W. S. GILBERT’S SONGS.
A Cracksman’s Carol.
[A burglar, who was recently arrested, was proved to have a yacht of his own, on which he went sailing when not on burgling bent. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, the noble army of cracksmen will thus carol in a Gilbertian strain.]
Air—Policemen’s Chorus (“Pirates of Penzance.”)
When the window “prising” burglar’s not a-burgling—not a-burgling,
He doesn’t rush to some mere rural spot,
And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling—’let a-gurgling,
But skims along the ocean in his yacht.
When his “lay” has been of “Ooftish” most productive—most productive,
And he finds the land is getting rather “hot,”
Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive—and instructive,
For he bounds across the billows in his yacht.
When no “swag” is for the present to be got—to be got,
He loves to go and navigate his yacht—’gate his yacht.
When the cracksman rests awhile from his employment—his employment,
With his “jemmy” and his skeletonian key,
Then he feels as how he ought to seek enjoyment—seek enjoyment,
By inhaling of the breezes of the sea.
When officious “slops” and “’tecs” would dare pursue him—dare pursue him,
And his whereabouts they’re likely for to “spot,”
Then in search of recreation you may view him—yes, you’ll view him,
Large as life enjoying otium in his yacht.
For a-lurking on the land is “Tommy-Rot”—“Tommy Rot,”
So off he goes a-sailin’ in his yacht—in his yacht.
Fun. June 1, 1887.
It Really Doesn’t Matter!
Trevelyan.
My eyes were fully open to my awful situation—
So I went at once to Gladstone, and I made him an oration.
I explained to him that I once more was in my proper senses,
And was willing to back up Home Rule and take the consequences;
That I did not want to perish by desertion of my party,
To descend into oblivion like Goschen had, and Harty.
He accepted my apologies with pleasure that did flatter,
As he said I’d been mistaken, and it really didn’t matter!
Cham.—And it really didn’t matter!
That it really didn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Chamberlain.
If I were not so deeply pledged to mingle with the Tories,
I should like once more to join in my former leader’s glories;
For I’m very much afraid that I have got into a mire,
And lowered my position, sirs, instead of rising higher;
My brain is getting weaker, I was once considered clever,
I have voted for Coercion that’s to linger on for ever;
To act like this I must have been as mad as any hatter,
But as I can’t retrace my steps, it really doesn’t matter!
Trev.—It really doesn’t matter!
It really doesn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Pall Mall Gazette. August 15, 1887.
The Model American Girl.
A practical, plain young girl;
Not afraid-of-the-rain young girl;
A poetical posy,
A ruddy and rosy,
A helper-of-self young girl.
At home-in-her-place young girl;
A never-will-lace young girl;
A toiler serene,
A life pure and clean.
A princess-of-peace young girl.
A wear-her-own-hair young girl;
A free-from-a-stare young girl;
Improves every hour,
No sickly sunflower,
A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl;
Plenty-room-in-her-shoes young girl;
No indulger-in-blues young girl;
Not a bang on her brow,
To fraud not a bow,
She’s a just-what-she-seems young girl.
Not a reader-of-trash young girl;
Not a cheap-jewelled-flash young girl;
Not a sipper of rum
Nor a chewer of gum,
A marvel-of-sense young girl.
An early-retiring young girl;
An active, aspiring young girl;
A morning ariser,
A dandy-despiser,
A progressive, American girl.
A lover-of-prose young girl;
Not a turn-up-your-nose young girl;
Not given to splutter,
Nor “utterly utter.”
But a-matter-of-fact young girl.
A rightly-ambitious young girl;
Red-lips-most-delicious young girl;
A sparkling clear eye
That says “I will try,”
A sure-to-succeed young girl.
An honestly-courting young girl;
A never-seen-flirting young girl;
A quiet and pure,
A modest, demure,
A fit-for-a-wife young girl.
A sought-everywhere young girl;
A future-most-fair young girl;
An ever-discreet
We too seldom meet
This queen-among-queens young girl.
Anonymous.
A somewhat similar American parody will be found on [page 128].
The Home Secretary’s Song.
“It is announced this morning that ‘the Home Secretary will address a meeting of his constituents in the Birmingham Town Hall on Monday next. On Tuesday he will open the new premises of the Aston Conservative Club, and on Wednesday attend ward meetings in the division he represents.’ The following song has, we understand, been expressly written for the Minister’s use on this occasion.”
Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the Times,
I vow I’ll investigate daily;
For ignorance crass, like I showed to Miss Cass,
Makes life go by not at all gaily;
No kudos receiving for Lipski’s reprieving,
The Salvation Army disgraces,
The child-mother sentence, my tardy repentance,
And numerous similar cases.
To have me in the Cabinet’s awfully nice,
But I fear I shall cost them a terrible price!
The new special pleaders, the writers of leaders,
Come down on my faults like a hammer,
To teach me the beauty of doing my duty,
Yet I falter, and struggle, and stammer.
Oh, Balfour and Goschen! you have not a notion,
What a terrible life I am leading;
For my faults blazoned get in the Pall Mall Gazette,
While they mock at my manners and breeding.
To give me a place was exceedingly nice,
But I fear I shall cost you a terrible price.
Each day when I rise, lo, another surprise
I feel will o’erwhelm me with wonder;
If I walk through the street, I am certain to meet
With placards denouncing some blunder;
The position I’ve got is uncomfort’bly hot,
For the public is getting so touchy,
Next time there’s a race for the prize of a place
I shall try to jump into the Duchy;
For to be in the Cabinet’s awfully nice,
But the honour is rather too much for the price.
Pall Mall Gazette. September 13, 1887.
CUMBERLAND, KING!
The Mélange, published in Liverpool in 1834. contained a number of songs of “High Tory and No Popery” sentiments, such as “Up, Protestants, Up!” in which the Pope and the Devil were ranged side by side, and a parody entitled “Rouse, Britons! Arouse.” Also the following verses to the tune of “God Save the King.”
Thy choicest curse in store,
On George be pleased to pour,
The traitor King!
He has abused the laws,
Slighted the Brunswick cause,
Then hail with loud applause,
Cumberland, King!
Oh, may the Duke of Wel-
Lington and Peel to Hell
Go hand in hand;
While Clarence and his crew,
Popish O’Connell too,
Homage are forced to do
To Cumberland!
This was evidently written before the death of George IV. in 1830; he was succeeded by William, the Clarence alluded to in the song. King William was suspected of having Liberal leanings, and an Orange plot existed to displace him and put his brother Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, on the throne, thus entirely excluding the Princess Victoria from the succession. This plot was exposed by Joseph Hume; but it never had any chance of success, for the Duke of Cumberland, profligate, brutal, and overbearing, was thoroughly hated by the English people. On the death of William IV. Cumberland became King of Hanover, and this country was finally relieved of his presence, and his plots. In the time of the Georges the following additional verse was sometimes sung:—
God save great George our King,
Long live our noble King,
God save the King.
Send us roast beef a store,
If it’s gone send us more,
And the key of the cellar door,
That we may drink.
“Druidical Songs, by James Wilson, A.D. (i.e., Ancient Druid), of Lodge 91. Adapted to popular and well-known tunes.” George Elliott, Blackfriars Road. London, 1839.—This pamphlet of 48 pages contains a number of songs in praise of the Ancient Order of Druids, to be sung to once popular airs, the majority of which are now quite forgotten. They are not actual Parodies.
“Corn Law Rhymes, and other Poems” by Ebenezer Elliott, London. B. Steill, 1844, contained parodies of “Robin Adair,” “Scots wha hae,” “Rule Britannia,” &c., all relating to the scarcity of food, and the protective duties.
“Songs of the Press, and other Poems,” original and selected, by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son and Co. 1845.—This amusing work contains a number of songs adapted to popular airs; they are very technical in their language, and only those already quoted can be styled Parodies.
“Motley,” by Cuthbert Bede, B.A., published in 1855 by James Blackwood, London, contained a number of imitations of the popular songs of the day. Most of them related to incidents in the Crimean War.
Professor Browne, of Fenchurch Street, London, hair-dresser and wig maker, has for more than twenty-five years issued small almanacs to his customers. These have contained a number of curious parodies relating to the Professor’s business, and praising his skill and enterprise. In some cases the humour of these productions was very quaint and grotesque.
Numerous short parodies of popular songs are to be found in the theatrical burlesques and extravaganzas produced during the last fifty years. As a rule they consist of a few couplets only, and possess no interest apart from their context. Hundreds of these ephemeral jeux d’esprit have been produced, and the following are the names of the most prolific authors of dramatic burlesques:—Vincent Amcotts; Captain Arbuthnot; William and R. B. Brough; Leicester Buckingham; F. C. Burnand; H. J. Byron; Gilbert A. A’Beckett; C. Dance; Maurice G. Dowling; W. S. Gilbert; H. Such Granville; A. Halliday; W. H. Oxberry; J. R. Planché; R. Reece; William Rogers; Francis Talfourd, and Charles Selby.
