ADDENDA.
In order that this Volume may contain as complete a collection as is possible of the Parodies of those Authors who are treated in it, the following poems are here inserted. Although they appear here somewhat irregularly they will all be found in the Index under the respective Authors to whose works they refer.
THOMAS GRAY.
Numerous parodies and imitations of Gray’s poems appeared in the early pages of this volume, a few remain still to be quoted.
Musæ Berkhamstediensis, or Poetical Prolusions by some Young Gentlemen of Berkhamsted School, 1794. This work contains Latin translations of Gray’s Elegy in a Country Churchyard, and of several other standard poems.
An Imitation of Gray’s Elegy. Written by a Sailor. London. Printed by George Cooke, 1806.
The setting sun now gilds the mountain tops,
The busy shepherd pens his fleecy care,
Domestic fowls now seek their fav’rite props,
And leave the fields, barn-doors, and stack-yards fare.
The following parody was satirically attributed to William Cobbett, M.P., by the Editor of The Satirist, in which paper it appeared in August, 1810. The whole of it is bitterly personal and offensive, but it must be remembered that Cobbett himself never spared the feelings or characters of his adversaries:—
Elegy in Newgate.
The Curfew tolls the hour of locking up,
The grating bolts turn heavy on the key,
The turnkey hastens on beef-steaks to sup,
And leaves the cell to treason and to me.
Now fades the glittering dram glass from the sight,
And through the gaol a horrid stillness reigns,
Save where the watchman bawls the hour of night,
Or restless felon shakes his clanking chains.
Save that beneath the prison’s outward bound,
Some drunken Cyprian wrathfully complains
Of such as, wandering near her nightly round,
Forestal the market of her wanton gains.
* * * * *
The Hangman’s Speech.
Here bleeds his head upon the traitor’s stage,
A wretch to Virtue and to Truth unknown,
Foul Faction frown’d not on his lying page,
And Infamy had mark’d him for her own.
Large was his bounty,—so he would you cram,—
The law rewarded him beyond his hope,
He gave to misery, all he pleased—a damn,
The law bestow’d, ’twas all he feared—a rope.
No further seek his villainies to know,
Nor bid me all his hateful libels tell,
For now with him they burn in fires below
And serve the cause of Faction still, in Hell.
A Parody.
The ruin spread by war is wisely o’er,
The grateful mob receive a peace with glee,
The drooping party cease their wonted roar,
And leave these shades to silence and to me.
* * * * *
This is also given in full in The Satirist for May 12, 1812, where it is attributed to Mr. J. Taylor, who had then recently published a volume of poems. Neither of the above is of sufficient interest to reprint in full, the first, indeed, is too coarse to please modern readers.
Written in the Temple Gardens.
The gard’ner rings the bell at close of day,
The motley crowd wind slowly home to tea;
Soft on the Thames the daylight fades away,
And leaves the walks to darkness and to me,
Now shine the glimmering gas-lights on the sight,
The warders now the outer portals lock,
And deepest stillness marks th’ approach of night,
Save when the watchman calls “Past ten o’clock.”
Save, also, when from yonder antique tower[143];
With solemn sound, the bell strikes on the ear,
And wand’ring damsels, as they hear the hour,
Trip through the gloomy courts with haste and fear.
In those high rooms, where clients ne’er intrude,
And here and there a light doth dimly peep,
Each in his lonely set of chambers mewed,
The briefless crowd their nightly vigils keep.
The grave attorney, knocking frequently,
The tittering clerk, who hastens to the door,
The bulky brief, and corresponding fee,
Are things unknown to all that lofty floor.
Small comfort theirs when each dull day is o’er:
No gentle wife their joys and griefs to share,
No quiet homeward walk at half-past four
To some snug tenement near Russell Square.
Oft have they read each prosing term report,
Dull treatises, and statutes not a few;
How many a vacant day they’ve pass’d in court;
How many a barren circuit travell’d through.
Yet let not judges mock their useless toil,
And joke at sapient faces no one knows,
Nor ask, with careless and contemptuous smile,
If no one moves in all the long back rows?
Vain is the coif, the ermined robe, the strife
Of courts, and vain is all success e’er gave;
Say, can the judge, whose word gives death or life,
Reprieve himself when summon’d to the grave?
Nor you, ye leaders, view them with ill-will
If no one sees their speeches in The Times,
Where long-drawn columns oft proclaim your skill
To blacken innocence, and palliate crimes.
