Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. V

by Unknown

WALT WHITMAN.

It is the part, one might almost say, the duty, of the parodist to exaggerate the defects of his original, and in the case of Whitman assuredly no mercy, and little justice have been shown. This is to be regretted, because Whitman has not so many readers in this country, as his parodists can command, and it is distinctly an advantage to have read the original poem before getting imbued with the bathos, and intentional nonsense of a parody. It is comparatively easy to reproduce and caricature Whitman’s manner. Consequently his mannerisms are far more familiar to most English readers than the vigour of his poetry, especially as owing to the mock-modesty of editors and publishers, many of his finest thoughts on the mysteries of nature, and the philosophy of life, have been omitted in English editions of his works.

Whitman is emphatically a poet for men, not for “Select Academies for the Daughters of Gentlemen only;” and whilst much that he has written is glorious poetry to those who will, and can imbibe its spirit freely, to those who cannot thus absorb it the Parodies will appear nearly as poetical as the original. His principal volume, “Leaves of Grass,” as published by James R. Osgood & Company, of Boston, U.S., is a marvellous book, but one from which it is extremely difficult to make a satisfactory selection of quotations which, whilst doing justice to Whitman, shall, at the same time, illustrate the parodies.

Not to be chosen from his solemn Salut au Monde, nor the pathetic Drum-taps, nor even from the much abused Children of Adam, these must be read entire, or not at all.

Walt Whitman’s egotism is a favourite topic with the parodists, here is a small extract from his

SONG OF MYSELF.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance.

Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never Forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

*  *  *  *  *

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained,

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,

They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,

Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,

Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,

Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.

His nostrils dilate as my heels embracing

His well-built limbs, tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.

I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,

Why do I need your paces when I myself can out-gallop them?

Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.

*  *  *  *  *

I too, am not a bit tamed, I too, am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

He has been accused of irreverence, of materialism, yet he writes thus on

MIRACLES.

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk in the day with any one I love or sleep in the bed at night with one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of instincts in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining, so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

This is not poetry of the tinkling rhyme, and those who require to hear the changes rung on the old, old peal of bells—love, dove, heart, part,—must seek elsewhere than in the writings of Walt Whitman. Lord Tennyson considers him a true poet, so did Swinburne till he took to renouncing all the opinions of his youth, and turned from the praise of revolution, and the anticipation of the happy time when “Prince that clogs and priest that clings, Be cast as weeds upon the dunghill of dead things,” to become the reciter of Jubilee odes. Here are a few extracts from his verses “To Walt Whitman in America:”—

Send but a song oversea for us,

Heart of their hearts who are free,

Heart of their singer, to be for us

More than our singing can be;

Ours, in the tempest at error,

With no light but the twilight of terror;

Send us a song oversea!

O strong-winged soul with prophetic

Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song,

With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,

With thoughts as thunders in throng,

With consonant ardours of chords

That pierce men’s souls as with swords,

And hale them hearing along.

As long ago as 1855, Emerson, a clear sighted critic, wrote: “I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of ‘Leaves of grass.’ I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it, as great power makes us happy. I give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it; I find incomparable things, said incomparably well, as they should be.”

ON THANKSGIVING DAY.

Thanks in old age—thanks ere I go,

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—for life, mere life,

For precious, ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother, dear—you, father—you, brothers, sisters, friends).

For all my days—not those of peace alone—the days of war the same.

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,

For shelter, wine, and meat—for sweet appreciation.

(You distant, dim unknown—or young, or old—countless, unspecified, beloved.

We never met, and ne’er shall meet—and yet our souls embrace, long, close, and long;)

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books,—for colours, forms,

For all the brave, strong men—devoted, hardy men—who’ve forward sprang in freedom’s help, all years, all lands,

For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go to life’s war’s chosen ones.

The cannoneers of song and thought—the neat artillerymen—the foremost leaders, captains of the soul;)

As soldier from an ended war return’d—as traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective.

Thanks—joyful thanks—a soldier’s, traveller’s thanks.

Walt Whitman.

January, 1888.

——:o:——

Now for the Parodies. The first is taken From Once a Week of twenty years ago, it is prefaced by the satirical announcement:—

“The following is supposed to be an original poem by Whitman:

I am Walt Whitman.

You are an idiot,

O, intellectual ingurtilations of creeds!

To such I am antiseptic.

I met a man

Where?

In a gutter. We were at once friends.

O homogeneities of cotemporaneous antiloxo-dromachy!

He would try to stand on his head. O divinely crapulent hysteron-proteron!

“Our meeting,” he said, is a palingenesis of Paradise; hast thou, O Philadelphian, hast thou eighteen pence?”

I embraced him—I wept, I have it not, I shrieked—or—

*  *  *  *  *

Whom do I love? Whom do I admire? Not two lounging in a carriage, but twelve bulging out of a cart.

I am not respectable. You are an idiot.

I am Walt Whitman.”

Once a Week. (London.) December 12, 1868.

---

Walt Whitman on Oxford.

I am Walt Whitman—who are you?

Who art thou, O brother of me, art thou an Englishman, Welshman, Styrian farmer, or Last of the Red Indians? Oh indescribable idiosyncracies! O, mighty grandeur of ratiocination!

I, Wall Whitman, I, the great I—ineffable I—I have been to Oxford!

O crumbling-ruinous monuments, O velvet-cloathed Proctorial espionage, I am an Americano, yet I am of you, I am you, you are me. Oh!

Yea, but the time all-democratic shall come, all will come to an end of this.

O, America! Libertad! thou shalt swallow up all. Oxford, thy days are gone, thou shalt cringe to Harvard.

O democracy! O my world-brother!

I am Walt Whitman! I have been to Oxford. I too am wise, I am learned.

I salute you! Je vous salue, Omnes! Omnes! I am a scholar.

Home of learning! Oxford, mingled up with the past, the Greek, the Roman, the Sanscrit, all these are thine. But there is America, there is Maine, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, [Massachusetts], Delaware.

Ah, Latitude 41°. Oh, Longitude 74°.

Ye are one! Red-skin and White-skin, Proctor and Bulldogs, Boden-scholar and Vice-Chancellor, ye are all one! O glory of interjections! Oh!

I am one—I am all! Who is the great poet but I?

I am Walt Whitman. You are a fool.

From The Shotover Papers. Oxford, May 16, 1874.

---

Home—Sweet Home.

(With Variations.)

You over there, young man with the guide book, red bound, covered flexibly with red linen.

Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you.

Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil’d hair; a garlickly look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote, or a King, or a toad-stool, or a ham sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world.

Where are you going?

You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice.

Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.

I, Walt, I call to you! I am all on deck. Come and loafe with me! Let me take you around by your elbow and show you things.

You listen to my ophicleide!

Home!

Home I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspired by the thought of home.

Come in! take a front seat. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

*  *  *  *  *

Part of a long parody, which appeared in Scribner’s Monthly. May, 1881.

---

This is a Poem.

I am the Poet of progress:

I sing the athletic life of the great University, the triumphs of the river, the apotheosis of muscle.

I sing the river, sluggish, opaque, sewage-breathing, but boat carrying,

I sing boating: the attempts of the beginner, the failures in feathering, the deep and jerky stroke, the play of the blades like the sails of the windmill, the frequent crab;

I sing the unsympathetic criticisms of the horny-handed denizens of the towing path, their laughter, profanity, and readiness in repartee;

I sing the toils of training; the troubles of regular exercise, the tired arms, legs, shoulders, neck and breastbone, the bothersome blister, the discomforts in diet, the unsatisfied craving for tobacco;

I sing the pleasures of boating, the joys of the practised oarsman.

I sing the excitement of the race.

The gun, the start, the flying banks, the encouraging shouts from the shore, the confused roar of the tow-path.

The swirl, the rush of the river, the frail ship shooting forward under the efforts of her oarsmen.

The crowd on the bank, the rush, the riot, the rattle, and the rumpus;

The bump, and the glory of the bumpers;

The bump, and the shame of the bumped.

*  *  *  *  *

From The Cambridge Meteor. No. 7. June 14, 1882. Fabb and Tyler, Cambridge.

