THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
(Born in Bath, 1797. Died at Cheltenham, April 22, 1839.)
he songs of this prolific writer, which but sixty years ago were exceedingly popular, are now nearly forgotten, A few old-fashioned people may be heard to warble “She wore a wreath of Roses,” or “I’d be a butterfly,” whilst “Perfection,” perhaps the best known of Bayly’s dramatic pieces, is still occasionally played to afford some graceful actress an opportunity of displaying her varied attainments. The author of “Perfection” had to contend with many difficulties before he could get his piece performed. It was rejected at Covent Garden Theatre and several other houses, but was finally accepted at Drury Lane. With Madame Vestris, as Kate O’Brien, it achieved a great success, but several of Bayly’s other dramatic productions were less fortunate, and he had nothing to depend upon but the precarious income of a journalist for his support. His songs, though exceedingly popular, brought him small pecuniary returns during his lifetime, but after his death his widow derived a small sum from the sale of his collected works. Although but a poor and struggling author, it suited the editor of Fraser’s Magazine to sneer at this amiable and harmless versifier, and in volume iv. of that magazine these lines will be found in the Lay of the Twaddle School:—
“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily,
And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly;
With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily,
I buttered my bread,—heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly,
Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Apollo,—though radiant his rays,—shines but palely,
When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay,
And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really,
And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley,
Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”
But these songs, which sixty years ago every one was singing, are now so seldom heard, that some of the parodies would be quite unintelligible unless accompanied by the originals.
SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.
She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.
A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,
The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.
And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,
The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
The Bandit’s Fate.
He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet;
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone.
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.
A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore,
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now—
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.
And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.
Punch, November 11, 1843.
He Dined at Bertholini’s.
He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met,
A pint of single stout was on the board before him set;
His dinner had the lightness—his voice the humble tone
Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known;
I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now,
In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.
A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore,
The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before;
And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs,
Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares.
I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still,
At the café in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!
And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here;
In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier!
He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day
The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away.
I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags,
As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.
Albert Smith.
He Wore Grey Worsted Stockings.
He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met,
His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet;
His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone,
The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home.
I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now,
With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow.
A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore,
The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before;
And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain
To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again;
I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now,
With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow.
And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there:
An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair;
I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now
Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow.
The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now,
With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow.
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
The Betting-office Frequenter’s Progress.
He wore a suit of Moses,
The night when first we met,
And knowingly his hat was cocked
Upon his curls of jet;
Flash “Publics” he frequented,
Where “Sporting cards” were seen;
And many a Derby Sweep got up
To ease them of their “tin.”
I saw him in his glory—
(The word seems doubtful now),
When to his stable wisdom
His admiring chums would bow.
A betting-book he’d started,
When next this youth I saw;
And hourly he was lounging at
Some Betting-office door;
Or standing treat to stable-boys,
With a “weed” between his lips,
And listening to their sage discourse
Of “great events” and “tips.”
He told me then he stood to win
A fi’ pun’ note or two,
Upon a “certain” prophecy—
I doubt if it came true.
And once again I see this youth,
No betting-book is there:
The prison scissors close have cropped
His once luxuriant hair.
They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,”
He closed his short career
By bolting with his master’s till,
When “settling” time drew near.
I see him shipped—the Government
His passage out will pay:
And at some penal settlement,
He’ll spend his Settling Day.
Punch.
Three Visions of One Head.
She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling,
Beneath her curls of Jet.
Her curls of jetty brightness,
Were charmingly in tone,
With the colour on her features,
For the hue was Nature’s own.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now;
With the hair that Nature gave her,
Above her snowy brow.
A head of Paris fashion
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features,
Was sharper than before.
And standing by her side was one,
Who seemed to give her pain,
As he rubbed the reddening fluid on
What should have held a brain.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the barber’s nasty liquid,
Smeared on her snowy brow.
And once again I met her,
No radiant locks were there;
An unmistaken wig she wore
Instead of lovely hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
Because she looks so queer!
The barber’s poison has destroyed
Her hair from ear to ear.
I saw her but a moment,
Nor want to see her now,
With those ugly proofs of folly
Above her snowy brow.
Shirley Brooks. 1866.
He Wore a Pair of “Mittens.”[7]
He wore a pair of “mittens,”
That day when first we met,
His stony face was smiling
As on himself he bet;
He stood with saucy firmness,
Or danced upon his feet,
In token of a confidence
That had not known defeat.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
With his hands well up for boxing,
All eager for the row.
Two eyes, both black and swollen
When next we met he wore,
The expression of his features,
Was less pleasant than before;
And standing close beside was one,
Who strove with might and main
To make them still less beauteous,
Nor did he strive in vain.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As he diligently sought a tooth,
He’d swallowed in the row.
And once again I saw that man,
No joy at all was his;
For many knocks had quite effaced
Expression from his “phiz.”
He wept as weeps a boy at school
When beaten in the rear,
Nor did he bless his second,
Who sponged away the tear.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As his length on earth he measured,
Less eager for the row.
From The Corkscrew Papers.
London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row. 1876.
The Gravel Rash.
He rode a tandem trycycle
The day when first we met,
He wore a pair of spectacles,
Perhaps he has them yet!
