WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.

“I have here only made a Nosegay of culled Flowers, and have brought little more of my own than the band which ties them.”

VOLUME IV.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

BALLADS, SONGS, and ODES.

T. HAYNES BAYLY.   ALFRED BUNN.   THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HENRY CAREY.   LEWIS CARROLL.   ELIZA COOK.

CHARLES DIBDIN.   THOMAS DIBDIN.

W. S. GILBERT.   ROBERT HERRICK.

CHARLES MACKAY.   HON. MRS. NORTON.

LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

SWINBURNE’S ODES.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. BARRY CORNWALL.

J. H. PAYNE.   R. B. SHERIDAN.   JAMES THOMSON.

IRISH SONGS.   SCOTCH SONGS.   WELSH SONGS.

MISCELLANEOUS OLD ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS.

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.

1887.

CONTENTS

VOLUMES I., II., III., and IV. PARODIES.

Each Part may be purchased separately.

Volume I.
Part 1.Alfred Tennyson’sEarly Poems.
Part 2.Alfred Tennyson’sEarly Poems.
Part 3.Alfred Tennyson’sLater Poems.
Part 4.Page 49 to 62.Tennyson’s Poems.
Page 62 to 64.H. W. Longfellow.
Part 5.Page 65.A Parody of William Morris.
Page 65 to 80.H. W. Longfellow.
Part 6.Page 81 to 96.H. W. Longfellow.
Part 7.Page 97 to 105.H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha.
Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. Not a Drum was heard.
Part 8.Page 113.Not a Drum was heard.
Page 113 to 128.The Song of the Shirt.
Part 9.Page 129 to 135.Thomas Hood.
Page 135 to 140.Bret Harte.
Pages 140 & 141.Not a Drum was heard.
Page 142 to 144.Alfred Tennyson.
Part 10.Page 145 to 160.Alfred Tennyson.
Part 11.Page 161 to 176.Alfred Tennyson.
Part 12.Page 177 to 186.Alfred Tennyson.
Page 187 to 190.Not a Drum was heard.
Page 190 to 192.Song of the Shirt.
Volume II.
Part 13.Page 1 to 4.Bret Harte.
Pages 4 and 5.Thomas Hood.
Page 6 to 16.H. W. Longfellow.
Part 14.Page 17 to 24.H. W. Longfellow.
Page 25 to 40.Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 15.Page 41 to 64.Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 16.Page 65 to 88.Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 17.Page 89 to 103.Edgar Allan Poe.
Pages 103, 4 & 5.The Art of Parody.
Page 106 to 112.My Mother, by Miss Taylor.
Part 18.Page 113 to 135.My Mother.
Page 136The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”)
Page 136A Welcome to Battenberg.
Part 19.Page 137 to 141.Tennyson’s The Fleet, etc.
Page 141 to 143.My Mother.
Page 144 to 160.Hamlet’s Soliloquy.
Part 20.Page 161 to 184.W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc.
Part 21.Page 185 to 206.W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques of his Plays.
Page 206 to 208.Dr. Isaac Watts.
Part 22.Page 209 to 217.Dr. Isaac Watts.
Page 217 to 232.John Milton.
Part 23.Page 233John Milton.
Page 233 to 236.Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.
Page 236 to 238.Matthew Arnold.
Page 239 to 244.W. Shakespeare.
Page 244 to 246.Bret Harte.
Page 246 to 255.H. W. Longfellow.
Pages 255 and 256Thomas Hood.
Part 24.Page 257 to 259.Thomas Hood.
Page 260 to 280.Alfred Tennyson.
Volume III.
Part 25.A Chapter on Parodies, by Isaac D’Israeli.
Page 3 to 16.Oliver Goldsmith.
Part 26.Page 17 to 20.Oliver Goldsmith.
Page 20 to 40.Thomas Campbell.
Part 27.Page 41 to 47.Thomas Campbell.
Page 48 to 64.Robert Burns.
Part 28.Page 65 to 71.Robert Burns.
Page 71 to 88.Sir Walter Scott.
Part 29.Page 89 to 99.Sir Walter Scott.
Page 99 to 105.Scotch Songs.
Page 106 to 109.Robert Burns.
Page 109 to 112.Thomas Campbell.
Part 30.Page 113 to 116.Coronation Lays.
Page 117 to 129.Charles Kingsley.
Page 129 to 136.Mrs. Hemans.
Part 31.Page 137 to 140.Mrs. Hemans.
Page 140 to 160.Robert Southey.
Part 32.Page 161 to 181.Robert Southey.
Page 181 to 184.The Anti-Jacobin.
Part 33.Page 185 to 186.The Anti-Jacobin.
Page 187 to 189.A. C. Swinburne.
Page 189 to 208.Lord Byron.
Part 34.Page 209 to 229.Lord Byron.
Page 230 to 232.Thomas Moore.
Part 35.Page 233 to 256.Thomas Moore.
Part 36.Page 257 to 278.Thomas Moore.
Page 278.Lord Byron.
Pages 279 & 280.Charles Kingsley.
Volume IV.
Part 37.On Parodies of Popular Songs.
Page 2 to 16. Modern Songs.
Part 38.Songs by Henry Carey, A. Bunn, J. H. Payne, and Robert Herrick.
Part 39.Songs by R. Herrick, T. H. Baily, and Lewis Carroll.
Part 40.Songs by C. and T. Dibdin, T. Campbell, and David Garrick.
Part 41.The Bilious Beadle, The Old English Gentleman, Rule Britannia, and God Save the King.
Part 42.Songs in W. S. Gilbert’s Comic Operas.
Part 43.W. S. Gilbert’s Songs, Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode, Swinburne’s Question, and the Answer.
Part 44.The Vicar of Bray, Old King Cole, Lord Lovel, and Old Simon the Cellarer.
Part 45.Chevy-Chace, Lord Bateman, Songs by R. B. Sheridan, Charles Mackay, and B. W. Proctor (Barry Cornwall).
Part 46.Parodies of various old Songs and Ballads.
Part 47.Parodies of Scotch, Irish, and Welsh Songs.
Part 48.Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English Songs. Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode.

AN

INTRODUCTION

TO THE

Parodies of Popular Songs.

cting on the suggestion of numerous friends and subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my Collection to Parodies of Popular Songs and Ballads, which are probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly, Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Macaulay, Dante G. Rossetti, Robert Browning, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most amusing Parodies of the principal prose writers, Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R. James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical, and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language consisting of, or containing, Parodies and Imitations. A list of all the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with Authors’ names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the date and place of first performance, and much other information useful to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations. The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently interesting.

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not so frivolous as it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an interesting article which appeared in The Daily News (London), October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following paragraphs:—

“Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass of virtue if we are to denounce them as a ‘debasing of the moral currency.’ Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out of a parody of ‘Adam Bede.’ No legitimate fun can be got out of an honest parody of ‘Hamlet.’ Any fun that is got must be lugged in from without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general. But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ especially when the mannerisms of the actors are well hit off. To ridicule mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment. Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has not artistic qualities and a considerable share of success.”

“As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of ravens which follow Edgar Poe’s are the bird’s courtiers, not his enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not striking and original features. ‘Excelsior’ and the ‘Psalm of Life’ are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe’s parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any in the ‘Rejected Addresses.’ There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is not so certain. But authors are not so touchy as actors, as the ancients knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist in the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice.’ Greek parody probably reached its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a bard wishes to know his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself ‘Am I parodied, and how much?’ Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne’s ’Dolores’ is the parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them, dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr. William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.”

The classification of the Parodies of Songs presents some difficulties, but the following arrangement will be adopted as far as possible; Popular sentimental and amatory songs; National and Patriotic (English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch); Naval and Military; Sporting, Convivial, Social and Humorous Songs.

WALTER HAMILTON.

57, Gauden Road,
Clapham, London, S.W.
December, 1886.

——:o:——

SENT TO HEAVEN.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear.

*  *  *  *  *

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate;

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

This poem first appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, November, 1860, in 13 four-lined verses, over the initials A. A. P. (Adelaide Anne Proctor). It is now better known as The Message, and has been frequently parodied.

The Message.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

For I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to the west,

To our pretty suburban villa,

At least five miles from here,

And my dear affectionate darling

Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her,

So tender, and loving, and sweet,

I longed for a seraph to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I gave it the clerk in the morning,

And the post was only next door,

But the stupid, forgetful fellow

Didn’t post it till half-past four.

I cried in my passionate longing,

“Has the earth no angel friend

Who will carry my love the message

My heart desires to send!”

The message at last was sent her,

And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove,

The telegraph boy brought my warning—

“Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.”

Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

The Message.

(Of the Future.)

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

But I had some letters to finish,

And it couldn’t go out with the rest—

With the rest to the first post-office,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to call back the porter,

He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her:

Some friends I intended to treat,

And I longed for a hansom to bear it,

But there wasn’t a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide)

In the pocket which lay on my breast,

But when I went out for my luncheon

I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper,

And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er,

But his fingers were faint and weary

And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing,

“Have I got no bosom friend

Who will kindly deliver the message,

That I am so anxious to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

And I wondered all cats weren’t dead,

But I found ’twas the wind that was passing

Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings

Like a fiddle-bow over the strings,

And I thought I would send my message,

By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound it resembled my speech,

Farther than I could travel,

Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message

Had been telephoned down to my wife,

And my mind was no longer uneasy

For I knew she’d expect us at five.

Funny Folks. October 19, 1878.

I had a message to give her,

But she too early had fled;

I thought of it since we parted,

And she had gone home to bed

To rest in the highest attic,

Far up near the starry sky:

And she never could hear me calling—

Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her

(A line which I here repeat),

But I thought it would not be proper

To shout it from out the street;

So I tried to attract attention

By flinging aloft a stone,

But I only broke a window,

And left her—in haste—alone.

I gave it to “milk” next morning,

And I watched if she took it in.

But ’twas somebody else who did it

(I’d to stand the “milk” some gin).

And I cried in my passionate longing,

“Oh! is there no other way

I can get to my love the message,

And say what I have to say?”

Then I heard a sweet voice singing

Up high in the morning air;

She was cleaning the first-floor windows,

And I beckoned her down the stair.

And she came to the front door quickly—

For her mistress was not yet up—

And she said I must come that ev’ning

(For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast

(I had coffee and salted fish),

And went to my work as happy

As lover who’s got his wish;

For I knew I should give my message—

And I felt it was not too late—

I should meet her that night at supper,

So I was content to wait.

Fun. October 17, 1883.

——:o:——

“OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?”

[According to England, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt,

Sweet William wot chops treeses down?

How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote

And said he’d soon down with the Crown.

Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt,

Or a hactor hobscure and halone,

He have positive shown in a letter so gay

That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt?

His tongue it would never keep still;

And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack

To the click of the Radical mill.

Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt

And I looks for their meaning around;

For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince

That he’s artful and werry profound!

Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With its master, the Brummagem screw?

And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?—

A howling Republican crew!

I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt,

For that letter have made me feel dry:

And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben,

YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!!

England, January 24, 1885.

——:o:——

THE LOST CHORD.

The Lost Ball.

(A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne
Proctor. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Batting one day at the Oval,

I was scoring and quite at ease,

And I “placed” the bowling neatly,

Piling up twos and threes.

I know not whom we were playing

Or what was my total then,

But I struck one ball of Morley’s

Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.”

It fled in the golden sunlight

Like the devil away from psalms,

And swiftly, though long-leg fielded,

It slipped like an eel through his palms.

It quieted chaff and chatter

Like loves overcoming dears,

And raised a harmonious echo

Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen,

Simple as perfect geese,

And rolled away in the distance

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought and still seek vainly

Of the lost ball a sign,

That came from the shoulder of Morley

And travelled away from mine.

It may be some man from the gas-works

Will find it on his domain;

It may be that only next season

I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

The Lost Cord.

(Words by an Organ-grinder.
Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Andante Moderato.

Seated one day on the organ

Was my monkey, but ill at ease,

For his fingers wandered idly,

Searching for—what you please.

I know not what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming, quite,

But I dropped his cord and, quickly,

With a bound he was out of sight!

With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight,

With some clothes on his outstretched arm;

And the way that he sought to wear them

Had a touch of infinite charm.

While riot and shrieks of sorrow

Above, from a plundered wife,

Recalled the harmonious echo

Of my discordant life.

The things perplexed the monkey,

He spoilt them piece by piece:—

Animato.

I trembled away in my silence,

In fear of the dread police!

Agitato.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one last cord, and pine

For him, for the soul of my organ—

That vanished ape of mine!

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only decamps

When he hears the organ-men

(Repeat.)

Judy, March 3, 1880.

The Lost Voice.

Seated at Church in the winter

I was frozen in every limb,

And the village choir shrieked wildly

Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing

But while I was watching them

Our Curate began his sermon

With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”

It frightened the female portion

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,

Both maidens and matrons heard it

With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,

Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,

Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate’s life.

It linked all perplex’d diseases

Into one precious frame;

They trembled with rage if a sceptic

Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,

Stuffed him with food and wine,

They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him

With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates

Will preach in that church to them,

Will there be every time, Good Heavens!

Such fuss for a slight—Ahem!

A. H. S.

The Correct Chord.

Seated for years at the organ,

Just trying the stops and keys,

And wondering how the pedals

Might be got to work with ease:

By ear, with my notes in my pocket,

Performing—as few men can,

I struck such a chord that the organ

Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.”

It flooded the daily papers,

Like the name of a comic song,

And I felt several inches taller

As I quietly bowled along.

I think that it nettled Northcote,

Polite as he can be in strife,

Though it seemed a sensible echo

From the din of my public life.

But it brought down chaff by the cartload,

That possibly may increase;—

For till Churchill’s in with his Party,

I never shall know any peace.

But I take the whole thing calmly,

For the cord has a swell that’s fine;

And I’m glad the popular organ

Has a touch that answers mine.

And whether I stick to the Commons,—

And I certainly will if I can,—

Or go to the Peers,—no matter,

I shall still hear “that Grand, Old Man!”

Punch. March 10, 1883.

The Lost Drink.

Seated one day at a café,

I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx,

And my tongue went babbling idly

Over the names of drinks.

I knew not what I was saying,

Nor what I had uttered then;

But the garçon brought me a mixture

Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour was crimson foncé

Like the tip of a toper’s nose,

And it tickled my fever’d palate

With a touch of infinite “goes.”

It trickled down my gullet

Like oil down a red-hot pipe;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From some supernal swipe.

It linked vin rouge and choice liqueur

Into one perfect drop,

And guggled away down my gullet

As if it were loth to stop.

I have sought—but I seek it vainly—

That one lost drink divine,

Which was mixed by that garçon du café

With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance garçon

May bring me that drink again;

It may be that some day in Paris

I may utter its name. But then

I never could find that café,

And lost to mortal ken

Is that supernal boisson

Like a gift of the gods to men!

Judy. October 27, 1886.

IN THE GLOAMING.

A Parody of Lady Arthur Hill’s Song.

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

When your ways are mean and low,

And the sons of Alma Mater

Loudly come and softly go;

When you prowl around my college,

With your Bull-dogs in a row,

Will you watch for me and catch me

As you did one term ago?

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

Think not bitterly of me!

Tho’ I tripped you up instanter,

Left you prostrate, and was free.

For my diggings were quite handy,

Five bob more could never be;

It was best to floor you thus, sir,

Worst for you, but best for me!

A. Haskett Smith.

University College, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming;”
or,
The Wailings of a Disappointed Novice.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

Don’t I curse the thoughts of thee!

Crowding ever like grim phantoms,

Haunting me unceasingly.

Oh! my heart is sad with longing,

What I dreamed will never be:

It were best to “chuck you up,” dear,

Best for you and best for me.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

When thy light burns dim and low,

And the vision of a bobby,

Sets my ruby all aglow!

When with pain my limbs are aching,

As I “hook it” awful slow,

Withering condemnations hearty

Of thy maker often flow.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

I will mount thee not in vain;

Take thee to a near relation,

“Pop thee up the spout” for gain!

Thus I’ll rid me of thy torments,

Instrument of make insane!

I have learned by sad experience,

Cycling ain’t an easy game.

“Ab Initio.”

Icycles. 1880.

More Gloamingly.

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Now our credit’s very low,

And the tax-collectors calling,

Often come and unpaid go;

Now the landlord’s asking quaintly

For the rent you know we owe,

Will you let me have some money,

As you did—once—long ago?

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Think not bitterly on me,

If we bolt away in silence,

Bilk our duns, and thus be free!

For their hearts are crushed with longing,—

Paid their bills can never be;

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

Judy. March 2, 1881.

An Oxford Shooting Expedition

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

When the birds are flying low,

And the hares and wily bunnies

Swiftly come and swiftly go:

When the beaters cry, “Mark over!”