---

Camerados.

Everywhere, everywhere, following me;

Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows;

Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;

Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;

Soothing me with a strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;

Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;

Denser than sycamore leaves when the north winds are scouring Paumanok;

What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing.

Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;

Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;

And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.

Whatever they want I give: though it be something else, they shall have it.

Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionaire,

And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same,

Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,

Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,

Everywhere listening to my yawp, and glad whenever they hear it;

Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:

Everywhere, everywhere.

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

---

A Parody from San Francisco.

I dump my soul and seek repose;

I lay oft in the shadow of the summer leaves and smoke Spanish;

I dump my soul and lay off—you’d better believe it.

I am the poet of filibusters, the poet of Kinney;[130]

But I do not refuse to be the poet of Walker also.

Yes, I am the poet of Kinney and of Walker, you may bet your life on it.

I could go to Nicaraqua and loll in my hammock,

I could go to a fandango and dance with negro beauties until I perspired very much,

Yes, sir-ee, I could indeed, and double!

I could eat tortillas and mark the dark-eyed quadroons making frijoles the greater part of the afternoon,

Well, I could.

I could fillibust the government, and make myself president,

And form a cabinet,

And do several things of that sort:—

I could do nothing shorter![131]

I could also colonize and do some agriculture,

And fix the flints of the natives,[132]

And help my countrymen to go in for their chances,

And make the King of the Musquitoes clean my boots,

And make him dance a reel for my enjoyment;

And I could come all sorts of gum games,[133]

Now mind I tell you.

---

The following are extracts from a very long parody which occurs in a curious book entitled “The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys,” by Richard Grant White. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1884. An edition of this work was also published by Sampson, Low & Co., London.

I happily myself.

I am considerable of a man. I am some. You also are some. We are all considerable, all are some.

Put all of you and all of me together, and agitate our particles by rubbing us up into eternal smash, and we should still be some.

No more than some, but no less.

Particularly some, some particularly, some in general, generally some, but always some, without mitigation. Distinctly, some!

O ensemble! O quelque-chose!

Some punkins, perhaps;

But perhaps squash,[134] long necked squash, crooked-necked squash, cucumber, beets, parsnips, carrots, turnips, white turnips, yellow turnips, or any sort of sass,[135] long sass or short sass, or potatoes, Men, Irish potatoes; women, sweet potatoes.

Yes, women.

I luxuriate in women,

They look at me, and my eyes start out of my head; they speak to me, and I yell with delight; they touch me, and the flesh crawls off my bones.

Women lie in wait for me, they do. Yes sir!

They rush upon me, seven women laying hold of one man; and the divine efflux that thrilled all living things before the nuptials of the Saurius, overflows, surrounds, and interpenetrates their souls, and they say, Walt, why don’t you come and see us? You know we’d be happy to have you.

O mes sœurs!

*  *  *  *  *

Libertad, and the divine average!

I tell you the truth, Salut!

I am not to be bluffed off. No, sir!

I am large, hairy, earthy, smell of the soil, am big in the shoulders, narrow in the flank, strong in the knees, and of an inquiring and communicative disposition.

Also instructive in my propensities, given to contemplation;

And able to lift anything that is not too heavy.

Listen to me, and I will do you good.

Loafe with me, and I will do you better.

And if any man gets ahead of me, he will find me after him.

Vale!

---

Who am I?

I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;—

Or otherwise!

Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!

Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh!

I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot!

Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.

We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine canons of the future!

We live for ever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer and babble—die!

Serve them right.

What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?

Start not! ’Tis no end man of a minstrel show who perpends this query;

’Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald;

No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram or other guess-work.

I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.

I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country.)

I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him.

He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first!

I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes, of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.

I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;

Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream.

I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem’s Antibilious Pills.

No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature’s poet.

I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails.

It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.

It is a great and a glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds!

And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman;

This must be so, for he says it himself.

There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun.

There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.

Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman.

Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name of Judy.

Judy. December 10, 1884.

---

Whitman in London.

Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison!

Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs;

I gaze at you; I, Walt, gaze at you through cracks in the black hoarding,

Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the advantages of moving on.

I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere.

I stand and inhale a playground, which in a week or two will be turned into a Post Office by Government orders!

Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted.

Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted, stamps will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed when the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so.

I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park soon to be devoured.

I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it.

I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it.

Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square! Oh , dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of old clothes’ shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the superannuated herring.

Are you going to see another House of Correction—a Postal one—built where the old one stood?

If so, it is I who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!

And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol!

What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with you?

Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there?

But why build anything?

Clerkenwell is mine: I am à propos of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is à propos of me.

Morally, if not legally, it is mine; morally it is yours as well, you wizened, pallid, blue-nozed, dunderheaded Metropolitan Citizen!

In this jungle of houses, what is wanted is fresh air.

Everyone of you toilers should be given the real “Freedom of the City,” by having free spaces bestowed on you.

It is better to learn how to expand the limbs, and play rounders, and leap over the frog, and fly kites,

Than to acquire in a school-room elementary education, consisting of algebra and Assyrian hieroglyphics, spelling, Greek, Italian, and advanced trigonometry.

Allons, then! Esperanza! Also cui bono! Go to your Home Secretary, your Postmaster in General, and tell them that no Post Office, or School, shall be built on this spot.

Because I, Walt, hailing hoarsely from Manhattan, have spotted it,

And Punch, the lustrous camerado, the ineffable dispensator, will spot it too!

Punch. September 3, 1887.

---

A Pension for Walt Whitman.

A prosaic bill, drawn up in the tiresome form of such measures, was introduced into the United States Congress in 1887, to give Walt Whitman a pension. He was a hospital nurse in the war, and earned such a recognition.

When the bill reaches the Senate, however, says the Boston Record, Senator Blair or some other poet, ought to substitute a bill couched in Whitmanese, somewhat as follows:—

“Be it enacted, solidified, plastered, pasted, nailed, tied, hem-stitched, and generally made invulnerable,

That Walt Whitman, bard, slinger of pronouns, server of mixed drinks in the form of verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs,

Be granted, allowed, made to swallow, consume, and digest the sum of dollars, ducats, promises to pay hereinafter mentioned, said, sung, and cast up.”

---

St. Smith of Utah (A.D. 1844.)

A song of the Far West,

A song of the Great Salt Lake, of Utah, Nauvoo, Jackson County, and the new Jerusalem.

Listen, individuals, communities, sects, nations;

I am (for this occasion only) a Transatlantic bard,

None of your smooth court-poets of worn-out Euròpian monarchies,

But a bird of the backwoods—a loud-throated warbler of the forest;

My inspiration is the breath of the boundless prairie; my mental food is the roll of the raging Atlantic.

Rhyme?—I scorn it. Metre?—Snakes and alligators! what is that to ME?

Libertad for ever! I intend to sing anyhow—and all-how, just as I tarnation please.

Universe, are you listening? very well, then; here goes, right away.

SMITH!!!!

Smith the Apostle!!!

Smith the Evangelist!!

Smith the Discoverer of the Book of Mormon!

His name was Joseph, and he was raised at Sharon, Windsor County, Vermont, U.S.

His parents were tillers of the soil—poor, but dishonest,

When they wanted money, they took it; horses, they boned them; sheep, they annexed them;

But saints may spring from sinners, as a butterfly springs from a maggot.

Angels! heavenly visions!!

In white robes, with crowns, harps, and everything according,

Bless’d the youthful Smith with their presence beatific.

He went into solitude, loafing in caves, backwoods, and lonely canyons.

Those angels meant business; thrice in one night they sought him.

They told him all his sins were liquidated,

Told him the history of the world (not according to Moses),

Told him the Red Injuns was one of the lost tribes of Israel;

Told him where to find the sacred book of the Prophet Mormon,

Told him to bring it out, and make a good “spec” of the business.

Leap, O my soul, every 22nd of September,

For on that date Smith found the sacred volume!

Eighteen-twenty-seven—a year to be remembered!!!

Sheets of tin, with characters antique engraven—

Such was the wondrous Book of Mormon.

From that prophet Smith profited, and became a prophet also.