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now
With the same old cap upon his head
And frown upon his brow.
His face looked white as driven snow
Against his bags of blue,
His pedalling was marvellous
As round the track he flew.
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now,
Lying whole length o’er the track,
And the frown still on his brow.
The last I heard of that young man,
Was through the weekly Wheeling;
“Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his
So full of kindly feeling.
I saw them but a moment,
But methinks I see them now
With the author bending o’er them,
And that frown yet on his brow.
Moral.
When people speak of others’ faults,
It’s time they knew their own,
So take a lesson, dear young man,
And try ye to atone.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.
“I Saw Her but a Moment.”
“The trains to Notting Hill run every half-hour.”
Information given by Company.
“Do they? Ha! ha!” Remark by one who had tried them.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet, methinks, I see her still—
’Twas at Victoria Station,
And she wanted “Notting Hill.”
Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly—
Comes one more, then one more still;
But they suit not our poor maiden,
For she wants a “Notting Hill.”
That face, so wan and weary,
Was sure enough to fill
With pity, heart of marble,
In this case of Notting Hill.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still—
Or, better still, has given up
All hopes of “Notting Hill.”
But a Moment.
I saw her but a moment
Beneath the apple tree;
There was no one to listen,
No eyes were there to see.
I heard her soft voice singing,
Her song was one of love;
Her bright eyes seemed to borrow
Light from the stars above.
I saw her but a moment
As ’neath the tree she sat;
I threw at her the poker—
(She was—my neighbour’s cat).
OH! NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.
Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard,
My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word;
From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret,
And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget.
They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see,
But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,
I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget?
For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me,
The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;
The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set,
Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget.
They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay,
They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say;
Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret,
But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
Answer to
“Oh! No, We Never Mention Her!”
Oh! am I then remembered still,
Remembered too by thee!
Or am I quite forgot by one,
Whom I no more shall see?
Yet, say not so, for that would add
Fresh anguish to my lot.
I dare not hope to be recall’d,
Yet would not be forgot.
Had they who parted us but known
How hearts like our’s can feel,
They would have spared us both a pang,
Beyond their power to heal.
I know not if my heart retains,
Its wonted warmth or not;
Though I’m forbid to think of thee,
Thou’lt never be forgot.
May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind,
Which I can never know,
If that’s denied my prayer shall be,
That I may share thy woe.
Where’er thou art my every wish,
Will linger o’er that spot,
My every thought will be of thee,
Though I may be forgot.
If we should meet in after years,
Thou’lt find that I am changed;
My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale,
But not my faith estrang’d:
From mem’ry’s page the hand of death,
Alone thy name shall blot,
Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt,
Thou’lt never be forgot.
Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haynes Bayly’s Farce, “Decorum.”
Oh no! we’ll never mention him;
We won’t, upon our word!
“Decorum” now forbids to name
An unsuccessful bard.
From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to
Our office with regret,
And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!”
We’ll say that We forget!
We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,”
And try his ancient strain;
He’d better “be a butterfly”
Than write a farce again.
’Tis true that he can troll a song,
Or tender chansonette;
But if you ask us, “What beside”?
Why, really, we forget.
R. H. Barham, Author of The Ingoldsby Legends.
A Song.
Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding
over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827.
Oh! no we never mention him,
His name is never heard,
My lips are now so loth to speak
That once familiar word;
From street to street he followed me
One evening thro’ the west,
Then brought me to the Vice, which now
He thinks that I forget.
They bade me seek in rustic ease
A quiet man to be,
But when I come to Trin: again
They’ll find no change in me.
’Tis true that I behold no more
The alley where we met,
I do not see dear Mr. T.
But still I shan’t forget.
They tell me he is happy now,
But each dog has his day,
They tell me he forgets me now
But he soon shall dearly pay;
For when near me he struggles with
A crowd of snobs beset,
Then if I hit as I have hit,
He never shall forget.
M.
The Gownsman. February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)
Song by Sir Robert Peel.
Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following exquisitely touching stanzas:—
Oh no we never finger it,
Its name we never say,
My fingers are forbid to grasp
The once familiar pay.
From Bill to Bill they hurry me,
To banish my regret,
And when they win a speech from me,
They think that I forget.
They bid me seek by change of note
The place where rivals be,
But were I e’en to turn a Whig,
There’d be no place for me.
’Tis true that I no more behold
The council where we met,
I do not see the Treasury,
But how can I forget?
They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now,
The gayest of the gay,
They hint that he forgets, but pshaw!
I heed not what they say.
Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in
A pretty penny yet,
But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d,
He never can forget.
Figaro in London. April 6, 1833.
The Notorious Unknown.
“Oh! no! we never mention Her, Her name is never heard!
And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word.
But tho’ I could not tell HER name, Her face I’d often seen,
“She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green.
A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other;
And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother.
“I met HER at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her,
And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.
“I saw HER at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe,
A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go.
I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun,
For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every one.
“I saw HER at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned,
Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the head.
I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,)
“’Twas in the crowd,”—her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the rest.
I saw HER at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock),
Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock.
And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim,
(’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that Alias was her name.
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1836.
Lord Non-content.
