SONGS by Dr. CHARLES MACKAY.
JOHN BROWN, OR A PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.
I.
I’ve a guinea I can spend,
I’ve a wife, and I’ve a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I’ve a cottage of my own
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I’ll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
II.
I love the song of birds,
And the children’s early words,
And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown.
III.
I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for humankind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
IV.
So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex’d, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I’ve parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I’ve a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown!
C. Mackay.
John Brown’s Answer
to “The Plain Man’s Philosophy.”
I’ve listened to your song, and, unless I’m very wrong,
There is much in it of what we now call bosh—Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to do’s another thing,
And I fear that your philosophy won’t wash—Tom Smith.
Of course that’s not your name—but ’twill answer all the same
For the person I’m presumed to argue with—Tom Smith.
And offended you can’t be, as you’ve done the same to me,
For I’m no more John Brown than you’re Tom Smith—Tom Smith.
What you love and what you hate—you’re at liberty to state,—
I’ve nothing upon earth with that to do—Tom Smith.
De gustibus non est—I’ve no doubt you know the rest,
And besides, I’ve much the same dislikes as you—Tom Smith.
It’s on matters of finance, in which there’s no romance,
I would break with you a lance—if you please, Tom Smith.
I’m myself a family man, and I don’t believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese—Tom Smith.
You’ve “a hundred pounds a year”—well, let’s even say it’s clear
Of income-tax, that’s not two pounds a week—Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke—Tom Smith.
Per contra, you’ve a wife, as dear to you as life,—
I hope she is, I’m sure, for both your sakes—Tom Smith.
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear,
If anything your little income shakes—Tom Smith.
Of children you’ve a troop—an interesting group,
But to tell how many form it you forgot—Tom Smith.
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small.—
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot—Tom Smith.
Of their clothes you may be spare, but they cannot go quite bare,
And whooping-cough and measles you must count—Tom Smith,
And if only one be ill, I’m afraid the doctor’s bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount—Tom Smith.
’Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about,
And “sufficient for the day” is a fine text—Tom Smith;
But at your garden gate do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what’s in the cupboard for the next—Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil; ’twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store—Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time, in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting ’neath your shady sycamore—Tom Smith.
You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass,
But it cannot be of wine, or beer, or grog—Tom Smith.
It’s more like “Adam’s Ale,” I’m afraid, than “Bass’s Pale,”
And to drink, I water shun like a mad dog—Tom Smith.
If “a guinea you’ve to spend,” I advise you as a friend,
To put it in the Savings’ Bank forthwith—Tom Smith.
You will want it before long, and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth—Tom Smith.
J. R. Planche.
——:o:——
CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!
Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow,
Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee,
We’ll dry the tears that we have shed before;
Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand,
Cheer, boys! cheer! there’s work for honest labour—
Cheer, boys! cheer!—in the new and happy land!
C. Mackay.
* * * * *
Beer! Boys, Beer!
Beer! Boys, Beer! for that’s the stuff for sorrow,
Forage out more, we will, upon our way;
The score behind the door, we’ll make right to-morrow,
When we get over the drinking of to-day.
So, farewell, Landlord, much as we may owe thee,
We’ll dry the pots up, if you’ll only draw;
Why should we sleep? let’s drink to better fortune;
So Farewell, Landlord, Farewell, old boy, hurrah!
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! with pewter pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who don’t mind labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who a gallon’s going to stand?
Beer! Boys, Beer, off the froth we’re blowing,
Our throats to freely pour down Barclay’s best;
The “Bobby” may follow in the track we’re going
The “Star and Garter” we’ll drop in, to rest,
Though we have toil, we’ve skittles to reward it,
But when we’ve plenty, we’ll do our Champagne:
Then ours shall be Port and Sherry for the poorest,
And foaming measures we’ll fill and fill again.
Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country,
Beer! Boys, Beer! united, pot in hand;
Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who hardly labour,
Beer! Boys, Beer! who the next is going to stand?
J. A. Hardwick.
Vote, Boys, Vote!
Vote, boys, vote, for Freedom’s noble leader;
Shout, boys, shout, our chieftain’s battle cry.