Mahomet, Brahma, Buddha, Confucius—Smith surpassed them all.

Getting behind a screen, he dictated to Oliver Cowdrey

(Smith was not a literatus, and couldn’t have jerk’d it grammatically).

In eighteen-thirty, hurrah! the glorious Book was publish’d.

But carping critics of orthodoxy murmured “fraud!” and “humbug!”

“Where’s your authority? Show us the original!”

Smith disdained to do so; he and his friends had seen it,

But nobody else has seen it, nor will they see it forever.

Yet did Smith triumph, and gathered in converts like hay in the sunshine.

Virtue will ever prevail, as long as the world circumvolvulates on its axis.

Huzza for the New Jerusalem!

At Kirtland, Ohio, Smith with his Saints located,

Till, in March, ’32, there came a band of Nonconformists,

Seized Joseph the Saint, and Rigdon his mate, and gave them tar and feathers!

O my soul, boil, boil like a potato with indignation!

From county to county, and state to state, for years the Mormons were driven,

Sometimes camping out ’neath the snow-cold stars of winter.

At last they found a resting place—Clay county, in Missouri.

Thither came Brigham Young—at that time Brigham Younger.

Smith sent him out to bring to grace those sceptical down-easters,

Whilst Orson Pratt and Heber C. Kimball were missionaries in Europe.

In this world banks will break, and promoters be call’d swindlers:

This was the luck of Smith and his saintly companions—

Lo! the bank of Kirtland busted, the Mormons were clapp’d in prison,

Not long afterwards they received this heavenly revelation—

“Missouri’s too hot to hold you”—they “vamoused the ranche,” according.

O, Nauvoo, city of Beauty!

Land of delight, fertility, promise, and blossoming realizations!

When I beheld thee my soul was enthrall’d, and danced a spirited can-can. Thither came 15,000 saints, and squatted in glory,

And the desert blossom’d as the rose, beneath the smile of Smith.

He preach’d the gospel, and got up a government-house and militia,

Was mayor of the town, high priest, and commander-in-chief of the army;

O, gloria! triumph! bravo! hosannah! huzza! halleluiah!

(These are the words of a soul jumping out of its skin with felicity.)

Once more “revelation” came, and spake unto Smith the prophet.

“The relation between man and woman is not only social but spiritual.

The social is bounded by two, the spiritual knows of no limit;

Wherefore, O Smith, you may take what number of wives you think proper,

Sanctifying them by sacred mysterious ‘sealings.’”

(Reader, seekest thou further to know, then go and consult Hepworth Dixon.)

But the cold hard world disapproved of spiritual marriage;

War rose up against Smith, and again, with his mates, he was cast into prison,

“Revelation” helped them no more; no, nor did angels assist them;

But a gang of rowdies (A.D. 1844) broke into the prison,

Haul’d out Joseph Smith and his brother Hyram,

And with their too-true revolvers they sent them both to glory!

Sinners make martyrs, and martyrs make saints (this is logic.)

Smith was a martyr, and mourned by the Mormons according,

Especially Brigham Young, who came in for his fortune and fixtures.

In 1850 they established the Salt Lake City,

And two years later another great “revelation” set up spiritual wifehood, the glorious cause that Smith died for.

Thus, like a beautiful tree, grew up the doctrine of spiritual marriage,

Monogamy, bigamy, trigamy, quadrigamy, quinquigamy, and lastly polygamy—

Till, if you ask me, “How many wives has Brigham?”

I shall answer, “Go, count the waves of the boundless Atlantic!”

They made Smith a saint—a boss saint—and was he not worthy?

Far more than the worn-out Saints of your rotten Eurôpian Kingdoms!

Bully for Joseph! my eyes fill with tears; don’t yours?

I admire Joe Smith—I du—I’ll wrap up his memory in lavender,

And if you love me, reader (as I’m sure you cannot help it),

Go thou and do likewise.

Mourn for Smith; mourn, mourn, ye peoples!

O songsters, bards of all times, climes, regions, and generations,

O warblers, tenori, bassi, contralti, and mezzi-soprani,

O Christian men of every land and language,

O kings, priests, presidents, khans, kaisers, and subjects.

O infinitively diversified inhabitants of this revolving kosmos,

Sing, and sing, and sing, and keep on singing his honour and glory,

Echo and re-echo for ever the name of Joe Smith, boss Saint of the Mormons!

From Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke, author of “Songs of Singularity,” “Rhoda,” etc. London, Vizetelly and Co.

---

“Poem of the Ride. A parody-mosaic, by Walt Wheelman,” is the title of a long parody relating to bicycling, contained in Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton, Boston, U.S. 1880.

Pods of Pease, a parody of Whitman, occurs on p. 24 of Rejected Tercentenary Songs published in Edinburgh in 1884, to celebrate the Tercentenary of the Edinburgh University:

“And I ask, wherefore all this merry-making, this eating and drinking?

And they tell me it is the three hundredth year of the University,

And so it is.”

---

A Mad Parson, a short prose story by Julian Sturgis, appeared in Longman’s Magazine, April, 1884. The parson in question is a kind of Walt Whitman in Holy orders, and his intensely democratic speeches are comical parodies of Whitman’s poetry, but they cannot well be separated from the context. Then there comes upon the scene a wicked wit who mimics the well-meaning parson, and he out-Herods Herod:—

Covent Garden Market.

Onions, potatoes, carrots, turnips, parsnips, asparagus French and English (O bon jour, French asparagus my brother!)

Good vegetables and bad musty vegetables!

Good sellers and bad musty sellers!

I devour the bad musty vegetables.

O bouquets for misses, and for opera girls!

Empty waggons and full waggons, empty baskets and full baskets, empty people and full people!

O Covent Garden Market!

O dirt and smell and slime indescribable! I describe you all, I love you all, I wallow in you all. I too am a vegetable. I am likewise an animal and an angel.

Cool and sweet is the dewy grass, and the shore of the sea. Cool and sweet is the crowded London street.

I strip myself naked in the grass, on the shore of the sea, in the crowded street. I am free and naked; the policemen run me in.

Them also do I call brothers!

“SHERIDAN’S RIDE.”

Towards the close of the great Civil War, the United States General Sheridan made a movement against the Southern troops under the command of General Early, in the Shenandoah Valley. Sheridan wasted the valley, and broke Early all to pieces in a great battle, for which General Grant ordered a salute of a hundred guns. But soon Early, reinforced by Longstreet, was ready to move against the intruder in overwhelming force. The movement was a surprise. Sheridan had been absent at Washington, and he was returning to his post, when he met the whole army running towards him in panic and rout. Then began the famous “ride” from Winchester to the front. Deploying his cavalry across the valley to stop the first stragglers, he dashed forward with a handful of men right through his own beaten force towards the victorious foe. As he met each flying regiment he ordered the men to turn about, reminding them that, while they were making excellent progress, they were “going the wrong way.” His desperate energy, and his bon mot together, saved the battle, and turned the rout into a victory.

General Philip Sheridan was born in Ireland, in March, 1831, and died at Nonquit, Massachusetts, on Sunday, August 5, 1888.

Up from the south at break of day,

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,

The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door,

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,

Telling the battle was on once more—

And Sheridan twenty miles away!

And wilder still those billows of war,

Thundered along the horizon’s bar;

And louder yet into Winchester rolled

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,

Making the blood of the listener cold—

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,

With Sheridan twenty miles away!

But there is a road from Winchester town,

A good, broad highway leading down;

And there, through the flash of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night,

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;

As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with the utmost speed;

Hills rose and fell—but his heart was gay,

With Sheridan fifteen miles away!

Still spring from these swift hoof? thundering south.

The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth,

Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster;

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster:

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master,

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls:

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away!

Under his spurning feet, the road

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed;

And the landscape sped away behind

Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,

Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire:

But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire—

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away!

The first that the General saw, were the groups

Of stragglers, and then, the retreating troops!