Lord Lyndhurst (Lord Chancellor): Content or Non-content? Lord Brougham (Ex-Lord Chancellor): Oh! Non-content, of course.
Oh! no I say; don’t mention it,
’Tis really too absurd;
I don’t admit a single thing:
I won’t believe a word.
From all that Noble Lords have said,
In toto I dissent;
I’m always “Non-Content?”
They tell me I’m an obstinate,
Impracticable man;
I’m open to conviction—but
Convince me if you can.
I blame your views, deny your facts,
Dispute your argument;
Then why the question put to me?
Of course I’m “Non-Content.”
Content indeed! I never was,
From childhood’s dawn till now;
And I should greatly like to see
The statement I’d allow.
To differ only I’ll agree;
On that I’m firmly bent,
I am, I will, I must, I shall,
Be always “Non-Content.”
Punch. 1844.
Oh! No, I Never Name My Wife.
Oh no, I never name my wife
But let her lie at rest;
Although she used to pull my nose,
Now I am truly blest.
Each morn for cash she’d worry me,
To purchase heavy-wet;
And how she stagger’d home at eve
I never shall forget.
I strove to find in change of scene,
A tranquil hour or two,
But if, alas, she found me out
She’d thump me black and blue.
’Tis true, I now appear no more
With eyes as black as jet;
But how the poker she could wield,
I never can forget.
They hint that she is happy now,
In sooth, and so am I,
And, as she can return no more
’Twere wrong in me to sigh.
When I prepared to bury her
And friends and neighbours met,
The sort of sorrow I then felt
I never can forget.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
——:o:——
I’D BE A BUTTERFLY.
I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet,
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d never languish for wealth or for power,
I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I’d be a butterfly born in a bower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy,
I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings,
Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings;
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! nought but misery brings.
I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
What though you tell me each gay little rover,
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day,
Surely ’tis better when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away:
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay.
I’d be a butterfly, living a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away,
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “Psychæ; or Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S. (Archdeacon of the East Riding of York.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the above song:—
Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent;
Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo
Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent!
Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo,
Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent—
Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo,
Osculans gemmas quae suave olent!
Magicam si possem virgam furari,
Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu!
Æstivis actis diebus in aëre,
Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu.
Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare;
Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu!
Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre,
Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu!
Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore
Frigora Automni ferire suo;
Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori,
Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro.
Bramae qui capiunt captent labore
Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto—
Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore,
Concidamque omni cadente pulchro.
January, 1828.
An Answer to Mr. Bayly.
I would not be a butterfly,
Nay, Mr. Bayly nay,
Although you rhyme to ear and eye
In such a dainty way.
Those pretty words, that pretty air
Admit but this reply,
It strikes me I should hardly care
To be a butterfly.
A charm there is in being born
Within a rosy bower,
Where sunshine and a summer morn
Should grace my natal hour.
But I was born a cockney, sir,
A cockney I shall die,
Pray why on earth should I prefer
To be a butterfly?
The plants that in a garden grow
Are fresh and very sweet,
But more befitting for a show
Than proper things to eat.
I love my soup, I love my fish,
My joint and apple-pie,
My menu never makes me wish
To be a butterfly.
’Tis only just a month or so
The things can keep alive,
One year’s career they never know,
And mine are forty-five.
I hope to earn a little fame
Ere many more go by,
It would not be a paying game
To be a butterfly.
I tell you frankly Mr. B.
I would not if I could,
In fact so far as I can see
I could not if I would.
To many things we all aspire,
For many things we sigh,
But why should mortal man desire
To be a butterfly?
Henry S. Leigh.
I’d be a Parody.
I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny
Or some little song with a popular tune,
Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
I’d be a parody made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza,
I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings
Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!
When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!
Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza,
Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!
What though you tell me each metrical puppy
May make of such parodies two pair a day;
Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy
Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:—
Ladder of fame! if man can’t reach thy top, he
Is right to sing just as high up as he may;
I’d be a parody made by a puppy,
Who makes of such parodies two pair a day.
From Sharpe’s Magazine, 1829.
Song of a Rifleman.
I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Longest and last at the banquet or ball;
Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.
True to the opera, concert, or play,
I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall;
I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay,
Constant to none, yet a favourite with all.
* * * * *
What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet
Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun?
Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at,
For he’ll safely return when the battle is done.
Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at
The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun,
But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet,
Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done.
I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman,
Flirting in peace-time when battle is done.
From The Bentley Ballads. (London. Richard Bentley.)
Song of the College Bedmaker.
I make the butter fly all in an hour;
I put aside the preserves and cold meats,
Telling my master his cream has turned sour,
Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets.
I never languish for husband or dower;
I never sigh to see gyps at my feet;
I make the butter fly, all in an hour,
Taking it home for my Saturday treat.
From Horace at Athens, by G. O. Trevelyan.
I’d be a Rothschild.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains,
Having a heart drunk with visions of glory,
When fifty per cent, on my table remains;
I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me,
A fig for the head that such nonsense contains.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.
Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies
To foolishly trifle with time as they do,
Give me the music of soul-witching guineas,
While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!”
What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies,
At sixpence per line in each London review?
I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies,
Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue.
Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean,
When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence,
Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion,
But mine is concentred in consols and rents
Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion
Oh! they give song the importance of sense;
I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion
Awake at the tune of pounds, shillings, and pence!