And a cock comes skimming low,

Will you blaze away, and pot me,

As you did once long ago?

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

Think not bitterly of me,

Though I shammed that you had killed me,

And you rushed up pale to see.

For I taught you then a lesson

Which will ne’er forgotten be,

It was best to teach it roughly,

Best for all your friends and me!

A Haskett Smith, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming.”

(Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio,
South Kensington.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

When the thought of painting longer

Fills us with an untold woe;

How we think of tea, and love it,

While the shadows deeper grow!

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

We think tenderly of tea,

Till our hearts are crushed with longing

Round our steaming cups to be.

(It is only green in mem’ry,

And at times—’twixt you and me—

A malignant grocer sends us

An inferior bohea.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

Will the tea be weak? we wonder

(What has been, again may be);

But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears—

Best for you and best for me.

Helen Marion Burnside.

The Girls’ Own Paper. February 23, 1884.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs,

’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

*  *  *  *  *

Eliza Cook

My Old Arm Chair.

I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?

It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight

Into the dreams that I dream by night.

When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,

Where age and washing have blurred the tints,

No earthly passion can well compare

With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

I loved with a love of the noblest kind;—

Sensitive, delicate, most refined.

But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow,

And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now.

I cannot forget, though I might forgive;

My wrongs will follow me whilst I live.

But this is the memory worst to bear;—

She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

I owned a creditor—(frightful man!)

Who bored me as creditors only can.

He vaguely talked of a small amount

Which took the shape of an old account,

Twice in the week, I remember well,

He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.

If he found me without any cash to spare,

He called me names from that old arm-chair.

Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls,

Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls,

Visit that seat, and around it swarm

In every possible shape and form.

My life is a torture, a perfect curse—

My home is a dungeon, or something worse.

I shall never be happy or freed from care

Until I get rid of that old arm-chair.

From A Town Garland, by Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto & Windus, London, 1878.)

On the New Arm Chair.

(Presented to Mr. Gladstone.)

The Pleased Premier Sings:—

I love it, I love it; will Worms, now, dare

To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair?

I shall treasure it long, ’tis a genuine prize,

Of cosy make, of convenient size.

’Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links,

By memories pleasant of “forty winks.”

Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care

Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair.

I have sat in the Commons this many a day,

Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey:

Oh, the hours I have lounged, and—with trouble—smiled

Whilst Churchill cheeked or the Pats ran wild;

Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead,

And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed.

By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there

And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!

But Harcourt’s waiting, and I must go;

He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know.

Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side,

My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide.

Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek,

I should very much like to talk on for a week.

Now myself from your presence I really must tear,

But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair.

Punch. August 27, 1881.

Scene.—The House of Commons. The Ex-Speaker is discovered gazing sadly at the seat he has lately vacated. At length, satisfying himself that he is alone, he relieves his soul in song as follows;—

“I loved it, I loved it; and who would dare

To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair?

When they chose me first to its seat to rise,

I looked on it then as a precious prize,

And my heart with joy and with pride was big

When I put on my new full-bottomed wig.

I was under a spell as I first sat there,

And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair!

“And all at first happened well for me,

And my life was calm as calm could be;

The ‘Ayes’ were gentle, the ‘Noes’ were kind,

And rarely to sitting late inclined;

Whilst night after night ’twas my happy fate

To retire for my ‘chop’ at half-past eight;

To retire and return, unvexed by care,

To sit—aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair!

“But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped,

My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled:

For there came o’er the scene a parlous change,

As the new M.P.’s brought their manners strange;

Till one night, alas! was ‘Obstruction’ born,

And I knew what it was to sit till morn;

Ah! I learned what a Speaker’s strength could bear,

As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair.

“’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now

With quivering lips and with throbbing brow;

For there full oft have I sat in vain,

Till the day has peeped through the window pane;

’Twas there I was badgered; ’twas there I heard

My solemn rulings declared absurd—

But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear

My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair.”

As the above is being softly sung, the Speaker Elect, attracted by the sound, returns to the House, and remains an unobserved listener till the conclusion of the song, when, remarking Mr. Peel’s presence, the Ex-Speaker thus addresses him:—

“Ah, ’tis well, my new successor,

Aye, ’tis meet you thus have found me

Lingering here in semi-darkness,

And addressing mournful lyrics

To the furniture about me.”

Truth. February 28, 1884.

The Old Arm-Chair.

[“A German Professor has discovered that all the woodwork about our houses has power to absorb ‘noxious juices’ while still growing in its native forest, and that when a tree becomes part of the domestic furniture, and is cut up into chairs and tables and bookshelves, it immediately begins to pour its ‘noxious juices’ out into the air of the room.”—Daily Paper.]

I dread it, I dread it! and who shall dare

To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as an antique prize,

But Science has suddenly opened my eyes;

So now I say to my startled heart

That ’twere better the chair and I should part.

Would you know my reason?—a mother sat there,

And became the prey of that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near

That treacherous seat without a fear,

And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew

As she worked at her knitting the morning through,

For German savants had yet to produce

Their ghastly theory of “noxious juice,”

And my parent guessed at no cause for scare

In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair.

The doctor watched her many a day,

While she took her physic and pined away;

And it failed to strike him that p’raps her cure

Might be found in a smash of furniture.

Time passed on, and I heard with glee

That mater intended to try the sea;

But though she recovered in Brighton air,

I never suspected the old arm-chair.

I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now

With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow,

’Twas there she sickened and almost died—

Of chair—as professors sage decide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek;

But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear

To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair.

Funny Folks. May 29, 1886.

The Dentist’s Chair.

I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare

To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair?

I hated it first in my early youth,

When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth.

And many and keen are the pangs through my soul,

And the terror I feel is beyond control;

I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair,

As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair.

It has held me many and many a day,

When I fain would have been in the fields at play

And I hated the dentist when first I sat

In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.”

Years roll on and are quickly fled,

And my teeth became shattered within my head:

But I know how much the heart can bear,

When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair.

Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now,

With affright in my soul and care on my brow;

’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled;

’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed.

Say it is folly, and call me weak,

While the raging nerves puff out my cheek,

But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair,

And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair.

A. L. D.

Modern Society. April 17, 1886.

——:o:——

Song of November.

(Another parody of Eliza Cook,)

That gridiron by the mantel-piece,

Its look gives every nerve a thrill;

That thing of home begrimed with grease,

Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill.

November—month to childhood dear,

Old month of Civic feasts and sights,

To see that gridiron so near,

Fills my sad heart with home delights.

November—I remember well

The day when I to market hied,

In search of one with sprats to sell—

Sprats in which childhood might confide.

I bought them, and the savoury fish

On yonder gridiron then were broiled

Experience is a bitter dish,

I had it then—the sprats were spoiled!

Punch’s Almanac, 1846.

——:o:——

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

As several of the following parodies are rather out of date extracts only are given.

Punch to the Woods and Forests.

Lincoln, spare that tree,

Touch not a single bough,

Though in the way to be,

Oh, stand up for it now.

Still, let its shade expand,

Where, round the social pot,

The Hansom cabmen stand—

Oh, Lincoln, harm it not!

*  *  *  *  *

Thy sire, great Clumber’s King,

Thou’st certain to offend—

His son do such a thing!—

The world draws to an end

Old Laws, old Dukes, old Trees,

Delay, decay, dry-rot:

Let Peel do as he please,

But, Lincoln, harm them not!

Punch. 1846.

[While Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle, was First Commissioner of Woods and Forests, a proposal was made to cut down some of the old trees in the West-end of London, which were said to be in the way.]

The Hyde Park Corner Clock.

Gasman, light that clock,

The time I cannot see;

It can’t be more than twelve,

And yet it looks like three!

Its hands are all confused,

Its numbers none can trace:

Say, is that humble clock

Ashamed to show its face!

It can’t be very late:

True, I’ve been out to sup:

But, ho! what says the clock?

Come, Gasman, light it up.

Say, can the mist be caused

By fumes of generous wine?

Is it three-quarters past eleven,

Or is it only nine!

Is it half after twelve,

Or six, or eight, or two?

That dismal rushlight kept inside

No good on earth can do.

When I go home to bed

I’m quite afraid to knock,

If I’ve no notion of the hour—

So, Gasman light that clock.

Punch. 1846.

The “Tree of Liberty.”

Frenchman, spare that tree,

Its roots lie very low;

You’d better let it be—

Elsewhere ’twill never grow

*  *  *  *  *

Vitality, to-day,

Within it there may be,

It perishes when moved away—

So, Frenchman, spare that tree.

Punch. 1848.

An Impassioned Appeal to the Premier.

(By a very Common Councilman).

Gladstone, spare that Tree!

(Of course I means the Corporation.)

Touch not a single bough;

(That is, neither the Court of Aldermen or the Court of Common Council.)

In youth it sheltered me,

When I was bound a Prentice.)

And I’ll protect it now.

(Now that I’m a full-blown Common Councilman.)

’Twas my forefather’s hand

(A jolly long time ago, when the Saxons and Danes was here.)

That placed it near this spot;

(At the bottom of King Street, Cheapside.)

Then, Gladstone, let it stand,

(Till it’s blowed down as well as blowed up.)

Thy Ax should harm it not.

(Ax of Parlement, of course.)

Oft, when a careless child,

(Summut about 17,)

Beneath its shades I heard,

(Guildhall, of course,)

The woodnotes sweet and wild,

(But rather expensive,)

Of many a foreign bird.

(From the Italian Opera.)

My Mother kissed me there,

(In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom.)

My Father pressed my hand

(With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:)

I ask then, with a tear,

(Of course, that’s all my eye,)

To let the old Oak stand!

(Too obvious to require explanation.)

I’ve crossed the foaming wave;

(Dover to Calais—oh, Steward!)

I’ve braved the cannon-shot!

(Figuratively, at the Tower;)

While I’ve a hand to save,

(That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,)

Thy Ax shall harm it not!

(Ax of Parlement, as before.)

Punch. February 11, 1882.

“Spencer, Spare that Tree!”

[“It is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems to enjoy and thrive upon it. It is sad to think that we have Vandals paid by the public to do such irreparable, wanton mischief.”—Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting down of the old South Kensington plane tree.]

Spencer, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

For years you’ve let it be:—

Why set upon it now?

I know not whose the hand

That placed it on that spot;

But, Spencer, let it stand,

Or else you’ll get it hot!

The old familiar plane

That decks this end of town:—

Why, those are scarcely sane

Who want to cut it down.

South Kensington secures

Its end with many a joke;

But if you must have yours,—

O Spencer, spare this stroke!

When, in my childhood’s joy,

T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed;

Charles Matthews still a boy,

Grew young beneath its shade.

And later, it was here,

Ere Brompton saw its close,—

Forgive this foolish tear,

The dear old boilers rose!

So, if you’ve work in view,

Cut down—I’ll not repine—

A salary or two,

But not this tree of mine!

And though in wild dismay

Your underlings complain,—

O Spencer, cut away,

But don’t cut down my plane!

Punch. July 23, 1881.

“Childers, Spare that Coin.”

[The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine shillings in gold.]

Childers, spare that coin,

Historically grand,

Thou wouldst its tenth purloin,

But, prithee, stay thy hand.

It aye has held for me

A pure ten-shilling joy.

So, Childers, let it be,

Nor mix it with alloy.

That old familiar piece,

Whose glory and renown

Would straightway sink and cease,

If thou shouldst chip it down!

Childers, forbear this stroke,

’Gainst which we all protest;

Oh, say that when you spoke,

You only spoke in jest.

Oft, when a careless lad,

The golden chink I heard,

For I an uncle had

Who tipped me “like a bird.”

On sweetstuff, apt to smear

One’s clothes, the coin was spent;

I ask thee with a tear,

Oh, drop thy ten per cent.

My heartstrings round thee cling

Close as thy rim, old friend—

Remain a handy thing

To borrow or to lend.

Old piece, still circulate,

And, Childers, of thy grace,

Think well and hesitate,

Ere thou our coin debase.

Funny Folks. May 10, 1884.

——:o:——

THE IVY GREEN.

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o’er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made,

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,

To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously hugs and crawleth round

The rich mould of dead men’s graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,

Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,

Is the Ivy’s food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Charles Dickens.

This song first appeared in Chapter VI. of The Pickwick Papers, which were originally published in monthly parts, commencing in April, 1836. Ten years later Dickens started The Daily News, the first number of which was published in London on January 21, 1846. For many years the paper had but a struggling existence. Although Dickens only edited it for a few months, it was well known that he was interested in its success, so that the author of the following poem, whilst sneering at The Daily News, had a motive in choosing Dickens’s poem as the model for his parody.

The Daily News.

Oh! a dreary print is The Daily News,

And its life is a wonder to all.

It puts in advertisements others refuse,

But sooner or later must fall.

Its leaders are heavy, confused its page,

And dismal its general tone.

In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage

Is, when it is offered, shown.

Sent for nothing to all who choose,

A losing game is The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News began with a bang,

And was going to shut up The Times.

And twaddled that murderers never should hang,

And printed “large sympathy” rhymes.

But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed:

And still did “The People” refuse,

To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed,

In the sheets of The Daily News.

What large sums they have learnt to lose,

Who first embarked in The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News never publishes “wants”

Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks.

Nor many announcements of ships or of sales,

But only the Whitefriars books;

Which pretty well shows what everyone knows,

By no one it ever is seen,

And soon shall we, when it ceases to be,

Forget that it ever has been.

Let it abuse or praise if it choose,

There’s nobody minds The Daily News.

The Man in the Moon. Vol. III. 1848.

Green Pea Soup.

Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green,

I for it often call;

And up it comes in a smart tureen,

When I dine in my banquet hall.

When a leg of mutton at home is boiled,

The liquor I always keep,

And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d)

A peck of peas I steep.

When boil’d till tender they have been,

I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock,

I rub with all my power;

And having returned them to the stock,

I stew them for more than an hour;

Then of younger peas I take some more,

The mixture to improve,

Thrown in a little time before,

The soup from the fire I move,

Then seldom a better soup is seen,

Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career,

How many my dishes have been!

But the one that digestion never need fear,

Is the simple old soup Pea Green.

The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,

And the turtle lose its charm;

But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,

And does not the slightest harm.

Smoking hot in a smart tureen,

A rare old soup is the true Pea Green!

Punch. 1852.

“Official Routine.”

(A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office.)

Oh, a dainty growth is Official Routine,

That crawleth o’er systems old:

With red-tape tendrils clasping keen,

And choking where they fold!

What stores have rotted, what ships decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim!

How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head,

So terrible and so trim!

For knaves and fools a sheltering screen,

Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine.

He worketh his way, with men and things,

Alike by land and sea;

And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings

By the vis inertiæ.

You may see him trailing along the ground,

O’er an army’s new-made graves;

Or barring their way that stand around

To save wrecked stores from waves.

At Balaklava all serene—

A flourishing growth is Official Routine!

Let men and ministers have their day,

And be as they had not been,

Official routine still holdeth sway,

In its mingled gray and green.

The brave old creeper, in these our days,

Still fattens, as in the past,

And the noblest host a nation could raise,

Hath fallen, its prey at last!

Creeping still where life has been—

A terrible plant is Official Routine!

Punch. February 10, 1855.

The Cabbage Green.

Oh, a dainty plant is the cabbage green

Wot grows in a garden bold;

With a gammon of bacon, half fat and lean,

He’s good either hot or cold.

His heart must be tender and not decay’d,

To please your dainty whim;

And the chap as loves cabbage, I’ll tell the blade

It’s a precious meal for him.

Sprouting out of the ground is seen,

A rare old plant is the cabbage green;

Sprouting out of the ground is seen,

A rare old plant is the cabbage green.

Fast he sprouts, for he’s food for kings,

And a nice white heart has he;

How close he sticks and how tight he clings

To the stump, till he’s quite stumpy;

In a waggon he’s jolted along the town,

And his leaves no longer waves,

For he’s pack’d like a conwict, and quite done brown,

As his way to Common Garden he paves.

Sprouting out, &c.

Full wages have fled, hard work’s ill paid,

And grub werry scarce has been;

But the rare old cabbage shall never fade

From being a chap wots green.

The hearty old plant in future days

Shall fatten you up so fast;

For the best of wegables man can raise,

Is a cabbage, my boys, at last,

Sprouting out, &c.

J. Labern.

From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book.

The Yard of Clay.

A fine old thing is the yard of clay,

The zest of a social throng,

It driveth the clouds of grief away,

From the old as well as the young.

The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care,

Or with joyous mirth be crown’d

But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear,

In a yard of clay is found,

Puffing all our cares away,

A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

God Bacchus hath many a trophy won,

From the pipe for his glorious shrine,

And till his career on the earth is done,

It ever must be divine.

