MATTHEW G. LEWIS.
(Concluded from page [143].)
Several parodies of “Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine” are given in The Spirit of the Public Journals, of which the following is the best. It originally appeared in The True Briton, and was reprinted in Vol. III. of The Spirit of the Public Journals. for 1799.
Peggy the Gay, and the Bold Roger Gray.
A plowman so stout and a damsel so rare,
Conversed as they sat on the hay;
They ogled each other with simpering stare;
Pretty Peggy the Gay, was the name of the fair,
And the plowman’s the Bold Roger Gray.
“And O!” said the nymph, “since to-morrow you go
Far hence with a sergeant to list,
Your tears for your Peggy soon ceasing to flow,
Your love for some wealthier maiden you’ll show,
And she’ll by my Roger be kiss’d.”
“What nonsense you talk!” cried the youth in a pet;
For by the Lord Harry I swear,
Nor cheeks red as cherries, nor eyes black as jet,
Nor moist lips, nor of teeth the most beautiful set,
Shall make me untrue to my fair.
“If ever by money or love led aside,
I forget my sweet Peggy the gay,
With the power of a justice’s warrant supplied,
May a constable come as I sit by my bride,
And bear me to prison away!”
To Glos’ter then hastened this plowman so bold,
His sweetheart lamented him sore,
But scarcely nine months had over him roll’d,
When a rich butcher’s widow, with bags full of gold,
Bold Roger entic’d to her door.
Her mutton and beef, so red and so white,
Soon made him untrue to his vows;
They pamper’d his palate, they dazzled his sight,
They caught his affection, so vain and so light,
And she carried him home as her spouse.
From church the fond couple adjourn to the “Crown,”
The company laugh, drink, and sing,
The bacon and greens they go merrily down,
And the mugs were all frothing with liquor so brown,
When the bell of the alehouse went—Ding!
Now first Roger Gray with amazement descried
A stranger stalk into the room;
He spoke not, he mov’d not, he look’d not aside,
He neither regarded the landlord nor bride,
But earnestly gaz’d on the groom.
Full stout were his limbs, and full tall was his height,
His boots were all dirty to view,
Which made all the damsels draw back in a fright,
Lest by chance they should sully their petticoats white,
And poor Roger began to look blue.
His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay:
The men sat in silence and fear;
Till trembling at length, cried poor Roger, “I pray
Aside your great coat, my old cock, you would lay,
And deign to partake of our cheer.”
The swain now is silent—the stranger complies,—
His coat now he slowly unclos’d!
Good Gods! what a sight met poor Roger’s gray eyes,
What words can express his dismay and surprise,
When a constable’s staff was expos’d!
All present then utter’d a terrified shout,
All hasten with hurry away;
For as no one knew whom he came to seek out,
Some tried to creep in, some tried to rush out,
Till the constable cried “Roger Gray!”
“Behold me, thou false one!—behold me!” he cried;
“Remember fair Peggy the gay,
Whom you left with a child to possess a new bride;
But his Worship, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
Has sent me to fetch thee away.”
So saying, he laid his strong arm on the clown,
Calling vainly for help from the throng;
He bore him away to the gaol of the town,
Nor ever again was he seen at the “Crown,”
Or the catchpole who dragg’d him along.
Not long staid the bride—for, as old women say,
The meat in her shop was all spoil’d,
All her beef and her mutton were carried away,
And sold to buy caudle for Peggy the gay,
And biggins and pap for the child.
Four times in each year, when in judgment profound
The Quorum all doze on the Bench,
Is Roger brought up, and is forc’d to be bound,
With a friend, in the sum of at least forty pound,
To provide for the child and the wench.
The Church-wardens sit round the treat they don’t pay,
Their cares all with ’bacco beguil’d,
They drink out of mugs newly form’d of bak’d clay,
Their liquor is ale, and this whimsical lay
They sing—“Here’s a health to fair Peggy the gay,
And the false Roger Gray and his child.”
There is another Parody in the same volume commencing:—
“A Bulldog so fierce, and a Spaniel so meek.”
In Volume V. (1801) of the same collection there is an imitation of Lewis’s style, entitled “The Little Green Man,” and in Volume IX. (for 1805) a parody of “Alonzo the Brave,” commencing:—
“Lemona was daughter of Hudda the Brave.”
