EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Before leaving the American Poets a few supplemental parodies of E. A. Poe may be inserted here. His works were dealt with in Volume II. of this collection (Parts 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18), but since then, May 1885, several excellent parodies of his poems have appeared, besides which a few others have come to light which had then escaped attention.

Annabel Lee was printed on p. 61, Vol. II., the following are some additional parodies of it:—

Deborah Lee.

’Tis a dozen or so of years ago,

Somewhere in the west countree,

That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know

By the name of Deborah Lee:

Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,

But Deborah by me.

Now I was green, and she was green,

As a summer’s squash might be,

And we loved as warmly as other folks,—

I and my Deborah Lee,—

With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom

Coveted her and me.

But somehow it happened a long time ago,

In the aguish West countree,

That a chill March morning gave the shakes

To my beautiful Deborah Lee;

And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came

And bore her away from me,—

The doctor and death, old partners they

In the aguish countree.

The angels wanted her in Heaven

(But they never asked for me),

And that is the reason, I rather guess,

In the aguish West countree,

That the cold March wind and the doctor and death,

Took off my Deborah Lee—

My beautiful Deborah Lee—

From the warm sunshine and the opening flower,

And bore her away from me.

Our love was as strong as a six horse team,

Or the love of folks older than we,

Or possibly wiser than we;

But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,

Was rather too many for me;

He closed the peepers and silenced the breath,

Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee,

And her form lies cold in the prairie mould,

Silent and cold—Ah me!

The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,

And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers,

In their odorous beauty around it wave,

Through all the sunny hours,

The still bright summer hours;

And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass,

And the nectar-laden bee,

With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass,

She wakes no more to me;

Ah! never more to me;

Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,

She wakes no more to me.

Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night,

A vision of beauty I see,

Gliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light,

Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,

My bride that was to be;

And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death,

And the cold March wind should stop the breath

Of my darling Deborah Lee—

Adorable Deborah Lee—

That angels should want her up in Heaven,

Before they wanted me.

Anonymous.

American Paper.

Camomile Tea.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a cot by the Irish sea,

A decoction I knew of which you may know,

By the name of Camomile tea;

A stuff which was brewed with no other end

Than to plague and be drunk by me.

I was a child, a mere bit of a child,

When I lived in that cot by the sea;

But I hated with hate which was more than hate

That horrible Camomile Tea.

A hate which was visible, I have no doubt,

To the eyes of my—Aunt Magee.

And this is the reason, I happen to know,

Why she always was down on me,

Whenever I had the least malady, filling

A tumbler with Camomile Tea,

And drenching me three times a day with the same—

The horriblest bore that could be—

And shutting me up in my bedroom for hours,

With a tract and more Camomile Tea.

Even now, strange it seems, I have hideous dreams

Of that horrible Camomile Tea;

Of its taste when I think I still shudder and shrink

At the nauseous Camomile Tea;

And I muse in amaze at that old woman’s craze,

On the loathing, the loathing I felt in those days,

When I lived in that cot by the sea,

In that cot with my Aunt Magee.

Punch’s Almanac. 1883.

“W. E. G.”

’Tis not so much as a year ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

That a statesman was at the top of the House

Known as old W. G.;

And this statesman he lived with no other thought

Than a premier always to be.

I had a vote—not a faggot-vote—

In Midlothian by the sea,

And I gave, with a love that was more than love,

That vote for W. G.;

Tho’ a vote that the Tories, striving in vain,

Tried muchly to win from me.

The Tories not feeling happy in mind

At the Budget which was to be;

And this was the reason (as all men know

In this kingdom by the sea)

That petitions came swarming from every pub.

And toppled o’er W. G.

And that was the reason this hurricane came

In this much-taxed land of the “Free”;

Just a row o’er the tax, which completely snuffed out

This tree-felling W. G.

In his dark days a Sunbeam brightened the gloom,

In the shape of Sir Thomas Brass-ie,

Who took him a-starring to “Norroway’s” shores—

To “Norroway” over the sea.

But my faith got a shake in Bill’s taxing ways,

His liquor tax didn’t suit me—

He should have piled it on to the tea;

And I’ve split with the “Libs.” all over the shop,

And stick to Lord Randolph C.

And never—no, never—again will I vote

For the grand old W. G.

Judy. October 21, 1885.

Albert McGee.

It was not very many years ago,

In a city by the sea,

That there lived a man whom none of you know,

By the name of Albert McGee;

And this man he lived with no other thought

Than to read for his Math. Degree.

He was quite a child when he first came up

To this city by the sea,

But he read in a way that you’d scarcely believe

(For you didn’t know Albert McGee),—

In a way that the bejants all agreed

Was really frightful to see.

And this was the reason he always said no,

When invited out to a spree

(His favourite excuse was a very bad cold,

But that was all fiddle-de-dee).

And always at midnight his landlady came,

Bringing him gallons of tea;

And he wore wet towels around his head;

And he always sat up till three.

* * * * *

The examiner, not knowing half so much,

Envied this prodigy.

Yes! that was the reason, I always thought

(And Albert agreed with me),

Why he ploughed him, not once but several times,

Finally killing Albert McGee.

But his ghost is more persistent by far

Than Banquo’s (Macbeth, Act III.)

That appeared to Macbeth at a spree;

And neither tonics, nor change of air,

Nor the best advice can set free

That wretched man from the haunting wraith

Of the injured Albert McGee.

For at night in his dreams he frequently screams,

“Go away, dear Mr. McGee!”

And at morn he will rise with bloodshot eyes,

And the very first thing he will see,

There, sitting down by the side of his bed

With several towels around his head,

And an Algebra laid on its knee,

Is the spectre of Albert McGee!

The University News Sheet (St. Andrews, N.B.)
February 24, 1886.

——:o:——

E. A. Poe’s “The Bells” was printed on p. 75, Vol. II. The following are some additional parodies:—

The Swells.

Here the drive is filled with swells—

Noble swells!

What a mass of snobbery their toggery fortells

How they snigger, snigger, snigger

In the spicy air of day

At the girls who cut a figure

On their horses—looking bigger

And particularly gay.

In a trot, trot, trot

All about one spot

To the super-admiration, that so admirably tells

Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,

Swells, swells, swells,

And the laughing and the chaffing of the swells.

Here’s the op’ra and the swells—

Full dress swells

What a taste for music each swell’s countenance fortells

With their pretty well gloved paws

How they tap out their applause

At the prima donna’s notes

All in time.

While the liquid music floats

Till it filters in their mouths and down their throats

Oh, sublime!

Oh, what are the gal’ry yells

To the gush of bravos that unanimously wells!

On the belles—

How it dwells!

On the singer—how it tells!

Oh the rapture it impels

Does the rapping and the tapping

Of the swells, swells, swells,

Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,

Swells, swells, swells,

Does the calling and the bawling of the swells.

Here’s a drawing-room of swells—

Grand swells!

What a world of slowness their society compels

In the brilliancy of night

Don’t we instantly take fright

At the melancholy drawling of their tone?

Lisping through their tender throats

Dwelling on their upper notes

All their own—

That we plebeianic people

Would be rather in a steeple

All alone

Than be list’ning, list’ning, list’ning

To their dreary monotone—

Or elsewhere at some grand christ’ning

Where the children shriek and groan.

They are never never cheery,

Ever à la “Lord Dundreary”

Always dolls

And the best among them lolls

And woman extolls—

Lolls

In the presence of the belles

And his lisping voice it tells

Of the beauty of the belles

Who delight to dance with swells

Keeping time, time, time

In a manner quite sublime

To the joy of both the swells

And the belles;

Keeping time, time, time

With exactitude most prime

To the squeezing by the swells

Of the belles, belles, belles,

To the pleasing of the belles

Keeping time, time, time

Oh ye swells, swells, swells,

In a way that’s most sublime

To the throbbing of the belles,

Of the belles, belles, belles,

To the bobbing of the swells,

Of the swells, swells, swells,

Swells, swells, swells,

To the measure and the pleasure of the swells.

T. F. Dillon Croker.

The Royal Dramatic College Annual. July, 1868.

The Polls.

Hear the statements of the Polls,

Of the Polls!

What a world of partisans their publishing consoles!

How they’ve waited, waited, waited

In the morning or the night

Till the net result is stated,

When they scamper oft elated

With delirious delight;

And they hip, hip, hip,

Hip-hurrah, and dance and skip

With the supererogation of a lot of frisky foals

From the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,

Polls, Polls, Polls,

From their triumphs of the Ballot and the Polls.

Hear the totals of the Polls,

Of the Polls!

What a large official staff their adding-up enrols!

After breakfast or at night

How they count with all their might,

Sorting papers, checking notes;

And, ere ’tis done,

How the scrutinizer gloats

As he pounces down on spoilt or unmark’d votes

One by one!

Then they end their calculation,

And at last is made the long’d-for declaration:

How it rolls,

How it trolls

O’er the human heads in shoals,

Which—Whig, Radical, and Tory—

Press round to hear the story

Of the Polls,

Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,

Polls, Polls, Polls,

The story and the sequel of the Polls

Oh, the troubles of the Polls,

Of the Polls

What a heap of candidates must find themselves in holes!

How they tremble with affright

For the verdict of the night,

Till the knell of their discomfiture it tolls!

Then they prate of promised votes

With the huskiest of throats,

And they haul their luckless agents o’er the coals;

And they give so many reasons for not having reached their goals,

That we gradually weary of the Polls,

And, perceiving one objection,

To a General Election,

We begin to dread the mention of the Polls,

Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls,

Polls, Polls, Polls,

This persistent iteration of the Polls!

The St. James’s Gazette. December 8, 1885.

The Bills.

O the season of the bills—

Tradesmen’s bills!

What a quaking in my bosom the sight of them instils!

How they flutter, flutter, flutter,

In upon me day and night!

From between my half-closed shutter

I can hear their bearers mutter

They be blowed if it’s “all right!”

O the bills of Christmas time!

I feel positive that I’m

Quite bilious grown with terror that the Protean shape instils

Of the bills, bills, bills—

Of the never-ending deluge of the bills.

O the never-ending bills,

Christmas bills,

For the mince-pies, puddings, pastry, things which bring a thousand ills

In their train!

How they still come on me flocking,

With hateful “figures” mocking

My dazed brain.

And—ah, who’s that I hear knocking?

Oh, it’s positively shocking—

Doctor Squills!

With his recipes of powders, black draughts, pills,

To be followed by his bills,

Physic bills,

By the little boy in buttons, with his bills.

Oh, confound, then, Christmas-tide and all its bills!

Funny Folks. January 2, 1886.

The Sleigh Bells.

Hear the sleigh-belle, how she chatters

With her beau!

How she chatters, chatters, chatters,

Of innumerable matters,

While the horse’s heel bespatters

Her with snow!

See the sleigh-belle with her lover!

How they feel

Like a pair of colts in clover,

This sleigh-belle and her lover,

Underneath the dainty cover

Of the seal!

See the people stand and stare

At the belle,

As, with loosely flowing hair,

And a smile beyond compare,

She is speeding through the air

With a swell.

Oh, such weather suits for riding,

Though ’tis rough;

And the sleigh-belle loves the gliding,

And such merry, merry sliding,

With her fifteen fingers hiding

In her muff!

The Topical Times. March 13, 1886.

Autumn Bells.

Hear the bakers with the bells—

Muffin bells!

What domestic happiness their melody foretell

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

As the man appears in sight,

With a mouth that’s all a-wrinkle,

And an eye that’s all a-twinkle

With a demon-like delight.

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of flabby rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells,

With his yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells—

How we tolerate the torture of those yells!

Fun. October, 1886.

The Bells.

Hear the clamorous church bells!

Noisy bells!

What a sound of Pandemonium their ding-ding-dong foretells;

How they jingle, jingle, jingle,

Every morning, noon, and night,

Till I’m sure their deafening ring’ll

Make my ears for ever tingle,

And my peace of mind quite blight.

Hear their dong-dong-dong,

Like a cracked old Chinese gong!

Oh, that tintinabulation’s worse than all the street boy’s yells.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells,

The jingling and the jangling of the bells!

Hear the Ritualistic bells,

Ceaseless bells!

What a discord most distracting in their noisy clappers dwells.

Ere has come the morning light,

I awaken in a fright

At their dong-dong-dong,

For ’tis matins all days long,

Till they ring for evensong.

Or ’tis Little Bethel’s Bells

That from opposition steeple

Call the other kind of people.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells,

What a horror in me dwells

While the ear distinctly tells,

As the noise now ebbs, now swells,

That there’s madness in the clangour of the bells,

Bells, bells, bells,

In the never-ending Babel of the bells!

C. H. Waring.

Fun. June 15, 1887.

The Christmas Party.

(American.)

The Reception.

Oh, the meeting of the Belles, and the greeting of the swells!

How the merry maidens chatter

While the men haw-haw and flatter,

And how roguish Cupid weaves his magic spells!—

Happy Belles!

The Dance.

Oh, the skipping of the Swells, and the tripping of the Belles!

As couples, clasped, advancing

In the whirling, twirling, dancing,

The merry laugh all starchiness dispels—

Solemn Swells!

The Supper.

Oh, the flirting of the Belles, the diverting of the Swells!

How memory fondly lingers

On a pressure of the fingers,

And thought upon a whispered nothing dwells!

Foolish Belles!

The Departure.

Oh, the parting from the Swells, the heart-smarting of the Belles!

Pledging no surcease of sorrow

Till the meeting on the morrow,

As with gleaming eyes they murmur their farewells—

Lucky Swells!

American Paper.

The Bills.

See the postman with the bills—

New Year’s bills!

What a world of tribulation

Now their sending out fulfils!

How they rankle, rankle, rankle

In the startled dreams of night,

As the creditors’ procession,

Of the chamber takes possession,

With a brutalised delight;

Calling “Time!” “Time!” “Time!”

In a sort of prize-ring rhyme.

To the dark and deep demnition

That so gradually kills,

From the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,

From the tailors’ and the hatters’ little bills—

Bills!

The Umpire. January 7, 1888.

A parody entitled Christmas Bills appeared in “Pippins and Cheese,” by Joseph Hatton; London, Bradbury, Evans & Co., 1868. Another, entitled The Yells, was written for recitation by Mr. John C. Morgan, of Kenmure Road, Hackney, and published by him, at the moderate price of one penny. These are too long to give in full, and extracts would not convey a fair idea of their merits.