Ireland’s wrongs at length have found a pleader
Ireland’s hope at length is drawing nigh
Long her barque has seemed like one benighted,
Drifting down a troubled, shoreless sea;
But at last a welcome haven’s sighted
Leading on to peace and liberty.
Chorus—Vote, boys, vote, &c.
Chamberlain and Hartington and Goschen
May attempt to thwart the nation’s will;
But the British people’s true devotion
Centres in their honoured chieftain still.
Trust again the troth he’s nobly plighted
And he’ll reach the welcome promised goal—
Erin’s sons, by ties of love united,
Shall be “one with Britain’s, heart and soul.”
F. Topham.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.
Beer, Boys, Beer!
Beer, boys, beer! No more absurd restriction,
Courage, Bass, Meux, and Barclay must give way;
Half pints and quarts have vanish’d like a fiction,
Why then, submit to the brewers’ despot sway?
Brown stout of England! much as we may love thee,
(Which, by the way, I rather think we do,)
Pale draught of India, shall they charge us for ye,
Twice what you’re worth, for the profit of a few?
Beer, boys, beer! abundant, deep, and vasty!
Beer, boys, beer! the stunning, strong and grand!
Beer, boys, beer! the cheap, and not the nasty!
Beer, boys, beer! at a price a man can stand!
Beer, boys, beer! The present scale of prices,
Leads to a style of tipple not the best;
Vile Spanish root, and quassia, which not nice is,
Bad for the bile, and oppressive to the chest.
But, let’s unite with hearty agitation;
Push for our rights, and battle might and main;
And ours shall be a large yet brimming tankard
Of real wholesome stuff, brew’d out of roasted grain.
Beer, boys, beer! no more of gentian’s nausea;
Beer, boys, beer! with liquorice away!
Beer, boys, beer! no logwood chips or quassia,
Beer! boys, beer, which is all I have to say!
Diogenes, Vol. II. 1853.
——:o:——
THE GOOD TIME COMING.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid;—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;—
Wait a little longer.
* * * * *
(Six verses omitted.)
Charles Mackay.
This song, which was one of a series entitled “Voices from the Crowd,” originally appeared in the second number of the Daily News (London).
Most of Dr. Charles Mackay’s songs breathe sentiments of hope for the future of the people, and trust in their good sense and ability to govern themselves. Such sentiments were very unpopular forty years ago, when revolutions were of frequent occurrence on the Continent, and Chartism was dreaded in England. Hence Mackay’s verses were parodied as follows:—
The Pickpocket’s Blessing.
(By Charles Quackay.)
Curses on thee, haughty England!
Shall thy sad heart-broken child
Pray for blessings on a parent,
Who hath well-nigh made him wild?
Why should I prate of thy freedom,
When I’m laden with the weight
Of two hundred pounds of iron,
Forged by thy much-vaunted State?
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead.
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves—
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
When a child I prigged an apple,
When a youth I “faked a cly,”
When a man I shot a keeper;
And for this am I to die,
In a land of iron bondage,
Bound by chains I cannot break,
Scorned by every honest dotard?—
Yet some day my wrath I’ll slake!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! &c.
Richly fed and richly clothed,
Was the honest greasy fool,
Who in judgment sat upon me;
He, of tyrant’s wretched tool,
Ne’er, forsooth, stole fruit or kerchief;
Richly fed and richly clothed,
Each unhappy wretch he punished,
As a thing he deeply loathed.
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead, &c.
I was led before a jury,
Stuffed and gorged with choicest food;
They, vile enemies of freedom,
Sentenced me, in coolest mood,
To be bound in iron fetters,
’Midst the basest of mankind.
But though mine are chains of iron,
Theirs are chains which gird the mind!
Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead!
Safety comes for thieves and knaves,
Felons shall not then be slaves—
Go ahead, boys! Go ahead!
(Five verses omitted.)
This parody occurs in a very scarce pamphlet, of which no copy is to be found in the Library of the British Museum, entitled The Puppet-Showman’s Album, illustrated by Gavarni. This is not dated, but it was evidently printed about 1848, or 1849. It contains imitations, either in prose or verse, of Lord Macaulay, Bulwer Lytton, Leigh Hunt, G. P. R. James, B. Disraeli, Charles Dickens, Charles Lever, A. Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, W. M. Thackeray, W. H. Ainsworth, Douglas Jerrold, Walter Savage Landor, Mrs. Trollope, John Wilson Croker, Charles Mackay, Albert Smith, and Coventry Patmore.