Neither of these is worth preserving, but the following rather humorous skit may be quoted:—
The Squeaking Ghost.
A Tale according to the genuine principles of the horrific, by M. G. L——s, Esq., of Spectre Hall, In the County of Hobgoblin.
The wind whistled loud! Farmer Dobbin’s wheat stack,
Fell down! The rain beat ’gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire, he heard the roof crack!
The cat ’gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt—just as before!
The farmer exclaimed, with a piteous sigh,
“To get rid of this curs’d noise and rout,
Wife, gi’e us some ale.” His dame straight did cry,
Hem’d and cough’d three times three, then made this reply—
“I can’t, mun!” “Why?” “’Cause the cask’s out!”
By the side of the fire sat Roger Geeho,
Who had finished his daily vocation:
With Cicely, who’s eyes were as black as a sloe,
A damsel, indeed, who had never said no,
And because—she ne’er had an occasion,
All these were alarmed by some loud piercing cries,
And thrown into a terrible state;
Till opening the door, with wide-staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
’Twas the old sow stuck fast in a gate!
The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1804. Volume VIII.
——:o:——
A scarce little pamphlet, published by J. Crocker, London, 1838, entitled “The Modern Gilpin, or the Adventures of John Oldstock, in an Excursion by Steam from London to Rochester Bridge, containing a passing glance at the principal places on the Thames and Medway” was, as its name implies, a parody of Cowper’s “John Gilpin”:—
John Oldstock was a store-keeper,
In far-famed Seven-Dials;
An ebon nymph grac’d his shop-door—
He dealt in rags and phials.
* * * * *
It is very long, and its only interest consists in its descriptions of scenes much changed during the past fifty years.
“A Lay of Modern Exon: a serio-comic satire on the Great Gas Question,” by Blabington Mike-Hawley, F.C.E., was the title of a small pamphlet published in Exeter in 1879. It was a not very good parody of Lord Macaulay, and of purely local interest.
——:o:——
AMERICAN PARODIES
On page [284] a parody of E. A. Poe, entitled “The Swells,” was erroneously attributed to Mr. T. F. Dillon Croker. That gentleman had kindly written a copy of the poem for this collection, hence the error, which he wishes to be corrected. The author of the parody is unknown.
The Dutchman and the Raven.
Vonce upon a midnite dreary, as I pondered, veak and veary,
Ofer many a glass of lager, vot I drank in days of yore,
In my bed I vas faschd nabbing, ven I dream I heert some dapping,
As if some von gently drowing brickbats at my voodshed door;
“Dis dot Snyder poy,” I muttered, “trying to preak my voodshed door—
Only dis, and noding more.”
Yah, disdinctly I remember, it was in dot pleak December,
Und each seberate dying ember vos gone oud long pefore;
Dot nide I felt quoide heardy, for Louise vent to a bardy,
Und of cause I drunk more lager as I nefer did pefore;
But schdill I know dot somedings sthruck my oudside voodshed door—
Only dot, und noding more.
From oud mine bed I makes von jumb, und see vot vos dis drubble,
Mine Got! vot makes mine legs so veak? I feel so not pefore;
I sckarce could valk, I could not talk, mine mind was in a muddle;
But I dought it vas Johnny Snyder dryin’ to open schud mine door,
Und mit cabbage-sdumps to hit me, as he often doned before—
Dis I said, und noding more.
Py und py I vos got praver; den I takes mine gun and sabre,
Und schloly valks, midout mine pants, up to mine voodshed door;
Und dare for von half hour I sdood mitout no power,
So veak I vos I could not lift mine hands up any more;
But at vonce I got more polder, und I opened vide de door—
Plack as darkness, noding more.
Deep into dot plackness peeping, all around mine voodshed creeping,
Dreaming dreams no Dutchman efer dare to dream pefore.
Der silence vos unbroken, und der sdillness gave no token;
But I hear somepody spoken, “You vill vare dem pants no more.”
“Vot is dot?” I cried, and someding answered back the vord, “No more.”
Merely dis, und noding more.
Back indo my bedroom turning, all my sole mitin me burning,
Den vonce more I heert a tapping, someding louder as pefore.