It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor,

It beareth no factions sway,

And where is a friend in the world so sure

As this fine old yard of clay?

Puffing, &c.

The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine

Or famous Principee,

To fashion’s strange follies may still incline,

They never will do for me.

The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame,

And barter his peace away,

But while life still throbs in this mortal frame

I’ll cling to the yard of clay.

Puffing, &c.

Our fathers who loved the pipe, have died.

Their vacant seats we find,

And we cling with steadfast pride,

To the faith they left behind.

And when from the spot where we now appear,

Our spirits are called away,

May those who are sent to succeed us here,

Still honour the yard of clay.

Puffing all our cares away,

A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

Anonymous.

I. V. Green.

(“I. V.” is short for John Villiam.)

Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. Green,

With his nose so fiery and bold;

’Twas redden’d by dips in the tankard, I ween,

That had grown in his service old.

Drunk, when he should not have been,

A rare old toper was I. V. Green!

Though I. V. Green he pull’d so hard,

’Twas mostly at something “short;”

He was half-seas over within the bar,

And yet never got into port.

Sober never was he seen:

A rare old toper was I. V. Green!

He needed no bier to carry his bones,

For he carried his beer in his head;

And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found

“Three sheets in the wind,” when dead.

Dead? dead drunk is what I mean:

A rare old toper was I. V. Green!

Judy. April 19, 1876.

——:o:——

LITTLE NELL.

This Song was founded upon the pathetic story in Dickens’s Old Curiosity Shop, the first line is:—

They told him gently she was dead.

And the refrain is—

“She’ll come again to-morrow.”

Man’s Place in Nature.

(Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley.)

They told him gently he was made

Of nicely tempered mud,

That man no lengthened part had played

Anterior to the Flood.

’Twas all in vain; he heeded not,

Referring plant and worm,

Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,

To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear

To think his kind allied

To all those brutal forms which were

In structure Pithecoid;

Whether he thought the apes and us

Homologous in form:

He said, “Homo and Pithecus

Come from one common germ.”

They called him “atheistical,”

“Sceptic,” and “infidel.”

They swore his doctrines without fail

Would plunge him into hell.

But he with proofs in no way lame,

Made this deduction firm,

That all organic beings came

From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noàchian flood,

’Twas long ago disproved,

That as for man being made of mud,

All by whom truth is loved.

Accept as fact what, malgré strife,

Research tends to confirm—

That man, and everything with life,

Came from one common germ.

Tinsley’s Magazine. 1868.

Contrast this refined jeu d’esprit with the following specimen of the kind of literature that is sold by street ballad singers. It was printed at Taylor’s Song Mart, Brick Lane, Bethnal Green, and sold for one half-penny:—

Faithless Nelly.

They told him gently she was gone

To the station house, and smil’d;

They led him to a dark back cell,

Where laid his squalling child.

For gin she had sold everything,

And spent all she could borrow;

“In the station house she sleeps,” says he,

“She’ll be out again to-morrow.”

Six policemen bore her to the cell,

Next day before the beak,

And for blacking a big policeman’s eye

She was sent up for a week.

Outside the Court the old man watch’d

Her into the van with sorrow;

Says he, “If I take you home to day,

You will be here again to morrow.”

They took her straight to Tothill Fields,

To grind wind on the mill,

But she scream’d aloud for a drop of gin,

They gave her an extra drill.

Six days after the old man saw

Her through the bars with sorrow;

Says she, “Old boy, I’m lock’d in now,

I shall be out again to-morrow.”

——:o:——

WINGS.

(Composed by Dolores.)

Wings! to bear me over

Mountain and vale away;

Wings! to bathe my spirit

In morning’s sunny ray.

Wings! that I may hover

At morn above the sea;

Wings! thro’ life to bear me

And death triumphantly.

Wings! like youth’s fleet moments

Which swiftly o’er me pass’d,

Wings! like my early visions,

Too bright, too fair, to last:

Wings! that I might re-call them

The lov’d, the lost, the dead;

Wings! that I might fly after

The past long vanished.

Wings! to lift me upward,

Soaring with eagle flight,

Wings! to waft me heav’nward

And back in realms of light.

Wings! to be no more wearied,

Lull’d in eternal rest.

Wings! to be sweetly folded

Where faith and love are bless’d.

From the German by Percy Boyd.

Curls.

(A Parody by a Flirt.)

Curls, that I might roll them

In paper coils at night;

Curls that I might hide them,

Away till morning light.

Curls, to hang in clusters,

Of silken texture fair;

Curls, to kiss me gently,

In evening’s balmy air.

Curls, that I might sever

For my own lover true;

Curls, perhaps to give one,

To other lovers too.

Curls, that all may see them,

Curls, reaching to my knee;

Curls, that men might press them

To hearts that beat for me.

Curls of jet or golden,

I care not which they be;

Curls, to waft me lovers

In shoals triumphantly.

Curls, that girls may gaze on

With longing, wond’ring eyes;

Curls, to flit before them

And draw their envious sighs.

Curls, that men might hover

Around me lovingly;

Curls, that I might conquer

Mankind, and yet be free.

Harper.

The Cheltonian. June, 1873.

——:o:——

IT CAME WITH THE MERRY MAY, LOVE.

A Parody by the G. O. M. (Solo).

It came with the joyful June, love,

That vote against taxing beer;

And your William resigned eft soon, love,

The place that he held so dear.

To the nation it seemed like a boon, love,

But to me it was bitter woe;

Only a year ago love,

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,

The smash of my Irish Bill,

And again as a poor gone coon, love

You wept for your fallen Will.

The majority it was more, love,

Than that which struck the blow,

And made me so very sore, love,

Only a year ago.

Solo resumed

It came with the joyful June, love,

My need for the Irish vote;

I was not such a witless loon, love;

But I knew how to turn my coat;

So I vowed that the men of reason

Were Mr. Parnell and Co.,

Though I thought they were steeped in treason.

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love.

My love for the National League.

And morning and noon and night, love,

I revelled in dark intrigue.

The worth of their vote had risen,

So I felt my affection glow

For the men I’d have clapt in prison

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,—

The General election came;

And the persons who light the moon, love,

Were my partners in the game.

But the voters were rude and cruel—

They called me the Empire’s foe,

Though they deemed me a priceless jewel

Only a year ago.

St. Stephen’s Review. June 12 & 19, 1886.

——:o:——

“MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.”

The Momentous Question

(Answered with great wisdom
by a Black-haired Beauty.)

My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue,

Which women now so often wear,

And Nature never grew.

She bids me at their chignons peep,

And see how fair are they:

But will dyed hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey?

I see girls in the gay saloon,

Or on the grand parade,

And wonder in my heart how soon

Their hair’s light hue will fade.

Each night before they go to sleep

They dye it, I dare say:

But will dyed hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey?

My hair is like the raven’s wing,

So jet black are its curls:

What if away my fears I fling,

And dye, like other girls?

In potash if my head I steep,

I may be fair as they:

But will died hair its colour keep?

And won’t it soon turn grey.

And then, who knows? “Revenge!” may be

Soon outraged Nature’s call,

And, haply, on fair heads you’ll see

The blight of baldness fall!

While such dread thoughts upon me creep,

O ne’er say Dye; Ma, pray!

’Twere best my own black hair to keep,

Till old age turns it grey.

Punch. January 6, 1866.

The Girl (Not) of the period.

(After the jolly Haydn.)

[Little Secrets.—Mouches pour bal. Eaux Noirs, Brun, et Chatain, Dyes the Hair any shade in one minute. Kohhl, for the Eyelids. Blanc de Perle, pâte et liquide. Rouge de Lubin, does not wash off. Eau de Violette, pour la bouche. Powder Bloom, pour blonde et brunette. Persian Antimony and Egyptian Henna. Bleu pour les veines. Rouge of Eight Shades. Sympathetic Blush, poudre pour polir les Ongles. Pistachio Nut Toilet Powder. Florimel of Palm. Opoponax Oil. All these, and many other little Secrets.—See Advertisement.]

My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue;

And change my chataigne locks with care

To red—through green, or blue!

“You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less—

Or what will people say?”

But, ah! I only wish that Piesse

And Lubin were away!

[An interval of two years is supposed to elapse.]

’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone.

That men have called so dear;

I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone,

But sigh for my head-gear!

How I shall look, I dare not guess.

Perhaps quite white or grey!

And folks will laugh aloud when Piesse

And Lubin are away.

Fun. May 30, 1868.

The “Lancet” Bids Me Be a Peer.

[The Lancet urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which leadership of the Commons necessarily involves.]

The Lancet bids me be a Peer,

With robes of gorgeous hue,

Tie up my form in lordly gear,

And act on Beaky’s cue—

Tie up my form in lordly gear,

And act, and act on Beaky’s cue.

For why, it hints, sit still and bear

The tease of Tories gay?

Alas! I own it has me there,

And long to get away—

Alas! I own it has me there.

And long, and long to get away.

’Tis sad to think how Randies clown,

And Wolffs and Wartons jeer;

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,

And sigh when none can hear—

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,

And sigh, and sigh when none can hear.

And while the gargle I apply,

Which really isn’t nice.

“The counsel’s good,” I almost cry

To Lancet-framed advice—

“The counsel’s good,” I almost cry

To Lan, to Lancet-framed advice.

Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.

Song.—Cinderella.

My mother bids me pinch my waist

Another inch or two,

For, though already tightly laced,

She says it will not do!

And, oh! she says that I must wear

A body cut so low—

My cheeks will flame with honest shame

As through the streets I go!

She says I must expose my charms,

And cause the roughs rare sport.

And leave quite bare my neck and arms,

Because we’re going to Court;

But I have heard our Court is pure—

I know our Queen is so—

She cannot, then, require, I’m sure,

Poor me half-dressed to go!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

——:o:——

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay;

Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs—

Things that are made to fade and fall away.

When they have blossom’d but a few short hours.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may die—

May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,

Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may change,

The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;

The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said,

In present years, as in the years gone by;

Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head;

Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.

Love not, love not.

Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Smoke Not.

Smoke not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay,

Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers;

Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay,

Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! the weed you smoke may change,

The healthiness of your stomachic tone;

Things to the eye grow queer, and passing strange,

All thought seems undefined—save one—to be alone.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! the tradesman whose weeds you smoke may die,

May perish from the cabbage bearing earth;

The sordid dun may to your chamber hie

Sent by the Trustees in their tinless dearth.

Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! O warning vainly said,

Cane and cap-paper since we first did try;

Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head,

And all in vain do anxious mothers cry

Smoke not! smoke not!

(Popular in Oxford in 1861).

“Stay” Not!

THE SURGEON’S SONG TO THE SEX.

(Sung by Dr. Richardson.)

“Stay” not! No longer don

Tight cincture to your hurt,

Trust Lady Harberton,

Try the divided skirt.

Most parlous is your state,

Your only hope of cure

Lies—try it ere too late—

In dual garmenture.

“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

“Stay” not! The torturing steel,

The rib-compressing lace,

Will mar the human weal,

Will wreck the human race.

What profits waist of wasp.

Shape on the hour-glass model,

When you don’t breathe, but gasp,

When you don’t walk, but waddle?

“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

[And they stay not—to listen.

Punch. February 17, 1883.

Song of the Election.

Vote not, vote not for me, I pray,

There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers,

My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away

Soon as they hear that you are one of ours.

Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild,

’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke,

I knew the value of your hate, and smiled,

But, oh! to have you for me is no joke!

Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given;

Oh, why be generous at another’s cost?

Against your vote alone I might have striven,

But when you used your influence all was lost.

He votes! all’s lost!

From Poems of a Life, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

——:o:——

SOME DAY.

(Music by Milton Wellings.)

A Parody.

We know not when the day shall be;

We know not how the cost to meet;

What sites to choose, should all agree;

Or will our plans work when complete.

It may not be till years have passed,

Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away.

Debate is long—but, poor, at last

Our wordy wars may end—Someday.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,

Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;

Tories first, Tories first—first have said they’d house you;

Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

We cared not once your woes to hear,

Nor how you died, nor how you live;

But now election time grows near,

Your votes to us we’d have you give;

And when we’re in, Someday, Someday,

Streets wider grown, well built, you’ll see;

And ev’ry man, new quartered, may

Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,

Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;

Tories first, Tories first—first have said they’d house you;

Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

Repealer.

Truth. November 15, 1883.

——:o:——

Strangers Now.

(After “Strangers yet” by R. Monckton Milnes,
Lord Houghton.)

Set to Music by Claribel.

Years of chequered life together,

Days of fair and stormy weather,

Hours of toil and weary pain,

Moments of eternal gain—

All are gone—we know not how

And have left us strangers now!

Words that flowed to lighten care,

Thoughts which others could not share

Hopes too bright for mortal eyes,

Prayers for wisdom from the skies,—

All have ceased—we know not how

And have left us strangers now!

Will it evermore be thus?

Shall the past be lost to us

Can the souls united here

Never once again be near?

Must we to the sentence bow

“Strangers ever—Strangers now!”

Thorns amid the roses press

Earth is but a wilderness;

Flitting o’er a fallen race

Love can find no resting place.

Where his flowers immortal grow

Shall we strangers be as now?

Once a Week. 1869.

——:o:——

“The Beating of my own Wife.”

(Air—“The beating of my own heart,”
by Lord Houghton).

I’d melted all my wages,

Ere of beer I had my fill,

For a bob I asked the Missus

—There’s a way where there’s a will.

She refused, I took the poker,

The neighbours never stirred,

For the beating of my own wife

Was the only sound they heard.

A sneak blowed to the Crushers,

I was lugged afore the Beak—

But I know’d that it was nothing:

The old gal had her squeak:

They fined me forty shillings,

I paid it like a bird,

And the beating of my own wife,

Perhaps, that night was heard.

But rights is rights no longer;

Cross swears he’ll eat his hat,

Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals,

Shall suffer from the Cat.

If that brutal measure passes,

Take William Sikes, his word,

That the beating of his own wife

Will not again be heard.

Punch. November 21, 1874.

Love and Science.

[The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible.]

I wandered by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;

The Sphygmophon was fixed there,

Its wires ran past the hill.

I heeded not the grasshopper,

Nor chirp of any bird,

For the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

To test this apparatus,

One end I closely press’d,

The other, at a distance,

I hoped was next his chest.

I listened for his footfall,

I listened for his word,

Still the bumping of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not—

The night came on alone;

And thinking he had tricked me,

I loosed the Sphygmophon.

The evening air passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirr’d,

When—the thumping of his own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,

When some one stood behind,

His hand was on my shoulder

(But that I did not mind).

Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,

We shouted every word;

But the booming of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

Funny Folks. March 29, 1879.

My King.

(After “My Queen.” Music by Blumenthal.)

When and how shall I meet him, if ever?

What are the words he first will say?

How will the barriers now that sever

Our kindred spirits be rolled away?

This self-same daylight on him is shining,

Shining somewhere the while I sing—

The only one who, my will resigning,

Could I acknowledge my King, my King!

Whether his hair be golden or raven,

Whether his eye be dark or blue,

I know not now, but ’twould be engraven

Some day hence as the loveliest hue.

Many a face I have liked for a minute,

Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring

But ever and aye there was something in it,

Something that could not be his, my King!

I will not dream of him, handsome and strong,

My ideal love may be weak and slight;

It matters not to what class he belong,

He would be noble enough in my sight.

He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord,

Or he may be learned in everything,

But if ever he comes he will touch the chord

Whose melody waits for the hand of its King!

But he must be courteous towards the lowly,

To the weak and sorrowful, loving too;

He must be courageous, refined, holy,

By nature exalted, and firm, and true.

To such I might fearlessly give the keeping

Of love that would never out-grow its spring:

There would be few tears of a woman’s weeping

If they loved such men as my King, my King!

London Society.

“My Queen,” which appeared originally in London Society some time before the above imitation, consisted of four verses, but as arranged by Blumenthal the second verse is omitted:—

Whether her hair be golden or raven,

Whether her eyes be hazel or blue,

I know not now but ’twill be engraven,

On that white day as my perfect hue.

Many a girl I have loved for a minute,

Worshipped many a face I have seen;

But ever and aye there was something in it,

Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

My Scheme.

(As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r).

Why and when were we driven to moot it?

Was it knocked off in an afternoon?

Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it?

Have we set it afloat too late?—too soon?

Did we try it because we feared a flounder?

No matter.—Since still we reign supreme,

Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder,

Have we ever turned out than, “My Scheme, my Scheme!”

*  *  *  *  *

Punch. July, 12, 1879.

Only a Lock of His Hair.

(Companion to the popular song, “Only a lock of Her Hair.”)

Only a lock of his hair,

Last of some twenty and seven;

Souvenirs all to the fair,

In the heyday of ecstacy given.

Lost in the frolics of youth—

In the time to which thought has recalled one;

To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth,

That the lover for them’s not a bald one.