Voices from the Crowd in Fleet Street.
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
We may not live to see the day,
But there will be an open way
O’er the good road making:
Paviours may tear up the street,
In time they’ll make it stronger;
’Tis true they’re always at it, but
Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The sewers shall supersede the gas,
When paviours, perhaps, might let us pass
O’er the good road making:
Pipes and earth shall stop the way,
Or bricks, which are the stronger,
To jobs the impulse has been given,
Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Loud and fierce shall be the cry
From the cabs, that can’t get by
On the good road making:
Carts and ’busses shall contend,
To see which is the stronger,
And panels smash for smashing’s sake—
Wait a little longer!
(Three verses omitted.)
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
The drivers shall be temperate,
Nor swear at such a frightful rate,
On the good road making;
They shall use—and not abuse—
Then patience will grow stronger,
When ’tis not so sorely tried,
Wait a little longer!
There’s a good road making, boys,
A good road making;
Let them get what aid they can,
Every boy and every man,
On the good road making:
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger,
Fleet Street will be clear—some day—
Wait a little longer!
Gilbert Abbott à Beckett.
From The Almanack of the Month. September, 1846.
The Waiter.
I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When “Waiter,” was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seemed to murmur “By and by,
Wait a little longer.”
Within a year we met once more,
’Twas in another part of town—
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted, “Waiter, bread!”
He came out rather stronger,
As if he’d say with toss of head,
Wait a little longer.”
Time takes us on through many a grade;
Of “ups and downs” I’ve had my run,
Passing full often through the shade,
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I called, ’twas almost vain,
He bade me wait the longer.
Another time, years since the last—
At eating-house I sought relief
From present care and troubles past,
In a small plate of round of beef.
“One beef, and taturs,” was the cry,
In tones than mine much stronger;
’Twas the old waiter standing by,
“Wait a little longer.”
I’ve marked him now for many a year;
I’ve seen his coat more rusty grow;
His linen is less bright and clear;
His polished pumps are on the go.
Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves—
They used to be much stronger;
The waiter’s whole appearance proves
He cannot wait much longer.
I sometimes see the waiter still;
’Gainst want he wages feeble strife;
He’s at the bottom of the hill,
Downward has been his path through life.
Of “Waiter, waiter,” there are cries,
Which louder grow and stronger;
’Tis to old Time he now replies
“Wait a little longer.”
Punch.
It’s a Long Time Coming.
It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
We may not live to see the day,
But lords their tailors’ bills shall pay
In this good time coming.
Politicians then shall speak the truth,
The people’s cause be stronger,
And thrive without e’en Cuffey’s aid—
Wait a little longer.
It’s a long time coming, boys,
A long time coming;
To foster foul disease shall be,
No certain proof of loyalty,
In the good time coming.
Those men that hate the use of soap
Shall not then be the stronger,
Nor poison hosts for custom’s sake—
Wait a little longer.
* * * * *
(Two verses omitted.)
The Puppet-Show. June 3, 1848.
Happy Arcadia.
(“General” Booth says that “the Salvation Army is the natural antidote to all the evils on the earth.”)
There’s a good time coming, boys
A good time coming;
The “General” has pointed out,
How all the ill’s of life he’ll rout
In the good time coming.
Tho’ fortune’s frown may threaten us,
The “Army” is still stronger,
The War Cry’s raised—the battle’s won—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Bubble companies may break,
Love-sick maiden’s hearts may ache,
Till the good time coming,
Altho’ woe now may seem supreme,
The “Army” will prove stronger,
Then mirth and jollity shall reign—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
Ould Oirland will be our joy,
“Deceased Wife’s Sister” won’t annoy
In the good time coming.
The Nihilists may menace us,
The “Army” still is stronger,
Our land will be Utopia—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming;
We’ll have then the Millennium,
Earth will be an Elysium,
In the good time coming.