What was done—what to do—a glance told him both,

And striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line ’mid a storm of huzzahs,

And the wave of retreat checked its course there,

Because the sight of the master compelled it to pause,

With foam and with dust the black charger was grey:

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril’s play,

He seemed to the whole great army to say,

“I have brought you Sheridan, all the way

From Winchester down to save the day!”

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Sheridan!

Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high

Under the dome of the Union sky,

The American soldier’s Temple of Fame,—

There with the glorious general’s name,

Be it said in letters both gold and bright:

“Here is the steed that saved the day

By carrying Sheridan into the fight,

From Winchester—twenty miles away!”

Thomas Buchanan Read.

---

Schlosser’s Ride.

Righd from der front one putiful day,

Bringin’ der rear some fresh dismay,

A frightened sendinel broughd der news

(He looked as if he vas scared like der doose,

Der vay he kigged his legs so loose).

Delling der rebels were coming aheadt,

“Und shooding like hell,” dot’s vot he said.

De gallant soldiers, I haf no doubd,

Ad dis schweed news mid joy should shoud,

Bud as der news vas spread aboud,

Do dell der druth, dey looked down in der moud;

Exbecially von boor Dutchman dere,

Who, when he heard der guns in der air,

Almost did durn himself gray hair.

Pore Schlosser didn’t like id ad all,

Do gid himself gud mit a cannon-ball.

Und dalk as you may, dot Dutchman vas righd—

In a baddle its petter do bin oud of sighd;

Do been shod und exploded dot ain’t much fun,

So long as you hafe any chance for do run,

Und as dose shells did bust around,

Und knocked der soldiers on der ground,

Exbloding mit a gentle sound,

Dot Schlosser quick made ub his mind,

De first goot horse dot he should find,

He’d ride avay as quick as der vind,

Und leaf de baddle far behint.

Und soon he finds him a schblendid horse,

Und climbs on him midoud some pause;

Den shburs his side mid his big heel,

Und gallobs from der battle-field.

Dere is a road righd near dot schbot,

A first-rate road for a horse do drot,

Und dere dot frightened Schlosser rides,

Und kigs der poor horse in der sides,

Und shcreams so much at him besides;

Der drees, der road dey bass like a schot.

Fadigue and exposure dot cubble feel not,

Dey vish do get only avay from dot schbot.

Doo-forty dot hot horse he goes flyin’ avay;

Der hills rise and fall, und Schlosser is gay,

’Cause he is more as fife miles avay.

Shdill der hoofs of dot old nag

For efen a minute did never lag;

He shtrained him efery sdhrength he got,

Und Schlosser, as he on him sot,

Vas heard to laugh in a cholly vay,

’Cause now he vas ten miles avay.

Und sdhill old Schlosser pushed him aheadt,

“I feel quite bedder now,” he said,

Und his face god back ids natural red;

But nod a minute did he stay,

Und soon he was dwenty miles avay.

So goot dot horse his duty done,

Dot pefore der setting of der sun,

He carried his rider—dat son of a gun—

Away from der sount of any gun.

Und ven dot baddle vos at ids dop,

Und de swords mit awful noise did pop,

Und de ground mit heldy blood did sop,

Dot Schlosser as he rode along,

He singed himself a funny song.

He vasn’d dinkin’ ’boud der fray—

He vas more as a hundred miles avay,

Dree cheers! dree cheers! for Schlosser, bold.

Four cheers! four cheers! for dot horse so old.

There is another parody, also in the Dutch patois, entitled Schneider’s Ride, it relates how Schneider saved his contraband whiskey from the revenue officers. It does not follow the original very closely, and is not of sufficient interest to be inserted here.

——:o:——

Read, an artist as well as a poet, first came into notice as the author of several sweet and graceful lyrics. His best poems are those which have a pastoral character, of which the following, taken From The Diversions of the Echo Club, is an imitation:—

A Sylvan Scene.

The moon, a reaper of the ripened stars,

Held out her silver sickle in the west;

I leaned against the shadowy pasture-bars,

A hermit, with a burden in my breast.

The lilies leaned beside me as I stood;

The lilied heifers gleamed beneath the shed;

And spirits from the high ancestral wood

Cast their articulate benisons on my head.

The twilight oriole sang her valentine

From pendulous nests above the stable-sill,

And, like a beggar, asking alms and wine,

Came the importunate murmur of the mill.

Love threw his flying shuttle through my woof,

And made the web a pattern I abhorred;

Wherefore alone I sang, and far aloof,

My melting melodies, mightier than the sword.

The white-sleeved mowers, coming slowly home,

With scythes like rainbows on their shoulders hung,

Sniffed not, in passing me, the scent of Rome,

Nor heard the music trickling from my tongue.

The milkmaid following, delayed her step,

Still singing as she left the stable-yard:

’Twas “Sheridan’s Ride,” she sang; I turned and wept,

For woman’s homage soothes the suffering bard.

SONG.

Trust not man for he’ll deceive you,

Treach’ry is his sole intent;

For he’ll court you, then he’ll leave you

Poor, deluded, to lament.

Formed by nature to undo us,

They escape our utmost heed,

Oh! how humble when they woo us,

But how proud when they succeed.

So the Bird when once deluded

By the fowler’s artful snare,

Pines out life, in cage secluded,

Fair ones, while you’re young, beware!

---

A Parody.

Trust not woman, she’ll beguile you,

All her smiles are form’d by Art,

First she’ll flatter, then exile you,

Sighing with a broken heart!

Form’d by nature to pursue us,

They outstrip the fleetest men;

Ah! how sweet they bill and coo us,

But how proud they triumph then!

So the fish the bait admiring,

On the angler’s fatal snare,

Gasps out life, in pangs expiring!

Lovers, of the hook beware!

From The American Songster. About 1770.

——:o:——

TEMPTATION AND EXPLANATION.

I just buttoned her glove,

And her dress had no sleeve

You will blame me my Love;

But I beg you believe—

That—(just what I can’t prove),

But her dress had no sleeve,

And she made some slight move

And then—prithee sweet dove

Do not let yourself grieve.

For my heart did not rove

Though my wits all took leave,

By this mark of her glove

On my cheek you perceive

That—her dress had no sleeve.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

---

A Newspaper Parody.

I just buckled the tug

And the whiffle tree fixed,

You will blame me, my love,

But I’m still somewhat mixed,

And (next week I can move).

The blamed whiffle tree’s fixed,

The mule made a slight move

And then—prithee sweet dove

Bring the arnica here,

I went sailing above

Through the ether so clear.

By this mark of his hoof

On my cheek you will know

That—the bay mule must go.

YOU KISSED ME.

You kissed me! My forehead drooped low on your breast

With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,

While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak

Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek;

Your arms held me fast, oh! your arms were so bold;

Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold.

Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes,

As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies;

And your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss

They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss.

You kissed me! My heart and my breath and my will

In delirious joy for the moment stood still;

Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,

No visions of pleasure, outside of your arms.

And were I this instant an angel possessed

Of the joy and the peace that are given the blest,

I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,

And tear from my forehead the beautiful crown,

To nestle once more in that haven of rest,

With your lips upon mine, and my head on your breast.

You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine

Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine;

And I thought ’twere delicious to die there, if death

Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath;

’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold

While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold,

And these are the questions I ask day and night:

Must my lips taste but once such exquisite delight?

Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then,

And if you were here would you kiss me again?

Josephine Hunt (Chicago Tribune.)

In publishing this a few years ago, the New York Tribune said, “The above exquisite poem was written in 1857, when the young lady, the author, was under 20. It was addressed to a certain young gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. James Redpath thought so well of the poem that he published quite an edition on white satin ribbon. Whittier, the poet, wrote of it and its young author, that she had ‘mastered the secret of English rhythm.’”

Thereupon the “bad man” of the Chicago Tribune broke out as follows:—

You kicked me! my head dropped low on my vest

With a feeling as if I would like to go west,

While the cock-and-bull story about my rich love

For your daughter—my Mabel, had flown like a dove.

Your fist held me fast—oh, my back was so cold;

Boot beat against pants, and each hearty kick told.

Your boot toe seemed knocking my spine through my eyes,

As the White Stocking boys knock the sky scraping flies.