Only a lock of his hair,

Last of the twenty and seven;

And then the bald pate, which the wag

Has wittily likened to heaven

(And whatever we think of the taste,

The wit there can be no denying)—

As a place bright and shining above,

Where there’s never more parting nor dye-ing.

Only.

Only a common door yard

Back of a common flat;

Only a kitchen doorstep.

And an old J. Thos. cat

Lazily in the sunshine

Dozing on the mat.

Only an open window

Directly overhead;

Only a fiendish boarder,

His face with grins o’erspread

(All of which implies a big surprise

For that sleeping quadruped).

Only a pitcher of water

Dumped with precision square

Icy down upon that J. T. C.

So calmly sleeping there—

And a frenzied chunk of cat-meat

Jumps six ft. in the air.

Anonymous.

Only a hair on his shoulder,

Long, and wavy, and brown,

Only a cock-and-bull story

In exchange for his wife’s deep frown.

Only a broken broomstick

Wildly waved in the air;

Only a strip of court-plaster—

His wife had discovered the hair.

The Evening Gazette. [Aberdeen], February 5, 1886.

A CAT-astrophe.

Only a cyclist gigantic,

Astride on a sixty-inch wheel,

Eyeing sidewise a maiden romantic,

As he drives on his swift steed of steel.

Only a poor little tabby,

Slinking slyly across the smooth street,

Her mottled fur dirty and shabby,

Out she darts from beneath the girl’s feet.

Only a sky-rocket header,

While the maiden just stands still and stares;

A poor feline, who couldn’t be deader,

And a whopping old bill for repairs.

Once a Week. June, 1886.

——:o:——

THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,

And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,

The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again,

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek;

And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near,

The church where we were wed, Mary—I see the spire from here:

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest;

For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;

But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:—

There’s nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm’s young strength was gone:

There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow;

I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to break,

When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore;

Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no more.

I’m bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,

But I’ll not forget you, darling, in the land I’m going to,

They say there’s bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there;

But I’ll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I’ll sit and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;

And I’ll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride!

Lady Dufferin.

The Tenant’s Farewell.

(A Lay of the 24th of December.)

I’m flitting in the style, Mary,

Which each half year we’ve tried,

At Michaelmas and Lady-day,

Since first you were my bride.

The quarters follow quickly on,

And the rents mount up so high;

But there’s brass upon my cheek, Mary,

And there’s no green in my eye.

The place is greatly changed, Mary,

We’ve boned the fixtures all;

We’ve torn the locks from off each door,

The bell-pulls from each wall.

And we’ll miss our soft warm beds to-night,

To-morrow’s quarter day;

And the landlord’s waiting for the rent

I never mean to pay.

I’m very busy now, Mary,

The while yon cart attends,

For I’m packing up our furniture,

And all our odds and ends:

For these goods are all we have, Mary

Our household’s joy and pride;

And there’s nothing left to seize on now,

We’ve packed them all inside.

We’re bidding now a long farewell,

My Mary, to our den;

And we’ll not forget next Quarter-day

To do the same again.

Folks say it is but fair to pay

One’s landlord, I don’t care;

For I ne’er intend to do so,

Were it fifty times as fair.

Diogenes. 1853.

The Lay of the Henpecked.

By Lady Sufferin.

I’m sitting in a style, Mary,

Which doesn’t coincide

With what I’ve been accustomed to

Since you became my bride;

The men are singing comic songs,

The lark gets loud and high,

For I’ve ask’d—since you’re from home, Mary—

A party on the sly.

The place is rather changed, Mary,

Of smoke it slightly smells,

And the table and the floor are strewn

With heaps of oyster shells;

And the men have marked your damask chairs

With many a muddy streak,

And they’ve drawn burnt cork moustaches on

Your mother’s portrait’s cheek.

I’m very jolly now, Mary,

’Midst old and valued friends,

(Though they’ve in the carpet burnt some holes,

With their Havannahs’ ends).

For thou wert somewhat cross with me,

And ever apt to chide,

But there’s nothing left to care for now

You’re gone to the sea-side.

And yet I fear when all you’ve learnt,

This ev’ning’s work I’ll rue;

And I’ll not forget it, darling, for

You won’t allow me to.

In vain they sing “The Pope he leads,”

Likewise “Begone dull Care;”

For at thought of you, I vow I can’t

Sit easy in my chair.

Our Miscellany, edited by E. H. Yates, and R, B. Brough, (London, Routledge & Co., 1856).

This amusing Parody had already been published in Albert Smith’s The Man in the Moon.

Song for the Sitz.

I’m sitting in this style, Mary,

The bathman by my side;

And if you saw me now, Mary,

You would not be my bride;

They call this hatching health, Mary,

I cannot tell you why;

There’s water to my waist, Mary,

And water in each eye.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch, by J. B, Oddfish. London: Simpkin Marshall & Co., 1865. The same amusing little work contains parodies of the following songs:—“Still so Gently;” “Kiss me quick, and go my Honey;” “The Storm” (Cease Rude Boreas); and a long one on “We’re a ’Noddin,” entitled “We’re all Pressing.” These Songs are explanatory of the treatment adopted at the various Hydropathic Establishments in Malvern.

Changed for the Worst.

I’m sitting at my window, Jack,

Where we’ve sat side by side,

Many a bright ev’ning long ago,

In life’s thoughtless, gay spring tide,

When we thought more of pleasure, Jack,

Than three per cents or four:

Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy—

But days we’ll see no more!

This place is greatly changed, Jack,

The fields are all “clean gone,”

The shady lanes through which we strolled

Have all been built upon:

My house is flanked by a “Dun Cow,”

A “Green Man,” and a “Duke,”

A chandler’s shop is opposite—

The owner’s name is Snook!

“Solitude” is now “Victoria-street,”

“The Hermitage” “Albert-square,”

“The Fairies’ Haunt” a Music Hall,

In which I’ve got a share.

A cab-stand’s near “Our Lady’s Well,”

A workhouse in “Love Lane,”

A church and schools in “Lovers’ Walk”

From near which starts the train!

We’re treated to all “London cries”

From morn till dewy eve,

And strong-lunged preachers in the streets

Beseech us to “believe;”

We’re taxed for water, streets, and gas,

And “Bobbies” by the score—

Ah, everything is changed, Jack,

From the happy days of yore!

But, worse than all, the weather, Jack,

Has quite “gone to the dogs”—

In May we’d sleet, in June we’ve frost,

In July we’ll have fogs;

I cannot leave the house, Jack,

But I shiver with the cold—

Ah, the weather’s not the same, boy,

As in the days of old!

And I am greatly changed, Jack,

I do not walk so straight

As when each day beheld us

At pic-nic, race, or fête;

My hair has grown quite thin, Jack,

My lungs are far from right,

I’ve rheumatism, lumbago, gout,

I cannot sleep at night.

I think if I’d a wife, Jack,

She’d make me soon all right,

By watching o’er my comfort, boy,

Both morn, and eve, and night:

I’ll take one,—if I find a girl

Of beauty, youth, and wealth,

Who wants a husband sound at heart,

Though not quite sound in health!

The Hornet. June 21, 1871.

The Churchyard Stile.

(An Imitation).

I left thee young and gay, Mary,

When last the thorn was white;

I went upon my way, Mary,

And all the world seemed bright;

For though my love had ne’er been told,

Yet, yet I saw thy form

Beside me in the midnight watch;

Above me, in the storm.

And many a blissful dream I had,

That brought thy gentle smile,

Just as it came when last we leaned

Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I’m here to seek thee now, Mary,

As all I love the best;

To fondly tell thee how, Mary,

I’ve hid thee in my breast.

I came to yield thee up my heart,

With hope, and truth, and joy,

And crown with Manhood’s honest faith

The feelings of the Boy.

I breathed thy name, but every pulse

Grew still and cold the while

For I was told thou wert asleep

Just by the Churchyard Stile.

*  *  *  *  *

Eliza Cook.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,

’Twas on a market day,

A low-back’d car she drove, and sat

Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,

And deck’d with flowers of spring,

No flow’r was there that could compare

With the blooming girl I sing.

As she sat in the low-back’d car—

The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll,

But just rubb’d his old poll,

And looked after the low-back’d car.

*  *  *  *  *

The Low-Neck’d dress.

When first I saw Miss Clara,

A west-end ball ’twas at,

A low-neck’d dress she wore, and near

The open door she sat;

But when that door was thriving oak,

Exposed to tempests keen

And biting air

So much, ’twas ne’er

As the blooming girl I mean,

As she sat in her low-neck’d dress,

Becoming I must confess;

For of all the men round,

Not one could be found,

But looked after the low-neck’d dress.

The polka’s tumult over,

The fondest of mammas

Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls;

But scornful “hums” and “ha’s”

From Clara (artful goddess!)

The kind proposal meet—

Quite faint she feels—

She fairly reels—

She never could bear the heat!

So she sits in her low-neck’d dress;

But the heat would have troubled her less,

For long weeks will have roll’d

Ere she’s rid of her cold,

That she caught from the Low-neck’d dress.

I’d rather see those shoulders

’Neath dowdy cloak of fur,

Or pilot coat, and round that throat

A ploughman’s comforter;

For I’d know that tender bosom

Was safe from climate’s ill,

And the heart so sweet

Would much longer beat

Than I now feel sure it will

While she clings to her low-neck’d dress

I’ve proposed, and she answer’d “yes.”

Next week it’s to be,

But make sure I shall see

That it’s not in a low-neck’d dress.

Diogenes. October, 1853.

The Dining Car.

When first I used the railway,

’Twas in Mugby Junction days,

With their sandwiches so salt and stale,

Their buns with the fly-blown glaze,

Their Melton pies of weight and size,

Soup too hot down to fling,

And sausage-rolls, if not men’s souls,

Their stomachs made to wring.

As you jumped from your first-class car,

The minxes at Mugby Bar

Your change tossed down,

With a flounce and a frown,

And a haughty, “There you are!”

Five minutes, a frantic fixture,

You strove with might and main

To gulp some scalding mixture,

While the bell rang—for the train!

Your tea or soup you swallowed,

As much as did not fly

On your shirt-front or your waistcoat,

From the dense crowd hustling by:

While the minxes at Mugby Bar,

Smiled, serene, upon the war,

For they’d learnt the art,

And looked the part—

Of “We are your betters far.”

But in Pullman’s dining-car, Sir,

Now run on the Northern Line,

You’ve a soup, and a roast and entrées,

And your cheese and your pint of wine.

At his table snug the passenger sits,

Or to the smoke-room moves,

While on either side the landscape flits,

Like a world in well-greased grooves.

Thanks to Pullman’s dining-car,

No more Mugby Junction Bar—

No more tough ham and chicken,

Nor passenger-pickin’

For the minxes behind the Bar!

Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir,

With elbow-room allowed,

And leisure to dine and sip your wine,

And blow the digestive cloud.

Punch takes off his hat to Pullman,

And his sleeping and eating car,

In the cause of British digestions,

Against Mugby Junction Bar!

Be the journey never so far,

With his dining and sleeping-car,

At our ease in our inn,

Along we spin,

Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar!

Punch. November 1, 1879.

——:o:——

THE OLD BRIGADE.

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade

Who fought with us side by side?

Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade,

Fought till they fell and died!

Who so ready and undismayed?

Who so merry and true?

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade;

Where are the lads we knew?

Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder

Steadily blade by blade!

Ready and strong, marching along,

Like the boys of the Old Brigade.

*  *  *  *  *

F. E. Weatherly.

This stirring song, set to a martial air by Odoardo Barri, was dedicated to the Royal Artillery Brigade, it is also a favourite march of the celebrated old corps, the London Rifle Brigade, whose band generally plays it on parade after the Regimental march “Ninety-five,” of which a parody is given on [page 20].

The Liberal Brigade.

Sons of the old and staunch brigade,

Who marched on side by side,

Muster your forces of every grade,

And scatter the foemen wide.

Let us be ready and none dismayed,

Let us be steady and true;

As sons of the old and staunch brigade,

The old pioneers we knew.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,

Ready and none dismayed,

Marching along, steady and strong,

Like sons of the old brigade.

Form in the streets of the busy town,

Form in the rural lane,

Form where the turreted mansions frown,

And form on the open plain.

Liberals all, give your cheerful aid,

Manfully play your part;

And, like your sires of the old brigade,

You’ll live in your country’s heart.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,

Ready and none dismayed;

Marching along, steady and strong.

Like sons of the old brigade.

From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1886.

Professor Browne’s Wonderful Tonic Lotion.

Rare were the joys when our hair decayed,

We’d naught but to hide our pride:

Older and older, shade did fade,

Naught but to tell it died.

Who so ready as Browne to aid

With Tonic Lotion true?

Try, and with joy see, undismayed,

Hair where before none grew.

Then steadily bolder and bolder,

Steadily shade by shade,

Healthy and strong, hairs come along,

Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Over the sea far and wide they cry—

“Browne’s Tonic Lotion we love;

Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry,

And fresh comes a crop above.

Not weak and shabby, now they are made

Strong, full of grace, and smart;

So great our joy, thanks to Browne’s best aid.

That deeply we’ll praise Browne’s art.”

Then steadily bolder and bolder,

Steadily shade by shade,

Healthy and strong, hairs come along.

Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

——:o:——

Solo.—Mrs. Kendal.

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty five!

And so to keep I shall contrive,

Until I long enough have played

An ample fortune to have made,

Then I, with bitter scorn, intend

The stage to fiercely reprehend,

And publicly to set my face

Against this national disgrace.

Meanwhile, ’till I can this contrive,

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

When I the age of forty see,

No more the stage shall know of me;

No more will I take leading parts

With actresses who show their cartes;

That is, I won’t unless, of course,

Things unforeseen my hand should force.

If all goes well, though, at that age

I mean to gladly quit the stage!

Meantime, until my time arrive,

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

Truth Christmas Number. 1884.

Mrs. Kendal (of the St. James’s Theatre, London) read a paper on the modern stage at the Social Science Congress, held in Birmingham, in September, 1884. Some of the opinions she expressed gave great offence in theatrical circles.

——:o:——

FAR AWAY.

A Song of Swindling Directors.

Where is our last big coup?

Far, far away!

Where are our profits, too?

Far, far away!

’Till, in our indigence,

We think of getting hence,

Perhaps clients have less sense,

Far, far away!

Far away! Far away!

Where are those “specs” we made?

Far, far away!

Where is our quiet trade!

Far, far away!

Once we had mansions fine,

Now lodgings are our line;

In two-pair backs we pine—

Far, far away!

Far away! Far away!

Gone are our prancing steeds,

Far, far away!

Gone those expensive weeds.

Far, far away!

Gone with our mashing suits,

Gone with our varnished boots;

Gone with our hothouse fruits—

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

Once there were “bogus” lines,

Far, far away!

Likewise much “salted” mines,

Far, far away!

O how we “bulled” their shares,

Then how we turned to “bears,”

None now such “sells” prepares,

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

P’rhaps folks can still be “done,”

Far, far away!

So we will cut and run,

Far, far away!

Here swindles now are vain,

But, once across the main,

We may pick up again,

Far, far away!

Far away, far away!

Truth Christmas Number, 1884.

The Farnborough Sow.

During the Anti-Tithe Agitation in Kent, in 1885, the following Parody was sung by the Farmers, one verse only is omitted, on account of its coarseness. In other respects the song is an exact copy of one obtained at an Anti-Tithe Meeting in Farnborough, April, 1885:—

There is a fine old sow,

Down Farn-boro’ way,

She belongs to Brave Joe Stow.

And people say,

The Parson tried to sneak that sow

In a dirty way.

But Joe, he made the mud to fly,

Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh,

And made them from the village hie

Far, far, away.

Oh! where is the old Sow now?

Safe Farn-boro’ way.

And where is the Parson gone,

Nobody can say.

But Kentish Farmers all have swore

To pay his monstrous tithes no more,

And spite of Bailiffs by the score,

The Farmers win the day.

Let us lend Joe Stow a hand,

Down Farn-boro’ way.

To fight the Parson and his band

Who will ruin him they say:

Let’s fight against this cruel law,

Which from our labours fill the maw

Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw,

Let’s sweep the curse away.

There was another parody of Far Away which was very popular in the Music Halls a short time ago. Several of the verses were coarse and slangy, the following were the best:—

Far, Far Away.

*  *  *  *  *

Where is a bobby found,

Far, far away!

It’s ten to one he’s off his round,

Far, far away!

Should you do wrong and hold the pelf,

And tip to some blue coated elf,

Where does he take himself,

Far, far away!

I sent off thirty stamps so meek,

Far, far away!

To learn to earn five pounds per week,

Far, far away!

It turned out a swindling plan,

The answer came, and thus it ran,

Start a baked potato can;

Far, far away!