Can legal lore or animated speech
Avert that sentence which awaits on all?
Can nisi prius craft and snares o’er reach
That Judge whose look the boldest must appal?
Perhaps, in those neglected rooms abound
Men deeply versed in all the quirks of laws,
Who could with cases right and wrong confound,
And common sense upset, by splitting straws.
But, ah! to them no clerk his golden page,
Rich with retaining-fees, did e’er unroll;
Chill negligence repress’d their legal rage,
And from the quibbling current of the soul,
Full many a barrister who well could plead,
Those dark and unfrequented chambers bear;
Full many a pleader, born to draw unfee’d.
And waste his counts upon the desert air!
Some Follett, whom no client e’er would trust,
Some Wilde, who gain’d no verdict in his life;
In den obscure, some Denman there may rust;
Some Campbell, with no peeress for his wife.
The wits of wond’ring juries to beguile,
The wrongs of injured clients to redress:
To gain or lose their verdict with a smile,
And read their speeches in the daily press,
Their lot forbad—nor was it theirs, d’ye see?
The wretched in the toils of law to lure;
To prostitute their conscience for a fee,
And shut the gates of justice on the poor.
To try mean tricks to win a paltry cause,
With threadbare jests to catch the laugh of fools,
Or puff in court before all human laws,
The lofty wisdom of the last New Rules.
Not one rule nisi, even “to compute,”
Their gentle voices e’er were heard to pray,
Calm and sequester’d, motionless and mute,
In the remote back seats they pass’d each day.
Yet e’en their names are sometimes seen in print,
For Frail memorials on the outer doors
Disclose, in letters large, and dingy tints,
The unknown tenants of the upper floors.
Door-posts supply the place of Term Reports,
And splendid plates around the painter sticks,
To show that he, who never moved the courts,
Has moved from number two to number six.
For who, to cold neglect a luckless prey
His unfrequented attic e’er resign’d,
E’er moved with better hopes across the way
And did not leave a spruce tin-plate behind?
Strong is the love of fame in nobler minds,
And he whose bold aspiring fate doth crush,
Receives some consolation when he finds
His name recorded by the painter’s brush.
For thee who, mindful of each briefless wight,
Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate.
If, musing in this lonely attic flight
Some youthful students should inquire thy fate,
Haply some usher of the court may say—
“At noon I’ve mark’d him oft, ’tween nine and ten
Striding, with hasty step, the Strand away,
At four o’clock to saunter back again.
There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge,
Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry,
Listless for hours he’d sit, and never budge,
And pore upon a book-the Lord knows why.
Oft would he bid me fetch him some report,
And turn from case to case with look forlorn,
Then, bustling, would he run from court to court,
As if some rule of his were coming on.
One morn I miss’d that figure lean and lank,
And that pale face, so often mark’d by me,
Another case—nor yet was he in Banc,
Nor at th’ Exchequer, nor the Pleas was he.
The next day, as at morn I chanced to see
Death’s peremptory paper in The Times,
I read his name, which there stood number three,
And there I also read these doleful rhymes,”
Epitaph
“Here rests a youth lamented but by few;
A barrister, to fame and courts unknown.
Brief was his life—yet was it briefless, too,
For no attorney mark’d him for his own.
“Deep and correct his knowledge of the laws,
No judge a rule of his could e’er refuse;
He never lost a client or a cause,
Because, forsooth, he ne’er had one to lose.
“E’en as he lived unknown—unknown he dies,
Calm be his rest, from hopeless struggle free,
’Till that dread court, from which no error lies,
Shall final judgment pass on him and thee.”
By the late Mr. Justice Hayes.
From Random Recollections of the Midland Circuit. By Robert Walton. Second Series. Chiswick Press, 1873.
Elegy written in a Ball-room.
The beaux are jogging on the pictured floor
The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels;
While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore,
Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels.
* * * * *
This does not continue in the vein of parody.
From Miscellanies: Prose and Verse, by William Maginn. 1885.
The “Elegy” Travestied.
The shops are closed—the sign of closing day
The sewing-girl glides glibly home to tea;
The drayman homeward drives his noisy dray,
And leaves “down town” to watchmen and to me.
Now fade the lightless lamp-posts on the sight;
O’er all the street a soothing stillness reigns,
Save where the stages wheel their distant flight,
And random sprinklings tap the window panes.
