
Quoth great Whigham, “Resolved I am,
To trounce such awkward loons—
Please pay down, half-a-crown,
To the fund of our Dragoons.”
Then out speaks Captain Cockburn,
With accents stern and gruff,
“Count one, two, three, that I may see
How many files go off.”
We jog along, some eighty strong,
Despising absent spoons—
A gay band, o’er the sand,
The Volunteer Dragoons.
Although the sand is flying,
And the sun is burning hot,
And every soul is frying,
We must not shrink a jot.
We don’t give o’er, though basted sore,
But halt and fire platoons.
O, the shock, when we cock!
O, the falls of the Dragoons!
Sometimes the thing will happen,
The rear rides o’er the front;
Myself, I once came slapping.
And fell with such a dunt!
I hate the gloom of Borthwick’s plume!
There’s wisdom in my tune,
“Make your will ere you drill,
Each desperate Dragoon.”
But O! the cup of blessing,
That washes down our pain!
I would not lose our messing,
Though I must ride again.
Care killed a cat, remember that,
To-night enjoy your lunes:
Fairly fill, deeply swill,
Bellygerent Dragoons.
From Songs of the Edinburgh Troop. July, 1820. Edinburgh: James Ballantyne & Company. 1825.
A curious, and now very scarce little collection of songs relating to the Edinburgh Yeomanry Cavalry, which was privately printed, and afterwards suppressed. There were nine songs in all, of which this was the first, dating from July 1820 to July 1823; they were written jointly by John Gibson Lockhart and Patrick F. Tytler, author of The History of Scotland, &c.
In the article on Lockhart in The Maclise Portrait Gallery Mr. W. Bates mentions the brochure as being very scarce. The above song has been kindly sent by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.
——:o:——
A prize parody competition on Campbell’s song took place in Truth, and fifteen versions were printed on July 1, 1886. Of these the first verses of a few may be quoted:—
You Grand Old Man of England,
So fond of felling trees.
Ah, little did you think your Bill
Would stir up such a breeze.
Give ear unto your trusted friends,
Who vainly try to show
All their doubts and their fears,
When your honeyed words do flow.
Agelastes.
Ye barristers of England,
Who live upon our pleas,
How pleasant could you moderate
Your too inflated fees;
Give ear unto poor suitors,
And you shall plainly know
All their care and despair,
As those fees so swiftly grow, &c.
Nutshell.
Ye gentlemen of England,
Who bat with “Grace” and ease,
What think ye of Australian teams
Arrived a’yont the seas?
Be careful that the colonists
Don’t make too great a show,
For they play, everyday,
In their island home below, &c.
Crystal Palace.
Ye Liberals of England,
Attention, if you please,
Pray let me know which you prefer,
My programme or J. C.’s.
Give ear unto your Grand Old Man,
And he will plainly show,
’Tis the cads, not the Rads,
That are in the swim with Joe, &c.
Mavis.
You gentlemen of England
That live the fair to please,
Ah, little do you think upon
The fancies of the shes;
Give ear unto the dressmakers,
And they will plainly show,
The dresses made with tears
With dead birds in a row.
J. McGregor Allan.
You noblemen of England,
That boast of pedigrees,
Ah! little do you think of those
Who fare on bread and cheese.
Give ear unto the people,
For soon they mean to show
They’re a power, in the hour
When the Lords we overthrow, &c.
W. Val English.
Ye Unionists of England.
Ye Unionists of England,
Who grace our native land,
Whose Union Jack has braved so long
The whole Gladstonian band.
That glorious standard launch again
To meet the Liberal foe,
As you rave like the brave
While you follow after “Joe!”
The spirit of the Tories
In every heart burns bright.
Coercion is your field of fame,
Obstruction your delight.
The hatred of all Irishmen
Your burning zeal shall fan,
As you shout and you spout
That you’ll crush the Grand Old Man.
When Brand and noble Goschen fell
Your Tory breasts still glow,
As you stand at command
Of your mighty leader “Joe.”
The meteor flag of Brummagem
Terrific still shall burn,
Till Gladstone’s troubled course be run
And Joseph’s star return.
Pall Mall Gazette. June 16, 1887.
Ye Cricketers.
Ye cricketers of England,
That guard the timbers three;
Whose game has brav’d a thousand years
All other games that be!
Your pliant willow grasp again
To match another foe.
As ye stand, bat in hand
Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.
The spirit of your fathers,
Look on from nook and shade;
Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad,
Peer forth from every glade.
Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move
Their spectres long to show
How to stand, bat in hand,
Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.
Long, long, on lawn of noble,
And in the cottage field,
This game of games to English hearts,
Its healthy joys shall yield;
And oft at eve, when stumps are drawn,
The fragrant weed shall glow;
As ye tell, how they fell,
Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.
From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford. J. Vincent.
The Cricketer.
There’s a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and cot,
’Tis the first in boyhood’s happy years, in this our island plot.
The stripling thinks himself a man, when once he owns a bat;
A flush beams on his youthful brow when comrades vote for that.
’Tis a noble game, deny it who can!
The pride of a fine young Englishman!
’Tis, &c.
It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true,
And trains our youth in nerve and eye—things well to keep in view;
It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere,
And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear,
’Tis a noble game, &c.
There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to peer:
Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer;
Canada adds a loving word, America its praise,
Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise.
’Tis a noble game, &c.
To gallant South and noble North a welcome tribute bring
Of Lillywhite, old Fuller, Mynn, this day, my boys, we sing;
Still Parr and Daft are words that burn—W. G. the champion is;
The Walkers, Littletons are grand! Whoever should them quiz.
’Tis a noble game, &c.
’Tis a noble land that bears such sons, who fight in love and peace.
May concord, truth, and unity through all the world increase;
May those who win and those who lose united ever be—
Old England’s pride shall be, my boys, good cricketers to see.
’Tis a noble game, &c.
Anonymous.
(Written about the time of the Canadian Cricketers’ tour.)