Where are my Sunday clothes?

Far, far away!

Resting in sweet repose,

Far, far away!

Well looked after there’s no doubt,

They are simply up the spout,

But where’s the coin to get them out?

Far, far away!

The cry of outcast London’s known,

Far, far away!

All may hear their bitter moan,

Far, far away!

Homeless, starved, without a friend,

While we to savages attend,

All our Charity we send,

Far, far away!

Nuneham.

“Dulce est desipere in loco.”

Where is now the merry party

I was with a month ago,

At that jovial Nuneham picnic,

Where the ladies flirted so?

On that balmy summer evening

Chaperons behind did stay;

All the rest dispersed and wandered

In the woods, far away.

Some of us in paths secluded.

With the girls we loved did roam,

Mothers’ knew their pretty daughters

Soon would find another home;

So they like indulgent mothers

Were content to let them stay,

With us as we strolled in silence

Far away, far away.

Some unwed are still remaining,—

Will remain so to the last;

Some have changed their names, and like their

New names better than their past.

And they bless with all their little

Hearts that balmy summer day,

When in Nuneham’s woods they wandered

Far away, far away.

From Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon.
(London, Chapman and Hall, 1874).

——:o:——

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,

There’s none like pretty Sally,

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

*  *  *  *  *

Henry Carey.

A parody of this famous song, entitled The Rhino, appeared in The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824. It was devoted to insulting Queen Caroline (the unfortunate wife of George IV). and her advisers, Lord Brougham and Alderman Wood, and is quite obsolete now.

In “The Bentley Ballads” (London. Richard Bentley) is a complete Latin version of Sally in our Alley, entitled In Saram. It will be found on page 406 of the 1862 edition, and is signed G. K. Gillespie, A.M.

Solly in our Alley.

(By a grateful Cadger.)

Of all the flats with blunt that part,

There’s none so green as Solly;

He’s got a kind benevolent ’art,

And is know’d in our Alley.

Oh, don’t I like the blessed day

As comes afore the Monday!

Cause why, it is old Solly’s way

To go to church on Sunday.

And there a-watching nigh the door,

We beggars waits for Solly;

He takes sitch pity on the poor—

My eye, wot precious folly!

In mud and wet I slops about

Without a shoe or stockin,’

And all in rags, there’s not a doubt

But what my looks is shockin’.

But wet and dirt I never minds:

A hobjec’ melancholy,

I bears it all, because I finds

Thereby a friend in Solly.

I’m bound I’d get a underd pounds,

By cadgin’ out of Solly,

His wealth and riches so abounds,

And he’s a muff so jolly.

Punch. September 18, 1852.

A Sally in Favour of Old Harry.

Of all the Peers within the House,

(And pretty well I know ’em),

There isn’t one with half the nouse

Of gallant Henry Brougham.

*  *  *  *  *

We for his equals look in vain,

’Twill take some time to grow ’em:

So let us hope we shall retain

Some long time yet—old Brougham.

Punch. June 23, 1855.

Sally in our Alley.

[As corrected by the Rev. Howling Blazes, of Clapham, to meet the views of the Directors of Exeter Hall, who refused to allow the song to be sung with the “objectionable” verse describing the singer’s enjoyment of Sunday.]

Of all the days that’s in the week,

I ’umbly love but one day,

To which I give a Jewish name,

But heathens call a Sunday;

For then between three sermon-times,

I sit in my dark alley,

And think upon the wickedness,

Of this here worldly Walley.

Punch. March 29, 1856:

Ballad for John Bull.

Of all the folks in purse that smart

I best know money’s valley;

My pocket lies so near my heart—

I do hate that Shere Ali!

I ne’er enjoy a mind serene

On any blesséd one day;

Not e’en on that which comes between

The Saturday and Monday.

Those telegraphs, they break my rest;

From one ere I can rally,

Another comes about that pest

Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali!

But, for a hundred million pounds,

I must not shilly-shally:

With Russia close behind his bounds,

’Twon’t do to stand Shere Ali.

Punch. October 26, 1878.

Sally. (Sarah Bernhardt.)

(From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.)

Of all tragediennes so smart,

There’s none like famous Sally;

She’d be the darling of each heart

If she would’nt shilly shally,

There is no actress in the land

Who knows so well her “valley;”

No spoiled child of a noble art

So paid and puffed as Sally.

Of all the pets of the Francaise

There was but one the fashion,

And that’s when Sarah had to play

In scene of love and passion;

And then decked out in fine array,

With Hollingshead to rally,

They cared not what they had to pay

If they could witness Sally.

They thought of Sarah when at church,

And for her voice of honey

They left poor Irving in the lurch

To spend unbounded money

Upon this famous Gallic wench,

Who spoke so musically;

And those who knew the least of French.

Were loudest praising Sally.

’Tis true that many an English star

Was prone to rail at Sally,

And say the slaves of fashion are

Like slaves who row a galley.

Since, therefore, at the Gaiety

She can no longer dally,

How happy they—and we—shall be

To hear no more of Sally.

Funny Folks. July 19, 1879.

Bully in our Alley.

Of all the brutes I loathe to meet,

One lives in our alley;

He leaves his wife with nought to eat

When he for drink doth sally.

Of all the days within the week

He only loves but one day,

And that’s the day that comes between

The Saturday and Monday.

For then, until his cash is gone,

He fills a flowing measure,

And ere he goes to bed at dawn,

He kicks his wife for pleasure.

Poor soul! she drinks a little too,

And gets in debt with “Tally,”

For which he beats her black and blue—

That Bully in our Alley.

She locks him up, but lets him free

By answering shilly-shally,

And he half kills her in his glee,

That Bully in our Alley.

May Justice, lately something slack,

And much inclined to dally,

Soon leave her mark upon his back—

That Bully in our Alley!

Funny Folks.

The Last Days of Sally and Our Alley.

(A Sanitary Comic Song by S. Brett.)

Of all the girls in our town

There was none that suffered like Sally;

For Sal and her parents got broken down,

And with them, our alley.

Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats,

Round Holborn Hill and its valley;

And Sal sold mats and bought old hats,

When out she chose to sally. Chorus.

One unlucky night, the cats did afright,

And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally;

Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats

That kicked up a row in the alley.

Repeat 1st verse for Chorus.

The very next night, the cats out of spite,

Stole a first-class door mat from Sally,

Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats

That stole all the lost goods in the alley.

Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats,

That belonged to the mother of Sally;

Then Sal let loose her father’s rats,

That destroyed all the cats in the alley.

Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got,

And he tarried to bully poor Sally,

And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog,

And destroyed all the rats in the alley.

Then the neighbours joined the cat’s meat men,

To have their revenge upon Sally,

And they set all their dogs at her, and then

Sal slew all the dogs in the alley.

The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame?

The neighbours said, ’twas Sally!

But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm,

And never mind the alley.

Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot,

And Sal’s neighbours and parents, and Sally,

And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done,

The School Board took the alley.

The Gaiety Bar.

Of all the days that’s in the week,

Your actor loves but one day;

And that’s the day that comes betwixt

The Friday and the Sunday.

For then he’s dressed all in his best,

At Spiers and Pond’s he’ll dally;

The ghost has walked, and he doth “part”

Like a Prince in Prosser’s Alley.

Shilly-Shally.

Of all the follies on our part

There’s none like Shilly Shally,

A weakness that the Liberal cart

Upsets continually.

There’s not a cry,—Home-Rule, Church, Land,—

To which I will not rally,

But there’s one thing I cannot stand,

That’s foreign Shilly-Shally.

Of policies absurd and weak

The worst is Shilly-Shally.

If Office we’re about to seek,

I fear that principally.

Put to the test, I’ll do my best

Enthusiastically,

And follow Gladstone like the rest,

But oh! don’t Shilly-Shally!

Let “Pussy”[3] be allowed to purr,

As Leader, musically;

But not as Foreign Minister,

To play at Shilly-Shally!

If at the F. O. we may see

True nerve and nous, O Halle-

Lujah! how happy we shall be

Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally!

Punch. February 6, 1886.

——:o:——

ALICE GRAY.

She’s all my fancy painted her, she’s lovely, she’s divine,

But her heart it is another’s, it never can be mine;

Yet I have lov’d as man ne’er lov’d, a love without decay,

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Alice Gray.

*  *  *  *  *

Lord Grey.

“The poor Duke of Wellington has not yet got over his attempt to supplant Lord Grey’s ministry. The remembrance of his discomfiture still haunts him by day and night, and in the evenings, just before sun-set, he may be heard by the stranger passing underneath the windows of Apsley, to sing in pathetic tones, the following plaintive melody:—

It’s all my fancy painted it,

It’s lovely, it’s divine;

But, alas! it is another’s,

It never can be mine.

Yet strove I as he never strove,

Efforts without decay;

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking,

For the place of premier Grey.

His table now is loaded,

With notes in black and white,

And his salary so liberal,

He clutches with delight.

The cash, alas! is not for me,

The money’s turned away;

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking

For the place of premier Grey.

For that I’d take the liberal side,

For that the bill call good,

For that I’d dare the rabble strife,

Though it cost a sea of blood.

By night I’d take no slumbers,

Whate’er e’en Praed might say,

But scorn’d is the heart that’s breaking,

For the place of premier Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath Reform’s bright sun,

I’ve shook ’neath Brougham’s blast;

But my pilgrimage is nearly done,

The heavy conflict’s pass’d.

And when the great Act digs my grave,

Party will haply say,

“Oh! his heart, his heart was broken,

For the place of premier Grey.”

Figaro in London. August 11, 1832.

Sally May.

She’s naught my fancy painted her,

She’s not at all divine;

I wish she was another’s

But fate has made her mine:

I’m used as man was never used;

I never have my way—

My peace, my peace is broken,

By cruel Sally May!

Her sandy hair is scattered o’er

A face of dingy white,

Her goggle eye now sleepy looks,

Now flashes fierce with spite!

Her sandy hair I hate to see—

Her eyes are set awry,

My rest, my rest is broken,

By cruel Sally May.

From her I’ve climb’d the mountain’s side,

From her have braved the flood!

With her I’ve felt the battle’s strife,

For she has shed my blood—

By night she breaks my slumbers,

And watches me by day,

My rest, my rest is broken,

By ugly Sally May.

I’ve sung beneath that noisy tongue,

And trembled as she passed,

But, now my business is done,

She’s broke my head at last,

And when the doctor binds my wound,

In pity he will say,

His head, his heart was broken

By wicked Sally May!

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Captain Gray.

He’s all his agent painted him,

A captain in the line;

But his pay he spent on others,

And none has e’er been mine.

I work’d as ne’er a tailor work’d

For him without delay;

And I became a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

In dark blue coat all braided o’er,

In ducks of spotless white,

In bright velvet waistcoat,

He flashes out at night,

That coat was braided all by me;

Those ducks and waistcoat gay

I made, and am a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch,

I’ve into gaol been cast;

But my imprisonment is done,

And I’m white-washed at last.

Oh, when the court my schedule had,

My lawyer there did say,

Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt,

Through trusting Captain Gray.

Anonymous.

Alick Grey.

He’s all my fancy painted him,

He’s all I thought divine;

But his heart it is decoy’d away,

He never can be mine:

Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d,

A love without decay:

Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking

For the love of Alick Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun,

And tremble in the blast,

But now my course is nearly run,

The weary conflict’s past;

And when the turf lies o’er my grave,

May pity haply say,

Oh! her heart, her heart was broken,

For the love of Alick Grey.

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Song of the Humbugged Husband.

She’s not what fancy painted her—

I’m sadly taken in;

If some one else had won her heart, I

Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good

As maiden e’er could be;

I wonder how she ever could

Have so much humbugged me.

They cluster round and shake my hand—

They tell me I am blest:

My case they do not understand,

I think that I know best.

They say she’s fairest of the fair—

They drive me mad and madder,

What do they want by it? I swear,

I only wish they had her.

’Tis true that she has lovely locks,

That on her shoulders fall:

What would they say to see the box

In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers it is true,

’Twere difficult to match;

What would they say if they but knew

How terribly they scratch?

Punch. 1842.

Kitty Brown.

She’s all the chimney sweep described,

She’s eats as much as nine,

But her appetite it is her own,

And never can be mine;

Yet eat I more than any man,

In country or in town.

Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

Her false and crooked teeth fix in

A mouth both grim and wide,

Her pig like eyes squint now and then,

And sometimes leer aside.

She did not buy those teeth for me

But food to gobble down—

Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

For her I’d keep an eating-house

If she provided cash,

For her if she would send a haunch,

I’d make some venison hash;

Charms which I never saw I’d praise,

Change to a smile her frown—

Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain,

And suffered hunger dread,

But the cursed cat has run away,

With my bonny baked sheep’s head;

And as I rove, some wag may say,

That fool without a crown.

His head lost, while he warmed his heart,

For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Her Hair is Turning Grey.

No wonder that they’ve painted her,

With rouge and carmine high,

And made her look so beautiful,

I guess the reason why:

She long has pass’d her prime of life,

Her flesh now falls away,

And, few men ever choose a wife,

Whose hair is turning grey!

She dresses fine and very smart,

She buys the best of lace;

She uses Rowland’s Kalydor,

To wash her hands and face.

Her dress becomes her very well,

Her bonnet looks quite gay,

But I’m awake—yes, I can smell,

Her hair is turning grey

She’s sunk, at least an inch in height,

She does not walk so fast,

But, her virgin state is not yet done,

Her single life’s not past;

For when the men have ogled her,

I’ve heard them whispering say

She must be old, and so I’ve thought

For her hair is turning grey!

From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

——:o:——

I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS,

Words and Music by Claribel.

I cannot sing the old songs

I sung long years ago,

For heart and voice would fail me,

And foolish tears would flow;

For bygone hours come o’er my heart,

With each familiar strain.

I cannot sing the old songs,

Or dream those dreams again.

I cannot sing the old songs,

Or dream those dreams again.

*  *  *  *  *

“I Cannot Sing the Old Songs.”

“Of course not; they’re hackneyed and out of fashion, and nobody knows what half of them mean. We will change them into new songs, adapted to the taste of the day.

We met—’twas on the rink,

And I feared he’d upset me;

He curved—I tried to think

Who he was, and he let me!

She wore a “pull back” costume

That night when first we met;

As flat as any pancake,

Her tablier worked with jet.

Her footsteps had no lightness

(Though high her heels were shown)

How could they, with a tightness

To sprightliness unknown?

I saw her but a moment,

Yet methinks I see her now,

With a cloud of lace à sortir

About her sunny brow.

“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe,” I cry,

“Fresh and fair ones”—when no Bobby’s nigh.

Funny Folks.

I Cannot Eat the Old Horse.

(Written during the agitation in Paris
in favor of eating horse flesh).

I cannot eat the old horse,

I rode long years ago;

I’m sure my teeth would fail me,

And foolish tears might flow.

For bygone hunts come o’er my heart,

With cuts from round and side;

I cannot eat the old horse,

On which I used to ride.

I cannot eat the old horse,

For visions come again;

Of bygone meets departed,

And runs in soaking rain.

But perhaps when raging hunger,

Has set his hand on me;

Then I may eat the old horse,

And hope t’will tender be.

——:o:——

OH! THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

The mistletoe hung on the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,

And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay;

And keeping their Christmas holiday:

The baron beheld with a father’s pride,

His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride;

While she, with her bright eyes, seem’d to be

The star of that goodly company.

Oh! the mistletoe bough.

“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried;

“Here tarry a moment—I’ll hide—I’ll hide;

And Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace

The clue to my secret hiding place.”

Away she ran—and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide,

I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”

Oh! the mistletoe bough.

*  *  *  *  *

The Michaelmas Goose.

The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall,

On the outside of a poulterer’s stall;

The poulterer’s boys were blithe and gay,

Keeping of Leadenhall Market-day:

The poulterer, though his stock profuse,

Kept twigging with pride the Michaelmas goose;

Whilst she with her neck broke, seem’d to be

The best of all gooses that could be.

Oh! the Michaelmas goose,

Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

“I’m tired of walking,” an old maid did cry,

“I’ve walk’d to the market a goose for to buy:

And poulterer be sure that you give me, I pray;

The best of your gooses for Michaelmas day!”

Then a thief ran by, and straight began,

To finger the goose, and away he ran:

And he the poulterer out loud did call,

“Oh! I’ve lost the best goose in all Leadenhall!”

Oh! my Michaelmas goose, &c.

They sought it that hour, they sought it all day,

They sought it in vain till the night passed away!

“The cleanest—the dirtiest—the filthiest spot,

The old maid sought wildly but found it not;

At length, as onward she did roam,

She looked far the goose all the way she went home;

When the old maid appeared, oh! the children did cry,

“Twig the old woman that went a large goose to buy!”

Oh! the Michaelmas goose, &c.