——:o:——

“The Raven” was given on p. 27, Volume II., followed by numerous parodies. Since 1885 many others have been written, principally on political topics, but unfortunately political parodies are, as a rule, of only ephemeral interest. Consequently only a few of the best will be given complete, with extracts from some of the others.

An Appeal.

Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary,

Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for,

When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing,

As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door;

“It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door,

Merely this and nothing more.”

Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December,

Gilbert said “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore,

Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever,

How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore,’

Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’

Just that once, but nevermore.”

“For the feeling—sad, uncertain—at the rising of the curtain,

Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore,

And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated,

I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before,

There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before,

Now to do so nevermore.”

Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal,

Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before;

Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he,

And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte”—then slammed the door,

And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door.

Only this and nothing more.

Mr. Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly,

Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for?

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn,

Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore!

Tell me what its funny name is—tell, O tell me, I implore!”

Answered Gilbert—“Ruddygore!”

Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded,

For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore;

And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some

Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er

Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score;

Therefore change it, I implore.”

Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking;

I have never found a title that I liked so much before,

For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming

With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er;

Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er;

Therefore be it Ruddygore.”

And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting

In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor;

And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing,

Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grosssmith an encore,

Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title “Ruddygore.”

Not in spelling—we want more.”

The Pall Mall Gazette.

About a week after the production of Ruddygore (January, 1887), when both the opera and its title were being adversely criticised, Mr. Gilbert jocularly remarked: “I propose altering the title of the piece, and calling it ‘Kensington Gore; or, Not so good as the Mikado.’”

An Artist’s Ravin’.

(Apro-Poe of the Royal Academy Exhibition.)

In my studio, listless, dreary,

As I pondered, weak and weary,

Over heaps of washy sketches I had painted years before,

Suddenly there came a tapping

(A curious wild mercurial tapping).

’Twas the postman’s double rapping,

Rapping at the big front door.

Only this, and nothing more.

But it brought to me a feeling

Ever growing—never healing—

“Still so gently o’er me stealing,”

Which I’d often felt before.

The Academy were sending

Round those cards, those never-ending

Monitors to the offending

Limners they’d turned out before.

This it was—and nothing more.

As I sat there, half demented,

Our Jemima Ann presented

Several letters which were left me by that postman at the door;

And amongst them lay the verdict

The Academy had sent me,

And I swooned upon the floor—

Simply this—and nothing more.

Rising, on the verge of madness,

Should I—courting joy or sadness—

Find it now by bursting open the portentous seal it bore;

Or, in frenzy, should I burn it,

Or to the R. A.’s return it,

And their secrecy implore—

Their forgiveness—Evermore!

Or still feeling that without full

Knowledge, if a Cross or Doubtful

Might be lurking in the missive I’ve adverted to before,

Should I tenderly unfold it,

And in trembling digits hold it

To confront me Evermore

With its verdict—Evermore!

Musing thus, I opened wide the

Envelope, and looked inside the

Deep abyss, and found a curious card I’d never seen before:

’Twas the varnishing permission

For the coming Exhibition!

May I get it—Evermore;

Be accepted—Evermore!

Funny Folks.

On October 31, 1886, The Weekly Dispatch (London), published five parodies on the “Raven” sent in for competition. The prize of two guineas was awarded to the following:—

Once beneath a tree at Hawarden, while I pondered in my garden

Over many a quaint and curious volume of Homeric lore.

While I nodded, nearly napping, came a noise like distant tapping,

Or shillelaghs gently rapping, on the verdant Shannon shore.

“’Tis more Irishmen,” I muttered, “from the verdant Shannon shore—

Home Rulers, and nothing more!”

Ah, distinctly I remember—’twas in Eighty-six, November,

After every “Union” member had conspired my bill to floor—

In a state of agitation, I sought some vaticination

Which should show me if the nation would their G.O.M. restore:

If the public their old leader would to place and power restore

Once again, or nevermore.

Once again I heard the tapping; then, his ebon pinions flapping,

O’er the wall there flew a Raven, of the stormy days of yore.

An old bird of aspect cheeky, with a croak extremely creaky,

And a bill extremely “Beaky,” and a curl that hung before,

Like the curl once worn by Dizzy, which, you know, hung down before,

And he croaked out “Nevermore!”

Then methought the air grew denser, and he changed to Mr. Spencer,

And he gibbered, ghostly, ghoul-like, on the garden’s tufted floor.

“Wretch!” I cried, “from distant Berlin, cease thy fierce moustache from twirlin’;

Tell me, for my brain is whirlin’, will the Fates my power restore?

Will the dissidents surrender and once more my power restore?”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

J. C. Rose.

Highly commended:—

Once upon an evening dreary, as I pondered worn and weary

Over many a dusty packet of unsettled bills of yore,

As I sat serenely rocking, thinking it was very shocking,

Suddenly I heard a knocking—knocking at my study door.

“’Tis my tailor gay,” I muttered, “knocking at my study door—

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah! distinct my recollection, for I had a chest affection—

Out of cash—and in dejection I was gazing at the floor!

Vainly I had tried to borrow half-a-crown to meet the morrow,

But discovered, to my sorrow, none would trust me any more—

From the too-confiding butcher to my tailor, tradesmen swore

They would trust me—nevermore!

Then, my study door unbolting, in there stepped, with bow revolting,

He, my stern, relentless tailor, whom, I fear, I hated sore—

Made a most polite oration—didn’t show the least vexation—

As he calmly took his station just within my study door,

With his bill upon the matting just within my study door—

Merely waited—nothing more.

“Tailor,” cried I. “Imp of evil! Tailor still, or else the Devil,

Whether Satan sent thee—whether ’bus thy body hither bore;

Standing in thy frock-coat braided on my carpet very faded—

Having this my den invaded, tell me truly, I implore.”

Is there, is there trust no longer? Tell me, truly, I implore.”

Quoth the tailor, “Nevermore!”

F. B. Doveton.

“Joe” after Poe.

A Chamberlainian Dream.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and skeery,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of Midlothian lore;

While I studied—deeply napping—suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping with something wooden on the door.

“’Tis some Radical,” I murmured, “with a cudgel at the door

Waiting for me—nothing more.”

Presently my views grew broader; “it must be that great marauder,

The big and hurly-burly Harcourt, sturdy limb of legal lore.

Yes, ’tis he of frame Titanic, massive jowl, and sneer Satanic,

That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor.

Or perhaps it’s Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore—

“This it is, and nothing more.”

Back I dashed the door, half crazy—had my wits turned mad or hazy—

For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore,

And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he,

As he slowly strutted past me, perching o’er my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst—somewhat broken—o’er the door,

Croaking “Caucus,” nothing more.

* * * * *

“Bird,” I cried, “with voice so raucous—thou who pratest of that caucus

(Which once my highest praise and presidential honour bore)

Know that we’re the Liberal party, and my brothers Dick and Arty,

We are the leaders—we—and Harty. And you shall return no more

Unless your vows and Grand Old Leader you throw over and ignore.

’Tis all we ask for—nothing more.”

“Prophet,” cried I, “thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil,

Whether Gladstone sent or lent thee thus to guide me back to shore,

Thro’ that cloud the future veiling, say which way my bark is sailing?

Are our efforts unavailing? Shall I ever hold once more

My old position in our party? Tell me, tell me, I implore.”

“Morley,” quoth he, nothing more.

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend;” I cried, upstarting;

“All our conferential meetings only serve to part us more.

Get thee gone with this defiance, tho’ we have no real reliance,

In the strength of our affiance—for ’tis rotten to the core—

This our aim, our hidden purpose, we don’t want to cross the floor.”

“Gladstone,” croaked he, nothing more.

But that raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Demos—grimly mocking o’er the door;

And when Parnellites decrying, and stern common-sense defying,

All my former self belying, the shadow steals across the floor,

The prescience of a Dissolution stealing darkly o’er the floor—

Annihilation, nothing more.

W. L.

(Seven verses omitted.)

Pall Mall Gazette. April 13, 1887.

The Yankee Cryptogram.

A Tale of Shakespeare’s Bacon.

Once within an autumn dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Of the only actress playing in my half-forgotten lore,

While I nodded—nearly napping, which is something oft does happen,

When some actors try the tapping, tapping of my written lore;

Someone muttered, “Not his writing.” This has sure been said before.

Only this, and nothing more.

* * * * *

Open then I flung the shutter, and with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a lengthy Yankee from Columbia’s shore;

Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he;

But with haste like all the Yankees, wrote a book about my plays;

Wrote that it was Francis Bacon who had written all my plays,

Wrote and wrote, and nothing more.

Then the Yankee scribe beguiling all my sad soul into smiling

By the queer and strange arrangement of the nonsense that he wrote.

“Though thy pate’s unshorn, unshaven, thou,” I said, must be a craven,

Ghastly, grim, and lengthy Yankee, wandering from Atlantic’s shore,

“Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Baconian shore?”

“Donnelly, and nothing more.”

Then the Yankee creature, holding Bacon’s bust, spoke only

One long word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered, not a pamphlet even fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other men wrote thus before;

On the morrow he will leave me as the others did before.”

Said the Yankee, “Crypto! More!”

Startled at the stillness broken by the words so oddly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,

Caught from an unhappy master, who some shocking brain disaster,

Turned into a poetaster, till his thoughts one burden bore—

Till the echoes of his thoughts one melancholy burden bore

Of Crypto—cryptogram!”

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer,

Swung by creatures whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

Romeo cried, “Shakespeare hath sent me, to the world he lent me,

Showing through me and Juliet how it is true lovers love.

Leave, oh leave thy stupid fiction, and forget this cryptogram.”

Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

“I am Richard! Man of evil! Hero still, though fiend and devil!

Whether tempter sent, or ill wind blew thee to our shore;

Take my word—me all undaunted—see Macbeth on ground enchanted,

Poor Macbeth by Banquo haunted—see them with a hundred more!

Hamlet and his murdered sire! Leave him, leave him, I implore.”

Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

Said Orlando, “Thing of evil! Yankee man, be civil!

By the heaven that bends above us, by the God we both adore,

Tell this soul all loving-laden, do you think that Francis Bacon

Could have made a sainted maiden, like the one called Rosalind?

Made a fair and radiant maiden like to Shakespeare’s Rosalind?”

Quoth the Yankee “Cryptogram.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Yankee fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting;

“Get thee back to Sampson Low’s, or your own Atlantic shore,

Leave no proof-sheet as a token of the lie that you have spoken,

Leave my glory still unbroken, take that bust without my door,

Take thy book from off the press, and that bust without my door.”

Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.”

And that Yankee never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting,

With the pallid bust of Bacon to and from his printer’s door,

And his tale has all the seeming of a madman who is dreaming,

And the Crypto o’er him streaming, holds him wriggling on the floor

And his book from out that Crypto wriggling with him on the floor

Should be published—Nevermore!

(Eight verses omitted.)

Ithuriel.

The Topical Times. December 3, 1887.

Mr. Donnelly’s ingenious, but absurd, theory that what we call Shakespeare’s plays were written by Bacon, has been utterly demolished by Dr. Nicholson, in “No Cipher in Shakespeare” (London, T. Fisher Unwin.) The theory was also most amusingly parodied in The Cornhill Magazine for August, 1888. In an article entitled “Who wrote Dickens’s Novels” it was demonstrated, on Mr. Donnelly’s system, that they were certainly written by Mr. W. E. Gladstone.

A Vision.

Once within my little study,[137] while the firelight gleaming ruddy

Threw fantastic lights and shadows on the wall and on the floor,

I was thinking of two nations that for many generations

Had known nought but deadly hatred and contentions sad and sore—

Nought but deadly strife and hatred and contentions sad and sore,

Going on for evermore.

And I thought, all this is blameful, ’tis not only sad but shameful,

All this plundering and oppressing and this spilling lakes of gore,

’Tis the nation that is stronger that has been the other’s wronger,

Let her play this part no longer, but this cruelty give o’er,

Turn to ways of love and kindness, and this cruelty give o’er,

And have peace for evermore.

While unto myself thus speaking, on the stairs I heard a creaking

As of someone softly sneaking up to listen at the door;

Then said I, “You need not fear me, you can just come in and hear me,

Take a seat or stand a-near me, let us talk this matter o’er—

’Tis a grave and serious subject, let us talk it calmly o’er,”

Then I opened wide the door.

Then a being thin and shanky, white of visage, tall and lanky

Looking ill at ease and cranky, came and stood upon the floor;

In his hands some keys he dangled, keys that harshly clinked and jangled,

And over his right optic a large pane of glass he wore—

When it fell, he slowly raised it, and replaced it as before—

This he did and nothing more.

“Now,” said I, the shape addressing, “don’t you think ’twould be a blessing

If this Anglo-Irish conflict coming down from days of yore—

If this age-long woe and sadness could be changed to peace and gladness

And the holy ties of friendship could be knit from shore to shore

And no words but words of kindness pass across from shore to shore!”—

Quoth the lank one, “Tullamore.”

At this word I marvelled truly, for it seemed to come unduly

As a misplaced exhibition of his geographic lore;

So my thread of thought resuming, I said, “There are dangers looming

Over England’s wide dominion that ’tis useless to ignore,

What shall strengthen and sustain her when the battle-thunders roar?”

Answer made he, “Tullamore.”

Then said I, “Across the waters Erin’s faithful sons and daughters

Now have fierce and bitter memories burning in each bosom’s core,

Think what peace and joy would fill them and what happiness would thrill them

If but England yielded freedom to the land that they adore—

If she spoke the word of freedom to the land her souls adore”—

But his word was “Tullamore.”

“Think,” said I, “of England’s masses; every day that o’er them passes

Hears their murmurings and complainings swelling louder than before,

They object—and ’tis no wonder—to the rule of force and plunder

That so long has kept them under, squeezing blood from every pore—

Have you any word of comfort that their patience may restore?”

His reply was “Tullamore.”

From my vision quick he glided; in my heart I then decided

That if this was England’s message by this popinjay brought o’er,

She had missed a chance of glory that would brighten all her story—

But, I said, that lanky Tory was a humbug and a bore:

These words from both the peoples soon will ring from shore to shore—

“We are friends for evermore.”

From “Prison Poems; or, Lays of Tullamore” by T. D. Sullivan, M.P. (Lord Mayor of Dublin). Dublin Nation Office, Middle Abbey Street. 1888.

On August 19, 1888. The Weekly Dispatch (London) published five competition parodies on the same topic. The following won the prize of Two Guineas:

Tullamore.