Save that, from yonder “Square,” upon the ear
Fall sounds of “Presses,” with a buzzing din,
Where hordes of “Scribblers” take their “Bitter Beer,”
And “Midnight Bounders” drink their fighting gin.
* * * * *
Observe, ye chaste, who promenade the way
In spotless satin and unsullied fame,
Where, thro’ the crowded streets, in open day,
The painted wanton publishes her shame.
Can rounded arm, or well-developed bust
Pertain alike to women of our clime?
Can Kalydor disguise the cheek of lust,
Or Rouge conceal the ravages of time?
Perhaps beneath those flaunting robes are locked
Hearts once recoiling at the name of “Flirt”—
Hands that a nursery cradle might have rocked,
Or sewed the buttons on a husband’s shirt!
And who so bold as venture to presage
The fate of seeming best or seeming worst?
For woman’s the same mystery to the age,
She was to Senor Adam at the first.
Full many a fair, to hopeless love a prey,
Still in life’s drama plays a smiling part;
Full many a lover sighs his soul away,
And wastes his passion on a “Marble Heart.”
* * * * *
Yet who, despite the frailties of the fair,
A Bachelor existence long can brook;
Dwell in dull lodgings up a dozen pair,
Nor cast upon the “Sex” one longing look?
On some fond breast the aching head must lean,
Some heart must beat in union with ours;
In this alone their proper “sphere” is seen,
Even in our weakness live their vaunted powers.
For thee, who mindful of the yet unwed,
Dost in these lines extol the married state,
If chance, by British disposition led,
Some curioso shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some old associate may say:
“Oft have we seen him through the deepest snows,
Rushing with hurried strides and features gay
To reach the play-house, ere the curtain rose.
“There, at the end of yonder circling row
That skirts the stage, above the foot-light’s glare,
His careless length at evening would he throw,
And gaze upon the girl that dances there.
“Hard by yon bar, now swearing, as in spite,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now talking awful wild, like one half ‘tight,’
Of some new ‘mash,’ his latest love!
“One night we missed him ’mong the accustomed bloods’
Within the corner near his favourite she;
Another came; not yet among the ‘gods,’
Nor near the bar, nor in the pit was he,
“The next, with favours white, and strange designs.
Swift up the church-way path we saw him whirled;
Just take your eye and throw it o’er the lines
That show he’s lost for ever to the world.”
The Epigraph.
Here lives, retired, with no more to excite,
A youth to all the corps de ballet known;
Fair woman smiled upon him every night,
Till Matrimony marked him for her own.
Strange though his fancies, yet his heart was warm;
Fraught with aversion for a form uncouth,
Was down on Humbug in its wildest form:
His motto—“Every man his own Kossuth!”
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or paint the follies of his single life,
For they, alike, quiescently repose
Within the bosom of his faithful wife.
The Umpire. (Manchester), May 5, 1888.
The following imitation of the “Elegy” appeared in The Volunteer Record and Shooting News (London, 33, King William Street, E.C.), August 11, 1888. It was written by a well known shooting man of the London Rifle Brigade as a funeral dirge upon the last of the N.R.A. meetings on Wimbledon Common. The first meeting was held there in July, 1860.
Wimbledon—An Elegy.
July 21st, 1888.
The sound of gunfire marked the closing day
Of that last meeting on the breezy lea;
Now marksmen homeward plod their weary way,
And leave the Common they no more shall see:
For fades the latest glimmering hope from sight
That he who by ill-fate the land doth hold,
Hard by where bullets sped their rapid flight
Might yet a portion of that land have sold.
Round yon trim cottage and the windmill’s tower
The moping owl shall hoot his sad refrain,
And with the bat disport at twilight’s hour;
Nought to disturb their solitary reign.
Where stood the umbrella tent, whose welcome shade
They often sought—to smoke, to flirt, to sleep;
Where Henton’s[144] band such charming music played;
Now, noisome creatures o’er the turf shall creep.
The cheery call of bugles in the morn,
Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head;
Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr borne,
No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed.
And they no more upon those beds shall turn,
Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there.
No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn
What they have made, their joy or sadness share.
Oft did the targets to their science yield
The welcome “eyes” when they past records broke.
How jocund then they sped across the field!
Scarce bent the grass beneath their feet’s light stroke.
And yet, more oft, mocked was ambition’s toil,
Modest outers, and “mags,” scarce less obscure,
Rewarding hope with a disdainful smile!