The thief was caught at morning’s light,

They searched his pockets, when oh; what a sight;

For a bit of a goose lay hidden there,

In the breeches pocket, the thief did wear:

The thief laugh’d aloud, and swore it was fun;

To the Beak who heard how the trick was done,

Who decided against him, so now laugh your fill!

For three months he was sent to step at the mill.

All through prigging a goose,

Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

The Vorkhouse Boy.

The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall,

And the greatcoats hung on the vhite-vashed vall;

The paupers all were blithe and gay,

Keeping their Christmas holiday;

Vhen the master he cried, with a roguish leer,

You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer;

And one by his looks he seemed to say,

I’ll have more soup on this Christmas day.

Oh, the poor Vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length all of us to bed vos sent,

The boy vos missing in search ve vent;

Ve sought him above, ve sought him below,

Ve sought him with faces of grief and voe:

Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night,

Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright,

Vhen a young pauper cried “I know ve shall

Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pall.”

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew,

Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue;

Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle each pot,

In the vorter butt looked, but found him not;

And veeks rolled on, ve vere all of us told,

That somebody said he’d been burked and sold;

Vhen our master goes out the parishioners vild,

Cries, “there goes the cove that burked the poor child.”

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c.

At length the soup-coppers repairs did need,

The copper-smith came, and there he seed;

A dollop of bones lay grizzling there,

In the legs of the breeches the boy did vear;

To gain his fill the boy did stoop,

And, dreadful to tell, he vos boiled in the soup!

And ve all of us say it, and say with a sneer,

That he vos pushed in by the overseer!

Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy &c.

From The Victoria Minstrel.

Published by James Duffy, Dublin.

The Family Ghost.

At the Old Manor House and ancestral Hall,

Where the ivy climbs over the gable-end wall,

A Rookery lends the domain a charm,

And the rats and the mice within-door swarm;

And, time out of mind, as the talk hath been,

There’s a spectral Thing to be heard and seen.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

A sound, as it were, of a rustling train,

That sweeps into the chambers, and out again,

And anon there appeareth an ancient Dame,

Like a figure stept out of a picture-frame,

In a stomacher, frill, and farthingale,

And her eyes glimmer through an antique lace-veil.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

There’s a room where the Ghost is given to keep

So in that one apartment that none dare sleep,

No man-servant, maid servant, girl, or groom,

Will adventure a night in the Haunted Room.

Should the Host any Stranger away there stow,

The Ghost of the Family lets him know.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

A something in sooth it may be to boast,

That a fellow hath gotten a Family Ghost,

For a Family Ghost to a Family Name

Is a sort of appurtenance much the same

As a coat-of-arms, or a Family Tree;

No such Ghost but for persons of pedigree.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

In your stuccoed Villas it scorns to dwell;

Stands only the hold of your high-born Swell.

It disdains to appear—having too much pride—

To the family circle at Christmastide,

Where, if ghost-stories then be but truly told,

It could, an it listed, a tale unfold.

O, the Family Ghost!

O, the Family Ghost!

Punch. December 29, 1883.

——:o:——

HOME, SWEET HOME.

By J. Howard Payne, in the opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.”

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

Home! home, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!

Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again!

The birds singing gaily that came at my call:—

Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all!

Home! home, &c.

In the winter of 1833. John Howard Payne called upon an American lady, living in London, and presented to her a copy of “Home, Sweet Home,” set to music, with the two following additional verses addressed to her:—

To us, in despite of the absence of years,

How sweet the remembrance of home still appears

From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye,

The unsatisfied heart turns, and says with a sigh

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home!

There’s no place like home!

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow,

But mine has been checkered with many a woe!

Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same

And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim,

Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

Whilst the words are thus clearly of American origin, the melody was introduced by Sir Henry Bishop as a national Sicilian air, in his National Melodies. Sir Henry afterwards adapted it to the words “Home, Sweet Home,” in Howard Payne’s opera of Clari, 1823, from which time its popularity dates. It has subsequently been called a National Swiss air; but Sir Henry Bishop seems to have the right to it. Donizetti introduced it, with some alterations, in his Anna Bolena, not as his own, but as a representative English melody.

On the Duke of Wellington.

“The melody of Home, sweet home, must be impressed on the memory of all. The only sphere in which poor Wellington can feel himself at home is in ‘place, sweet place,’ and having once tasted of its pleasures it continues to haunt his memory. To him the splendour of palaces and the favour of his sovereign offer no longer a charm, ‘It is all very well,’ he sometimes frantically exclaims, but:—

The court of my sovereign, though I may grace,

Be it ever so stormy there’s nothing like place,

A vapour from hell seems to shield us when there,

Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere.

Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.

There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place.

An exile from place levees dazzle in vain.

Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again,

The subs slaving daily that came at my call,

Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all.

Place! place! sweet, sweet, place.

There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place.

Figaro in London. Sept. 22. 1832.

Beignet de Pomme.

’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,

On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.

Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,

And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.

Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!

Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme.

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,

If you stir not the mixture again and again;

Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall;

Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.

Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!

Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,

And cut out the cores—if you’ll take my advice;

Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,

And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.

Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!

Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme

Anonymous.

The Unfinished Houses of Parliament.

When Lord Brougham said there was no more dependence to be placed on Barry’s promises than on a broken reed, he was not perhaps aware that it was really Reid, and not Barry, that acted as a barrier to the completion of the Houses of Parliament. Since it has been discovered that Reid is the culprit, the following melody has been expressly written for Lord Brougham, who has sung it twice at the Beef Steak Club, with considerable gusto.

“’Mid Westminster’s palace, while Reid still shall roam

The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home;

If Barry e’er tries the new house to prepare,

His efforts by Reid are all blown into air.

Reid, Reid, Doctor Reid!

Of all great mistakes, there is not one like Reid.

“While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain;

Oh give me my old House of Commons again.

The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call

Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all,

Reid, Reid,” &c.

Punch. April 14, 1846.

Parody for Puseyites.

Though crosses and candles we play with at home,

To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome;

We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there,

Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere,

Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome!

For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome

Punch. 1850.

The Policeman’s Home.

Up courts and round palaces long may they roam,

But ancient policemen have no sort of home

To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care,

The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear.

Home! home! they’ve no home:

For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home!

*  *  *  *  *

Then let a snug station await Life’s decline,

When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign;

And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam,

Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home!

Home! home! short, short home!

Let worn out Policemen have some place like home

Punch. December 6, 1851.

Songs of the Circuit.

From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam,

Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home;

A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there,

Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere

Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,

There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.

When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain,

The railroad brings you back to your chambers again:

On the Home the expenses for posting are small;

Give me that—’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all.

Home, Home, sweet sweet Home,

There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home.

Punch. March 23, 1884.

Home, Sweet Home!

Modern Version.

’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome,

How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home!

Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there,

Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere.

Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot,

Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot,

Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall,

And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!

As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain,

The shivering prey of the frost and the rain,

The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell,

’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell.

Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum,

Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come,

Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves;

Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!

As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Close-stacked, crazy rookeries, rotting and rank,

Pest-pregnant, plague-foul in each timber and plank,

Rear thick-huddled frontages, row upon row,

The smoke-pall above, and the swamp-ooze below.

Each garret-roof covers its horde—though it leaks,

Each cellar slough hides its pale crowd—though it reeks.

Dumb thralls, voiceless victims, none heeds their mute call;

But Dirt and Disease are the masters of all.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!

As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Hence Mammon draws tithe, and here Moloch takes toll;

Here conscienceless wealth, of the spiderish soul,

Sucks fatness from foulness in fœtid beast-lairs;

Whilst somnolent Bumble, as deaf to all pray’rs

As a drowsing King Log, all his powers lets fall,

And skulks in prone impotence. What though they crawl

From their dens to his knees, the poor souls, in appeal?

His brains are of wool, and his heart is of steel.

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!

As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Deaf, blind to all pleas sense or feeling can urge,

Till King Pest, with his fierce, indiscriminate scourge,

Sallies forth from the loathsome, the horrible lair,

That himself and his imps with our pariahs share.

Then, who so affrighted, so helpless as he,

King Log, brainless Bumble? Ah! when shall we see

Some stout modern ghoul-slaying Champion come

To teach our poor outcasts the meaning of Home?

Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!

As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!

Punch. November 12, 1881.

Song of the Professional Beauty’s Husband.

’Midst mansions and palaces so much I roam,

That it’s useless to long for an evening at home;

The charm from the heavens that falls on us there

I’ve never a chance to experience or share.

Home, home, sweet sweet home,

Be it ever so humble,

There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,

O give me my villa at Tooting again;

My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled;

And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold!

Home, home, sweet home,

Be it ever so quiet,

There’s no place like home!

But parties perpetual now are my lot.

I’ve a home,—but I never enjoy it one jot;

It is only a place where I put on white ties—

Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies.

Home, home, sweet home,

Be it ever so humdrum,

There’s no place like home!

O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain,

I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane;

It was only a carte—but with anger I foam

When I think how it’s carted us both from our home.

Home, home, sweet home,

Be it ever so “homey”

There’s no place like home!

Truth Christmas Number, 1882.

The Weekly Dispatch.

(Prize Parody. January 28, 1883.)

’Mid hardships and hovels

Though we may roam,

From Dan to Beersheba,

There’s no place like home.

A fiend from below

Seems to worry us there,

Which, search through the world,

Is not met elsewhere.

Home, home! vile, vile home!

There’s no place like home;

There’s no place like home.

How hateful the squalling

Of children and wife!

While doctors and duns

Make a limbo of life.

Of all human dwellings

Beneath heaven’s dome,

Be they ever so shocking,

There’s no place like home.

Home, home! vile, vile home!

There’s no place like home;

There’s no place like home.

David Reid.

“Place, Sweet Place.”

(Sung by an Old Whip).

Though clubdoms’s fair palaces

Welcome my face,

I cannot but grumble

There’s nothing like place.

A chance may arise

For a fellow who’s there,

But he’ll travel the world

Ere he meets it elsewhere.

An exile from “place,”

Fashion dazzles in vain,

Oh, give me my showy

Appointment again!

With members who tremble

And come at my call,

Give me this—or a pension,

More valued than all!

Exe.

The Barrister’s Lament on Leaving the Old Courts,
and going into the New Courts.

’Mid new courts and chambers,

Where’er I may roam,

There no place familiar—

I don’t feel at home.

A shade from the old hall

Has followed me here,

As a friend that’s departed,

Whose mem’ry is dear.

An exile from home,

Splendour dazzles in vain;

Oh, give me my dirty

Old Law Courts again!

I can’t say a word here,

My brief I let fall,

When the old place I think of,

And that dear, grimy Hall.

C. W. Scott.

A Verse to Home Rule.

In Westminster Palaces

We bluster and foam,

And say, if its bumble,

There’s no Rule like Home.

St. Stephen’s is charming,

St. Stephen’s is fair,

But it’s not the St. Stephen’s

We long for elsewhere.

Home, Home, sweet Rule of Home!

There’s no Rule like Home Rule,

No Rule like Home!

Anonymous.

In 1885 Truth had two competitions on the song “Home, Sweet Home,” the first (April 23, 1885), was for parodies, when twenty-five were printed; the second (June 4, 1885) was for original third verses, and twenty-eight replies were printed.

Selections from both these numbers are given below.

Original and third Verses to “Home Sweet Home.”

Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end,

The power of home will attractiveness lend;

Then dearest and fairest of memories all,

Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Cuyuni.

Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea,

It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be;

Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain,

Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Picaflor.

In the Soudan desert, ’neath Afric’s fierce sun,

After butchering Arabs, no honour being won;

Worn out by hard marches, we lay on the sand,

And longed for sweet home and our lov’d native land.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Tommy Atkins.

Though far from dear England our lot may be cast

Our love and allegiance she’ll hold till the last,

New ties we contract, and affections we gain,

But Britain we mean when we sing the refrain:

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Daleth.

In joy or in sadness, in care or in grief,

We fly to its bosom, and there find relief;

There love reigns supremely, and on till life’s wane

Our hearts shall re-echo that sweetest refrain:

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!

Picaptor.

Tho’ rich be our portion, or poor be our lot,

Tho’ years flying swiftly all else be forgot;

Tho’ fortune disdain us and friendship should veer,

Home’s mem’ry our hearts in their loneness shall cheer,

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Picaptor.

I pray that I reach the old homestead once more,

And see the loved faces around, as of yore;

Of all fortune’s gifts, methinks this were the best,

At home, at life’s close, thus to peacefully rest.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

W. P. (Teneriffe).

How many in dreams only shadow the bliss

Of home, where, alas, a mother’s last kiss

Is all that sustains them o’er life’s weary strand

Away from sweet home, and their dear native land.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home,

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

A. Atwood.

Like bird to its nest, or like sheep to the fold,

I turn to my home from the world’s bitter cold;

For true, faithful hearts beckon me from afar,

And the flame of my ingle is my guiding star.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!

Winstead.

Truth. June 4, 1885.

——:o:——

Law, Cheap Law.

’Mid falsehood and fallacies, jingle and jaw

,

Though often we stumble, there’s nothing like law!

There’s a charm in the wig, there’s a grace in the gown,

And say what they will, ’tis the best trade in town.

Law, law, cheap, cheap law,

There’s no trade like law; there’s no trade like law.

For counsel-at-law clients whistle in vain,

“Oh, give us our wasted retainers again;

The bright, golden guineas we paid at your call,

Give us these, and the ‘Fees on Brief,’ greater than all.”

Law, law, cheap, cheap law, &c.

Lex.

Beef, Roast Beef.

’Mid soup, fish, and entrées our stay will be brief,

Be it ever so gristly, there’s no meat like beef;

A true English taste seems to hallow this fare,

Which, eat what we will, is not met with elsewhere.

Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,

There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

Debarred from my beef, kickshaws tempt me in vain,

Oh, give me my plainly-cooked sirloin again;

The greens, piping hot, to be brought to my call,

Give me them with the under-cut, dearer than all.

Beef, beef, roast, roast beef,

There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef.

Friar Tuck.

Tea, Sweet Tea.

’Midst mansions or cottages, where’er we may be,

Be it ever so feeble, there’s nothing like tea.

A balm that restores seems to perfume the air,

Which, seek through all comforts, is not met elsewhere.

Tea, tea, sweet, sweet tea!

There’s nothing like tea! there’s nothing like tea!

Forbidden my tea, all else tempts me in vain,

Oh, give me my Chinese infusion again.

The urn, singing gladly, responds to my call,

And brings back the soothing draught, cheering to all.

Ediora.

The London Poor’s Lament.

’Mid gin-shops or “palaces” though I may roam,

’Tis better than starving and freezing at home!

No food, fire, or candle is ever found there,

Such comforts, alas! must be sought for elsewhere.

Home, home, bleak, bleak home!

For sorrow and want there’s no place like home!

As exiles from home I and mine would be fain,

We pine for a log-hut or cottage in vain.

In a land where the poor are not forced “to the wall.”

Give us this and some “pieces” down—better than all!

Home, home, bleak, bleak home!

There’s no place in England, there’s no place called home.

Crystal Palace.

(“Men are merriest when they are from home.—Shakespeare.)

’Mid pleasures and palaces fain would I roam,

Be it ever so stately there’s no peace at home;

All bores ’neath the sky seem to follow us there,

Which, seek thro’ the world, may not meet us elsewhere.

Roam, roam, sweet to roam!

There’s no peace at home! there’s no peace at home!

A captive at home, comfort’s sought for in vain;

Oh, give me my bachelor freedom again;

The little club dinners, they came at my call;

Give me them, with the “pipe of peace,” dearest than all.

Roam, roam, sweet to roam! &c.

Moonshine.

’Mid worry and bustle, where’er you may roam,

There is nothing can beat the Spring cleaning of home;

There’s a fuss and confusion then reigns in the air,

That, search where you will, is not met with elsewhere.

When Spring cleaning times come,

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Exiled from my room, I must grumble in vain,

For they’re cleaning my lowly thatched cottage again;

Those sweetbirds, the charwomen, chatter and bawl,

’Till I give them a “piece of mind” louder than all.

When Spring cleaning time’s come, &c.

Anon.

Rum, good Rum.

Of all the strong drinks that are loved in the slum,

Be they ever so fiery, there’s none like good rum;

Its quickness in levelling a man with the ground

In no other liquor will ever be found.

Rum, rum, good rum, good rum,

There’s nothing like rum; there’s nothing like rum.

Though it’s hastening my ruin and my life is a stain,

Fill up the fire-water, I’ll drink it again;

Speak not of the pleasures I lose by my fall,

I tell you good rum is the dearest of all.

Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, &c.

Mona.

Jones still Jones.

In islands or continents, this parodist depones,

Wherein he has wandered he’s always met Jones

In steamboats or trains, or balloons in the air.