Ye who Erin’s history dreary oft have pondered, shamed and weary

Of our Saxon sway’s inglorious volume of unrighteous lore;

Castle knaves her sons entrapping, cruel laws her vigour sapping,

Vampire landlords ever lapping at the blood her bosom bore;

Weep! for Mandeville is martyred, stilled the hero heart he bore—

Done to death in Tullamore!

Ah, distinctly we remember peasants, thrust, in bleak December,

From the peat-fire’s smouldering ember, wandering on the barren shore,

Shiveringly to wait the morrow, vainly to attempt to borrow

Solace and surcease of sorrow—sorrow for their homes of yore—

For the poor dismantled cabins that they named their homes of yore—

Their one shelter, Tullamore!

Tyrant Balfour! slave of evil! Tyrant still if man or devil!

Whether Satan sent, or whether Cecil set thee at her door.

Erin’s sons, who, all undaunted, hear thy tinsel bravery vaunted,

See their isle coercion-haunted—yet their patriots’ lives implore.

Is there, is their hope of respite? Tell us, tell us, we implore!

Croaks brave Balfour, “Tullamore.”

And brave Balfour, venom spitting, chief in council still is sitting,

While the pallid face of Dillon smiles behind his prison door;

For he sees, beyond all seeming, Erin’s dawn of Justice beaming,

Knows that when the daylight streaming throws its radiance o’er her shore

Erin’s soul from out thy shadow, that now desecrates her shore,

Shall be lifted, Tullamore!

Samuel Mapeham.

The following parodies are scarcely of sufficient interest to be included:—

The Union Bank Shareholder and the Rook, in “Lyrics and Lays,” by Pips. Calcutta, Wyman Bros. 1867.
The Raving, in “Dublin Doggerels,” by Edwin Hamilton M.A. Dublin, C. Smyth. 1877.
A parody on “The Raven,” by Miss H. B. Winslow, in Graham’s Magazine for June, 1848, Philadelphia.
Sequels to Poe’s “Raven.” A number of these were published in Truth, October 8, and November 19, 1885.
Ye Legende of ye Raven, in “The Yorkshireman’s Comic Annual,” 1885.
Dunraven, in the Christmas Number of “The World.” 1885. Political.
Joseph and the “Caw-cus” Raven. “Truth,” August 25, 1887. Political.
The Carol of a Cat. “Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.” May 21, 1887.
Nevermore. “True Blue.” January 29, 1887. Political.
Dunraven. “Punch.” February 19, 1887. Political.
The Haunted Lifeboat. “Bridgend Chronicle.” May 13, 1887.
The Dirge of Dead Letters. “The Porcupine.” September 17, 1887.
The Voice of the People. The “Liberal and Radical.” October 29, 1887.

——:o:——

Christmas Boxes.

(After E. A. Poe’s lines “For Annie.”)

Thank heaven! the nuisance

Is over and past—

The fierce Christmas Boxers

Came eager and fast,

But my purse full of silver

Is emptied at last.

The scavenger—hang him!

Who howled “Dust ahoy!”

The lazy and blundering

Telegraph boy;

The lame crossing sweeper

Came “wishing me joy.”

The turncock was grinning

“Merry Christmas”—what stuff!

His overpaid Company

Charge me enough;

And the sweep too’s a claimant,

All sooty and gruff.

The postman, who often

Delivers next door

The note that should reach me

A whole day before,

Reminds me, the varlet,

“’Tis Christmas once more.”

I’ve tipped the lamplighter

Though dark is my road;

Remembered coal heavers,

Though paid with each load—

Even poor-rate collectors,

Who no mercy showed.

And O! of all tortures

That torture the worst,

The Waits! who awoke me

From sweet slumber nurst,

And made the night hideous

With discord accurst.

Moonshine. January 8, 1887.

The Ladies, after Dinner.

See the ladies, ladies only,

Scattered lonely

Through the empty room and chill,

Ladies chatting each with other,

Wife and mother,

Ladies posing, posing still!

And their talk is faint and chilly

Almost silly!

Chatter about sun and rain,

Chatter about baby’s teething,

Heavy breathing—

Wretched wee thing!—and his pain.

Talk about the latest story,

Gay or gory,

Blonde or brune has chanced to skim,

Talk of abbés, talk of verses,

Talk of Nurses,

Nurses, Baby,—more of him!

This, all this keeps going, going,

Overflowing,

Broken by a plaintive moan;

Luckless little ladies dreary,

How you weary,

How you weary all alone!

——:o:——

To William.

(At an immense distance after Poe.)

William, thy “glamour” is to me

Like these torpedo barks that oft

Go forth on the unvintaged sea

Fresh from the yards of Thornycroft;

Their mission—to blow ships aloft!

Through frantic speeches wont to foam,

Thy tongue, that could not be at peace,

Has brought us, for the “Rule” called “Home,”

To barter fame that matched with Greece,

And grandeur more than dwelt in Rome.

Lo, in thy dread historic niche

A bankrupt State shall see thee stand,

Thy wondrous Bills within thy hand!

Ah, William, these thy measures which

Have wrecked the land!

The Saturday Review. May 8, 1886.

Leonainie.

On April 28, 1886, The Daily News (London), published the following curious story about E. A. Poe:—

“The New York Critic has unearthed a story From The Dispatch of Kokomo about the youth of the author of ‘The Raven.’ There dwells a man in Kokomo (Ind.) whose grandfather kept a tavern in Chesterfield, near Richmond (Va.). The story states that, at the Chesterfield tavern, a dissipated-looking young man presented himself one evening about fifty years ago, and asked for a bedroom. When the servant went to call him in the morning he had disappeared, without the prosaic ceremony of settling his bill. In place of that he had left a book with a poem written on the fly-leaf ‘as legible as print.’ Now Edgar Poe’s handwriting was as legible as Thackeray’s, wonderfully clear and beautiful. The poem was signed E. A. P. We quote the first verse, and leave experts to decide whether it is, or is not, by Poe:—

Leonainie, angels named her,

And they took the light

Of the laughing stars, and framed her

In a smile of white,

And they made her hair of gloomy

Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy

Moonshine, and they brought her to me

In a solemn night.

Here the angels and the absurd sonorous name Leonainie, and the midnight, are all very like Edgar Poe’s manner, and very like his usual sentiment is the conclusion, when

My Leonainie drifted

From me in a dream.

But whether the resemblances are beyond the reach of parody it were rash to pronounce.”

During his lifetime the inward application of spirits had a very bad effect upon Poe, and since his death spirits have done much to injure his reputation. It was bad enough for Miss Lizzie Doten and Dr. J. Garth Wilkinson to palm off their melodious twaddle as inspired by the spirit of Poe, the poems were nonsense, it is true, but nonsense written by educated persons. Whereas a work, published in New York twenty years ago, purporting to have been dictated by the spirits of deceased authors, contained a poem by the ghost of Poe which is noteworthy for the absence of any sense, and for the presence of grammatical errors which Poe, when living, would never have perpetrated.

As an authentic “spirit poem” it is curious, showing how Poets deteriorate when in Hades. The book is entitled “Strange Visitors,” dictated by Spirits through a Clairvoyant. New York, G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

The Lost Soul.

Hark the bell! the funeral bell,

Calling the soul

To its goal.

Oh! the haunted human heart,

From its idol doomed to part!

Yet a twofold being bearing,

She and I apart are tearing;

She to Heaven I to Hell!

Going, going! Hark the bell!

Far in Hell,

Tolling, tolling.

Fiends are rolling,

Whitened bones, and coffins reeking,

Fearful darkness grimly creeping

On my soul,

My vision searing.

She disappearing

Drawn from me

By a soul I cannot see,

Whom I know can never love her.

Oh! that soul could I discover,

I would go,

Steeped in woe,

Down to darkness, down to Hell!

Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!

Rev. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

Born, December 6, 1788. | Died, June 17, 1845.

The author of the “Ingoldsby Legends” was educated at Brasenose College, Oxford, he entered the Church, and eventually became a Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. He wrote for John Bull, Blackwood, Bentley’s Miscellany, and was, for a time, editor of the London Chronicle.

Bentley’s Miscellany was established in 1837, and in it appeared the famous “Ingoldsby Legends,” a collection of poems unique for their fun and originality.

Popular phrases, the most prosaic sentences, the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches of various languages are worked in with an apparent absence of all art or effort; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced, whilst syllables the most intractable find the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of our language. These Legends have often been imitated, but never equalled.

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.

A Legend of Jarvis’s Jetty.

Mr. Simpkinson (loquitur).

’Twas in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,

I saw a little vulgar Boy—I said, “What make you here?

The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;”

Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?”

He frown’d, that little vulgar boy,—he deem’d I meant to scoff—

And when the little heart is big, a little “sets it off:”

He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose—

He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man,—it’s striking Nine,” I said,

“An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed,

Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold—Oh! fie!

It is very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!”

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,

His bosom throbb’d with agony,—he cried like anything.

I stoop’d, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur—“Ah!

I haven’t got no supper! and I haven’t got no Ma!!—

“My father, he is on the seas,—my mother’s dead and gone!

And I am here, on this here pier to roam the world alone;

I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,

Nor ‘brown’ to buy a bit of bread with,—let alone a tart.

“If there’s a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,

By day and night, then blow me tight!” (he was a vulgar Boy;)

“And now I’m here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent

To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monument!”

“Cheer up! cheer up! my little man—cheer up!” I kindly said,

“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:

If you should jump from off the pier, you’d surely break your legs,

Perhaps your neck—then Bogey’d have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

“Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup,

My landlady is Mrs. Jones—we must not keep her up—

There’s roast potatoes at the fire—enough for me and you—

Come home, you little vulgar Boy — I lodge at Number 2.”

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside “The Foy,”

I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,—

And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,

“Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!”

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,

She said “she did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys.”

She with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubb’d the delf

Said I might “go to Jericho, and fetch the beer myself!”

I did not go to Jericho—I went to Mr. Cobb—

I changed a shilling—(which in town the people call “a Bob”)—

It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child—

And I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!”—

When I came back I gazed about—I gazed on stool and chair—

I could not see my little friend—because he was not there!

I peep’d beneath the table-cloth—beneath the sofa too—

I said, “You little vulgar Boy! why, what’s become of you?”

I could not see my table-spoons—I look’d, but could not see

The little fiddle-pattern’d ones I use when I’m at tea;—

I could not see my sugar-tongs—my silver watch—oh dear!

I know ’twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Macintosh—it was not to be seen!—

Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimm’d and lined with green;

My carpet-bag—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—

My roast potatoes! all are gone!—and so’s that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,

“Oh, Mrs. Jones, what do you think?—ain’t this a pretty go?—

That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,

He’s stolen my things and run away!!” Says she, “And sarve you right!!”

Next morning I was up betimes—I sent the Crier round,

All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I’d give a pound

To find that little vulgar boy, who’d gone and used me so;

But when the crier cried, “O yes!” the people cried, “O, No!”

I went to “Jarvis’ Landing-place,” the glory of the town,

There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down,

I told my tale—he seem’d to think I’d not been treated well,

And call’d me “Poor old Buffer!” what that means I cannot tell.

The sailor-man he said he’d seen that morning on the shore,

A son of something—’twas a name I’d never heard before,

A little “gallows-looking chap”—dear me, what could he mean?

With a “carpet swab” and “muckingtogs” and a hat turn’d up with green.

He spoke about his “precious eyes,” and said he’d seen him “sheer,”—

It’s very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer—

And then he hitch’d his trousers up, as is, I’m told, their use,—

It’s very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say

He’d seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away

In Captain Large’s Royal George, about an hour before,

And they were now, as he supposed, “somewheres” about the Nore.

A landsman said, “I twig the chap—he’s been upon the Mill—

And ’cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!”

He said, “he’d done me wery brown,” and nicely “stow’d the swag,”—

That’s French, I fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track:

He ask’d me if “I didn’t wish that I might get it back?”

I answer’d “To be sure I do!—it’s what I’m come about.”

He smiled and said, “Sir, does your mother know that you are out?”

Not knowing what to do, I thought I’d hasten back to town,

And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who’d done me brown.

His Lordship very kindly said he’d try and find him out,

But he rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about.

He sent for Mr. Withair then, and I described “the swag,”

My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpetbag;

He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ!

But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy.

Moral:

Remember, then, what when a boy I’ve heard my Grandma’ tell,

“Be warn’d in time by others’ harm, and you shall do full well!”

Don’t link yourself with vulgar folks, who’ve got no fixed abode,

Tell lies, use naughty words, and say “they wish they may be blow’d!”

Don’t take too much of double X!—and don’t at night go out

To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!

And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell,

Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I’m pretty well!

R. H. Barham.

The Vulgar Little Boy.

Mr. Simpkinson’s Misadventure in London.

I was in London last July; I walked into the Strand;

I saw a vulgar little boy—a broom was in his hand;

The dirt upon his youthful face was quite against all rule,

I said, “You vulgar little boy, why don’t you go to school?”

He laughed, that vulgar little boy—a roguish laugh had he—

He said, “The School Board schools are not for vulgar boys like me.”

He put his finger to his nose his impudence to crown,

And asked me “if I could’nt give a little kid a brown?”

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, it’s really striking three?—

An hour when boys should be at school to learn their A B C.

The School Board man will take you up but only for your good,

And make you go to school.” Says he, “I only wish he would.

“If there’s a school for such as me will teach me how to write,

And read and spell and do a sum, I should be then all right,

I should be jolly glad, for then I might find some employ;

But Walker as to that!” says he—he was a vulgar boy.

I gave that boy a sixpence. Passing on I heard him cry,

“Ain’t that old buffer werry kind!—oh, ain’t he? Oh, my eye!”

And then he turned a somersault, which boys a “coach-wheel” call:

He was not so ungrateful, though so vulgar, after all.

Revolving this within my mind, next morn I thought it fit

To seek the river Palace—where the School Board people sit.

I thought I’d go and tell them as they hadn’t found it out,

That loit’ring in the streets they might find several boys about

That I had heard the School Board schools were meant for such as these,

And not for little undergrads to go and take degrees;

But schools where London’s little lads might go and learn to write

And read, and vulgar little boys be taught to be polite.

I gave my card, was ushered in, and told to take a chair;

I saw a portly gentleman—it might be the Lord Mayor;

I told him of these vulgar boys, and plainly put my case.

He laughed, that portly gentleman—he laughed right in my face.

“We do not care for vulgar boys,” he said. “We use our powers

To shut up private schools, and get their pupils into ours.

We go in for ‘accomplishments,’ for music, and—who knows?—

Some day a School Board pupil may an opera compose!”

I said, “I thought it might be so (for rules true Genius spurns),

And from the gutters there might spring another Robert Burns.”