A more detailed account of dramatic burlesques will be given in a future volume.
Amongst collections of songs written for societies, such as the Freemasons, Druids, Anglers, Cricket and Football Clubs, Conservative, Liberal, and Radical Associations, many are to be found written to the airs of popular songs. As a rule these are not parodies.
There are numerous advertisement parodies of songs, some of considerable merit; the best of these have been quoted.
Some purely unintentional travesties of songs are really the most laughable and amusing, as, for instance, the absurd translations given in the English libretti of the Italian operas. Those who can appreciate comic songs should certainly also read Messrs. Augner’s edition of Schubert’s songs with English and German words. The song “Alinde” commences thus in the English version: “The sun sinks down into the meer, forth hast she not ridden?” This is intended to be a translation of “Die Sonne sinkt in’s tiefe meer, da wollte sie nicht kommen.” What is a meer? In several other cases the German word meer (sea) is translated meer. As a second example take “The Fisher.” “The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisher there bestow’d, With lazy angle, felt the hush, His heart with coolness load!” How could any man with his wits about him write such arrant nonsense? It certainly seems like an attempt to translate literally, but in the “Nachtstück” (night piece) an unpardonable deviation is made from the original. “Luna mit gewölken kämpft” we are told means “Luna camped upon the clouds!” Last, but not least, in that exquisite little song “Der Tod und das Mädchen,” which is unpoetically called “Death and the Girl,” the German runs thus: “Vor über ach vor über, geh wilder knochenmann.” Surely the translator struck the summit of absurdity in rendering it, “Pass onward, pass onward, wild man with skinless bone!” It is not a matter for surprise that we seldom hear any of Schubert’s works, except perhaps “Ave Maria,” in an English drawing-room, when the translations offered are hardly fit for nigger minstrels. There is much room for improvement in the poetry of our modern popular sentimental songs, whether intended for the stage, or the concert room. Yet ridiculous as these often are, they do not approach the nonsense, called translations from Italian, French, or German songs, where the effort required to render the sense in a metre suitable to the melody seems too much for any ordinary translator to cope with.
MORE ABOUT LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.
Several parodies of this Ode were given in Part 43 (June) but since then some others have appeared.
The universal opinion that Tennyson’s poem was a failure, and altogether unworthy of his reputation has been expressed in several ways, one London evening paper printed a couple of the Laureate’s verses “as they ought to be” thus:—
“You then loyally, all of you, deck your houses, illuminate all your towns for a festival, and in each let a multitude loyal, each, to the heart of it one full voice of allegiance, hail the great Ceremonial of this year of her Jubilee.”
“You, the Patriot Architect, shape a stately memorial, make it regally gorgeous, some Imperial Institute, rich in symbol, in ornament, which may speak to the centuries, all the centuries after us, of this year of her Jubilee.”
Instead of being poetry of transcendent merit, it seems to be a poor imitation of the language of Scripture. Others declare it to be an imitation of the style of Walt Whitman, and the Ode has even been compared to a badly-written catalogue! One satirist went so far as to plead in the Laureate’s latest style:—
You, the Patriot poet,
Shape a statelier poem;
Leave out “regally gorgeous,”
Cut the Imperial Institute,
Or we, weary, uncomforted,
And we needy unbanqueted,
Seeing how maimed are your verses,
Joy not this year of the Jubilee.
“Tenny the Baron’s” Jubilee Ode.
I.
Fifty times my poor nose you have broken,
Fifty times my gore you have spilled,
Since I stood with you in corded ring.
II.
He was trained by an ancient bruiser,
Learned in art of self-defence,
Slugger champion of England,
Owner of a silver belt,
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with murderous auguries
Comes at last to spoil my beauty,
In this blooming year of Jubilee.
III.
Nothing of the common, of the magsman,
Nothing of the vulgar or vainglorious,
All is cruel, slogging, hard and manly.
IV.
You hit me savagely—yes, you did!
Brought my claret as you struck
My eyes and nose and cheeks,
And from each let quarts pour
Red and gory down my battered chest.
One full blow aimed at proboscis
Hurled me clean to mother earth
In this the year of Jubilee.
V.