If he sought for a change, Jones was sure to be there!

Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,

There’s no shirking Jones, there’s no shirking Jones.

In prairies and deserts again and again,

I have striven to dodge him, but always in vain;

On the top of Mount Blanc, and the Great Chinese Wall

When I paused to take breath, there was Jones after all!

Jones, Jones, still, still Jones,

There’s no dodging Jones, there’s no dodging Jones!

Prima Donna.

Home Ruler’s Song.

’Neath measures and policies though we may groan,

Be we ever so humble we long for our own.

’Tis liberty’s charm bids us “Home Rule” declare,

And we’ll stir all the world if we don’t get our share.

Home Rule, rule at home!

There’s no rule like “Home,” there’s no rule like “Home!”

An exile from home is both cruel and vain,

So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again,

With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall;

And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all,

Home Rule, rule at home! &c.

Roggee Shurt.

When worries and creditors force you to groan,

For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne,

In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there,

Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare.

Boulogne! oh, Boulogne!

There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne.

I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain,

By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again.

By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball,

To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all.

Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c.

Nutshell.

Rome, sweet Rome.

’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam,

Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome;

No Forty-nine articles harass one there,

No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear.

Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!

There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome!

A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain,

Oh, give me my stole and my incense again;

The maids sighing daily who came to my call,

The piece of mind then that I gave to them all.

Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome!

Clericus.

A New Version of an Old Song.

“She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:—

“Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome,

Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb,

H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer,

Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!”

——there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without ever guessing it.”

American Paper.

——:o:——

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.

(From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson,
born 1574, died 1637.)

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from my soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there

It would not wither’d be,

But thou thereon did’st only breathe,

And sent it back to me;

Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

A Parody.

Drink to me only from a jug,

And I will pledge in mine;

So fill my glass with whisky punch,

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that in my throat doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,

That honour I’d resign.

*  *  *  *  *

(The Editor felicitously adds that the
second verse is not worth parodying.)

Blackwood’s Magazine. July, 1823.

To Lydia’s Glass Eye.

“From particulars supplied to the reporter of a Chicago paper by a dealer in glass eyes in that city, it appears that there are as many as a thousand wearers of these eyes in Chicago…. Twenty years ago there were sold many more dark eyes than light … about twenty light eyes are now sold to one dark.”—Times.

Wink at me only with glass eye,

And I’ll respond with mine,

And smile not when the harmless fly

Goes crawling over thine.

I care not for the colour there,

Dark brown, or black, or blue,

Or even if you wink, ma chère,

With eyes of different hue.

I sent thee late a new glass eye,

Impervious to the tear,

Tinged with some new æsthetic dye,

And quite “too utter” dear.

You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think

How faithful it must be,

For it is warranted to wink

At nobody but me?

Punch. April, 1881.

Bring to me only, if you’re wise,

The ale that’s clear and fine;

Place but a quart within the cup,

I’ll call that quart divine.

Drinking Songs for the Men of the Period.

“What can you expect from a nation that lives chiefly upon tonics.”—Vide Saturday Review. 1866.

1.

Drink wine only with thy Drugs

And I will drink with mine,—

Or leave a “peg” within the cup,

And I’ll not seek Quinine!

2.

O some may praise John Barleycorn,

And some the juice of Cadiz,

But I will sing of Chlorodyne,

That keeps me out of Hades.

3.

Boast not thyself in Sherries gold,

Or Claret’s crimson river,

There’s nothing like Taraxacum

To spur a sluggish liver!

4.

Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets

Too deeply you beguile!

Soon must you quaff its bitter cup,

Quassia and Camomile!

5.

Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine

To comfort thy spirit sore,

To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork

As you never have played before

6.

Hey nonny, nonny,

Champagne is bonny,

At summer pic-nic or wedding feast;

But more for your weal,

Is Citrate of Steel,

Effervescing like German Yeast!

7.

On an Iron Age we fall—

Iron steeds, and Iron rail,

Iron ships and, worst of all,

Iron drinks instead of Ale!

8.

Life is cruel, false, and cold,

Steel thy heart against the scorner,

Steel it with the Tincture sold

At the Chemist’s round the corner!

9.

Iron drops such conquerors be

Over death, that hoary croaker,

That you’ll quite immortal be

When you’ve swallowed all your porter.

Will-o-the-Wisp. July 10, 1869.

The Rinker’s Song.

Rink to me only with thine ice,

And I will sledge with mine;

Or heave a hiss but inly up,

And I’ll not look for whine.

The thirst that from a sole doth rise,

Doth ask a rink divine,

But might I on Jove’s necktie slip,

I would not change for thine.

I went to thee, late, a rosy youth,

Not so much honoring thee

As in the hope that, taking care,

I should not “Spiller’d” be.

But thou me send’st, in groanly truth,

Plump on back, ah me!

Since when my “ditto” suit I swear,

Smells asphaltely of thee!

The Figaro. June 10, 1876.

The Language of Love.

Talk to me only with thine eyes,

And I will hear with mine;

Turn hither all the light that lies

In those twin orbs of thine.

I shall not miss an H or two,

Nor find as many slips

Of grammar as I daily do

From these bewitching lips.

In such a deep impassioned glance

Could any eye suspect

A double negative, perchance;—

Which never ain’t correct.

Could any dazzled gaze descry,

In stars thus blue and bright,

A tendency to say, “Says I;”—

Which, I says, can’t be right.

Nay, Love and Prosody combined

Sit smiling evermore.

Within those eyes that speak a mind

Above grammatic lore.

Those lips may err—they often do;

But why should that surprise?

My love has nothing of the Blue

About her but her eyes.

From A Town Garland. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto and Windus. London, 1878.)

——:o:——

PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.

Phillis is my only joy,

Faithless as the wind or seas;

Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,

Yet she never fails to please.

If with a frown

I am cast down

Phillis smiling

And beguiling,

Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find

Nothing can her fancy fix;

Yet the moment she is kind,

I forgive her all her tricks;

Which though I see,

I can’t get free;

She deceiving,

I believing,

What need lovers wish for more?

Charles Sedley.

A Rhyme of the Hoax.

Fillies is my only joy—

Slippery jades as e’er one sees,

Sometimes forward, sometimes coy,

Sometimes game to win with ease.

If I’ve ill luck,

And back the ruck,

Yet disaster

Makes me faster.

Bet each year upon the Oaks.

Though, alas! I always find

There’s no guessing all their tricks,

Yet I still with constant mind

Risk my monkey’s, five or six;

This year may be

A case for me

Of cash—bereavement;

O Achievement.

Win! or ’tis a frightful Hoax.

Echoes from the Clubs. May 22, 1867.

Fillies is my only joy!

Faithless though the jades oft be

Transient ever such annoy.

’Tis but so much £ s. d.;

Done are we brown

On Epsom Down,

Fillies shying,

Shiners flying,

Spooners sappier than before!

Though, alas! too late I find,

Fails the goal my fancy picks;

Since she’s not of womankind,

Freely I forgive her tricks.

Fortune’s slippy, ah!

Get on Hippia,[4]

I believing,

Ne’er misgiving,

Mean to risk my “tin” once more.

Echoes from the Clubs. May 29, 1867.

——:o:——

PARODIES OF ALFRED BUNN’S OPERATIC SONGS.

The Sot Bowed Down.

The sot bowed down by too much drink,

To nearest post will cling;

Or in the gutter p’rhaps will sink,

Which can no comfort bring;

For all exciting spirits tend

The senses having flown,

To make a fool the only friend

That drink can call its own.

The sot will in his muddy lair,

Still ponder o’er the last

Strong glass he took, and could’nt bear,

But which he swallowed fast.

Till the police assistance lend,

And in a cell of stone;

Lock up all night the only friend

That drink can call its own.

Anonymous.

Song of January.

When other months amid the range

Of time’s revolving year,

Exhibit symptoms of a change

From what they should appear;

Though April fails to bring her showers;

Though March is mild and tame;

Though May forgets her buds and flowers,

You’ll find me still the same.

They say that Janus sways my lot,

That I two faces wear;

But, let me ask them, who does not?

In this false world of care.

Oh! I’m a month that’s always cold,

And who shall dare to blame,

If they’re at such a moment told

That I am still the same.

Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

Self-Evident.

When other lips and other eyes

Their tales of love shall tell,

Which means the usual sort of lies

You’ve heard from many a swell;

When, bored with what you feel is bosh,

You’d give the world to see,

A friend, whose love you know will wash,

Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours,

And Captain Craft’s at Ryde,

And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,

And Lord knows who beside;

When to exist you feel a task

Without a friend at tea,

At such a moment I but ask

That you’ll remember me.

J. R. Planche.

A Yule-tide Parody.

When other wits and other bards,

Their tales at Christmas tell,

Or praise on cheap and coloured cards,

The time they love so well;

Secure from scorn and ridicule

I hope my verse may be,

If I can still remember Yule,

And Yule remember me.

The days are dark, the days are drear,

When dull December dies;

But, while we mourn an ended year,

Another’s star will rise,

I hail the season formed by rule

For merriment and glee;

So let me still remember Yule,

And Yule remember me.

The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,

I greet the pie of mince;

And loving both while yet a boy,

Have loved them ever since,

More dull were I than any mule

That eyes did ever see,

If I should not remember Yule,

And Yule remember me.

Anonymous.

From London Society. Christmas Number for 1881.

——:o:——

Song for the Hall Porter.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

With tradesmen and duns outside,

And a large assembly of morning calls,

In carriage pomp and pride.

There were crowds too great to count, and most

For Bills unsettled came;

But I also dreamt that at my post

I sat dozing all the same.

I dreamt that footmen raised their hand,

And knock’d to a high degree,

With a noise few porters’ ears could withstand,

But they wasted it all on me,

I dreamt that one of the noisy host

Came forth and bawl’d my name;

But I also dreamt that fast as a post

I slept there all the same.

I slept there all the same.

From George Cruikshank’s Table Book. Edited by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett.

The Alarmist’s Dream about the Great Exhibition.

I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls,

With Chartists and Reds at my side,

And that all who assembled in those glass walls,

Came there the contents to divide.

Of riches too great to count it could boast,

And jewels of world-wide fame;

But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most,

They remained there all the same.

I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band

With thieves of every degree,

And with skill that no police could withstand,

They picked all the pockets of we.

And I dreamt that one of the scampish host

To grab the Koh-i-Noor came;

But I found when I woke, which surprised me most,

It was safe there all the same.

Punch. June 14, 1851.

Lord Brougham’s Dream.

“The foul, the false charge, that I have changed a
single opinion.”—Vicar of Bray.

I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls,

With Peel and the Duke at my side;

That I went like their shadow, to morning calls,

To concerts, the club, or the ride.

And seldom or never to meet, did I seem,

With a Whig or a Radical name;

And yet—the most curious part of my dream—

My opinions were still the same!

And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course,

For my senses were running a rig,)

Who said that “Persuasion was better than force,”

As he dazzled my eyes with his wig.

“Oh, beautiful wig!” thought I, “could I for thee

Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?”

And yet—the most wonderful matter to me—

My opinions were still the same!

Punch. April 13, 1844.

Ballad.

I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords,

As Monteagle spoke at my side,

And into that sleep which his tone affords

I did imperceptibly glide.

There were lions too many to count—a host

Of creatures I knew not by name;

And I also dreamt—which puzzled me most—

That the figures were all the same.

I dreamt that huge monsters—a fearful band—

Were staring to such a degree

That the sight was more than I could withstand,

For they turn’d all their eyes upon me.

And I dreamt that King John’s unearthly ghost

Stepped forth my homage to claim,

When I woke and I found ’twas my bedstead’s post,

But it frightened me all the same.

Dreams of Mabille Balls.

(The famous Moulin Rouge Restaurant and Mabille disappear together from the Champs Elysées this month.)

(RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.)

(Sung confidentially by the Old “Bohemian Boy.”)

I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls—

That again at the Cancan I shied:

But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls,

I had far best have Cancan’d outside!

For, spite Jules’s antics, once good as a feast—

Spite Music, Nymphs, flare—still the same.

I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least,

That the whole thing seemed horribly tame,

Oh, so tame!

So depressingly, horribly tame!

Punch. March 4, 1882.

Marbled Beef.

(Ballad for the Modern Butcher, with acknowledgments to the Shade of Bunn.)

I dreamt that I dined on Marbled Beef,

And found it the best I had tried;

And of all its good points I held this the chief,—

The figure at which ’twas supplied.

But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice

You tried on the same old game,

And though every carcass cost you half the price,

You charged me still the same!

You charged me still the same!

Punch. April 18, 1885.

——:o:——

BEAUTIFUL STAR.

Beautiful star! on each opera night,

Watching with wonder your diamonds bright,

And hearing your cadences echo afar,

I envy your fortune, fair opera star—

Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I hear sad Amina’s cantabile ring,

I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling;

Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole,

And weep when Medea entrances my soul—

Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I love thee in Norma and fair Marguerite,

And Lohengrin even thy tones can make sweet:

But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write

At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night—

Star of the evening, beautiful star.

Funny Folks.

Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls,

For treatment kind thy memory calls;

Who could fail to thy use admit,

Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

In fancy’s eyes you seem to say,

Think of the Drama’s bright hey-day;

When first-night critics would views emit

From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

To your cheap seats the people come

In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum;

And where is the manager who’d permit

One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit?

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer

At the warm applause to actors dear;

And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit,

Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit.

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

So, Pit, last on! and hold your own,

Whatever else may be overthrown;

And let fond hands your each seat refit,

Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

(Old Play-goers still remember, with a sigh, that in the palmy days of Buckstone’s management, the Haymarket Pit was the most comfortable in London.)

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:—

Beautiful soup, so rich and green,

Waiting in a hot tureen!

Who for such dainties would not stoop?

Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!

Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!

Beau—ootiful Soo-oop!

Beau—ootiful Soo-oop!

Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,

Beautiful, beautiful soup!

Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish,

Game, or any other dish?

Who would not give all else for two-

pennyworth only of beautiful soup?

Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?

Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!

Beau-ootiful Soo-oop!

Soo-oop of the e-e-evening,

Beautiful, beauti—FULL SOUP!

From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. (Macmillan & Co., London.)

——:o:——

MORE LOST CHORDS,

On [page 3] a parody of “The Lost Chord” was given which had originally appeared in Judy in 1880. This was written by Mr. Alfred Greenland, junior, and has been included by him in an amusing volume, entitled Lunatic Lyrics (published by Tinsley Brothers, London), which also contains one of the very best parodies of Swinburne ever written, entitled A Matcher.

The last verse of The Lost Cord as given in this volume differs slightly from the Judy version, it runs as follows:—

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey,

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only skedaddles

When he hears the organ-men!

It may be my truant monkey

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only SKEDADDLES

When he hears the organ men!!

As mentioned above this parody was printed in 1880, but curiously enough, another rather similar parody has been sent in, dated December, 1879.

The Lost Ape.

Seated one day on an organ,

A monkey was ill at ease,

When his fingers wandered idly,

In search of the busy fleas.

I know not what he was slaying,

Or what he was dreaming then,

But a sound burst forth from that organ,

Not at all like a grand Amen.

It came through the evening twilight

Like the close of the feline psalm,

But the melody raised by their voices,

Compared to this noise, was balm!

It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow

With their band of drum and fife,

And cut, like an evening “Echo,”

The Tit-Bits out of “Life.”

I upset my table and tea things,

And left not one perfect piece;

I gazed at the wreck in silence,

Not loth, but unable to speak!

Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,

The source of that terrible whine,

With his cracked and tuneless organ,

And its melodies undivine.

Of course there was no policeman

To move him away,—and men

Who grind organs smile demurely

At your curses, and smile again.

It may be that I could choke him—

Could kill him—but organ men

If you kill a dozen to-day,

To-morrow will come again!

J. W. G. W.

December, 1879.

The Lost Rent.

(Copied, without permission, from a Christmas card in the shape of a “Dicky,”)

Seated one day at the window,

I was weary and ill at ease,

And my coat I handled lightly,

As I tried to extract the grease.

I had no hopes of a dinner;

My stomach was aching then,

When a knock at the door of my chamber.

Like the sound of the broker men!

It may be they thought I would open;

But I stepped through the window then,

Leaving one chair and a shirt front,

To amuse the broker men.

The Lost Key.

The following parody was written, composed, and sung with great success by Mr. George Grossmith. It carries the idea of “The Lost Chord” throughout, yet the air is different, and the quaint and laughable words form a strong contrast to the mystical language of the original. The music is published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

Seated one day in her carriage,

She was lounging well back at her ease,

And her fingers wandered idly,

In her pocket for her keys.

She thought—as the bunch was missing,

In her wardrobe it must be,

So she struck one note of discord,

Like the sound of a big, big D.

Like the sound of a big, big D.