Reginald Augustine.
From The Mirror, 1830.
Negro Liberty.
Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine,
Me learn to dig wid de spade and de shovel,
Me learn to hoe up de cane in a line.
Me drink my rum, in de calabash oval,
Me neber sigh for de brandy and wine;
Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel,
What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine.
Me be a nigger boy,
When me live happy, wha for me repine?
Me neber run from my massa’s plantation,
Wha for me run? me no want to get lick;
He gib me house, and me pay no taxation—
Food when me famish, and nurse when me sick.
Willy-force[8] nigger, he belly be empty,
He hab the freedom, dat no good for me;
My massa good man, he gib me plenty
Me no lobe Willy-force[8] better dan he.
Me be de nigger boy,
Me happy fellow, den why me want free?
From Fraser’s Magazine, 1830.
Song by the Duke of Wellington.
I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet,
Making fine speeches to last for an hour.
At night when the Members of Parliament meet
I’d never care for the Whigs looking sour,
I should have plenty of slaves at my feet.
I’d be a Minister born into power,
Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet.
Then could I pilfer the office of Grey now
I’d get a share of those nice little things,
Giving the patronage, drawing the pay now
And making the most of whatever it brings.
Those that are out, great complaints have to say now
Office around them complacency flings.
I’d be a Minister, like I see Grey now
I’d get a share of those snug little things.
Figaro in London, April 13, 1833.
I’d be a Butterfly.
“Master Butterfly, Mr. Townley’s famous short-horn bull, to which the first prize was awarded at the Chelmsford meeting, and who has been bought for the sum of 1,200 guineas, by an Australian gentleman, was shipped a few days ago for Melbourne by the Copenhagen.”—Daily Paper.
I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power
Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete,
Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower,
Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet.
Think of the glory obtained by my breeder—
Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won—
Think of the credit borne off by my feeder,
For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon!
In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage,
And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me,
Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage,
Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea.
While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest,
Are stored upon board for my use on the way,
A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest
Regard for my water-supply, day by day.
As for the passenger bipeds—poor devils,
Herring-like packed in the dark hold below!
Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils—
Hatches all down—when it comes on to blow!
My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool,
Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank!
Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull
And an emigrant labourer differ in rank!
Punch. August 23, 1856.
——:o:——
WE MET.
We met—’twas in a crowd,
And I thought he would shun me,
He came—I could not breathe,
For his eyes were upon me;
He spoke—his words were cold,
And his smile was unaltered;
I knew how much he felt,
For his deep-toned voice falter’d.
I wore my bridal robe,
And I rivall’d its whiteness;
Bright gems were in my hair,
How I hated their brightness.
He called me by my name—
As the bride of another—
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish my mother!
And once again we met,—
And a fair girl was near him,
He smiled, and whispered low,
As I once used to hear him;
She leant upon his arm—
Once ’twas mine, and mine only
I wept—for I deserved
To feel wretched and lonely.
And she will be his bride!
At the altar he’ll give her
The love that was too pure
For a heartless deceiver.
The world may think me gay,
For my feelings I smother,—
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my mother!
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
Parody on the Above.
We met, ’twas in a mob, and we looked at each other;
He came—I said to him, “That you have got another.
You know I saw you come out of yonder dark alley,
Along with that ere gal they call one-eyed Sally.”
And she wore her bridal dress,—’twas a sailor’s blue jacket;
Her face, it smiled at me, how I longed for to smack it,
I said that you was false when you gave me a milling!
Oh! thou hast been the cause of these black eyes, you villain!
I saw him once again, with that ’ere same gal walking;
She grinn’d, and so did he; how I envied their talking.
My heart it burst with rage, when her smart cap I tore off,
And a piece of her black hair in triumph I bore off;
He made a rush at me to give me a feller,
But he missed his savage aim, and fell into a cellar:
I laughed—I said to him, “You remember the milling
You last did give to me, and those black eyes, you villain!”
“Mr. Henry Colburn here led Lady Morgan to the harp, and requested her to sing ‘We Met.’ The wild Irish girl condescended thus to comply”:—
We met! ’twas in your shop,
And I thought you would shun me;
But you came—your words were sweet,
And your yellow-boys won me.
You bade me write a book,
And they damn’d it in Holborn:—
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, Hal Colburn!
You cut off half my price
When I went to another;
And I hate you for it well,
Though my feelings I smother.
God send you may be burked,
Some dark night in High Holborn—
And the puffs may bear your corpse
To the doctors, Hal Colburn!
From The National Omnibus. November 25, 1831.
We Met—’Twas in St. Giles.
We met, ’twas in St. Giles, Ah my poor bosom flutter’d—
He spoke, so full of smiles—though a little he stutter’d.
He said, “Ah, how d’ye do,” but I could not say “Thank’ee!”
I looked so very blue, and he look’d so lankey.
I wore my new pelisse all satin and whiteness,
A new five shilling piece had never such brightness
I should have ta’en his arm, but there was another—
O, thou hast been the cause of this anguish—my mother.
And once again we met that dashing young fellow,
It rain’d heavy wet, he’d a green umbrella;
He said, a worthy Jew, for nine-pence did mend it,
He said, ’twas good as new, and offer’d to lend it.