Now I cries out, “Dunder vetter! vot the devil ish the madder?”
Surely dis ain’t Johnny Snyder hitting cabbage mit mine door?
No! I dink dis cannot be, for I bet, by geminee!
’Twas the vind, und noding more.
Oben here I flung mine vindow, ven dere all at vonce came into
A ding just like a big plack cat I never saw pefore;
Von fearful vink he gafe me, not von moment sdoped nor sdayed he;
His pack he humped, und den he jumped upon mine bedroom door.
Dare he sat, und noding more.
The air dew was so funny, for it schmells no more like honey,
Und den I squease mine nose hard until it vas quide sore;
Den vonce I cried mid all my mide, “I vant to vare mine pants to-night,
Und of you dink dot I vos dighd, chust chumped down off dot floor;”
Again I heard it gently say: “You’ll vare dem pants no more.”
Dis it said, und noding more.
“Profid,” said I, “ding of efil; profid sdill, if dorg or devil,
For vot you comes into mine house? I vant you here no more;
Leafe no ding here as a doken of dot lie vich you hafe spoken;
You go home, I vas not joking, for I told you once pefore,
Chust dake dot smell frum out mine house, und jump down off mine door!”
But it vinked, and said no more.
A penny pamphlet, in a blood red cover, has been recently published in Poppin’s Court, Fleet Street, entitled “The Whitechapel Murders, A vision of the Murderer as seen from Dreamland, by Marcus.”
It is written in imitation of Poe’s Raven, to call attention to the wretched inefficiency of our present system of police, and the supineness of the Home Office in everything relating to the unfashionable quarters of London.
But as both Sir Charles Warren and Mr. Matthews are already sufficiently unpopular, it is needless to quote this parody, dealing, as it does, with topics of a most unpleasant description.
——:o:——
The following parody refers to the Fisheries dispute between Canada and the United States, which, but for Mr. Chamberlain’s unfortunate want of tact and temper during his mission, might have been amicably settled:—
Canada, my Canada.
The haddock’s feet are on thy shore,
Canada, my Canada;
The halibut is at the door,
Canada, my Canada;
For smelt and gudgeon, chub and eel,
For codfish, hake and mackareel,
Arise and meet the Yankee steal.
Canada, my Canada.
Thou wilt not cower in the brine,
Canada, my Canada;
Thou wilt not drop thy fishing line,
Canada, my Canada;
Defend thy sculpin, save thy skate,
Strike for thy shad with soul elate,
Don’t swear, and spit upon thy bait.
Canada, my Canada.
Deal gently with a herring race
Canada, my Canada;
Put up your swordfish in its place,
Canada, my Canada;
If for reprisal you would sue,
Just turn your other cheek—please do,
And take a Yankee smack or two,
Canada, my Canada.
The Brooklyn Eagle, U.S.
——:o:——
The Beautiful Snow.
A correspondent in Chicago writes in reference to this poem (see [page 268]) “there seems little doubt but that it was written by Mr. James M. Watson. Mr. Bryant in his Library of Poetry and Song, and Mr. Coates in his Fire-side Cyclopedia both name him as the author. The last verse, however, which you quote is not a part of the original poem, but added later, and by another hand. Mr. W. F. Fox, of this city, wrote an additional verse to supply the idea of final hope of forgiveness and happiness. It is as follows:—
How strange it should be that the beautiful snow
Should robe with its brightness this world in its woe!
Yet the soft crystals so tenderly falling,
Speak to my heart as if angels were calling,
Lovingly, earnestly, bidding me come,
Offering this soul of mine rest and a home;
Away in the mansion of glory above,
I’ll plead for admission through pardoning love,
There, robed in that mantle God’s grace can bestow,
I’ll rival the whiteness of beautiful snow.
The authorship of this poem has been very much discussed over here in the United States. The following verses, which went the rounds a few years ago, were keenly enjoyed by the reading world”:—
The Gallant Three Hundred.
Three hundred brave warriors with pistols and rifles,
Who will not be daunted by dangers or trifles
Have taken an oath and are ready to go,
On a hunt for the author of “Beautiful Snow.”