Stars as large as Spanish onions
Dazzling in my peepers came,
Tingling through me from my conk to hoof.
VI.
You, that wanton in your sparring,
Spare me! Do not now be bountiful.
Take your mawleys from my optics,
Do not knock them both in one,
Keep me safely from hospital,
Let my weary frame be comforted,
Let my aching pegs rejoice,
In this the year of Jubilee.
VII.
Sayers’s blows are all in shadow,
Gray with distance Greenfield’s sloggers,
Even Mace’s left forgotten.
VIII.
You, the champion architect,
Shape memorial of your skill,
Make my nose so grandly gorgeous,
Like some great Imperial Institute,
Rich in colour, and of size
Which seems like growth of centuries;
All the centuries that come after us,
In this the year of Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty times of ever-pounding business!
Fifty times of ever-striking science!
Fifty times of ever-widening gashes!
X.
You, the mighty and the bruiser,
You the slashing lord of blows,
You the bump-manufacturer,
You the hardy-fisted one,
Busiest child of Albion,
You, the thumper, scruncher,
Mug-demolisher, and puncher,
All your blows have hit me hard,
All my blows you countered well,
Saying, “Go to grass, you duffer,
In this the year of Jubilee!”
XI.
Are there seconds moving in my corner?
They seem spectres in the darkness!
Wash the blood from out my peepers,
So I may some little see.
Smith is victor, toss the sponge up,
In this year of Jubilee.
Ithuriel.
The Topical Times. June 18, 1887.
Another Version.
I.
Fifty years your verses have been fading,
Fifty years your golden harvest rising,
And now you publish stuff not fit to wrap butter in.
II.
This drivel of an agèd driveller
Is dear at any price,—not readable,
Such prosy rubbish takes up
Good space that others might
Have filled more profitably,
Macmillan ought to be ashamed
To print such abject rot.
III.
Nothing of the Poet of the Idylls;
Nothing but Prose, the very commonest
All for disgraceful greed and most unseemly.
Anonymous.
An Ode-ous Parody.
I.
Fifty times we’ve planted kail and used it,
Fifty times we’ve dug our own potatoes,
Since our Queen came into luck uncommon.
II.
She, beloved for a negative
Virtue quite neutral to history.
Queen of realms she ne’er looked upon.
Holding fast to the dignities
None e’er clung to more jealously,
Now is looking for perquisites,
Sends her son with the hat for them
Round this year of her Jubilee.
III.
She knows well her “neck has got a lith in’t,”
In her manners she’s genteel, and not too loud,
Does not boss too much about her shanty.
IV.
Trim your lamps every one of you,
Or put dips in your window panes.
Don’t grudge candles or paraffin,
And be sure you make noise enough,
Make all deaf with your loyalty,
Shout your shoutingest shoutingly,
Hold high-jink’d Saturnalia
In this year of her Jubilee.
V.
Queen as true to motherhood as Queenhood.
Giving many Princes to her people,
With Princesses that she weds to Germans.
VI.
You, with many full money-bags,
Slit a hole in the side of one,
Give a square meal to Lazarus.
Give three acres and cow to him,
Put your names on subscription lists,
Follow fashion in charity,
Help the fadders to fad a bit,
Give all round, and be sure to give
Well to help on her Jubilee.
VII.
Hal’s half-hundred years are nigh forgotten,
Nobody now prates of Ned’s long ruling,
Ev’n the Farmer’s record’s hardly mentioned.
VIII.
You, who get the big job to do,
Do your best with your stone and lime,
Use no gingerbread artifice,
Raise a pile that can stand a look,
Something all will can wonder at,
Which may stand for a year or two,
Tho’ our children may laugh at us
For our Juggernaut Jubilee.
IX.
Fifty years of pretty heavy taxes
Fifty years of not too much to pay them,
Fifty years of learning how to do it.
X.
You, the Swell by heredity,
You, the Landlord all talk about,
You, the Master men strike against,
You, of soil horny-handed sons,
Burdened brood of Britannia,
You, whatever your country be,
You, or white, black or copper-head,
All your hands in your pockets put,
Or your pockets’ equivalent,
Give, altho’ you should starve for it,
Gold to help on her Jubilee.
XI.
Are then those that mutter, discontented,
That to give were little short of madness?
Trust the Prince to lighten all their purses
With a juggler pass that makes coin vanish,
And Victoria Victrix shall be honoured
With a gift unequalled in the ages.
William A. Sloan.