We only need to join the “Army,”
And make it daily stronger,
And if ills yet will come, why we
Must go on waiting longer!
Fun. June 16, 1886.
There’s a Good Time Coming.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
When truth and justice will prevail,
And all shall listen to the tale,
In the good time coming;
Every day shall aid our cause,
And make conviction stronger,
That Toryism’s but a snare—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
There’s a good time coming, boys,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Education shall be free
To the poor man’s family,
In the good time coming;
No class shall be privileged
Though it were ten times stronger.
But all shall share the general good,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
For the owners of the soil
Starving peasants shall not toil
In the good time coming;
Primogeniture shall be
No struggling people’s wronger,
Nor rents be raised at landlords’ wills,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming,
Sinecures shall have no pay,
Endowments shall be swept away,
In the good time coming;
A pensioned aristocracy,
Which now is growing stronger,
No longer shall impair the State,
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys, &c.
* * * * *
(Several verses omitted.)
From Songs for Liberal Electors. 1886.
Liberal Union.
The past has proved a trying time,
And friends, once reckoned hearty,
Have left us now, and vengeance vow
Against the Liberal party.
And are we sorry? Truly, yes.
And hopeless? Nay, not we!
For we all know
Our cause must grow,
Till we victorious be!
Aye, our thinned ranks will fill again!
Already we grow stronger.
There’s a good time coming, boys!
So wait a little longer!
Some who have left us will come back:
Nor need the loss much grieve us
If those who flagg’d and often lagg’d
When with us, wholly leave us.
For, purged of traitors and of cowards,
With whom we’d no communion,
The country soon
Will bless that boon,
A real Liberal Union!
Then we for conquest or defence
Shall stauncher be and stronger;
Nor is this happy time far off;
We shall not wait much longer.
Truth Christmas Number. 1886.
There was also a parody of this song in The Hornet, May 22, 1872, which is now quite out of date, and another appeared in the St. Stephen’s Review for July 2, 1887. This prophesies that there will be a “good time coming” when an eminent politician goes to——a certain warm but unmentionable place—the good taste of which assertion might not be obvious to some over sensitive people, so the parody is omitted.
Dr. Mackay wrote a number of other songs. “To the West! To the West!” was very popular; it was imitated in some verses entitled “I’m in Love! I’m in Love!”; whilst “Far, far upon the sea” was parodied by J. A. Hardwick as “Pa, out upon the spree,” in three very coarse and slangy verses, which cannot have a place here.
CAREY’S “SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.”
Labby in our Abbey.
Of all the Rads that are so smart
There’s none like witty Labby;
He’s played of late a leading part,
So he’ll be at the Abbey;
No institution in the land
Escapes the sneers of Labby,
But all the same, I understand,
He’s going to the Abbey.
Of all the days within the week
There’s one that will be the day,
And that’s a day that’s quite unique,
Victoria’s Jubilee Day.
Then he’ll be dressed in all his best
With nothing old or shabby;
He may be snarling in his heart,
But he’ll be at the Abbey.
He tried to dock the vote, you know,
For fitting up the Abbey;
Perhaps he’d like the Queen to go
And hail the nearest cabby;
All sentiment for England’s Queen
He designates as “flabby;”
But Truth must needs describe the scene,
So he’ll be at the Abbey.
The Globe. June 20, 1887.
Labby and his Babby.
Of all the would-be witty Rads
There’s none like clowning Labby;
He is the Mother Gamp of fads
And farms the Home Rule Babby.
Not even Lawson, of the Pump,
Whose jokelets all are flabby,
When on the water-swilling stump,
Is in the hunt with Labby.
In fine old Saxon flowers of speech,
A bargee or a cabby
Would own there’s nothing left to teach
The conscript Father Labby.
Bad are his jokes, but even worse
His Parliamentary manners,
And so he’s chosen for dry-nurse
By Conybeares and Tanners.
On all the days right through the week,
From Monday until Friday,
Incessantly does Labby speak,
He never has a bye-day;
And, sucking at Obstruction-pap,
The wizened Home Rule babby
Squalls, howls, and chokes, upon the lap
Of Parnell’s dry-nurse Labby.
J.W.P.
St. Stephen’s Review. July 2, 1887.