Too long has he lived on this suffering earth,
Too long has he haunted the family hearth,
Too long been permitted his trumpet to blow,
That cold-blooded author of “Beautiful Snow.”
If they find him—and surely we hope that they will—
They will finish him up, for they’ll hunt him to kill;
The gallant Three Hundred will follow the chase,
Till they come within sight of his back or his face.
Then fearlessly charging the terrible foe,
They will pepper the author of “Beautiful Snow,”
So let the brave heroes in battle array,
Dash off to “the front” well equipped for the fray.
Accomplish their purpose they can and they must,
For their cause is the people’s, their warfare is just,
And when their good work is effectively done,
When the battle is fought and the victory won,
They’ll return with their banner star spangled and bright,
And high on their flagstaff plainly in sight
Will dangle what all must feel happy to know,
Is the scalp of the author of “Beautiful Snow.”
Der Good-lookin Shnow.
Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Vhich makes von der shky out on tings below,
Und yoost on der haus vhere der shingles vas grow,
You come mit some coldness, vherefer you go;
Valtzin und blayin und zinging along.
Goot-lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong.
Ofen of you make on some oldt gal’s scheek,
It makes notting tifferent, ofer das shendlesom freak.
Goot-lookin shnow, von der glouds py der shky,
You vas bully mit cold vedder, und bully von high.
Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Yoost dis vay, und vot you make vhen you go;
Fhlyin aroundt, you got matness mit fun,
Und fhreeze makes der nose of efery von;
Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py,
Yoost shtobbin a leedle, den pooty gwick fhly;
Und efen der togs, dot vas out in der vet,
Vood shnab at der bieces vhich makes on dhere hedt.
Der peobles vas grazy, und caddles vood crow
Und say how you vas, you goot-lookin shnow.
Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow,
Dhey shpeak out in dones so shweeder as low,
Und der shleigh-riders, too, vas gone py in der lite,
You doond cood saw dhem, dill quite out of site.
Schwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go
Rect on der tob of dot goot-lookin shnow.
Dot shnow vas vhite glean vhen it comes der shky down,
Und yoost so muddy like mud, ven it comes of der town;
To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet,
Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so phlack like der shtreet.
* * * * *
This imitation will be found complete in Routledge’s Medley Dialect Recitations.
——:o:——
Good-bye to the (Cricketing) Season,
(A Fond Farewell, something in the style of Praed, composed at the Oval in October by our Own Old Enthusiast.)
Good-bye to the Season!—’Tis over!
Pavilions no longer are gay;
Bat, bowler, and leal Cricket-lover,
Are scattered like M.P.’s away.
Walter Read bobs no longer his brown end
At point, watching Bannerman’s “shape;”
Gilbert Grace has gone home to dear Downend,
Bob Abel is bound for the Cape.
For want of a fuller enjoyment,
Till Bat, Ball, and Stumps, can come out,
At Football a few find employment,
But Cricket is done, beyond doubt.
Good-bye to the Season!—The weather
Has bowed at the shrine of St. Gamp;
Wet wickets have sodden the leather,
And stumps have been pitched in a swamp.
Chill deluges, varied with thunders,
The Cricket-crack’s “average” queer.
Bad hits and bad misses are blunders
Scarce blamed in so beastly a year.
There are all sorts of excellent reasons
All round for the prevalent “duck;”
So, Good-bye to this wettest of Seasons!
Its memories are mainly of muck.
Good-bye to the Season!—The chances
That filled even champions with gloom;
The rascally tricks and rare dances
Devised by the demon of doom.
The “bad hits” that should have been “beauties,”
The good ones so palpably “flukes”;
The fielders so slack in their duties,
The Captains so tart in rebukes;
The cocksures who dropped bobs and tanners
On matches like Surrey v. Notts;
The consequent breaches of manners;
The subsequent downfall of “pots.”
Good-bye to the Season!—Another
Will come with the coming of May;
Though the new county boundaries bother,
The cry of the boys will be “Play!”
Will it come like this terrible “tryer?”
Or come very much the reverse?
Will its scorings be lower or higher?
Will its weather be better or worse?
Will it favour the bowler or batter?
Will it come with dry turf and clear sky,
Or washy and squashy?—No matter:—
Good-bye to the Season—good-bye!
End of Volume V.