But still he shook his portly head, and said, “Don’t make a fuss,

If such there be, depend on it they’ll get no help from us.

“’Tis not on vulgar little boys that we spend every year

Four hundred thousand pounds. You see that education’s dear,

And is not to be wasted upon every boy you meet

Sweeping crossings, selling matches, loafing, begging in the street.”

I said, “I thought the Act was passed that vulgar boys might share

Some little education, that they couldn’t get elsewhere

That schools might fill, and gaols, in time might really empty be.”

He said, “Well, now we’ve got the Act, that’s what we cannot see.”

Now, ratepayers, when election comes, remember to a man

Who caused all this extravagance—return them if you can;

And so, ’twixt Board and ratepayer, to end this bitter strife,

Again I say return them all—but into private life.

Anonymous.

Misadventures at the Mansion House.

A Legend of the City.

’Twas at Guildhall, a year ago, I chanced to hear a cheer,

And saw an Alderman stand forth; thought I: “What make you here?”

There was upon his face a look of somewhat common joy;

Again I thought: “Oh, can it be, you ever were a boy?”

But, strange to say, they cheer’d him still, and gave him such applause,

I looked into his face again, to try and seek the cause;

Till some one in a wig announced he had not pass’d the chair,

And asked the citizens if they would make him their Lord Mayor.

They said they would; I’m bound to say I didn’t like the plan,

He seem’d to be, you see, a very pompous Alderman!

And put on very bumptious airs, and puff’d his shirt front out;

Twas sad to hear the h’s that he thickly dropp’d about.

“Come, rule o’er us,” the Cits exclaim’d, “and be our new Lord Mayor,

And to the Mansion House we beg you to at once repair;

You’ll find the City annals there, its prestige and its fame,

And bear in mind that for a year we trust you with the same.”

Well, he went to the Mansion House, amidst fresh marks of joy.

That pompous Alderman, who must have been, years since, a boy.

And there the City, with the trust and kindness that it shows,

Left him to do as he thought best, and did not interpose.

Some Aldermen were rather cross, and made a little noise,

And held themselves in readiness to be a counterpoise.

But meanwhile left him to himself, and murmur’d: “We shall see!”

And sundry ominous remarks when at their calipee.

* * * * *

I had to go to Jericho, and stay’d ten months or so,

And once more chanced, on my return, towards the Bank to go,

When passing by the Mansion House I saw a crowd about,

And heard a citizen remark: “Well, here’s a nice set out!”

He seemed of some important fact to have his civic head full;

“What’s up?” I asked. Said he: “Oh lor’! he’s served the City dreadful!”

“Who? what?” I cried, and thereupon the citizen began:

“Why, don’t you know? I mean, of course, the pompous Alderman!”

“He’s served you badly, eh?” said I; the citizen replied:

“Oh, yes; he has done much to wound our ancient City’s pride.

Our name of hospitality, no trace of it is left!”

And taking out his handkerchief I noticed that he wept.

“I’ve just been in the Mansion House,” said he, “and have look’d round;

’Twas really very sad indeed, the state of things I found.

There’s all our Civic Prestige gone; of National Respect,

Although I searched both high and low, I could no sign detect.

“Of Popular Esteem, too, now there seems no stock, I see;

And very little ‘Charity’ to what there used to be;

He’s even stripped the very Chair—the one in which he sat—

Of its Traditions; did you ever hear the like of that?

“There’s nothing left worth mentioning of all we valued so;

Now can you wonder that I say, ‘Now, here’s a pretty go!’

That pompous, stubborn Alderman, to so our trust requite,

And turn upon the City thus!” Said I: “It serves you right!”

“It serves you right!” said I again. “The chair you should not fill.

With men like this; their very ways suspicion should instil.

Your City should have shown more sense, and had sufficient nous,

To know that he should never be throned at the Mansion House.”

Truth Christmas Number. 1879.

The Little Vulgar (Scotch) Boy.

The following appeared in Punch, August 13, 1881, with a cartoon, by Sambourne, representing the pedantic, pompous, prosy, priggish Duke of Argyll, in Highland Costume, “taking a sight” and putting out his tongue at the occupants of the Treasury Bench, whom he has just styled “Jelly-fish”:

It was a little vulgar boy, exceeding sharp, and Scotch,

At Westminster Aquarium he stood the fish to watch.

He willingly had got at them, but, helpless so to do,

Indulged, like little vulgar boys in general, in “Yah-boo!”

He was a very cock-nosed boy, which tempted him, no doubt,

“To put his thumb unto that nose, and spread his fingers out.”

Says he, “O yus, you look O.K.” (the boy meant “Orl Korrect”)

“You fancy you’re big whales and things with backbones, I expect.

Yah-boo! you flabby, flopping, floundering flats, as limp as small,

You’re only helpless jelly-fish, with not no spines at all!”

The creatures in the Tank appeared his cheek to quite enjoy,

But took no other notice of that little vulgar boy.

Sixty Years After.

I was in Margate once again. I limped along the pier;

I saw a great big vulgar man—I said, “What make you here?

The bloom upon your bulbous nose suggests the pewter can;”

Again, I said, “What make you here, you great big vulgar man?”

He scowled, that great big vulgar man, he deemed I meant to laugh,

He said (he was a vulgar man) he wouldn’t “stand no chaff.”

He turned the quid within his mouth, and from his seat he rose;

He stretched his hand wide out, and put his finger to his nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my vulgar friend? it’s striking ten,” I said;

“An hour when every decent man should surely be in bed;

Go home and get your supper, or your wife will—Oh dear me!

It’s very wrong for great big men to use a great big D.”

The curses on his ready tongue burst forth as buds in spring;

His bosom swelled with anger, and he swore like anything!

I listened; and, between his oaths, he said “Upon my life,

I haven’t got no supper, and I haven’t got no wife!

“My wife is dead, and I have been in quod since Sixty-two,

I’ve got no work to do-oo-oo, I’ve got no work to do,

I haven’t had this blessed day a mouthful or a drop;

I haven’t got a bloomin’ thing (so ’elp me!) I can ‘pop.’

“If any gent ’ud give me food, or put me on a job,

By day or night I’d work all right to earn an honest bob;

But if there ain’t, I tell you plain, it is my fixed intent

To hold a great mass meeting under Nelson’s monument.”

“Come home with me,” I kindly said, “come home with me and sup;

My landlady is Mrs. Brown—we must not keep her up.

There’s devilled kidneys at the fire—enough for you and me;

Come home, you great big hungry man; I lodge at Number three.”

(I used to lodge at Number two—the second in the row,

But Mrs. Jones is dead, and that was sixty years ago.)

I took him home to Number three, and called to Mrs. Brown,

And asked her kindly to step round into the Rose and Crown.

She looked at my companion; then she answered rather rough—

“It seems to me as if you’d had already quite enough.

Who is that horrid-looking man? and, when she’d wiped the delf,

Said, “Go unto Jerusalem and fetch your beer yourself!”

I went not to Jerusalem; I went to Mister Head.

I changed a thick’un:—that was Greek for sovereign, he said.

I got the liquor for the man (he did not come along);

I said, “A pint of double X, and please to draw it strong!”

When I came back, I gazed about—I gazed on stool and chair,

I could not see that great big man—because he was not there!

I looked into the coal-box, and beneath the sofa too:

I said, “You great big vulgar man, why, what’s become of you?”

I put my glasses on my nose, and looked, but could not see

The rat-tailed spoons I’ve always used these sixty years at tea;

I could not see my sugar-tongs, my good gold watch—oh, dear!

I know ’twas on the mantelpiece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Inverness—it was not to be seen;

Nor yet my season ticket, with a strap and bound in green

My Gladstone bag! my “Tantalus”! my silver warming pan!

My devilled kidneys!—all are gone! and so’s that vulgar man!

I touched the bell for Mrs. Brown, for she was down below;

“Oh! Mrs. Brown! what do you think? ain’t this a pretty go?

That horrid great big vulgar man whom I brought here to-night,

He’s stolen my things and run away!”—Says she, “And serves you right!”

* * * * *

Next morning I got up and wrote a letter to the Times,

The Morning Post, the Daily News, The Globe, and Church Bell Chimes.

I asked if anybody knew the man who’d used me so,

And said “for information I would give a quid pro quo.”

I told the Margate bobbies all the trick I had been played;

And all of them distinctly winked and promised me their aid;

And when I go to them and ask, they’ve always “got a plan”—

But never to this day have got that great big vulgar man.

The Globe. January 1, 1887.

The Little Bulgar Boy.

(A woful ballad of the Balkans.)

Sorrowful Suzerain loquitur:—

It was at Philippopolis, in August of this year,

I saw a little Bulgar boy,—I said, “What do you here?”

The glow upon his youthful cheek, bespake exceeding joy.

I said, “What is your little game, you little Bulgar boy?”

He sniffed, that little Bulgar boy, he seemed inclined to scoff;

My heart has been so often bruised, a little sets it off.

He put his finger to his—— Well, my haughty bosom rose,

And I applied my—hem—my handkerchief unto my nose.

“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, your Suzerain speaks?” I said.

“How would you like a sack, a cord, the Bosphorus for a bed,

Run home to your Bulgarian home, or I shall scold, Oh, fie!

This is a most improper game for Bulgar Boys to try.”

The mockery in his little eye began again to spring;

His bosom shook with giggling strong—he laughed like anything!

I stooped, and, ’midst his chortling low, I heard him murmur “Bosh!

I haven’t got no Suzerain, so that kibosh will not wash!

“If you into your Bosphorus, to your exceeding joy,

Can land me right, then blow me tight!” (A vulgar Bulgar Boy!)

“And now I’m here, old Pint o’ Beer, it is my fixed intent

To raise to diplomatic rot a lasting monument.”

“Tut! tut! my little man—tut! tut!” I genially said.

“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head.

If you go breaking Treaties thus, as though they were but eggs,

Either we’ll have to stretch your neck, or you to stretch your legs!

“Go home at once, my little man, or scimetar and Krupp

Will have to take a turn at you—and won’t they keep it up?

Don’t pull the chestnuts from the fire for Mister Romanoff.

Cut home, you little Bulgar Boy! Skedaddle, slope, be off!”

“Home?” chuckled he. “Oh, certainly, with willingness and joy!

This is my home, old Bubblyjock!”—a vulgar Bulgar Boy!

I said, “Remember Mrs. Bull, the kindest of her sex!

Will you snarl up her Berlin wool, and her kind bosom vex?”

But Mrs. Bull did not seem cross, she made but little noise.

She said she didn’t care to “sit on” little Bulgar Boys.

She said, “Old Turkey-Cock, ’tis time you were upon the shelf.

Spank him? Go to—Roumelia, and spank the Boy yourself!”

I went not to Roumelia—I didn’t like the job.

My purse was low; I scarce could raise what Cockneys call “a Bob.”

The Powers that be looked shy at me, they saw that I was riled,

But said, “We can’t have rows all round, so please to draw it mild!”

When I went back I gazed about—I hunted everywhere,

I could not see my little foe—because he was not there

I peeped at Philippopolis, and at Sofia too,

I cried, “You little Bulgar Boy, what has become of you?”

I could not see my Tribute, no!—I looked, but could not see

The little fiddle-faddle sham they call my Suzeraintee.

I could not see my Treaty-rights—my Balkan-range—oh, dear!

The whole great Bizzy-Dizzy game was a great fraud, I fear!

I could not see my status quo—it was not to be seen!—

Nor yet my Pan-Islamic Flag, that flag—like me—so green.

My Carpet-bag, that held them all, my sole remaining joy,

Is gone, for ever gone!—and so’s that little Bulgar Boy!

I ran to Mrs. Bull—her Salisbury once admired me so!—

“Oh, Mrs. Bull! what do you think?—ain’t this a pretty go?—

That horrid little Bulgar Boy you thought we’d tied so tight,—

He’s stolen my things and run away!!!”—Says she,

“And sarve you right!!!”

Punch. October 17, 1885.

There was another political parody entitled “The Boy and the Bear, a ballad of Bulgaria” in Punch September 24, 1887, but it was not so interesting, nor so close a parody as the above.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair!

Bishop and abbot, and prior were there;

Many a monk, and many a friar,

Many a knight, and many a squire,

With a great many more of lesser degree,—

In sooth a goodly company;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.

Never, I ween,

Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out Through the motley rout,

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;

Here and there Like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cakes,

And dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,

Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all!

With saucy air,

He perch’d on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat

In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat;

And he peer’d in the face Of his Lordship’s Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say,

‘We two are the greatest folks here to-day!’

And the priests, with awe,

As such freaks they saw,

Said, ‘The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!’

The feast was over, the board was clear’d,

The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d,

And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls!

In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,

Came, in order due,

Two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer,

Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as pure

As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,

Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch

In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.

Two nice little boys, rather more grown,

Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,

Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

One little boy more

A napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,

And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in ‘permanent ink.’

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight

Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white:

From his finger he draws

His costly turquoise;

And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,

Deposits it straight

By the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;

Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing,

That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There’s a cry and a shout,

And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what they’re about,

But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out;

The friars are kneeling,

And hunting, and feeling

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

The Cardinal drew

Off each plum-colour’d shoe,

And left his red stockings exposed to the view;

He peeps, and he feels,

In the toes and the heels;

They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—

They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

—They turn up the rugs,

They examine the mugs:—

But, no!—no such thing;—

They can’t find THE RING!

And the Abbot declared that, ‘when nobody twigg’d it,

Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and prigg’d it!’

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book!

In holy anger, and pious grief,

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;

From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;

He cursed him in sleeping, that every night

He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;

He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,

He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!—

Never was heard such a terrible curse!

But what gave rise

To no little surprise,

Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

The day was gone,

The night came on,

The Monks and the Friars they search’d till dawn:

When the Sacristan saw,

On crumpled claw,

Come limping a-poor little lame Jackdaw;

No longer gay,

As on yesterday;

His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way;—

His pinions droop’d—he could hardly stand,—

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;

His eye so dim,

So wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘That’s him!—

That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!

That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s Ring!’

The poor little Jackdaw,

When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say,

‘Pray, be so good as to walk this way!’

Slower and slower, He limp’d on before,

’Till they came to the back of the belfry door,

Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

—When those words were heard,

That poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really absurd.

He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!

His tail waggled more

Even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,

No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair.

He hopp’d now about

With a gait devout;

At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;

And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,

He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads.

If any one lied,—or if any one swore,—

Or slumber’d in prayer-time, and happen’d to snore,

That good Jackdaw

Would give a great ‘Caw,’

As much as to say, ‘Don’t do so any more!’