I thought there was no harm—I was going to take it;
My mother pull’d my arm, ’till I thought she would break it!
Don’t you think that cut direct, all his loving must smother.
Ah! thou hast been the cause of this anguish my mamma.
From The London Singer’s Magazine.
The Duel.—No. 1.
We met,—’twas on the ground—
And I thought he would fight me;
He came his looks were bold,
And his pistols did fright me.
He frown’d, and he whispered low
A dead shot he is reckoned;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!
He trod the paces out,
With a deal of expertness;
His legs were very short,
How I hated their shortness.
He loaded, primed, and cocked,
To his friend then he beckon’d;
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel, my second!
From The National Omnibus, June 10, 1831.
The Duel. No. 2.
We met, ’twas in a field,
And I thought he would wing me;
He came, I made cock sure
That down he would bring me.
He spoke, his words were cool;
His smile was unalter’d;
I knew he did not fear,
For his hand never falter’d.
I wore my Russia ducks,
And I rivall’d their whiteness;
Two slight friends were there,
How I envied their slightness!
I call’d the fellow out,
And there could be no shrinkings:
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this duel—Miss Jinkins!
(Two verses omitted.)
The Comic Magazine, Second Series, 1833.
Love on the Ocean.
“‘Oh! is there not something, dear Augustus, truly sublime in this warring of the elements?’ But Augustus’s heart was too full to speak.”—MS. Novel by Lady ——
They met, ’twas in a storm,
On the deck of a steamer;
She spoke in language warm,
Like a sentimental dreamer.
He spoke—at least he tried;
His position he altered;
Then turn’d his face aside,
And his deep-ton’d voice faltered.
She gazed upon the wave,
Sublime she declared it;
But no reply he gave—
He could not have dared it.
A breeze came from the south,
Across the billows sweeping;
His heart was in his mouth,
And out he thought ’twas leaping.
“O, then, steward,” he cried,
With the deepest emotion;
Then totter’d to the side,
And leant o’er the ocean.
The world may think him cold,
But they’ll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,
That he suffered from sea-sickness.
Punch. 1845.
Lord Brougham and Dr. Reid.
“I don’t want explanation, I want air”—Brougham on Ventilation, Vide Times. “Lord Brougham has expressed a very natural repugnance to be treated like an animal, shut up for the purpose of having ventilating experiments tried upon him. Such, however, is the fate of all Members of Parliament who are subjected to the horrors of Dr. Reid’s process. We can fancy the agonies of the Ex-Chancellor, imprisoned in an exhausted receiver, like one of those little figures we have seen ascending and descending in a glass tube, according as the air was let in upon or withdrawn from them. Brougham’s rencontre with Reid would be well worthy of a poetical celebration, in a strain somewhat similar to the following:—
We met, ’twas in the House,
And I hoped he would shun me;
He came, I could not breathe,
For his tube was upon me.
He puff’d, the air was cold,
The thermometer alter’d:
I knew ’twas freezing point,
For my voice with shivering falter’d.
I wore my Russia ducks,
In their beautiful whiteness;
Cold gusts ran through the House—
How I hated their lightness!
I call’d for warmer air,
But the pipes never cock’d are—
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this humbug, my Doctor!
And once again we met,
And a workman was near him;
He smiled and whisper’d low,
And I waited to hear him.
He gave a gentle breeze;
I confessed it was pleasing:
But then there came a rush
Of air that was freezing.
Is no one at my side,
Poor Brougham to deliver;
Or must he die shut in
An exhausted receiver?
The world may think him wise,
But the House he will smother;
Or blow it all away
On some day or other.
Punch. June, 1846.
The Lost Watch.
We met—’twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—
I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;
He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unaltered,
I too, longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter’d.
I wore my brand new boots—and unrivalled their brightness,
They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!
I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him.
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept, as he deserved —to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried—but I shall ne’er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay—heart and feet ache together,
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
Tom Hood.
The Imposition.
We met in upper school,
And I thought he would “draw” me;
He came, his words were stern,
And much did he jaw me.
He asked me for my task,
Which I could not to him show.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
And once again we met.
And his black book was near him
He pored and mumbled low,
As often you may hear him;
He said that I seem’d
In my duty towards him slow.
Oh! thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
I wore a clean white shirt,
And revelled in its whiteness,
Bright studs were in it too,
How I envied their brightness;
For they made my face look pale,
But I did not let him know
That thou wert the cause
Of this anguish, my “Impo.”
W. V.
From The Charterhouse School Collection of Poems.
THE SOLDIER’S TEAR.
Upon the hill he turn’d
To take a last fond look,
Of the valley and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook;
He listen’d to the sounds
So familiar to his ear;
And the soldier lean’d upon his sword,
And wip’d away a tear.
Beside the cottage porch
A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf
Which flutter’d in the breeze:
She breath’d a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paus’d to bless her as she knelt,
And wip’d away a tear.
He turn’d, and left the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was the soldier’s heart,
Tho’ tears were on his cheek.
Go, watch the foremost ranks
In danger’s dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wip’d away a tear.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
The Rector’s Tear.