Your foot clung to me till I prayed you might miss

Me just once, and your corn ’gainst the table leg kiss.

You missed me! my heart and my breath and my will

In delirious joy for a moment stood still,

Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,

No visions of happiness, outside of your arms,

And were I this instant an angel possessed

Of the peace and the joy that are given the blest,

I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,

I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown,

To listen once more to that old man’s wild whoop,

As he basted his bunion out on the front stoop.

“The above exquisite poem was written in 1881, when the author was a young man under 30. It was addressed to a certain old gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. A Chicago editor thought so well of the poem that he once published quite an edition on wood pulp paper. Whittier the poet wrote of it, and its young author, that ‘he had evidently been there.’”

The same “bad man” quotes, on another occasion, without giving the author’s name, the following lines:—

Falling leaf and fading tree

Lines of white in a sullen sea,

Shadows rising o’er you and me,

The swallows are making them ready to fly

Wheeling out on a windy sky;

Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye.

“Hush,” a voice from the far away,

“Listen and learn,” it seemed to say

“All the to-morrows shall be as to-day,

The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry,

The link must break and the lamp must die,

Then good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye.”

“What are we waiting for, oh my heart?

Kiss me straight on the brows and part

Again! Again! My heart! My heart!

What are we waiting for you and I?

A pleading look, a stifled cry,

Then good-bye, friend, good-bye, good-bye.”

After which followed this parody.

Easy chair and soft young man,

Lovely girl on his kneepan.

Let him hold her while he can.

Her father is taking the chain off the pup,

On Tommy’s pants he will shortly sup;

Get up Myrtle! get up, get up.

“Biff,” a voice from the far away,

“Over the gate,” it seemed to say;

“Come round to-morrow the bill to pay.”

The dog is hungry, the moon is pale,

God help the boy if the trousers fail,

Set sail, Tommy, set sail, set sail.

“What is he waiting for, O, my heart?

Why don’t he get another start?

Again! Again! My heart! My heart!

What are you waiting for Tommy dear?

Get up and hustle, the coast is clear;

Some day that front gate will be his bier.”

——:o:——

“THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.”

Harper’s Cyclopædia of Poetry says Clement C. Moore (1779-1863) was the son of a bishop, and a native of New York City. In 1844 he published a volume of poems dedicated to his children. One of them, founded on an old Dutch tradition, is generally known as “The Night before Christmas,” although the author christened it “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar plums danced through their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;

When, what to my wondering eyes did appear

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nic.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer! and Vixen!

On Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too,

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry,

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly,

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

---

The Night after Christmas.

’Twas the night after Christmas when all through the house,

Every soul was abed and as still as a mouse,

Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas’ care

We emptied of all that was eatable there,

The darlings had lately been tucked in their beds

With very full stomachs, and pain in their heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,

And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,

When out in the nuss’ry arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my sleep, crying, “What is the matter?”

I flew to each bedside—still half in a doze—

Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes,

While the light of the taper served clearly to show

The piteous plight of those objects below.

For what to the fond father’s eyes should appear

But the little pale face of each sick little dear,

For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick

I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.

I turned from the sight, to my bedroom stepped back,

And brought out a vial marked “Pulv. Ipecac,”

When my Nancy exclaimed—for their sufferings shocked her—

“Don’t you think you had better, love, run for the doctor!”

I ran, and was scarcely back under my roof,

When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalop’s hoof.

I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,

When the doctor came into the room with a bound;

He was covered with mud from his head to his foot,

And the suit he had on was his very worst suit,

He had hardly had time to put this on his back,

And he looked like a Falstaff half fuddled with sack.

His eyes how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry?

His cheeks looked like Port, and his breath smelt of Sherry.

He had’nt been shaved for a fortnight or so,

And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as the snow.

But inspecting their tongues in despite of their teeth,

And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath,

He felt of each pulse,—saying—“Each little belly

Must get rid”—here he laughed—“of the rest of that jelly.”

I gazed on each chubby plump sick little elf,

And groaned when he said so—in spite of myself,

But a wink of his eye when he physicked our Fred,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He didn’t prescribe, but went straightway to work,

He dosed all the rest; gave his trousers a jerk,

And adding directions while blowing his nose,

He buttoned his coat; from his chair he arose,

Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalop a whistle,

And Jalop dashed off as if pricked by a thistle;

The doctor exclaimed e’er he drove out of sight,

“They’ll be better to-morrow—good night, Jones—good night!”

——:o:——

“THE PICKET GUARD.”

An American gentleman writes, that “one of the finest of the war productions was Thad Oliver’s, ‘The Picket Guard.’ I send the enclosed copy of it, as it may not be at hand for you, and the parody takes hold of all of us who have ever had experience in broken banks, and know how convenient Canada is.”

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,

“Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

’Tis nothing: a private or two now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost—only one of the men,

Moaning out all alone the death rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon,

Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle light wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;

While stars up above with their glittering eyes

Keep guard,—for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,—

For their mother,—may Heaven defend her.

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night when the love yet unspoken,

Leaped up to his lips,—when low murmured vows,

Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree—

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary good-bye!”

And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,

The picket’s off duty for ever.

Thad Oliver.

---

Along the St. Lawrence.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,

Except now and then a cashier

Is seen as he crosses with gripsack in hand

And imagines a cop in the rear.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,

No sound save the rush of the water,

While amateur warriors curled up in bed,

Are dreaming of horrible slaughter.

“All hail to this snow-covered alien shore,”

Quoth the boodler, disporting a plug;

“Far better the sweep of the boreal blast

Than a bed in the circumscribed jug.

“But, alas! for the fellows who lingered too late;

We think of them ever with pain,

For they lost the rich spoils of municipal war

By waiting too late for the train.”

Was it the moonbeam so suddenly bright?

The starlight so wondrously flashing?

Ah, no: ’twas the glint of the glimmering glass,

And the cocktail is ebbing and splashing.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,

Though the cashier is crossing for ever;

While depositors rush on the bank which he left,

He draws on the bank of the river.

From The New York World.

——:o:——

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I hafe got a leedle boy

Vot gomes schust to my knee;

Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue

As efer you dit see;

He runs and jumps, und smashes dings

In all parts of der house—

But what of dot? he vas mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,

Und eferyding dots out;

He spills mine glass of lager beer,

Puts schnuff into mine kraut;

He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese—

Dot vas der roughest chouse;

I’d dake dot vrom no oder boy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk pan for a dhrum,

Und cuts mine cane in dwo,

To make der sthicks to beat it mit—

Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine head vas schplit apart,

He kicks up such a touse—

But never mind, der boys vas few

Like dot leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:

Who baints my nose so red?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoot blace out

Vrom der hair upon mine head?

Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp

Vene’er der glim I douse—

How gan I all dese dings eggsblain

To dot shmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild

Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,

Und beaceful dimes enshoy;

But ven he vas aschleep in ped

So quiet as a mouse,

I brays der Lord, “Dake anydings,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

Charles F. Adams.

---

Leedle Eduard Strauss.

They haf von very clever man

At der Inventorees.

To see him schust conduct der band,

Dats sometings if you please.

He hops und schumps und marks der time,

Und shows such taste and nous,

Dat dere’s to equal him no vun,

Mine clever Eduard Strauss!

He fills our ears mit lofely sounds,

Applause “brings down der house,”

Dat happens to feu uder poys,

But leedle Eduard Strauss.

He dakes der viddle in his hands,

Und he schust blay it, too!

He dake der schtick to beat der time

Mine gracious, dot vos drue.

His band blays not too loud nor zoft,

It kicks not up a touse,

Oh, peutiful! der schaps are few

Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Und ven der beeble hear dot band

Dey at each oder glance,

Den vag deir heads, den move deir veet,

Und vish dot dey might dance.

Und ven dey blay der “Danube Blue,”

Vich vos vor an encore,

Dey velcome it as zomtings new,

Und call vor it vunce more.

Der beeble listen as dey blay

As guiet as a mouse,

Dere’s none vor dance tunes any day

Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Punch. June 13, 1885.

——:o:——

THE LESSONS OF THE BIRDS.