While many remark’d, as his manners they saw,

That they ‘never had known such a pious Jackdaw!’

He long lived the pride

Of that country side,

And at last in the odour of sanctity died;

When, as words were too faint,

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint!

And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,

So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!

R. H. Barham.

First published in Bentley’s Miscellany, 1837.

The Story of the Latest Curse

The Pontiff sat in St. Peter’s Chair,

Cardinals, too, quite a host, were there,

Cardinal this and Cardinal that,

Cardinals lean and Cardinals fat,

Cardinals sitting in style and state,

Cardinals full of importance great,

With Cardinal Vicars of high degree,

In sooth, a goodly company;

And as they sat in full conclave thus

Momentous matters did they discuss;

And presented reports of a wide-spread scope

To their Holy Father and Sovereign Pope.

And chief of points to attention claim

The perennial Irish Question came,

With its pros and cons, which no ending knew,

And the Tory Government’s biassed view.

And the Duke of Norfolk’s suggestions, too,

Of the course the Pope should henceforth pursue.

They quoted once more

All the legal lore

That, as they said, on the question bore.

They wrangled, too,

(Which was nothing new)

And made a fuss and a great to-do;

And argued, some for the twentieth time,

That to join in the “Plan” was a heinous crime,

And loudly declared, through thick and thin,

That “Boycotting” was a deadly sin;

Whilst others maintained

That no course remained

Save that to patriots gagged and chained!

But the Pope meanwhile

Gave a ghastly smile

As the Cardinals talked about Erin’s isle,

And exclaimed, “This matter must settled be,

Or else it will be the death of me!

Draw up a report without delay,

And present it to me this very day;

For I’ve promised the Duke

That I’ll rebuke

My Irish flock in a pastoral way!”

* * * * *

So the Cardinals did what the Pope demanded

And their Report to him duly handed,

Denouncing the “Plan” and those who used it,

And any Priest who at all excused it;

Condemning “Boycotting,” too, as wrong,

In Latin phrases extremely strong.

And having read it, the Pope made known

That its sentiments were, in good sooth, his own;

And heedless quite

Of the cause of right,

And grossly misled by party spite,

’Till he was moved to believe the worst

Of Ireland—libelled, maligned, aspersed—

The Pontiff published that famed “Decree,”

And filled the Unionist camp with glee.

Yes, it filled the Unionists’ hearts with hope,

For “Lo!” said they, “that obliging Pope

Has cursed with bell and with book and candle

The cause of Home Rule—that crying scandal!

In holy anger and pious grief

He’s solemnly cursed each Irish thief!

He has cursed Parnell and his plundering crew

In all they say or attempt to do.

He has cursed the League, he has cursed its chiefs,

And its helpless serfs, and its threatened fiefs.

He has cursed O’Brien and Dillon, John,

And his curse is O’Connor (Tay Pay) upon.

He has cursed McCarthy and T. M. Healy,

And all of the Irish leaders, really;

He’s cursed them abroad, and he’s cursed them at home,

With all the anathemas used at Rome;

He’s cursed them both in and out of gaol,

He’s cursed the few now at large on bail;

He’s cursed them in eating, he’s cursed them in drinking,

He’s cursed them in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;

From the souls of their feet to the crowns of their heads,

He’s cursed them awake, and asleep in their beds;

He’s cursed them in standing, in sitting, in lying,

He’s cursed them in speaking, and selling, and buying;

He’s cursed the Gladstonian Party, too,

For daring to make that alliance new.

In short these Unionists all averred

So dreadful a curse had never been heard!

Forsooth these Unionists talked away,

Of this Papal curse all the live-long-day,

And gloated with quite a savage glee

On what must come of the Pope’s “Decree.”

“They must be crushed, these vile Irishmen,”

They daily repeated with tongue and pen.

“No more shall we hear of Parnell’s fresh crimes!”

Exclaimed, in “leaded bourgeois,” the Times,

“Confusion has stricken the League’s curs’d host,”

Was the warning cry of the jubilant Post.

“There’s an end forthwith to the sorry set!”

Was the evening shriek of St. James’s Gazette.

But all the time they were writing thus,

And making this daily fame and fuss,

Declaring the Nationalist cause was done,

And the Parnellites doomed were every one.

Whilst still they were bidding the world to see

What ruin was wrought by the Pope’s “Decree,”

And everywhere stating, in prose and verse,

There never was heard such a terrible curse!

This fact gave rise

To no little surprise,

Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

* * * * *

Stay! some one seems a good deal the worse

For this much-debated Vatican curse;

And that is the Pope himself, for he,

By even the issue of his “Decree,”

Made public the fact, beyond recall,

That he knows of Ireland nothing at all.

The Irish Bishops ’tis true, have tried,

To soften the blow to their Pontiff’s pride;

While the Irish people have treated his curse

As a Papal weakness, and nothing worse.

So far, so good!

But the Pontiff should

Bear in mind in how false a place he’s stood;

He must ne’er again base denunciation

On false and on biassed information;

And certainly never give vent to a curse

For which he only is any the worse!

Truth. June 7, 1888.

——:o:——

THE EXECUTION.

A Sporting Anecdote.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day:

It was half after two. He had nothing to do,

So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim Was clean of limb,

His boots were polish’d, his jacket was trim;

With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,

And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;

Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;

And he ask’d, as he held the door on the swing,

“Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?”

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,

And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

“Malibran’s dead, Duvernay’s fled,

Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;

Tiger Tim, come, tell me true,

What may a Nobleman find to do?”—

Tim look’d up, and Tim look’d down,

He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,

And he held up his hat, and he peep’d in the crown;

He bit his lip, and he scratch’d his head,

He let go the handle, and thus he said,

As the door released, behind him bang’d:

“An’t please you, my Lord, there’s a man to be hang’d.”

My Lord Tomnoddy jump’d up at the news,

“Run to M’Fuse. And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.

Rope-dancers a score, I’ve seen before—

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more;

But to see a man swing, at the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing.”

* * * * *

R. H. Barham.

The Frolics of Boreas.

Old Boreas sprung up one day—says he,

“Blow me tight, but I’ll have a spree—

I must be very much missed, no doubt,

’Tis a long time since I had a blow out;

And as things in town are dreadfully dead,

I’ll stir them up, though as heavy as lead.

Yes, now for a rollicksome, frolicksome chase,

I’ll raise the wind in every place.”

So away he went, through the Strand so gay,

Blowing up everything in his way—

Upsetting dozens (in spite of their squalls,)

Of old women’s apple and lollipop stalls.

Never was heard such a terrible shout,

As the apples and brandy balls rolled about;

The old women swore, while the urchin shouts

After the stock, and runs off with the fruits.

On went Boreas playing his rigs,

Blowing off bonnets and ladies’ wigs—

Making their hairless heads apparent,

Which none would do but a rogue so arrant.

Puffing and blowing onwards he bounds,

Frisking the skirts of the ladies’ gowns—

Forming completely, as gentlemen say—

And ladies, sometimes, a show leg day.

Away he went blustering through Pall Mall,

To the discommotion of every swell—

Giving their stay-laced figures a twirl,

Blowing their whiskers quite out of curl—

Piercing their benjamin waterproofs,

Blowing their tiles from off their roofs—

Whirling old bachelors into the mud,

And old maids upon them—oh, gemini, lud,

Knocks down of chimneys a terrific lot,

Sends a respectable family to pot;

Upsets a woman with flowers a growing,

Just as she squall’d out all a blowing!

On went Boreas, mighty and strong,

Puffing out lamps as he went along—

Patting a thief in the way of a job,

Of dissecting a pocket, or lightening a fob:

Leaving the Peelers quite in the dark,

Doing a turn for an amorous spark;

Giving the drunkard a chance, at most,

Of running his cranium ’gainst a post.

Upon the Park he flies to attend,

And gives the boughs a bit of a bend—

The brave old oaks in the air he heaves,

Without so much as axing their leaves.

Down he rushed to the river side,

Sunk the loose barges, and blowed up the tide;

Led the wherries a wherry rum chase,

Gave Father Thames some blows in the face.

Among the rigging he played his rigs,

And capsized quite the captain’s gigs;

The fishes swore they were quite dead bait,

And rolled about in a floundering state.

At last his frolics came to an end,

He couldn’t raise wind—he was bellows to mend,

So, as a wind-up, he, with all his might,

Blew himself to Wind—sor to spend the night.

Anonymous.

A Parliamentary Legend.

The Marquis Bobby sat down one day,

Feeling himself in a very bad way:

His was the delicate porcelain clay

Not made for the shelf, like mere common delf,

And he felt that the world wanted something—himself;

For he loved to stand in the light of day,

To have his own way, and to say his own say—

To slaughter and gibbet and mangle.

Now he thought to himself, here’s the devil to pay,

Never a chance of a row or a wrangle,

No Afghan affairs to get in a tangle.

Gladstone before and old Johnny behind;

With a wide-awake Postmaster, even if blind;

Everything bound to go to the bad:

His place, too, filled by a rascally “Rad.”

Things seemed to his lordship gloomy—very,

So he rose and rang for his Secretary.

Mr. Sec.—was a gentleman born

Who hated a “Cad” with a noble scorn:

He had learned at the best of public schools,

To sneer at snobs, and the wretched fools,

Who earned bread and cheese upon office stools,

And his clothes were got on credit from Poole’s;

He knew men were fools who trusted two stools,

So wisely followed her Ladyship’s rules.

He entered in haste, tho’ with dignified gait

(It wasn’t allowed for Lord Bobby to wait).

The noble Marquis raised his head,

And to his underling he said:

“Beaconsfield’s dead, and Northcote is led

By the nose, and whatever the last man has said,

Richmond’s a donkey; Cairns is a parson;

Who but myself can carry this farce on?

People agree that there must be a head;

And there’s only myself in the old man’s stead;

Tell me, Sir Secretary, what think you,

What can a born statesman find to do?”

He paused, and the gentleman scratched his head,

“There’s only the Land Bill, my lord,” he said,

And the news of the evening, as you will see,

Is that the Commons will not agree.”

Then the Marquis Bobby jumped up in haste,

And he muttered a something that sounded like “baste.”

And something resembling “bate ’em;”

He felt that the fun wasn’t yet quite done,

Though he’d issued his “ultimatum.”

“Enough—call it done, my son of a gun—

I’ll show ’em a game ere with me they’ve done:

Go call my henchmen liel and true:

Call Cranbrook, Carnarvon and ‘canny’ Buccleuch,

And call that fool of a Marlborough, too,

Fetch the rest of the noble crew,

With heads so thick and blood so blue;

And by way of a ‘rat’ and a tit for a tat,

Look up the Grey and the Fortescue;

And even Gladstone shall learn to rue

That with Irish landlords he’d aught to do;”

Then his lordship sighed as he thought of the grouse,

Put on his hat and went down to the “House.”

The clock strikes twelve, it is really midnight,—

But “their Lordships’ House” is a blaze of light;

The parties have met and been pretty hard set,

To amend the amendments and manage to get

A Bill which looks something substantial—and yet

Isn’t the thing that is wanted quite

In this nice little island so bright and so tight.

The Marquis Bobby has had his fling—

Denounced the whole as a villainous thing,

A theft—a blunder—a sham—and a sin,

And sworn that the Lords will never give in.

Gad, ’tis a very fine sight to see

A very fine Aristocracy,

Proud of port and stern of eye,

With a look that says plainly—“Never say die,”

Stemming the tide of Democracy.

The clock strikes “one” and the thing isn’t done.

The Marquis Bobby has munched a bun,

Some aged nobles have “cut and run;”

But sternly arrayed, as to say, “Who’s afraid!”

The rest wait for the message too long delayed.

The clock strikes “four,” and at the door

Sounds a something that isn’t exactly a roar—

A sort of a scuffle and underbred shuffle,

As of Commons who wouldn’t their lordships ruffle;

Impatience just tempered with awe.

But the message is plain—as plain as the day,

“My Lords, the Commons will not obey.”

Then the Marquis Bobby in wrath arose,

And he—well, I’m almost afraid to disclose;

Well—he took up his hat and he blew at his nose,

And—did as do Fakirs, or people called Quakers,

Or a gentleman namesake of his, “Bobby Acres,”

And exclaimed, “Why, hullo! here’s a rum go.

That fellow has made us do just what he chose.

We certainly might have saved all our jaws.

Thank God,” with a pause, “there’s the wild duck clause;

But they’ll laugh at and quiz us all over their town,

We’re all of us done so uncommonly brown.”

What act could be done? Well, it wouldn’t surprise one

To know that they did a very unwise one,

But now in their favour, there’s this to be said,

They thought better of it, and you may have read,

That my Lords and Lord Bobby—went home to bed.

From Grins and Groans, Social and Political. Published by W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., about 1882.

The Lord of Intrigue.

Pollaky sat in his oaken chair,

Carte de visite and letter lay there,

Princely coronet, lordly crest,

Many a mystery, many a quest,

With missive and billet of lesser degree,

In sooth an extraordinary company;

And they seemed to ask, “Oh! unravel me,”

Never, I ween,

Was a subtler seen,

Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league,

Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue.

In and out

Through the motley rout,

The Lord of Intrigue goes hunting about,

Here and there,

Like a dog in a fair,

Through flights and divorces,

Elopements and curses,

Through a lady’s love and a husband’s grudge,

Proud as a Cardinal, sharp as a Judge;

And he smiles in the face

Of the scrawl of his Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say,

“Oh, the duchess must fall in our trap to-day.”

While his clients with awe

As such schemes they saw,

Said, “Pollaky’s sharper than Hades, you know.”

Never, I ween,

Was a subtler seen,

Concerned in divorce, or elopement, or league,

Than love’s autocrat, Pollaky, lord of intrigue.

From Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner. 1876.

The Devil’s Billiard Match.

Mr. Peeler was known to be one of the milliards

Who go in for spending their talents on billiards;

And by diligent training,

And careful abstaining

From gin and tobacco, succeeded in gaining

Such skill at a hazard, a cannon, or “pot,”

And was voted so “hot”

When he got “on the spot,”

That no one would play him, not e’en the great Cooker,

(Who some people say is a bit of a fluker).

He gave points to Jobenit, Bobs, and Michelli,

And knocked the whole lot of ’em into a jelly;

He often would make

A two-thousand break,

And only left off when he found his arm ache,

Such a wonderful use did he make of his “stick,”

That everyone thought he was leagued with Old Nick;

And they went down to see this most wonderful “coon,”

Evening and noon,

In December or June,

At the Royal Aquarium Billiard Saloon.