(Supposed to be sung by the Rev. George Croly.)
Beside the church he stood,
To take a last fond look
Of the pulpit and the vestry-room,
And the red morocco book.
He heard the beadle’s voice,
So familiar to his ear,
And he raised his surplice to his eyes,
And wiped away a tear.
Within the old church door,
The clerk was on his knees,
Groping about in the wooden box,
In which he kept his fees.
The parson heard the dub-ups chink
Said he to himself, oh! dear,
If I had those, I do not think
I’d wipe away a tear!
That fine old humbug turned
To leave the chapel door;
He’d pocketted a fortune there,
But now he longed for more.
Go watch the vacant bishoprics,
In the chancellor’s career;
If he pops into one of them
He’ll wipe away no tear!
From The National Omnibus, November 25, 1831.
The Duke of Wellington’s Tear.
“We cannot help calling the attention of our readers to the following very touching melody, sung by the Duke of Wellington immediately on his discovering his inability to form an Administration. The allusion to his threatened retirement from the House, is replete with feeling; and the reference to the broken windows of Apsley House, pathetic and beautiful.”
Upon his heel he turned,
To take a last fond look,
Of their lordships and the ministers,
And the premier’s pleasant nook.
He listened to the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier on his protest leant.
To wipe away a tear.
Upon the sack of wool,
Brougham was on his knees;
He held aloft the snow-white Bill,
That caused so many a breeze.
He breathed a prayer to him—
A prayer he could not hear;
But he paused to damn him as he went,
And wiped away a tear.
He turned to quit the House—
Oh, do not deem him weak;
For bloody were the soldier’s thoughts,
Though tears were on his cheek.
Go watch the broken panes,
Of Apsley, dark and drear,
For there the soldier now must go,
To wipe away his tear.
Figaro in London, May 26, 1832.
(At that time the Duke of Wellington was very unpopular, and Apsley House had been attacked by the mob.)
The Blues Again.
Upon the ground he stood,
To take a last fond look
At the troopers as he entered them
In Mister Dixon’s book.
He listened to the neigh
So familiar to his ear;
But the soldier thought of bills to pay,
And wiped away a tear.
The soldier blew his nose,
Oh, do not deem him weak!
To meet his creditors he knows
He’s not sufficient cheek.
Go read the writ-book through,
And mid the names, I fear
You’re sure to find the very Blue
Who wiped away the tear.
Punch. 1845.
(“Punch had hoped that the regiment had been extricated from its little pecuniary difficulties, but was horrified on finding that the Commanding Officer had given instructions to sell twenty very superior long-tailed troop-horses. The above lines were suggested to the mind of a sentimentalist who attended the sale.”)
The Footman’s Nose.
In the street he turn’d to take a last long look,
Of the palings and the garden wall, where he the carpets shook:
He saw the kitchen fire where oft he’d warm’d his toes,
The footman bent upon his stick, and stood to wipe his nose.
Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees,
The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze.
She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose,
He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his nose.
He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week,
Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his cheek;
Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux,
For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
The Policeman’s Tear.
Against the rails he leant,
To take a last fond look,
At the kitchen he was petted in,
And the open-handed cook.
He heard the pretty housemaid read—
“The Guards will soon be here,”
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round,
And wiped away a tear.
He thought on beef and pickles,
On the lobster and the crab,
And other dainties that the Force
So well knows how to grab.
He thought of Susan’s sixpences,
Of Sarah’s supper-beer,
And the Peeler turned his bracelet round
And wiped away a tear.
For the Guards, the Guards are coming—
A week, and we shall find
His nose put not less out of joint
Than our larder, when he’d dined,
Cousins from the Crimea
With his rights will interfere—
No wonder that the peeler sighed,
And wiped away a tear.
But there is vengeance in his head,
So do not deem him weak—
There’s many a soldier will be watched
And brought before the Beak.
And of his rivals he will try
To keep our kitchens clear,
No sharper eye the steps can guard
Than now lets fall the tear.
Shirley Brooks, 1856.
Awful Position of Mr. Dunup at Boulogne.
Upon the pier he turned
To take a mental look
Of his credit and his creditors,
Whom basely he forsook.
He conjured up the sound
So familiar to his ear,
Of “please to settle this account;”
And answer’d with a sneer.
He reached his lodging door,
A trembling took his knees—
He found in Paris there had been
A most tremendous breeze.
“A bas les Anglais!” roar’d
Directly in his ear,
Told him there was not time to pause—
He sought again the pier.
He look’d on board the boat,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
For desperate was Dunup’s game,
The game of hide-and-seek.
Go watch him at Boulogne,
You’ll find him on the pier;
He’d rather risk the bayonets there,
Than brave the bailiffs here!
Punch, 1848.
The Soldier’s Fear.
He turn’d upon his heel,
To take an angry look
Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage
As they came o’er the brook;
He tried to lose the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword
His wife was in the rear.
She sat upon the baggage.
A child was on her knees:
She looked just such a sort of one
As loved to have a breeze;
She breathed a threat for him,
A threat he could not hear,
Or else he would have soundly drubb’d
His partner in the rear.
He turned and cursed the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak;
Bursting with fury was his heart,
Tho’ pallid was his cheek.