What is that, mother? The lark my child!

The morn has but just looked out and smiled,

When he starts from his humble grassy nest,

And is up and away, with the dew on his breast

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,

To warble it out in his maker’s ear.

Ever my child, be thy morn’s first lays

Tuned, like the larks, to thy maker’s praise.

*  *  *  *  *

What is that, mother? The Swan, my love!

He is floating down from his native grove:

No loved one now, no nestling nigh,—

He is floating down, by himself, to die!

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,

Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings,

Live so, my son, that when death shall come,

Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

G. W. Doane.

---

What is that, Mother?

“What is that, mother, that comes from the urn,

Fragrant and strong as we get it in turn?”

“An infusion of leaves from far Cathay,

Leaves of the alder, and leaves of the bay,

With a twang, and full flavoured, just as it should be,

And I think that there may be some leaves of the tea.”

“What is that, mother, so coldly blue,

Like a wintry sky of azure hue?”

“That is milk of the city, that mixture, my dear,

The milk of the chalk-pit and pump that is near,

That would not be owned by a sensible cow,

For she never could make it, she wouldn’t know how.”

“What is that, mother, yellow as gold?”

“Butter, my boy; not the butter of old.

In the hey-day of youth we said tit for tat,

’Twas a prophecy when we said butter for fat;

That is butter, to those whom the scoffer calls green,

To the elect it is oleomargarine.”

“What is that, mother? ’Tis the pepper of trade,

But the Lord only knows of what it is made;

Of roasted meal, of dust, and peas

With a dash of cayenne, to make one sneeze

It is hot and strong, but it’s rather queer,

Of the ground pepper-corn, there is none of it here.

E. Lawson Finerty.

——:o:——

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

In the early part of the American civil war, one dark morning in the dead of winter, there died at the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young woman over whose head only two-and-twenty summers had passed. Once the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the “same old story over again,” which has been the only life-history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone in the best of Society. But the evil hour that proved her ruin was but the door from childhood; and having spent a young life in disgrace and shame, the poor friendless one died the melancholy death of a broken-hearted outcast.

Among her personal effects was found in manuscript, the “Beautiful Snow,” which was seen by Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes, who was at that time editor of the National Union. In the columns of that paper, on the morning following the girl’s death, the poem appeared in print for the first time. When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body of the victim had not yet received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchanan Read, one of the first American poets, was soon directed to the newly-published lines, who was so taken with their stirring pathos that he followed the corpse to its final resting-place.

The above account of the origin of the poem is that given by Mr. James Hogg, as far back as 1874, and repeated by him in the columns of “Notes and Queries” on July 3, 1875, but it is open to considerable doubt.

Some American writers ascribe it to Mr. James M. Watson, whilst others assert that it was written as far back as December, 1852, by Major W. A. Sigourney, and that his erring young wife was the miserable outcast described in the poem. It is also stated that on the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself.

It is possible that Mr. Watson amplified and improved the poem from the original draft of Major Sigourney, which as usually printed, is shorter and far less pathetic.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

Filling the sky and the earth below;

Over the house-tops, over the street,

Over the heads of the people you meet:

Dancing—Flirting—Skimming along.

Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong;

Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek,

Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak;

Beautiful snow from the heavens above—

Pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,

Whirling about in their maddening fun;

It plays in its glee with everyone—

Chasing—Laughing—Hurrying by.

It lights on the face, and sparkles the eye.

And the dogs, with a bark and a bound,

Snap at the crystals as they eddy around;

The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,

To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How wildly the crowd goes swaying along,

Hailing each other with humour and song!

How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,

Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!

Ringing—Swinging—Dashing they go,

Over the crust of the beautiful snow—

Snow so pure when it falls from the sky

As to make one regret to see it lie,

To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet,

Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell—

Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell

Fell to be trampled as filth in the street—

Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat—

Pleading—Cursing—Dreading to die,

Selling my soul to whoever would buy;

Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,

Hating the living and fearing the dead,

Merciful God, have I fallen so low?

And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,

With an eye like its crystal, and heart like its glow:

Once I was loved for my innocent grace—

Flattered and sought for the charms of my face!

Father—Mother—Sisters, and all,

God and myself I have lost by my fall;

The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,

Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;

For all that is on or above me I know,

There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow,

Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!

How strange it should be when the night comes again,

If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!

Fainting—Freezing—-Dying alone.

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan,

To be heard in the streets of the crazy town.

Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down

To lie and to die in my terrible woe,

With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow,

Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low

To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin,

And raise it to life and enjoyment again.

Groaning—Bleeding—Dying for thee.

The Crucified hung on the accursed tree.

His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear—

“Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my prayer?”

O God, in the stream that for sinners doth flow,

Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Beautiful Snow.

The following is the version ascribed to Major Sigourney:—

Beautiful Snow! Beautiful snow!

Falling so lightly,

Daily and nightly,

Alike round the dwellings of lofty and low.

Horses are prancing,

Cherrily dancing,

Stirred by the spirit that comes from the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!

Up at the dawning,

In the cold morning,

Children exult, though the winds fiercely blow;

Hailing the snow-flakes

Falling as day breaks—

Joyful they welcome the beautiful snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!

Childhood’s quick glances

See the bright fancies

Decking the window-panes softly and slow;

Forest and city,

Figure so pretty,

Left by the magical fingers of snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!

Atmosphere chilling,

Carriage-wheels stilling,

Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow

Of Christian pity

For the great city

Of wretched creatures who starve ’mid the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!

Fierce winds blowing,

Thickly ’tis snowing;

Night gathers round us—how warm then the glow

Of the fire so bright,

On the cold winter night,

As we draw in the curtains to shut out the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!

Round the bright fireside,

In the long eventide,

Closely we gather though keen the winds blow;

Safely defended,

Kindly befriended,

Pity the homeless exposed to the cold, icy snow.

December, 1852.

---

London Snow.

O, the snow! the beautiful snow!

Feathering down to the ground below.

Snow on the pavement, and snow on the street,

Snow on the boots of the people you meet.

Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!—no!

Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow;

Nothing to go by and nowhere to go,

All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush!

Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush,

Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet,

Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat.

Into town—into country—wherever you rush

Nothing to-day but ineffable slush:

Bedraggled merino, and velvet, and plush,

Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.

The Globe. January, 28, 1886.

That Beautiful Kiss.

When Madame Patti was in St. Louis, U.S., in 1884, the then Governor, Mr. T. T. Crittenden, called upon her, and during some playful badinage, he kissed her. The newspapers got hold of the story and humourously enlarged upon it, one of them published the following parody, wickedly ascribing it to the Governor:—

Oh, that kiss! that beautiful kiss!

Filling and thrilling my lips with its bliss;

Reaching ’way down to the depths of my soul,

Voting early and often at joys inmost poll,

O, transport ecstatic! O rapture I hail

More pleasant than pardoning crooks out of jail,

Throbbing,

Sense robbing,

Oh bountiful bliss,

I’d yield my political hopes for that kiss!

Once I was pure as that beautiful kiss,

But that was several years before this—

In the years ere executive honors o’er snowed

The spot whereon ringlets of raven once growed,

Ere I sainted that Bourbon, the good Jesse James,

And saved brother Frank from the high scaffolds claims.

Jobbery,

Snobbery,

All I’d eschew,

For the ravishing moment I snatched kiss from you.

O that kiss! that staccato-like thud!

Sound as when cow pulls her hoof from the mud.

Nicolini stood by, but I cared not a whit

For him, or the fury of bold Mrs. Crit,

I let all ambitions bright hopes float in wrack,

Away on the wings of that one luscious smack,

That old houri,

Missouri,

For me holds no bliss

One half so entrancing as that Patti kiss.