Provoking language the reverse of pure.
They freedom asked for, from vexatious strife.
Their well-aimed bullets never learned to stray,
And never yet endangered limb or life,
While to the butts they sped their noiseless way.
Full many a budding shot, with vision keen,
Strove hard to woo the fickle goddess there;
But now, alas! they live to blush unseen
And waste their sweetness on the desert air!
Perhaps, on that neglected range have laid
Embryo prizemen, who, if they could fire,
Might with their fame have distant empires swayed!
And, being chaired, have invoked the living lyre!
And thou, proud Duke, ’twill be indeed thy fault
If mem’ry o’er thy tomb no trophies raise!
If, after long-drawn years, thy fretted vault
Bears no inscription graved in words of praise.
No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust,
Shall e’er record thy name—but fleeting breath—
For thou hast brought the N.R.A. to dust,
And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death.
’Twas thou forbade it—yes, thou, and thou alone
Their growing talents crushed; the deed’s confined
To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne
Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind.
The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide,
Go, quench the blush caused by thy action’s shame,
Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride;
Thou’st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour’d name.
That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse,
Thy selfish deed, this elegy supply,
Which round thy fame unholy blessings strews,
For thou hast left the N.R.A. to die.
The Epitaph.
There now lies dead upon this spot of earth
An institution once to fame well-known,
A Queen was present at its humble birth!
Success unrivalled marked it for its own.
Large was its mission, and its work sincere,
The Volunteers its meets did well attend;
They give its mem’ry (all they have)—a tear,
And pray for (that which “George” was not) a friend.
No further need the merits to disclose
Of that Common, so long by marksmen trod,
Those marksmen now in trembling hope repose
Their future in the Council, and their God.
E. B. Anstee.
Another parody on Gray’s “Elegy” appeared in a scarce old Scotch volume, entitled “The Court of Session Garland” which has recently been re-issued by Messrs. Hamilton, Adams & Co., London.
The parody was written by Colin Maclaurin, Esquire, advocate, and was first privately printed at Edinburgh in 1814. It relates the cares and anxieties incident to the legal profession:—
The bell now tolls, soon after dawn of day,
The lawyer herd wind slowly up the street,
The macer court-ward plods his weary way,
Anxious, in haste, each learned judge to meet.
And soon the bustling scene delights the sight,
In yonder gorgeous and stupendous hall,
While eager macers call, with all their might,
The busy lawyers from each judge’s roll.
E’re long, from yonder velvet-mantled chair,
The angry judge does to the bar complain,
Of counsel who, by way and means unfair,
Molest his potent and judicial reign.
Beneath yon fretted roof that rafters shade,
Whare lie huge deeds in many mouldering heads,
Each, in its narrow cell, far too long laid,
Many a dusty process often sleeps.
The dreadful call of macer, like a horn,
The agent, tottering from some humble shed,
The lawyer’s claron, like the cock’s, at morn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the agent’s lamp shall burn,
Or busy clerk oft’ ply his evening care,
No counsel run to hail their quick return,
Or long their client’s envied fees to share.
Oft’ did the harvest to their wishes yield,
And knotty points their stubborn souls oft’ broke.
How keenly did they, then, their clients shield!
How bow’d the laws beneath their sturdy stroke.
Let not derision mock their useful toils,
Forensic broils, and origin obscure,
Nor judges hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple causes of the poor.
The boast of sov’reignty, the rod of power,
And all the sway that judges ever have,
Await alike the inevitable hour
When all must yield to some designing knave.
Nor you, ye vain, impute to such the fault,
If mem’ry o’er his deeds no trophies raise,
Where, thro’ the long drawn hall and fretted vault,
The well-fee’d lawyer swells his note of praise.
* * * * *
For thee, who mindful of each agent’s deeds,
Dost in these lines their artful ways relate
If chance, or lonely contemplation leads
Some kindred spirit to enquire thy fate;
Haply some hoary headed sage may say,—
Oft’ have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the judges, at the court in town.
One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustomed hall,
Upon the boards, and near his favourite seat;
Another came, and answered to the roll:
Nor at the bar nor in the court he sate.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:
Approach and read, for thou canst read the lay
Grav’d on his stone, beneath yon aged thorn.
Epitaph.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Business and to Law well known;
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Litigation marked him as her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry (all he had), a tear;
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wished), a friend.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode;
(There they, like many a lawyer’s, now repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