Go watch the foremost rank
In danger’s dark career,
And mark the man most des’prate there
His wife is in the rear.
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
Stanzas.
(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)
The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit,
And my hostess implores me to play;
She would hear me accompany lines full of wit,
In my truly musicianlike way.
But my lyrics were made for the careless and free,
When my heart and my spirits were light:
Seek the lays of the lively from others, not me,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom
In a corner far far from the throng;
Let me carry some chair to the end of the room
And retreat from the dance and the song,
Let me hide my depression and veil my despair
From the crowd of the brilliant and bright;
Or in case you insist upon hearing an air,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps,
In a plaintive and exquisite style:
But I know I should simply and feebly collapse
In my efforts to conjure a smile.
The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace,
Would be rather too painful a sight:
With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer
Such a state of dejection as mine.
It resists the seductive advances of beer,
And refuses the solace of wine.
No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust
You regard my refusal aright.
Well, of course, if you must have a ballad, you must,
Let my song be a sad one to-night.
Fun. November 18, 1871.
More Stanzas.
(By Haynes Bayly the Second.)
I have taken ten glasses of sherry;
I hope they will ask me to sing;
I am feeling uncommonly merry,
And pine to go in for my fling.
I would give them no die-away ditty;
My lay should be jocund and light.
Bother sentiment—let me be witty;
Oh! let me be comic to-night.
As I sit here alone in a corner—
A slighted though eminent guest—
I resemble poor little Jack Horner,
Except that the pie is non est.
Yet I fain would be awfully jolly,
I fain would be gay if I might;
I am ready for frolic and folly—
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
I was grieved when my opulent uncle
Was taken so terribly ill.
’Tis a fearful affair, a carbuncle,
And baffles all medical skill.
He is gone, and has left me to suffer;
But Time puts our sorrows to flight.
He left me his money, poor buffer:—
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
Let me try; I am perfectly ready,
I’ve sat in my corner too long,
But my legs are a little unsteady—
That wine was remarkably strong.
Did you say I was tipsy? Oh gammon!
Just lift me up gently. All right—
I can sing, Sir. ’Twas only the salmon.
Oh, let me be comic to-night.
Fun. December 9, 1871.
These two imitations of Bayly’s style were written by the late Mr. Henry Sambrook Leigh, who died June 16, 1883. They were also included in a volume of his poems, entitled A Town Garland, published by Chatto & Windus, London, in 1878.
OUT.
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Say I’m out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John!
Say you’ve not the least idea when I shall come again, John!
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John!
Say I’m courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John!
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John?
If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Run, John! run, John! there’s another dun, John;
If it’s Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John!
If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John!
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked, John!
Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John!
Say your master’s not the man to bid you tell a lie, John!
Out, John! out John! &c.
Oh, John! go, John! there’s Noodle’s knock, I know, John
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John!
Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John!
Say you think I’m only gone to pay his little bill, John!
Then I think you’d better add, that if I miss to-day, John!
You’re sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.
Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John!
If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John!
He will hear of no excuse, I’m sure he’ll search the house, John!
Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John!
Beg he’ll take a chair and wait, I know he won’t refuse, John!
I’ll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
Lord Brummagem, Late John Bright.
Out, John! out, John! What have you been about, John,
To thus oppose your Grand Old Chief, and try to cause his rout, John?
We’d news of late which said your health was very much amiss, John;
But, sick or well, we never thought that you would come to this, John!
Fie, John! fie, John! We wish you’d tell us why, John,
You’ve now become of selfish Whigs and Tories the ally, John?
It can’t, of course, be from mere spite, or any such mean end, John,
That you have, in an honoured age, thus turned upon your friend, John!
Yet, John! yet, John! we very much regret, John,
That better reason for your acts we’ve wholly failed to get, John.
You hint that Mr. Gladstone’s mad, which is not very kind, John;
But, come now, are you sure that you are in your own right mind, John?
Come, John! come, John! Nay, nay, you can’t be dumb, John.
You must speak out if we begin your past life’s deeds to sum, John;
For hitherto you have been bold upon the side of right, John.
What, then, has changed your principles, if it be not mere spite, John?
Why, John! why, John! you in the days gone by, John,
Full many a time have pleaded for the race you now defy, John;
Freedom was sacred then to you, and justice very dear, John,
But now, though, you attack them both, whilst stupid Tories cheer, John.
Think, John, think, John! ere you much lower sink, John,
That those who cheer you are the crew from whom you used to shrink, John;
Yes; stupid Tories, grasping Whigs, and Jingoes wild for war, John,
These are your brand-new friends—and we would ask again “What for, John?”
Yes, John! yes, John! Most sadly we confess, John
We, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne,” for explanation press, John.
Had you wax’d weary of the right, and tired of being true, John,
When you across a noble life this sombre shadow threw, John?
Stay, John! stay, John! Hear all we have to say, John!
Falls like to that of Chamberlain in no wise us dismay, John.
Joseph is an ambitious man, and full of self-conceit, John;
He’s shallow, too, like young men are, and vain and indiscreet, John!
But oh, John! oh, John! it was a cruel blow, John,
When, with desertion not content, you went and joined the foe, John!