It could scarcely have been the same newspaper writer who wrote the following unfavourable criticism upon Madame Patti’s singing: “Her technique is bad, besides being too small. When a bran-new technique can now be had for three dollars, and a good second-hand one, holding over two quarts, for $1.75, there is no excuse for this. Of course we all know—all we critics—that there are no tears in Mrs. A. Patti’s voice, which is the reason for her having to wet her whistle so early and often. There is a marked deficiency in breadth, and depth, and thickness in the upper register, which does not admit the air freely in consequence, and a far-off nearness, a sort of inanimate after-taste, so to speak, in the diminuendo of her flats, particularly her French flat. Her singular mannerism of holding her chin lopsided during her G ups is in bad form, and the first thing she knows, one of her sharps will come out edgeways and cut her throat. Then she opens her mouth too much and too often when she sings, which makes her chest-notes mouthy, and her mouth-notes chesty. It would be much better, to say nothing of more artistic, if she were to open only one side of her mouth at a time. This would save wear and tear of her teeth, and at the same time give the other corner time to rest and brace up. She exerts herself too much in her trills, and it would save her both breath and expense if she had them hereafter done behind the scenes, by a boy with a dog-whistle or something.”

——:o:——

HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;

Dey had biano-blayin;

I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,

Her name was Madilda Yane.

She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,

Her eyes vas himmel-plue,

Und vhen day looket indo mine,

Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

I vent dere you’ll pe pound;

I valizet mit Madilda Yane,

Und vent shpinnen’ round and round.

De pootiest Fraulein in de house,

She vayed ’pout dwo hoondred pound,

Und efery dime she gife a shoomp

She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

I dells you it cost him dear;

Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks

Of foost-rate lager beer.

Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in

De Deutschers gifes a cheer;

I dinks dat so vine a barty

Never coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;

Dere all was Souse and Brouse,

Vhen de sooper corned in, de gompany

Did make demselfs to house;

Dey ate das Brot and Gensybroost,

De Bratwurst and Braten vine,

Und vash der Abendessen down

Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;

Ve all cot troonk ash bigs;

I put mine mout’ to a parrel of beer,

Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;

Und den I gissed Madilda Yane,

Und she shlog me on the kop,

Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks

Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty—

Where ish dat barty now?

Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud

Dat float on de moundain’s prow?

Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern—

De shtar of de shpirit’s light?

All goned afay mit de lager beer—

Afay in de ewigkeit!

Charles Godfrey Leland.

---

The Fate of the Four.

Lord Woodcock[136] had a Party,

Of high heroic strain;

They held that the Liberal lot were naught,

And Gladstone’s vauntings vain.

They had principles of the patriot type,

True Neo-Tory Blue,

And when in muster full they met,

They numbered—just twice two!

Lord Woodcock had a Party;

Those Four were ever found

In the deadly breach with vote and speech,

When the word for fight went round;

The cockiest four in all the House,

There was Balfour, Wolff, and Gorst,

When Woodcock led those three to war,

Their foes might dread the worst.

*  *  *  *  *

Lord Woodcock had a Party,—

Where is that Party now?

Where is the hyacynthin crop

That decked young Dizzy’s brow?

Where is Adullam? Where Bob Lowe,

That star of free-lance fight?

All gone with the flash of yesterday’s “fizz,”

Away “in the ewigkeit.”

Punch. March 5, 1881.

---

The Fate of the Frontiersman.

After Joaquin Miller, an exaggeration of an exaggeration, for indeed much of Miller’s verse is a travesty of poetry.

That whiskey-jug! For dry or wet,

My tale will need its help, you bet!

We made for the desert, she and I,

Though life was loathsome, and love a lie,

And she gazed on me with her glorious eye,

But all the same,—I let her die!

For why?—there was barely water for one

In the small canteen, and of provender, none!

A splendid snake, with an emerald scale,

Slid before us along the trail,

With a famished parrot pecking its head;

And, seizing a huge and dark brown rock

In her dark brown hands, as you crush a crock,

With the dark brown rock she crushed it dead.

But ere her teeth in its flesh could meet,

I laid her as dead as the snake at my feet,

And grabbed the snake for myself to eat.

The plain stretched wide from side to side,

As bare and blistered and cracked and dried

As a moccasin sole of buffalo hide,

And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail,

My blood in a sizzle, my muscles dry,

A crimson glare in my glorious eye,

And I felt my sinews wither and fail,

Like one who has lavished, for fifty nights,

His pile in a hell of gambling delights,

And is kicked at dawn, from bottle and bed,

And sent to the gulches without a red.

There was no penguin to pick or pluck,

No armadillo’s throat to be stuck,

Not even a bilberry’s ball of blue

To slush my tongue with its indigo dew,

And the dry brown palm-trees rattled and roared

Like the swish and swizzle of Walker’s sword.

I was nigh rubbed out; when, far away,

A shanty baked in the furnace of day,

And I petered on, for an hour or more,

Till I dropped, like a mangy hound, at the door.

No soul to be seen; but a basin stood

On the bench, with a mess of dubious food,

Stringy and doughy and lumpy and thick,

As the clay ere flame has turned it to brick.

I gobbled it up with a furious fire,

A prairie squall of hungry desire,

And strength came back; when, lo! a scream

Closed my stomach and burst my dream.

She stood before me, as lithe and tall

As a mosqueet-bush on the Pimos wall,

Fierce as the Zuni panther’s leap,

Fair as the slim Apache sheep.

A lariat draped her broad brown hips,

As she stood and glared with parted lips,

While piercing stitches and maddening shoots

Ran through my body, from brain to boots.

I would have clasped her, but ere I could,

She flung back her hair’s tempestuous hood,

And screamed, in a voice like a tiger-cat’s:

“You’ve gone and ett up my pizen for rats!”

My blood grew limp and my hair grew hard

As the steely tail of the desert pard:

I sank at her feet, convulsed and pale,

And kissed in anguish her brown toe-nail.

You may rip the cloud from the frescoed sky,

Or tear the man from his place in the moon,

Fur from the buzzard, and plumes from the coon,

But you can’t tear me from the truth I cry,

That life is loathsome and love a lie.

She lifted me up to her bare brown face,

She cracked my ribs in her brown embrace,

And there in the shanty, side by side,

Each on the other’s bosom died.

She’s now the mistress of Buffalo Bill,

And pure as the heart of a lily still;

While I’ve killed all who have cared for me,

And I’m just as lonely as I can be,

So, pass the whiskey,—we’ll have a spree!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

Several other parodies of American poets have already been quoted From The Diversions of the Echo Club, and it is only now necessary to say of the others that they are written in imitation of E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Sigourney, W. C. Bryant, T. B. Oldrich, Mrs. Stoddard, N. P. Willis, R. H. Stoddard, Henry T. Tuckerman, Jean Ingelow, George H. Baker, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and William Winter.

——:o:——

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

This favourite old song was written by an American, General G. P. Morris, and several parodies of it were inserted in Volume IV., the following has since been received from the United States:—

The Woodman’s Reply.

No, mum, this ’ere old tree

Can’t be no longer spared;

It ain’t no odds to me,

If Muster Brown was squared;

But Muster Brown says, “Green,

You drop that there tree down,”

And what he say he mean,

Sure-ly, do Muster Brown.

I don’t possess the ’ed

To hargify with you,

A lady born and bred

Is safe to speak what’s true.

But, put a case, I takes

A job from Mr. B.

(And little ’tis I makes

Out of the likes of he).

Your heart-strings, and all that,

Round this ’ere tree may cling—

To contradict you flat,

Would not be quite the thing;

But if you talk of shade,

There’s other boughs than these,

And other folks have played,

Mayhap, round other trees.

It’s very good to feel

A mystning of the eyes,

For chairs of oak or deal,

And old straw-hats likewise,

To keep, if you’ve a mind,

The things as makes you weep;

I’ve got no fault to find,

If they’re your own to keep.

But this ’ere old oak tree,

As you don’t want cut down,

Excuse me, mum, you see,

Belongs to Muster Brown.

To him you should apply,

Though ’taint no use I think,

And if you please, mum, I

Should like your health to drink.

Godfrey Turner.

——:o:——

Although, as has been seen, American writers have abundance of humour, it does not make them proud, and they will appropriate the comic writings of our authors, without acknowledgment, in the most condescending manner. A volume of amusing verse entitled “Songs of Singularity” was brought out by Mr. Walter Parke in 1874, it contained a ballad on the mother-in-law, a theme of never-failing fruitfulness to the satirist. That same ballad afterwards appeared in the San Francisco News Letter, duly appropriated and altered to suit the local market, without one word of acknowledgment to the original author.