And some time ago,

As perhaps you may know,

A match was arranged, and this time Peeler’s foe

Was Signor Michelli, who often made lots

Of very good shots

And consecutive “spots,”

And the odds Peeler gave to this man of such fame

Were five hundred points in a one thousand game.

Now Signor Michelli, though very much saner

Than many, was far from a total abstainer;

And whether the cheer of the festival season

Or hard mental work had deprived him of reason

I cannot affirm, but I’m positive quite,

That he looked to be tight,

On the advertised night,

In spite of his tie and his linen so white;

For when he came in he walked up to the slate,

And proceeded at once in a manner sedate,

To rub out the figures just under his name,

And said that he “Wanted no pointsh in thish game,”

And would play “the young d——l,”

A thousand up level;

After making which modest and courteous remarks,

He proceeded at once to be up to his larks;

Made a very bad shot

To screw in off the spot,

(Instead of just giving the usual miss)

Which was baulked by his making the two balls to kiss,

And left a good cannon

For Peeler, who ran on

Ran off, and ran out, and finished the game,

Amidst a loud cheering and general acclaim;

Whilst Michelli, who’d wanted to shine as a hero,

Stared aghast at his chalks, which were standing at zero.

At this point a gentleman stepped forth from the audience,

Who’d apparently tried

All colour to hide,

And to drive from his raiment all tints that were gaudy hence;

His clothes were all black,

At the front and the back,

His handkerchief, watch-chain, and locket, and tie,

His shirt and his studs, and his collar so high,

His boots and his buttons, his hat and his rings—

In short, every one of his visible things

Was as black as a crow, and—keep down your sniggers—

His face and his hands were as black as a nigger’s!

He took his hat off

And uttered a cough;

Then with cynical satire, and many a scoff,

He called Mr. Peeler

A “ginger-pop dealer,”

And snapped out “Nicolo Scratchini’s my name,

And I’ll play Mr. Peeler a ten-thousand game;

And these points I will my opponent assign—

Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety and nine!

And the stakes——” here he whispered in Peeler’s left ear,

And that eminent cueist turned giddy with fear;

But covered the tip of his cue well with chalk,

And led off the game with a miss into baulk.

But his sable opponent then smirked a queer smirk,

And flourished his cue as he’d flourish a dirk,

Put his ball in the D, and aimed right at the red;

And with such awful twist on his flying ball sped,

That it screwed into baulk in the right corner pocket;

As a ruby gleam flashed from the Stranger’s black locket,

Then he got “on the spot” and made three thousand hazards;

Whilst the audience stared as if knocked on the mazzards;

Then made scores of cannons—the kind known as “nursery”—

Whilst Peeler was making remarks that were curse-ory;

And at last, being “cushioned” or “under the bank,”

Fetched his ball such a twank,

Such a terrible spank,

That it gave to the red a most thundering clank,

And both smashed to bits,

And knocked into fits

The marker who sat where he commonly sits;

And the audience yelled, when they saw all this steam on,

“My! ain’t he a scorcher! O, ain’t he a demon!”

Then Signor Scratchini, as meek as a lamb,

Looked up, and most quaintly remarked, “Yes, I am!”

And his polished black boots turned to black hoofs with corns,

And his black curly hair to a black pair of horns,

His cue to a pitchfork, his black eyes to coals,

His fingers to claws, and his studs into holes

From whence there came out such a fire and a smoke

That everyone felt just as though they would choke;

And he grabbed hold of Peeler, with eyes darting flame,

But Peeler had presence of mind to exclaim—

“You’ve not won me yet, you old cheat! fie for shame!

Fair play’s a jewel, Nick! Finish the game.”

Nick let go his hold, for though only a curs’t ’un

He felt he was bound, by the framed rules of Thurston,

Since he’d broken the balls, to be honest and plain,

And call upon Peeler to “break them” again.

So P. in a stew

Took up his cue

And aimed at the red in a manner so true,

And put on his ball such a quantum of screw,

That without more ado

It vanished from view

In the top corner bag—and the red went in too.

Old Scratch gave a scream

That curdled the cream,

And was gone from their gaze like a horrible dream,

(Which is not an original line, by the way,

Though where I have read it I really can’t say.)

And then Mr, Peeler

Called a four-wheeler,

And drove home at once without any delay,

And never played billiards again from that day,

But turned to a rigidly moral and mental man,

And was troubled no more by the black-dressed Old Gentleman.

Moral.

Don’t think that a man who’s a total abstainer

Is therefore as good as a saint—to be plainer,

Don’t be sure that a chap who’ll not drink, smoke, or marry

May not all the same be in league with Old Harry.

You’ll get much more good from Æneids and Iliads

Than by wasting your time and your money on billiards,

For take it as true, be you sage or buffoon,

You are sure to find Nick in a billiard saloon.

One word more,

If a score

Will make the game o’er,

Just “shop” your opponent, and bolt through the door.

From Rare Bits, in which paper several other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends have appeared.

A Row in the Upper Circles.

A Legend of the Haymarket.

Bancroft the manager sits in his chair,

With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,

And he says as he slaps his hand on his knee,

“I mean to abolish the P. I. T.

The P. I. T. of the Hay-mar-ket,

When turned into stalls, will be nightly let

For a sum that I own will be pleasant to get;

And all will agree

’Twould be ruin to me

To keep on the Haymarket P. I. T.”

The green baize rose to the prompter’s bell,

But the hubbub that followed no words can tell;

Shriek and whistle and howl and yell,

Like fiends let loose from the nethermost ——L.

“P. I. T! P. I. T!

That’s the place whence the play we’d see.

Ban-croft! Ban-croft!!”

(’Twas thus they shouted from high aloft)—

“Upper circles for us? Pooh! Bah!

Pish! Tush! Humbug and swindle—yah!

Manager Bancroft, don’t forget

We’ve been used to a pit at the Hay-mar-ket.”

Bancroft the manager rose from his chair,

And his brow was shaded by sorrow and care,

And he walked to the footlights, and made his bow,

As Manager Bancroft so well knows how:

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he did say,

“What may you please to want to-day?”

“P. I. T! P. I. T!

This is the thing we want to see;

These high upper boxes are fiddle-de-dee,

And we don’t care a snap for your piteous plea,

And there really must be

A nice P. I. T.”

Bancroft the manager tries to speak,

But his voice is drowned in a shout and a shriek.

“A P. I. T.

Won’t pay,” says he;

“There’s the company, scenery, taxes, and rent,

You don’t know the money already I’ve spent,

But, believe me, I grieve at your discontent,”

“P. I. T—P. I. T—

If we don’t have that we won’t come and see

The plays you produce if you let us in free.”

Manager Bancroft tries to be heard,

But the Public will listen to never a word,

Till, tired of shouting, they cry anon,

“You’d better go off, and the play go on!”

So this was the end of the flurry and fret

That marked the first night at the Hay-mar-ket,

So long live the manager, long live he,

Here’s success both to Mr. and Missis B.,

And may we all often go there to see

The plays they produce to delight you and me,

E’en though they’ve abolished the P. I. T.

Judy. February 11, 1880.

In the old days of the Haymarket Theatre under the management of J. B. Buckstone, the pit was the most comfortable in London; but, Buckstone died in debt, whilst after abolishing the pit the Bancrofts made a fortune in a few years.

Mirth and Metre, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund H. Yates, published by G. Routledge & Co., 1855, was a small shilling book of poetry, written avowedly in imitation of Barham’s Ingoldsby Legends, besides containing several excellent parodies of other authors.

The following extracts from one of the imitations, written by F. E. Smedley, show that he had caught the knack of Barham’s versification. Unfortunately the poem is too long to quote in full:—

The Enchanted Net.

There were sundry strange monsters existing of old,

Could we only give credit to half we are told,

As evinced (on the ex pede Herculean plan,

Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)

By our Savans disturbing those very large bones,

Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones,

And have chosen to wait a

Long while hid in strata,

While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.

Old bones and dry bones,

Leg-bones and thigh-bones,

Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,—

Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;

Bones that were very long, bones that were very short

(They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought;

Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,

Considered all funny-bones quite infra dig.)

Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,

Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed;

And other queer things—which ’tis not my intention,

Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,—

As I think I can prove, without further apology,

What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,

That there lived in the good old days gone by

Things unknown to our modern philosophy,

And a giant was then no more out of the way

Than a dwarf is now in the present day.

Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;

Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,

Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip,

And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip;

Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock,

His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;

And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance

Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.

He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,

And the ladies admired him, each one and all.

In a word, I should say, he appears to have been

As nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen.

He could not read nor write,

He could not spell his name.

Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,

Was as near as he ever came.

He had felt no vexation

From multiplication;

Never puzzled was he

By the rule of three;

The practice he’d had

Did not drive him mad,

Because it all lay

Quite a different way.

The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,

Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.

In a very few words he expressed his intention

Once for all to decline every Latin declension,

When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,

That most classical tongue to his own native German.

And no doubt he was right in

Point of fact, for a knight in

Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;

And one who had learned any language that is hard

Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.

Education being then never pushed to the verge ye

Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

* * * * *

Handy Jack.

(A Lay of Alexandria.)

“The sailors, after proving themselves excellent gunners and most useful infantry, have to-day shone in the capacity of engineers.”—The Standard.

Oh! for what are you not good and game,

Handy Jack?

For what are you not good and game?

Upon Egypt’s far strand

You seem turning your hand

To almost any job one can name,

Which same

Should resound, my dear Jack, to your fame!

You’re exceedingly good with a gun,

Handy Jack!

As we know from the deeds you have done.

At infantry duty,

A regular beauty,

On land and on water you’re one

Whose fun

Is to fight and do aught—except run.

* * * * *

You are brave, and no end of a brick,

Handy Jack!

Jack-of-all-trades, as cheery as quick;

Amphibious of gift,

Ambidextrous and swift,

And as awkward to flummox as lick;

The pick

Of our Blues would not strike to Old Nick.

Here’s your jolly good health and good luck,

Handy Jack!

And the flag you so seldom have struck.

Ashore or afloat,

On a bridge, or a boat,

You’re a picture of nous and of pluck

Never stuck.

They who say that Jack has altered talk muck!

Punch. August 19, 1882.

The Cardinal’s Hat.

A tremendous outcry against the Roman Catholics was raised in 1850, when the Pope created Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman—Archbishop of Westminster, and divided all England into Romish dioceses. But the agitation ended in smoke, it is true the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill was passed in 1851, yet it has practically remained a dead letter, and it was wittily said of Lord John Russell that, after chalking up “No Popery” on Cardinal Wiseman’s door, and ringing the bell—he ran away.

Amongst the many pamphlets written on the topic was one published by Henry Beal, Shoe Lane, London, entitled “The Cardinal’s Hat: How, when, and where it was made, and what became of it.” By Ipsedixit. 1851. This is an imitation of the Ingoldsby Legends, and like them is very uncomplimentary to Roman Catholic priests, consequently, several passages have been omitted in the following reprint, as being not only offensive and ungenerous, but also untrue:—

We have all of us heard of the City of Rome,

The fountain of Catholic blessings, and curses,

Where those who are lucky in having long purses

Go, to stare at the huge Coliseum and Dome

Of St. Peter’s, and bring curiosities home,—

Such as medals, and casts; and indeed, whate’er fixes

Their fancies,—rags—relics—beads—bones—crucifixes;

Grand portraits of Saints, who cured fearful disease

By the sufferer’s merely going down on his knees,

And telling some beads, and by offering some fees,

For Saints, like the men who take M.D. degrees,

Their practice conduct in an orthodox way,

And grant no relief to the souls who can’t pay.

Well—in this great and world-renowned City of Rome,

Within the broad shadow that’s cast by the dome

Of St. Peter’s aforesaid, is the Strada del Popolo,

In which stands the house of the famed St. Jacopolo;

And there reside thirty or forty stout monks, to see

Whom, much reminds one of Smithfield obesity.

All day long

Goes ding-dong

Their bells—and their song

Alarms you at eve as you’re walking along:

But at midnight, a wild and demoniac yelling

Is heard from within, of some mystery telling;

And I’ve heard

It averred,

That a vile brimstone smell in

The Strada del Popolo, oft causes those

Who’re passing—the orifice nasal to close;

And, like old Daniel Tucker, of whom, I dare say

You have heard—to make tracks “and git out of the way.”

Now—scorning the aid of that personage odious,

The two-sticked dark gentleman known as Asmodeus;

We have unroofed the house of these portly old men,

And gaze without obstacle into their den!

St. Peter’s great bell tells one more day is dead;

Respectable persons lie snugly in bed;

Only a beggar or woman with shrewd eye,

Is prowling about, to pick up a few scudi;

But Jacopolo’s altar is all in a blaze,

Ten thousand wax tapers emit their bright rays,

And at first you are almost struck blind as you gaze:

The Abbot is clad in his finest attire

Of satin and silk, at a price rather higher

Than an un-worldly man, one might think, would desire;

But what puzzled one most—and what seemed very queer,

Was—that all the fat Monks of Jacopolo there,

Instead of performing prescribed genuflexions,

Or praying to Saints, to forgive their defections:

Or joining (melodious old souls!) in the quire,

All stood in a circle around a huge fire,

Over which was a vessel of brass—yes, ’twas that metal,

And in heretic lands ’twould be known as a Hat-Kettle:

What are they doing?

Some mischief is brewing!

In the cauldron like that one in Macbeth, is stewing

Something I warrant for somebody’s ruin!

See how the burly monks plunge, each a fist

Into the kettle, from which goes a mist

Creeping and curling like snakes to the ceiling:—

For something right down at its bottom they’re feeling;

Now they have got it, and like Monks of mettle

They dab a wet mass on the rim of the kettle.

Shapeless and dark is it!—but with a shout

The Monks of Jacopolo maul it about;

Bow to it—pray to it;—each one caresses it,

E’en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it:

They roll it, and wrinkle,

Punch it, and sprinkle:

A silver bell’s tinkle

Is heard—then the Abbot proceeds to un-padlock

A casket, and from it with prayers takes a hat-block.

[The last rhyme, dear reader, I very well know

Just as well as yourself, is not quite comme il faut,

But I’d rather make such a slight slip, than I’d fit a lie

For the sake of mere sound to this true tale of Italy.]

Yes, the Abbot devout,

A Hat Block took out,

And ’twas hailed by the Monks with a song and a shout:—

Not a block of the shape of a hat worn in town;

But much like a wide-a-wake’s—low in the crown,

Only not shaped like those of drab, white, green or brown,

But level as rail-road—in short, ’twas a flat

Block, such as is used for a milling cove’s hat.