She thought of the sweet little trinkets,

Whose loss she would sadly mourn,

Then she thought of her frocks and mantles,

Some of which she had not yet worn.

She thought of her precious diamonds,

She thought of the square plate-chest,

For at home, in that large old wardrobe,

She kept everything she possess’d.

Then she thought of the sweet love letters,

Received with many a ruse,

Then she suddenly thought that the servants

Those letters would surely peruse.

Then she thought, with a feeling of horror!

That the neighbours would surely be shown,

A piece of black hair neatly plaited,

Which was not exactly her own.

So she dived to the bottom of her carriage,

Turned the matting all upside down,

Then she dived beneath the cushions,

And the lining of her green silk gown.

She dived in the depths of her mantle,

And into her muff dived she,

But only at home in her wardrobe,

Would be found that lost, lost key!

——:o:——

’Twas Only a Year ago, Love.

(Music by F. Paolo Tosti.)

It came with the merry May, love,

That neat little billet doux,

And I much regret to say, love,

The measles and rates came too:

The passion may fade away, love,

But the rates I shall always owe.

’Twas only a year ago, love,

Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,

That tip for the big event;

I shall ne’er forget the day, love,

I plank’d on my ev’ry cent.

But the animal stopped to sneeze, love,

Which much increas’d my woe,

’Twas absolutely last, love,

Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,

That big furniture van,

It took all my goods away, love,

It thwarted my fondest plan.

I thought I could shoot the moon, love,

But destiny grunted “No”;

They were there a bit too soon, love,

Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love.

That beautiful big black eye,

The kick I received for aye, love,

Will live in my memory,

And oh! I have got such a bruise, love,

I regret I’m unable to show,

I have to stand up to my meals, love,

Though it’s over a year ago.

It came with the merry May, love,

It looked about forty three,

And much to my dismay, love,

It fixed itself on to me.

I know that it foolish sounds, love,

I promised and breached, you know.

It cost me five hundred pounds, love,

Just over a year ago!

Frederick Bowyer.

(This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in the Burlesque of Kenilworth at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.)

——:o:——

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,

The woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers, to whose falls,

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies;

A cap of flowers and a kirtle,

Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5]

As precious as the gods do eat,

Shall on an ivory table be

Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,

For thy delight, each May morning;

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe.

The Nymph’s Reply.

If all the World and Love were young,

And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue,

These pleasures might my passion move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5]

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

But fading flowers in every field,

To winter floods their treasures yield;

A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall,

Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,

Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten,

In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,

Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,

Can me with no enticements move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,[5]

Of better meat than’s fit for men?

These are but vain; that’s only good

Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could Youth last, could Love still breed,

Had Joy no date, had Age no need;

Then those delights my mind might move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

In The Complete Angler Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition (preserving the old orthography) of The Complete Angler, published in 1653:—

“As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast away all care, and sung like a Nightingale; her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted for it; ’twas that smooth Song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age:”

The Milkmaid’s Song.

Come live with me, and be my Love,

And we wil all the pleasures prove

That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields,

Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.

Where we will sit upon the Rocks,

And see the Shepherds feed our flocks,

By shallow Rivers, to whose falls

Mellodious birds sing madrigals.

And I wil make thee beds of Roses,

And then a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers and a Kirtle,

Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.

A Gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull,

Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivie buds,

With Coral clasps, and Amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight, each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my Love.

The Milkmaid’s Mother’s Answer.

If all the world and love were young,

And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue?

These pretty pleasures might me move,

To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,

And Philomel becometh dumb,

The Rest complains of cares to come.

The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields

To wayward Winter reckoning yields,

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,

Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies,

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivie buds,

Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs,

All these in me no means can move

To come to thee, and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,

Had joys no date nor age no need;

Then those delights my mind might move,

To live with thee, and be thy love.

A little farther on Viator observes:—

“Yes, master, I will speak you a coppie of verses that were made by Doctor Donne, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and smooth verses, when he thought them fit and worth his labour; and I love them the better, because they allude to rivers and fish, and fishing. They bee these:—”

Come live with me, and be my love,

And we will some new pleasures prove,

Of golden sands, and Christal brooks,

With silken lines and silver hooks,

There will the River wispering run,

Warm’d by thy eyes more then the Sun;

And there th’ inamel’d fish wil stay,

Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,

Each fish, which every channel hath

Most amorously to thee will swim,

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loth,

By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both:

And, if mine eyes have leave to see,

I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with Angling Reeds,

And cut their legs with shels and weeds.

Or treacherously poor fish beset;

With strangling snares, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest,

The bedded fish in banks outwrest;

Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies,

To ’witch poor wandring fishes eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,

For thou thyself art thine own bait;

That fish that is not catch’d thereby,

Is wiser far, alas! then I.

The Milkmaid’s Song.

Come live with me, and be my spouse,

We’ll keep a cottage, pigs and cows;

And I will dress in lace and silk,

While you shall pig, and dig, and milk.

There you will work and hoe all day,

While I enjoy myself, away.

If this you’ll do, we’ll have no rows,

Come live with me, and be my spouse.

From The Incomplete Angler, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.

The Passionate Statistician to His Love.

“For my part, I am a passionate Statistician…. Go with me into the study of statistics, and I will make you all enthusiasts in statistics.”

Mr. Goschen at Whitechapel.

Come live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That facts and figures can supply

Unto the Statist’s ravished eye.

And we will sit ’midst faction’s shocks

And calculate the price of Stocks,

The music of whose rise and fall

Beats most melodious madrigal.

We’ll learn how the last Census closes

And the art of counting noses;

And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn,

Of abstract brief, and lengthy column.

We’ll tot the figures fair and full

Relating to the price of wool,

The annual range of heat and cold,

The death-rate, and the price of gold.

Per-centages shall stir our blood

Analyses as clear as mud.

Oh, if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The marriage rate, the price of meat,

Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet;

And analytic “Tables” be

Prepared each day to give us glee.

Economists our praise shall sing,

The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

Punch. March 21, 1885.

The Rinker’s Song.

Come, rink with me, and be my love!

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That better far than hills or fields

The slippery floor of asphalte yields.

Of skates with rubber ties a pair,

Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come, rink with me, and be my love!

The Rinkmaid’s Answer.

If all the world and love were young,

And truth on every rinker’s tongue,

These asphalte pleasures might me move

To rink with thee and be thy love.

Talk to me not of flowers and posies;

Suppose we fall and break our noses?

Thou’lt not prevail on me at all;

In truth, it is no joke to fall!

Judy. April 12, 1876.

——:o:——

“WON’T YOU TELL ME WHY, ROBIN?”

The late Mr. Whalley, formerly M.P. for Peterborough, was a firm believer in the truth of the claim of Arthur Orton to the Tichborne title and estates. He, and Dr. Edward Vaughan Kenealy, were the most devoted adherents to the cause of “the unfortunate nobleman.” When Mr. Whalley rose in the House of Commons, he was generally greeted with the cry,—“Sing, Whalley, Sing!”

Several Scoffers.

Sing, sir! sing!

Mr. W.

Well, if you like, I have a little thing:

It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse,

My own sad feelings put in ballad verse.

Song: Mr. Whalley.

Tune: “Won’t you tell me why, Robin?”

Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor,

You are so stern and strange?

Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor,

What ’tis has made you change!

You never come to see me now,

As once you used to do;

I miss you at the Tichborne fetes,

Where once I went with you.

Chorus.

Won’t you tell me why, doctor,

Won’t you tell me why;

Won’t you tell me why, doctor,

Oh, won’t you tell me why?

I’m very sad at heart, doctor,

To think you hate me so;

And why you call me names, doctor,

I really do not know.

You shouldn’t use such naughty words

About your once dear friend;

Oh! why not, for dear Tichborne’s sake,

Let this sad difference end?

Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.

We’ve both pressed Roger’s hand, doctor,

More times than I can tell;

We both have loved that man, doctor,

Not wisely, but too well.

And now the Englishman declares

I’m more than three-parts mad;

I did not think you’d do it, Vaughan,

It really is too bad!

Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c.

From Finis.

The Cook’s Lament.

A Pathetic Ballad of a Policeman’s Perfidy.

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,

Won’t you tell me why?

You never speaks when’er we meets,

You always pass me by!

You never takes me for a walk,

As was the case afore;

You never comes to have a talk,

Nor see me to the door!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,

Policeman X Y Zad?

Why pass my airey by, Bobby?

Your cookey’s awful sad?

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,

Won’t you tell me why?

When on your beat, you beats retreat,

If o’er the gate I spy?

The mutton cold and taties hot,

As oft I’ve give to you!

Likewise “cold fourp’ny” in a pot,

And now you are not true.

Oh, please to tell me why, Bobby?

My heart’s a-breaking fast;

My bosom’s one big sigh, Bobby—

My figure, long, can’t last!

Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby,

Won’t you tell me why?

The reason now, you’ve broke your vow,

To your own Sophy-i?

The “public” we was going to take

Is fading from my view;

And sadly from my dreams I wake—

Deceitful wretch in blue!

Oh, will you tell me why, Bobby,

You’ve gone and broke your word?

And left your love to die, Bobby—

The facts shall all be heard!

I’ve learnt the reason why, Bobby,

I knows the reason why!

I see ’tis plain that Mary Jane

Is lurking in your eye—

The wicked slut! perfidious man!

I’ll go to law, of course!

I’d sooner wed the buttons, Dan,

Than all the blessed Force!

You need not tell me why, Bobby,

Policeman X Y Zad;

For I shall never cry, Bobby—

In fact I’m rather glad!

S. J. A. F.

There was a political parody of the same song in They are Five, published by David Bogue. It is out of date now, and of no general interest.

——:o:——

PARODIES OF ROBERT HERRICK.

(Robert Herrick was born in Cheapside in 1591. Died October, 1674.)

To Daffodils.

Fair Daffodils we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early rising sun

Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hast’ning day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, like you:

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay

As you, or anything.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer’s rain;

Or, as the pearls of morning’s dew

Ne’er to be found again.

Robert Herrick.

Unexpected Accounts;
or, the Quarterly “Bill-est-due.”

I.

Dear little bills, we weep to see

You come again so soon;

Our dividends are not paid in,

And yet, you crave this boon;

“Pay, pay,

On reckoning day,

The Tin!”

Thus, Christmas with its charms,

And mirthful glow and glee,

Hath also its alarms!

II.

We did not think that you were due

Till some time in the spring:

You grow, like toadstools, in a night,

As quick as anything;

And though we do

Fight shy of you—and taxes too,

In spite

You fall like drops of summer rain,

Save you are many and they are few.

And—still you come again!

Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley.
Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.

——:o:——

Advice.

(Freely adapted from Herrick).

Order ye Wallsends while ye may,

Though prices are surprising;

For this same coal that’s high to day,

To-morrow may be rising.

The winter quarter has begun,

The sun is sooner setting,

Best coals are now two pounds a ton,

And dearer will be getting.

That man is blest whose cellar’s full,

For days will not grow warmer;

But what we want to see, John Bull,

Is some great coal reformer.

Then be not rash, but take advice—

All ye who wish to marry!

With coals and meat at such a price,

You would be wise to tarry.

——:o:——

Love’s Reasons.

(After Herrick.)

Why do I love my love?

Her eyes are deepest blue,

Bluer than sky above,

She’s pure, and sweet, and true.

’Tis not for every grace

That sparkles in her face,

Although each one of these

My wayward fancy please,

I love my love because I do.

I’ll tell you of my love,

She tender is and true,

Kind as turtle dove,

Too fair for mortal view.

And if you fain would know

Why I must love her so,

I love my love, but I

Could hardly tell you why,

I love my love because I do.

From The Figaro. October 28, 1874.

——:o:——

CHERRY RIPE.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,

Full and fair ones, come and buy;

If so be you ask me where

They do grow? I answer there,

Where my Julia’s lips do smile

There’s the land, or cherry isle.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry

Full and fair ones come and buy

There plantations fully show

All the year where cherries grow.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry,

Full and fair ones, come and buy.

Robert Herrick.

This song having been adapted to a pleasing melody by Mr. Charles Horn, became very popular about 60 years ago.

It is probable that “Cherry Ripe” was suggested to Herrick by Richard Allison’s earlier poem, entitled:—

There is a Garden in Her Face.

There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lillies grow;

A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;

There cherries grow that none may buy,

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose,

Of orient pearl a double row;

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose buds fell’d with snow;

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,

Her brows like bended bows do stand,

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand

These sacred cherries to come nigh,

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

“Water-pipes.”

(Paterfamilias’s song of the frost.)

“Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes” I cry!

“Been and busted!” Low and High.

If I ask the housemaid. “Where?”

She will answer, “Here, and there,—

Here and there and everywhere.”

Whence they come and where they go,

Is just the thing I want to know!

But I don’t, and that is why

“Plumber! Plumber!” is the cry.

Plumber! Plumber! left and right;

Plumber! Plumber! day and night.

Why are you and I such fools

As submit to Builders’ rules?

You and I, my friend, and all,

High and Low, and great and small?

One thing Builder understands—

How to play in Plumber’s hands:

And for one thing Builder cares

To leave openings for “repairs:”

So loose, tiles and slates defends,

Drains that finish in “dead ends,”

Tanks and boilers safe to leak,

Chimneys warranted to reek;

Doors and windows placed with craft,

Still to catch you in a draught;

Green-wood panels in the doors,

Warping new deal in the floors;

Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t,

And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t!

Punch. January 28, 1871.

Coffee Hot.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,

Full and fair cups, come and buy;

But if so be you axes where

I makes it hot? I answer there,

Over the fire where hangs my pot,

That’s where I make coffee hot.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry,

Full and fair cups, if you’re dry;

Here the milk galore doth flow,

Here is butter, bread, also,

If you have the ready got,

That’s the time for coffee hot.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry,

Full and fair cups, come and buy;

Here is milk and sugar nice;

Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice:

If you have the ready got

Then’s the time for coffee hot.

Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c.

James Bruton.

Rosy Wine.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip,

Sweeter far than woman’s lip;

If green-eyed grief assail the soul,

Why, drown him in the flowing bowl;

’Twere folly now to grieve or pine,

While seated near such rosy wine.

Rosy wine, &c.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry,

Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie;

Thou to the soul art more sincere,

Her love is weaker than her tear;

Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine

While I quaff the rosy wine.

Rosy wine, &c.

James Bruton.

Heavy Wet.

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,

Full and fair pots when I’m dry,

If so be, you ask me where,

They are drawn, I answer there,

Where our lips their thirst forget,

That’s the place for heavy wet!

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,

Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I;

To the Blue Posts let us go,

There we’ll clouds of backey blow;

And, while we our cares forget,

All the year quaff heavy wet!

W. T. Moncrieff.

Cherry Pie.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,

Kentish cherries you may buy.

If so be you ask me where

To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!”

In the dish your fruit must lie,

When you make your Cherry Pie.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry

Full and fair ones mind you buy

Whereabouts the crust should go,

Any fool, of course will know;

In the midst a cup may lie

When you make your Cherry Pie.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Punch.

Mutton Chops.

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,

Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy;

But if so be you’d have my coin

You must cut them off the loin!

When the cook for nothing stops,

That’s the time for mutton chops!

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,

I as hungry am as dry;

Let me have them nice and hot.

With a murphy and shalot!

Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,—

All the year they’ve mutton chops!

Cherry Bounce.

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry,

Fill a full glass on the sly;

If so be you ask me where,

To the wine-vaults we’ll repair,

When we heavy wet renounce,

That’s the time for cherry bounce!

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry,

When my flame is standing nigh;

When with love I’m quite beguiled,

And I wish to draw it mild,

Then, each vulgar fear to trounce,

Then I call for cherry bounce!

Guinea-Pigs.

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—

As Directors qualify!

At your feet your shares we lay,—

Not a penny there’s to pay!

’Tis high-sounding names we want,

As decoy-ducks for our plant:

Names to draw the public in,

Place our shares, and sack their tin.

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—

From the West-End, come and try!

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—

Of the City why fight shy?

With shares for the taking, if you please,

And, besides, Directors’ fees:

Office work—an hour a day,

Lots to get, and nought to pay…

Flats agog to risk their tin.

Giv’n good names to draw them in.

So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—

As Directors Qualify!

Punch. March 6, 1875.

Herrick had no occasion to steal, yet there is little doubt but that his Cherry Ripe was adapted from Allison’s earlier, and prettier poem, There is a Garden in her Face; whilst the following lines (which occur in his poem upon Mistress Susanna Southwell,)

Her pretty feet

Like snails did creep

A little out, and then,

As if they playéd at bo-peep,

Did soon draw in again.

were stolen (and spoilt in the stealing), from Sir John Suckling’s inimitable Ballad upon a Wedding:

Her feet beneath her petticoat,

Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they feared the light:

But oh! she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.