Aye, when at Gladstone his old friend, John Bright, propelled a stone, John!
’Twas not his son alone that gave a deep and heartfelt groan, John!
Aye, John! aye John! you can’t yourself deny, John,
That thousands who once loved your name begin to it decry, John;
Whilst those too young your worthy deeds of past years to recall, John,
Already ask in wonderment why it is loved at all, John!
But, stay, John! stay, John! There yet remains a way, John,
In which, though stubborn, you may still this tendency allay, John;
Yes, you may keep the name of Bright un-slurred in any case, John.
By simply taking, as a Peer, a title in its place, John!
True, John! true John! you may this plan eschew, John,
But, ere you do so, please recall the things you’ve stooped to do, John;
You’ve shown yourself, though old in years, quite greedy of renown, John—
You as an Oxford D.C.L. flaunt in a scarlet gown, John
More, John! more, John! with feeling we deplore, John,
You have most bitterly denounced the friends of heretofore, John!
You’ve caused true Radicals to mourn—you’ve raised a Tory cheer, John:
The climax, then, is natural—you mean to die a Peer, John!
Yes, John! yes, John! your recent acts express, John,
That you in your maturer years a curious craze possess, John;
Which, having made you do the things you’ve all your life abhorr’d, John,
Now fills you with a silly wish—’twould seem—to be a Lord, John!
Eh, John! eh, John? “It isn’t so!” you say, John?
Then let it be your aim henceforth, most earnestly we pray, John;
Yes, please, as fitting climax to those Whig and Tories, cheers, John,
To Bramwell, Lowe, and Brabourne join in our great House of Peers, John!
Yes, John! yes, John! most urgently we press, John,
That you should from the Upper House declaim your next address, John;
So that “John Bright” may still remain a prized and honoured name, John,
Whilst with “Lord Brummagem” instead we link your Tory fame, John!
Truth. July 8, 1886.
Nay, John.
(A Temperance Song,)
“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Wherever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John
Say that though you are not old,
Nor yet so very wise, John,
Yet what is right and good and true,
You’re old enough to prize, John.
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’ve signed the pledge,
And mean to keep it too,” John.
“Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John,
Whenever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John.
Think, John, think, John, what a thing is drink, John,
From bad to worse, it mostly leads to death and ruin’s brink, John.
You know your uncle Robert had
As nice a house as mine, John,
But, years ago, you know, as well,
He swallowed it in wine, John,
His trade is dead, his shop is shut,
’Twas drink that made him fail, John;
He started with a single glass,
And now he’s in the gaol, John.
Use, John, use, John, winks at this abuse, John,
And when you recommend the pledge, will patch up some excuse, John.
Many drink because they’re cold,
And some because they’re hot, John
Many drink because they’re old,
And some because they’re not, John;
Many drink because they’re thin,
And some because they’re stout, John;
Many drink because they’re in,
And some because they’re out, John.
“Nay,” John. “Nay,” John, whatever they may say, John.
Never touch and never taste, but always answer “Nay,” John.
If they ask you only just
To taste a little drop, John,
Say you would if you knew where
The “little drop” would stop, John.
Tell them by gin and rum,
By wine and malt and hops, John,
That life and health, and peace and fame,
Are drowned in “little drops,” John.
Oh, John, oh, John, I’ll tell you what I know, John:
A drunken man o’er all the world, has most of grief and woe, John.
Then on the land and on the sea,
In seasons hot and cold, John,
Keep the pledge when you are young,
And keep it when you’re old, John,
Let the people drink who will,
But when they come to you, John,
Boldly say, “I’ve signed the pledge,
and mean to keep it too, John.”
When Sir Thomas Brassey lost his seat in the House of Commons, he was promoted to a peerage for his services to his party. Some snobbish toadies immediately set to work to trace a pedigree for the new Baron, and asserted that one of his ancestors came over with the Duke William from Normandy. Whereas it was well known that the father of Sir Thomas was of very poor and humble origin, and made his money by honorable hard work as a Railway Contractor. Truth represented Sir Thomas, attired in a suit of mail as a Norman Knight, appearing to his father, who sits smoking a short pipe, in the loose and easy costume of his early calling, a “navvy,” or road excavator. The father thus addresses the newly made Baron:—
Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom?
Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom!
To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool, Tom!
Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom!
What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by right,” Tom?
And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom?
My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff, Tom!
I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough, Tom!
What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old crest,” Tom?
For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom;
While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom,
For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom.
But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom:
Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom.
If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom,
But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom.
Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom;
And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom.
You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom,
That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.
——:o:——
THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME.
Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,
When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page,
Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age;
My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam,
Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home!
’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear,
’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near;
O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined,
And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind;
Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome
Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!
But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be;
And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come
Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home!
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
A Contrast.
Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt;
For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page
Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age.
Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome,
Finds each place more gay than the old house at home!
’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear,
But it wanted no end of repairs every year.
From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead,
And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head;
And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam,
Was the hall of my father,—the old house at home.
But now the old house is no dwelling for me;
I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be;
And ne’er will return there, except as a guest,
Just for two or three days,—if I do, I am blest!
The dulness would kill me, and slumber would come,
In the small dingy rooms of the old house at home.
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith, London: D. Bogue, 1848.