Mr. Bendigo wears such a one—think of that,

And without further parley you have the thing pat.

“Hail Mary!” the Abbot cried—“Look upon that

I ne’er saw a handsomer Cardinal’s Hat!

In England, I fancy—’twill rather surprise Man,

Woman, and Child, when ’tis worn by Nick Wiseman.”

(And really, to give the old Abbot his due

The latter remark was undoubtedly true;)

“And,” he added, “Proceed, your good work and divine in,

As now ’tis our duty to put in the lining.”

* * * * *

All this being done—said the Lord Abbot—“That,

I fancy, completes our New Cardinal’s Hat!”

Yes, the Cardinal’s Hat was completed at last,

And Nicholas Wiseman went rather too fast,

To Rome where that feeble old Potentate Pius,

Who, it seems, a fresh chance for our souls, won’t deny us,

Plac’d the hat on his cunning old pate, and said “Rise Man,

Archbishop of Westminster—Cardinal Wiseman!”

And his newly-made Eminence rose from his knees

As proud and designing a Priest as you please!

But a very short time had passed by, and the Hat

Was dingy and shabby, and crushed almost flat:

For on it, John Bull, set his sturdy old heel,

Saying—“Pius, my Bishoprics you shall not steal;”

And to Wiseman—“Old Craftyman—vanish from here—”

And he went with a Protestant flea in his ear!

But the Cardinal’s Hat!

How fared it with that?

Why from Westminster it was sent into Rag Fair!

But the Jews wouldn’t have the vile article there,

And the last time ’twas seen, it was kicked with disdain

From the filthiest old Clothes’ shop in Petticoat Lane!

——:o:——

Temptation of the Good St. Gladstone.

The good St. Gladstone sat on his stool,

A-reading a big black book,

With a steadfast patience, as was his rule,

For he never frivolled or played the fool,

Like a wanton urchin a-weary of school;

But, though ’twas the rollicking season of Yule,

He studied in quiet, and kept himself cool,

On his stool of repentance—a hard-bottomed stool—

And ne’er from that sage

Constitutional page

His reverent gaze he took.

“We will woo,” cried Old Nick, “good St. Gladstone’s eyes

Off from that excellent book.

We will cluster around him in strange disguise,

And plague him with shindies and Party cries,

And bother his bosom with phantasies,

That he upon us may look.”

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew

A heterogeneous rout.

There were imps of every shape and hue,

And some looked yellow, and some looked blue,

And they passed and varied before his view,

And twisted themselves about.

But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes

Fixed on that excellent book.

From it they did not sink or rise,

Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries

Could win away his look.

One black imp came in a masquerade

Most like a ghoul’s attire,

With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed,

And bat-wings dingy that fluttered and played

About St. Gladstone through light and through shade,

Till they made the Saint perspire.

And another one came apparalled

In silk and velvet stuff,

With a sort of tiara upon its head,

And a shadowy alb, and a ghostly cope,

And a scowl of anger, and fear, and hope

Upon a phiz that seemed carven from soap;

And the row it raised,

As it blustered and blazed,

Was noisier than enough.

Another yet, of diminutive size,

And with hairy lip and with goggle eyes,

A winged weird creature, wee.

He pounced like a hawk, and he whisked like the wind,

And he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned,

And his eyes stood out with glee;

And the more the Saint he deafened and dinned,

The more exulted he.

But the good St. Gladstone bent his eyes,

Upon that excellent book.

He heard the shout and the laugh arise,

But he knew that the imps had a naughty guise,

And he did not care to look.

* * * * *

Last comes an imp—how unlike the rest—

A beautiful female form!

With two dark Irish optics that ogle with zest,

With a blooming cheek and a buxom breast,

And a shamrock brooch in its snow doth rest,

And her lips are soft and warm.

As over his shoulder she bends the light

Of her dark eyes on the page,

She fires his heart with its ancient might,

With thoughts of old seasons of glorious fight,

’Neath the Shamrock Shield in the cause of right.

To aid hapless Beauty is still his delight,

Though he’s grey with the frosts of age.

So gentle she seems, so appealing, so sure

Of his help, as of old; ’tis a parlous lure!

Pride, pity, and promise of fame!—

What lurketh behind it, that beautiful mask,

Will the good Saint see, will the good Saint ask?

Will he know that the Devil is at his old task?

Will he twig this last form of his game?

Ha! the good St. Gladstone boggles his eyes

Over that excellent book,

Ho! ho! at the corners they seem to rise.

He feels that the thing hath a lovely guise,

And—will he decline to look?

There are many devils that walk this world—

Devils large and devils small;

Devils saint-meagre, and sinner-stout;

Devils with cow-horns, and devils without;

’Cute devils that go with their tails upcurled,

Bold devils, that carry them bravely unfurled;

Meek devils, and devils that brawl;

Serious devils, and mocking devils;

Imps for churches, and atheist revels;

Devils cheeky, and devils polite;

Blue and buff, and black and white;

Devils that gossip, and devils that write;

Devils that slaver, and devils that bite;

Devils that posture as angels of light;

Devils that fill green youth with spite;

Devils that dim Old Age’s sight;

Devils foolish, and devils wise;

But a blarneying Colleen with two bright eyes

Is the temptingest devil of all!

Punch. January 9, 1886.

——:o:——

Ye Papyrus Roll-Scroll of ye Sette of Odd Volumes [138]

Mr. J. Brodie-Innes, Master of the Rolls of the Sette of Odd Volumes, has a great talent for Ingoldsby versification. On May 4, 1888, he read a paper at Willis’s Rooms bearing the above title, in which the peculiarities of the members were graphically, comically, but withal genially hit off. The opening lines ran thus:—

Some fifty centuries, more or less

Over this planet have pass’d, I guess,

Since a monarch there lived of wond’rous fame

In ancient Egypt, whose mighty name,

Known to all both near and far,

Was Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra.

One morn to his great High Priest, said he,

“You’re a doctor versed in divinitie,

A man of parts,

And a Master of Arts,

And the starry learning of old Chaldee;

Now, don’t you see,

It’s shocking to me,

But I haven’t a ghost of a librarie.

The wisdom of centuries past lies hid

In the mystic depths of the Pyramid;

And future ages

Of seers and sages

Ought to read in history’s pages,

With what eclât,

That radiant star,

Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra,

In mortal garb on this earth once trod,”

Then the High Priest mutter’d, “Odd! very Odd!

To record the events of your Majesty’s reign

Were a task beyond mortal skill ’tis plain;

But marvellous, mystical, magical lore

I have learn’d from the sages, and seers of yore;

And I think I can furnish just the commodity,

Apex of learning, and quaintness, and oddity.

In a chapel built by the old Chaldees,

I’ll show you the cream of Libraries,

Hidden away in the bowels of earth

Since long before Creation’s birth;

And all the volumes hidden there,

Learnèd, curious, quaint, and rare,

Hieroglyph carved, or papyrus roll,

Every one hath a human soul.”

Over the sod

Mr. Rameses trod,

Softly and slow to the shrine of the God;

The High Priest solemnly waved his rod,

The doors roll’d back,

And there in a crack

The books stood reveal’d, such a queer-looking squad,

They gave each other a nudge and a prod

As the High Priest said, with a wink and a nod,

“Lo, there are the Volumes,—they’re Odd, very Odd,

There are volumes little and volumes big,

Bound in calf and leather of pig,

Volumes great and volumes small,

Duodecimo midgets and copies tall,

And from least to greatest all worthy are

To grace the car

Of the Persiah Shah,

Or of Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra.”

After describing the various members, and enumerating their literary or artistic works, the High Priest observes:—

“Such your Majesty’s picture books are,

Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra!”

The monarch smiled with approving nod,

And muttered, “All charming—but Odd! very Odd!”

——:o:——

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE’S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION. 1837.

Och! the Coronation! what celebration

For emulation can with it compare?

When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,

And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!

’Twas there you’d see the New Polishemen

Making a skrimmage at half after four,

And the Lords and Ladies and the Miss O’Gradys,

All standing round before the Abbey door.

* * * * *

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,

Crying “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”

—Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,

Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!

And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,

This narration splendid in swate poe-thry.

‘Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,

Faith, it’s myself that’s getting mighty dhry.’

Barney Maguire, Junior’s, Account of the Jubilee.

Sing, swate Muse, the grand occasion of that joyful celebration,

When the Nation, with elation, rushed tumultuously to see,

In her glory and her splendhour, the Faith’s feminine defendher,

On the dawning of the morning of her Day of Jubilee!

Sure the flags was wavin’ glorious, and the tumult was uproarious;

All the route was lined before yez with Hussars and bould Dhragoons;

While from ivery clangin’ steeple bells was deafenin’ the people,

An’ the bands were all discoorzin’ different sorts of loyal tunes.

Then did cheerin’ most stupendous greet a cavalcade tremendous,

Formed of gorgeous foreign splendours—all from Misther Gam’s hotel

(Buckingham Palace, as they tould them, being far too small to hould them;

Though its thrue we’ve Kew an’ Windhsor, too, and Kensington as well)!

Och! the Chinese swells Imperial dhressed in silver-gilt material;

Indian potentates, severial; Poles and Turks and Arab Sheikhs;

An’ the Queen of swate Hawaii, faith to see her does repay ye,

Though its mighty little English that the darlin’ crathur spakes!

When along the line came bowlin’ wid a sound like thunder rowlin’,

All the dignitaries howlin’ that grate Europe has to show;

Dhressed in glitterin’ stars an’ laces, sittin’ proudly in their places,

Like their images that graces Madame Twoswoords’ waxwork show;

Spanish High and Mightinesses, Russian military dhresses,

Belgium, Austhria, Grase, and Dinmark, all like Court cards smilin’ there,

Germans stout and sentimental, jooks and Princes Continental,

Ownin’ a conthracted rental, but a precious dale of hair!

Then, with polished sword-blades glancing, goulden tags an’ feathers dancing,

Came the princely escort prancing all beside a gilded coach

Drawn by eight crame ponies—Ginnett or Bill Holland wasn’t in it,

Was the cry the very minnit that procession did approach.

And Victoria, Britain’s Queen, there, of her subjects’ eyes was seen there,

Lookin’ glorious and resplendent in her Sunday satin gown,

Wid a dacent white lace bonnet wid a bunch of feathers on it,

Though ’tis said that Salisbury begged her on his knees to wear her crown.

There was Our Princess the blessin’! She’s the wan for stylish dhressin,’

Wid her charrums that do be increasin’ as the years go rowlin’ by;

Cambridge bloomin’ like a picthur, foine-looking young Albert Victor,

An’ the Heir Apparent watchin’ with a twinkle in his eye—

Edinborough’s Royal Sailor, who does ride like any tailor—

Savin’ of his noble presence! while, upon the other hand,

Battenberg, moustached and dhressy, Saxe-Meiningen and Hesse,

Caracoled unto the music of a joyous German Band!

In the Abbey there was hustling—aye, an’ bustling too, and tussling,

All the ladies’ dhresses rustling like a silken-sounding sea;

Shoals of swarthy foreign visithers, Press reporthers and inquisithers,

The whole Cabinet of Ministhers, Salisbury and William G.

Bar and Bench. The House of Lords, too, in silk stockins, shoes, an’ swoords too;

M.P.s married—aye, and single—wid their wives and daughters swate;

But Parnell and his supporters stayed at home in writhin’ torthers,

An’ the Socialists were absent at a gay teetotal thrate;

Then the organ loudly sthruck up an’ the choirs the chune tuk up,

The Archbishop quickly wuk up, while the trumpets ’gan to blare;

And in glory and in honour shone June’s Royal sun upon Her,

As she sat there like a cherub in ould Edward’s ancient chair.

Glitthering in full regalia. Faix, for brightness I’ll go bail ye

Jacob’s vision most Elysian with the sight could not compare,

As a pathriot was remarking when the polis caught him larking

Wid a fuse all fit for sparking, underneath the pulpit stair!

Och! the crowds of notabilities celebrated for abilities,

Octogenarians and juvenilities, lions old and lions new,

Buffalo William and his Injin, Misther Marius and Miss Sinjin,

Wid the belle of the Aquarium in a costume of tattoo!

Great Augustus Imperator, who for public weal does cater

At the National Theayter, sure they ought to knight him too!

Editors in shoals and batches, thieves intent on priggin’ watches,

The Brown Potter, Lady Colin, and the Saturday Review!

But the day that day succeeded its excitement superseded

When the Board Schools all was weeded of their flower an’ their pick;

An’ the title Levy Lawson long had hoped to get his claws on,

Hung convanient widin’ reachin’ of the handle of his stick!

Sure the work was warm an’ tirin’, and the taychers all perspirin’,

Into buns some children wirin’, while the dhrinks went round about,

Bands and banners wildly clashin’, Jubilee mementos smashin’,

Punches squeakin’, airballs squashin’, was there ever such a rout!

But at last the fait was over, guardian angels ceased to hover,

Pickpockets retired in clover, and the cats began to roam,

Whilst the parents of the threated bore away the more repleted

Or conveyed the flattered darlin’s to the shelter of the home.

Off wint Navy, off wint Army, with the sex that’s born to charm ye;

Off wint Press, Police, and Public; home wint Royalty to tea,

And Her Majesty did utther, as she tuk the bread and butther

Misther Battenberg had cut her—“Well, We’ve Had Our JUBILEE.”

Lady’s Pictorial. July 2, 1887.

A Lay of St. Dunstan’s, Fleet Street.

Sir Christopher Wren! O Sir Christopher Wren!

How slumbered your keen architectural ken

When you planned Temple Bar,

Nor foresaw from afar

How the witlings would spit you,

And editors twit you,

And Levi the Thunderer [139]

Proclaim you a blunderer!

How the D.T., the pet, pink, and pride of the Press,

Would feel itself called time by time, to address

Learned Leaders, the joy of its large circulation,

Intended to scorch up the whole Corporation:

All through you, dear Sir Christopher,

Who made such a fist of a

Gate in the twist of a

Narrow street-way, to be cursed at and hissed of a

Horse-steerer class of Her Majesty’s lieges

Who howled in the squeezes

With trenchant phrase hippic

And forceful philippic,

Like epics Satanic declaimed by some sham Milton

Or a wild Jingo speech by his lordship Jaw Jamilton.

Not a sigh shall escape for the relic that’s gone.

Nor a thought be bestowed on one rotten old stone;

But till London shall tumble

To pieces and crumble,

And bookworms shall stumble, and mumble, and fumble

O’er records fantastic,

With lore periphrastic;

Till memory fail

And custom grow stale,

And history pale

Before scenes, men, and things, long forgotten, and cast

By the ocean of time on the shores of the past,

Shall the halo of genius hover around,

And the street christened Fleet shall be classical ground.

But a pace, and we face

St. Bride’s tower of grace

’Neath whose shadow reposeth the gentle Lovelace

He who sang sweet and clear

Of Althea, his dear

And whose soul burst the bonds of imprisonment drear;—

Then hard by St. Bride,

In Shoe Lane there bide,

Beneath the cold stones,

The mouldering bones

Of the “marvellous boy” that perished in pride.

Here Sackville of Dorset, Congreve, Wycherley, Raleigh,

With Seldon, Rowe, Fielding, Burke, Cowper, held parley;

And now, as we gaze on St. Dunstan’s grey fane,

We think of the pious and learned Romaine;

Then bringing our list to a period, we halt on

The gentlest of anglers and men, Isaak Walton;

Just pause in a hurry

To note old John Murray,

And finally pass on, just glancing at Tonson,

To the typical three, Goldsmith, Boswell, and Johnson.

Did the heads of the rebels above the old Gate

Give a Jacobite grin at a possible fate [140]

That might haply await

The roystering three as they wandered home late?

First the Doctor and Goldie, with Bozzy close after,

The midnight air shaking

And “Charlies” awaking

With echoing peals of Cyclopean laughter.

Now the Bar has departed,

Its stones have been carted

Away to the limbo of things undesired;

But—fateful perversity

With even a worse City

Nuisance the minds of the “fathers” are fired;

As with bent pertinacious

Some civic Horatius

“Keeps the gate” by suggesting

A structure congesting

The traffic anew that the Bar had let loose;

Nor heeding the trumpet-stop scorn and abuse

Of that monarch of censors, the wordy D.T.,

Presses forward his motion

With pugnacious devotion,

And triumphantly carries it through the C.C.[141]

So now “joy for ever,” and aye “thing of beauty”—

That is, till its outlines grow smoke-dried and sooty—

The obstruction erect, with the Griffin a-top,

Designed with the Bar situations to chop,

Is to stand, spite of those whose loud protests it smothers,

And subsist as “a refuge for lawyers and others.”

Moral.

If you chance to possess, in the confabulation

Of nobodies picked from the great Corporation,

Voice in measures that deal With the citizens’ weal,

Be sure you appeal

With might and with zeal

To statutes obscure

That cannot with modern requirements endure,

And resist every movement

That points the plain way to a public improvement.

Don’t be daunted in playing your part of an ass,

But bray out your motions with trumpet of brass.

Above all, stick a Griffin

In Fleet Street, and if in

Your wisdom you choose as a station most meet

For your emblem the narrowest part of the street,

Air your crotchet at will

In the Common Coun-cil,

And reply to the Thunderer’s wrath, my boy,

That the best of all modes

To widen one’s roads

Is to steal a few yards from the path, my boy.

From The Jingoldsby Legends. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esquire. Published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882.

After many years of discussion, it was decided to remove Temple Bar, principally because it interfered with the traffic, but the City authorities, egged on by a nobody who shall be nameless, decided to erect a monument in its place. Hence the hideous Griffin obstruction which it was said cost London £12,000; it was so detested and ridiculed that for a long time after its erection two constables had to guard it night and day, or it would probably have been demolished. As it was, great damage was done to it on several occasions, but it still stands, a costly monument of toadyism, folly, and bad taste.

——:o:——

Pigeon Shooting at Hurlingham.

In this Sport every element of manly courage and skill is brought into play. The poor caged birds are generally so bewildered on being released that they can scarcely fly, and the skilled marksmen often wound them, so that they flutter about for hours with broken legs and wings. This affords excellent entertainment to the tender-hearted ladies of fashion who witness the sports, and bet on the results.

Occasionally a bird is killed at once, others escape from the grounds and are either captured, or tortured to death by that respectable class of the community which usually congregates around fairs, race meetings, and prize fights.

Altogether, Pigeon-shooting is the sport which, for the sake of our National reputation, should be encouraged.

When we have persuaded the Spaniards to abolish their Bull fights as cruel and unmanly, we may bring them to the innocent delights of battue shooting, hare coursing, fox hunting, or even to Pigeon Shooting, and so realise Poet Wordsworth’s noble ideal:—

“One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught by what nature shows and what conceals,

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”

The subject is treated from the Pigeon’s point of view, in the following imitation of Barham’s style.

(The pigeon is in its trap, awaiting its turn to be shot at by kind-hearted, sensible men.)

Well, here I am, and precious hot I find it,

I wish I were a Fantail not to mind it;

Ten to the foot’s too warm for any sinner,

I’d quite as soon be in a pie for dinner;

In fact, it would be cooler to be bakèd,

For they’ve the decency to cook us naked

And leave our feet outside; but here, I tell ye,

My toes are cramped and trodden to a jelly.

So, this is Hurlingham! Accursed place!

The fell destroyer of our harmless race,

Centre of fashion, haunt of lords and ladies,

A whited sepulchre, a dazzling Hades.

From Monday here we’re massacred till Saturday,

But murdered worse than ever on the latter day;

For then conspire the “Upper Ten” to vex us,

“Omnis ætatis utriusque sexus,”

With jealous hearts, intent to shed the blood

Which, like their own, dates backwards to the Flood,

As for a pretext, they can find a reason

For killing us each day throughout the season.

Some people talk as if the sport were quite meant

To give the birds some innocent amusement,

And say a little shooting to us Rocks is

Just the delight that hunting is to foxes.

Poor beasts! How can they possibly avoid it?

They’d “be surprised to hear” how they enjoyed it.

One says that killing pigeons is as good

As murdering barn-door pheasants in a wood.

Granted. But please to prove that shooting’s pleasant

When looked at from the aspect of the pheasant.

They all insist that death attends the shot,

(Some think precedes a trifle and some not);

And then they cry, in ecstasies of virtue,

“Poor things! we kill you, but we never hurt you.”

Who was it made the theory so astutely

That pigeons cannot feel at all acutely?

Well, of a want of feeling when he spoke, we

Might well return him a direct tu quoque.

“You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things.”

Was said of men’s hard hearts, not Rocks with wings.

One comes to bet and thinks the shooting rubbish,

Another shoots, but votes the betting snobbish.

This little episode a moral teaches;

Which of the two is right? I fancy each is.

If we are only slaughter for the larder,

I wish they’d miss us clean or hit us harder.

This amateur despatching ten times worse is

Even than the wicked poulterer’s tender mercies;

And why should man be justified in maiming us,

Because he had the privilege of naming us?

“You ladies! You whose gentle hearts do fear

The smallest monstrous mouse,” what make you here?

Are those the eyes to gaze on slaughtered doves,

The chosen birds of Venus and the Loves?

Alas! what hypocrites of half-a-score, to

Watch the death agonies oculo irretorto.

But when some wretch surmounts the fatal paling,

Sick unto death with sight and pinions failing,

To clap your hands, of pure compassion quite full,

And cry “He’s safe, poor darling! How delightful!”

So young, so fair, and can ye lack compassion?

It cannot be; ye are but slaves to Fashion,

Bowing yourselves, as did the Jewish nation,

Before the monster of your own creation.

Shake off the chains, or take a bird’s advice—

Serve if ye list, but do not sacrifice.

You, upon whom all fashionable men dance,

From noon to eve, assiduous attendance,

Hence! fair ones, hence! nor, like Herodias’ daughter

Bring by your charms the guiltless to the slaughter.

* * * * *

My turn at last! I wish he’d leave off squeezing;

I think I’ve scratched him! Serve him right for teasing!

Alas! the middle trap he lays his hand on,

“Ye (birds) who enter here all hope abandon.”

And now he’s pulled my tail out by the roots,

I feel as helpless as a Puss-in-Boots.

(Ah! our poor tails, they won’t believe we need ’em

Or else they’re fitting us for endless freedom.)

They say it’s to prevent my being hit.

(It’s very good of them to mention it.)

They tell me I’m a clipper! and shall wobble,

“And yet I am not happy” for their trouble;

And if they want me to get safe from harms off,

Why don’t they pull the sportsman’s legs and arms off?

Fast in the middle trap. To test the cunning

Of the great guns, it’s fallen nine times running;

And now, to baffle their unerring aim,

The next that falls is sure to be the same.

A chilly fear of death is stealing o’er me,

And all my peckadilloes flash before me.

It’s very sad to die—to die—to sleep—

To sleep, perchance to dream; I’ll take a peep—

Oh! that fair grove, and yon delicious pine,

Towering beyond the fatal boundary line.

And there he stands, the fatal swell of Hurlingham:

His little black moustaches, how he’s twirling ’em,’

Here comes his gun! If he forgets to cock it,

I’m off to Alabama like a rocket.

I wish he’d use a hundred pound torpedo,

And make the people mount in air, as we do.

There go the rocks? “Click, click?” A moment more

And I am free, that never was before!

Yes. “Free among the dead,” though some, I heard,

Were betting “ten to five upon the bird.”

But can their jargon from the land of death

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Or will my ghost be glad, when I am gone,

That I was “freely backed at two to one?”

Well, come what will, “This Rock,” at least, shall make

For life one flutter (“Lady of the Lake”).

Suppose I fly slap at him, and suppose

I make him think I mean “to have his nose.”

Perhaps he’d miss me, but perhaps he wouldn’t;

And then, how very awkward if he shouldn’t;

He’d be quite sure to hit me if I crawled;

I think I’ll try what Juvenal has called

“Excelsæ turris tabulata.” Bless it!

I fear the story goes on, “unde altior esset

Casus,” &c., ending with a ruinæ.

It’s quite enough to make one “shed the briny.”

Would that like Milton’s demons I could [climb]

“Part on the earth, and part in air sublime!”

He’d not know which to fire at, and the puzzle

Might make him put his shoulder to the muzzle.

By Jove, I have it! Plan untried by “Rocks,”

I’ll light (like Bryant’s matches) on the box!

The line “In medio tutissimus ibis,”

Perhaps as truthful of the Pigeon tribe is.

He might not like to shoot me till I stir;

“And thus far will I trust thee, gentle sir,”

I’ll sit on top, and try how long I can sit,

Time’s precious! “Ready? Pull!” Here goes; I’ll chance it!

* * * * *

’Tis done—’tis done! Down swept the leaden trail;

And must have killed me had I had a tail;

Behind the trap there was “such scanty room,

It missed my (absent) helm but razed a plume.”

Even as it was, so closely came each pellet

That as it passed I could distinctly smell it.

Thanks, courteous trap, for rescue in the nick;

But what a silly man to fire so quick.

So far so good, but doubtless he has reckoned

On “dropping me superbly with his second”

(This sporting euphemism consoles the worst shots

For missing quite absurdly with their first shots).

But I won’t budge an inch, and, if he tries,

He’ll find it hard to drop me till I rise.

He hesitates, uncertain which to let off,

The gun or me; perhaps I still may get off.

But no! the gentle audience sees his doubt,

And playfully resolves to help him out;

And fifty throats exclaim, with laughter splitting,

“Wire in, my boy, and shoot the beggar sitting!”

Will he “forego his vantage” and retire?

Ah, no! he quietly proceeds to “wire.”

The gun is raised! A flash! And so I die—

No, missed me clean, with none to wipe his eye!

Swift to the clouds I wing my way with joy,

While peals of scornful laughter greet “My boy.”

Quite so! Væ victis! They will spare a brute,

If they can find a human substitute;

For ’tis agreed by Christian, Jew, and nigger,

“Of two given victims, always choose the bigger.”

R. L. Francis.

——:o:——

Every one who has read the Ingoldsby Legends (and who has not?) will be sure to remember the pathetic little poem with which they conclude:—

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye!

There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,

And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye;

As I laye a-thinkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!

There seem’d a crimson plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,

And a steed with broken rein

Ran free,

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

* * * * *

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,

O merrie sang that Birde as it glittered on her breast

With a thousand gorgeous dyes,

While soaring to the skies,

’Mid the stars she seem’d to rise,

As to her nest;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:—

“Follow, follow me away,

It boots not to delay,”—

’Twas so she seem’d to saye,

“Here is rest!”

As i sate A-drynkynge.

The last words of Jonas Jingoldsby.

(Before going to by-by).

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

Merrie sang the Birde as she hopped about the floore;

There came a gay reporter

Of a “daily,” nothynge shorter,

And he ordered halfe of porter,

And he swore,

As I sate a-drynkynge, to have a lyttel more.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

Swetely sang the Birde as she perched upon the bar;

There came a lovely maide,

Who took the coyne he payde,

And giving change, she sayde,

“Here you are.”

As I sate a-drynkynge, her face was as a star.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

Blythely sang the Birde as she pecked about my shoes;

This journalistic childe

Continuously smyled,

And got to mixing “mild”

With Chartreuse.

As I sate a-drynkynge he was upon the booze.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

The Birde declined to sing, having started on the feed:

This youth did sing and shout,

Till there came a chucker-out;

But he stood hym halfe of stout

And a weed,

As I sate a-drynkynge—he did in very deed.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

Merrie sang the Birde as it finished up its feast,

The maiden she did say,

“Now, there’s one and nyne to paye

So you had better goe awaye.

Tipsy beast!”

As I sate a-drynkynge, I thought it rude, at least.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge.

Sleepily the Birde did its song again begin.

There came a gallant crew

Of officeres in blue,

And I shuddered—so would you

At their grin.

As I sate a-drynkynge, they took and ran him in.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,

The Birde was gettynge hoarse, and could hardly force a squeak;

My blood was turned to curds

When a beak, but not the Birde’s,

Pronounced these solemn wordes,

“For your freak,

I deeply grieve to saye

Twentye shyllynges you must paye,

Or in Chokey you must staye

For a week!”

From The Jingoldsby Legends. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esq. The Latest Edition.

This little anonymous sixpenny pamphlet was published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882. In addition to the above parody, and A Lay of St. Dunstan’s which appears a few pages back, it contained “The Inspector a’ Trapping ’em,” “Sir Wilfrid the Beerless,” “The Night and the Ladies,” and other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends, both in prose and verse.

There are two imitations of The Ingoldsby Legends in The Corkscrew Papers, published anonymously in 1876 by W. H. Guest, 9, Paternoster Row, London.

One is styled “Tamborini, the Poet,” the other “Pygmalion and His Statue,” they are long, and of no particular interest.