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES.

An Idyll.

“O gai!”—French exclamation of delight.

He stood on his head on the wild sea shore,

And joy was the cause of the act,

For he felt as he never had felt before,

Insanely glad in fact.

And why? In that vessel that left the bay

His mother-in-law had sail’d

To a tropical country far away,

Where tigers and snakes prevailed.

And more than one of his creditors too—

Those objects of constant dread—

Had taken berths in that ship “Curlew,”

Whose sails were so blithely spread.

Ah! now he might hope for a quiet life,

Which he never had known as yet,

’Tis true that he still possessed a wife,

And was not quite out of debt,

But he watch’d the vessel, this singular chap,

O’er the waves as she up’d and down’d,

And he felt exactly like Louis Nap.

When “the edifice was crown’d.”

Till over the blue horizon’s edge

She disappeared from view,

Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge

And danced like a kangaroo.

And many and many a joysome lay

He pealed o’er the sunset sea;

’Till down with a “fizz” went the orb of day,

And then he went home to tea.

Walter Parke.

---

His Mother-in-Law.

He stood on his head by the wild sea shore,

And danced on his hands a jig;

In all his emotions, as never before,

A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay

His mother-in-law had sail’d

For a tropical country far away,

Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life

And even be happy yet,

Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,

And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin;

And she lectured him out of breath;

And now as he looked at the ship she was in,

He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea,

And bumpishly up-and-downed,

And thought if already she qualmish might be,

He’d consider his happiness crowned.

He watched till beneath the horizon’s edge

The ship was passing from view;

And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge,

And pranced like a kangaroo.

He watched till the vessel became a speck

That was lost in the wandering sea,

And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,

Turned somersaults home to tea.

From The San Francisco News Letter.

Mr. Parke, being a good natured man, might not, perhaps, have objected to the theft of his poem, but the mutilations must have been galling to his feelings.

He has since republished the poem, with some alterations to fit it for music, in “Patter Poems, humourous and serious.” London, Vizetelly and Co.

——:o:——

On the Pier.

An American Idyll.

Our friend, Dapper English, on a Mississippi Pier, awaits the advent by river boat, of an Americaness whom he adores. A hunter, who will voyage by the same boat, drinks freely until its arrival, and thus urbanely accosts Dapper:—

Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen’d old stoat!

Him! that smarty chap. What flower’s that in your coat?

It looks so bright an’ red ’longside ’o that sprig o’ green,

I like the look of it rayther. Don’t you know what I mean?

Don’t yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y’ see that knife?

It’s dug out o’ human an’ grizzly the red and ragin’ life.

I’m Grizzly Jim o’ Nebraska! Hain’t ye heerd o’ him?

An’ the human dies an’ the grizzly that crosses Grizzly Jim.

Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look:

Don’t yer know what I mean? What I’ve liked I’ve allus took.

Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be,

Or this’ll make winders and doors where yer won’t like sich to be.

Laughin’. By thunder! Dog done it, ye’re grit, an’ I love yer spunk.

Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk.

Why that was the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds ’ud fear,

Let’s have a drink. Don’t? Moses! Don’t! Why ain’t that queer,

Not! an’ a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that’s rum!

What’s the name o’ yer flower, I say! Gee-ray-nee-um.

That’s a comical name; and fern’s that bit o’ green,

Never know’d it before, though acres of ’em I’ve seen.

Where’d you get ’em? Grew ’em? Come, sell me one, I say!

Here’s half-a-dozen o’ dollars: I want to throw ’em away,

Hain’t got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn’t trade.

You’d gi’ me ’em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade.

Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher.

But why wouldn’t you gi’ me that flower, you lyin’ sneak of a cur?

Well, beg parding. You were’nt ask’d, that is, in a proper way;

Besides, goin’ courtin’ I s’pose. Ay, an’ likely, too, I say.

Well, let’s liquor up, old chap—my stars! I forgot, yer don’t.

It’s extrornery cert’nly, but if yer won’t, yer won’t.

I’d like to know you a deal, for you ain’t so stiffish an’ high.

Tarnation! hyar’s the boat. Look hyar: keep the bowie. good-bye!

William Wilkins.

From Kottabos. Trinity College, Dublin. Michaelmas Term, 1878.

——:o:——

Joseph Swife, of Potiphar.

A Man after Twain’s own “Harte.”

There’s been some whales ’mong the buoys I’ve know’d,

(They was all on ’em high above par);

But the rightest sperm as ever blow’d

Was Joe Swife o’ Potiphar.

Joseph’s heighth was seven fut three,

All mussell and grit when he stripp’d,

On his face a network of scars you’d see,

(That is, where the dirt had chipp’d.)

Whenever the buoys had a rowdy on,

Bet your currency Joe was there;

An’ ef he didn’t head inter the fun,

He’d see as all things went square;

’Twas a Fourth o’ July to see him hop round,

Along of his ’leven-inch knife,

And the way his man would nose the ground

Was the pootiest sight in life.

His Bowie was now jest a ’leven-inch rip,

(’Twas thirteen when it was bought,

But he wore two inches off the tip

With carvin’ the men he’d fought.)

A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer,

He didn’t let that iron rust,

He’d spot a couple a day with her,

Would Joseph—when on the bust.

We reckon’d his “down-pins” about fourscore,

But we hadn’t the c’rect amount;

’Cos arter he’d notch’d up to seventy-four,

He lost the run of his count.

Where is he now? I knows no more

Nor you, in them respeks,

’Cos one arternoon in sixty-four

He had to “pass his checks.”

The way that it mayhap’d was thus:—

Up Potiphar they went “pard,”

An’ made a pile, that some thievin’ cuss

Stole—which was derned hard;

I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad,

They wanted that skunk to knife,

An’ the lad that ’peared to git most mad

Was him as I’ve named—Joe Swife.

To see that critter cavortin’ around,

Was a sight to raise your hair,

Jest arx him if the thief was found,

If you wanted to hear a swear!

Joe left Potiphar then an’ came here to Creek,

An’ soon had a run o’ luck,

He hadn’t been prospectin’ more’n a week

’Fore he said a big pocket he’d struck.

One day we was lappin’ round Joggles’s bar—

The Cunnel, an’ Joseph, an’ me—

When in totes Long Hiram from Potiphar,

An’ we arxed him to drink ’long o’ we;

He call’d for a “spider”—(his fav’rite drink),

An’ was liftin’ the glass to his lips;

But he dropp’d it smash on the floor in a wink,

When he saw Joseph haul out his chips.

Ses he: “Joe Swife, my gentle son,

You’ll have for to strike your flag,

You stole the pile, you son of a gun—

Our dust was in that bag!”

He glared at Joe like a grizzly bear,

Then he draw’d a bead an’ fired,

’Scavating a canon in Joseph’s hair,

In a manner we all admired.

But Joseph’s iron was ready to bark,

’Fore Hiram the dose could repeat,

Six shots, an’ Hiram was stretch’d out stark,

In a style as couldn’t be beat;

With “conical” holes he was reg’lar scored,

From his scalp-lock, down his legs,

He’d ha’ made a derned good cribbage-board,

If you’d on’y got the pegs.

Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear’d,

’Fore the fellows had time to revanche,

For the fust time in his life he was skear’d,

An’ mosey’d out of the ranche;

He know’d, with men as digs and delves,

He dursent trust his breath,

“Killin’ a man was atwixt yerselves,”

But to go for his pile meant death.

When he found that the buoys were dead on “kill,”

Joe came for’ard an’ giv’ hisself up,

“You’ll settle my hash with a leaden pill,”

Ses he—“Don’t string me up like a pup!”

Openin’ his shirt, and slappin’ his breast—

“Here’s lodgings to let for a slug!”—

They fired, an’ Potiphar’s pride lay at rest,

Stiff an’ stark, with a smile on his mug!

Funny Folks. April 29, 1876.

This is an imitation of the style of Colonel John Hay’s poems, for which see page 246.

——:o:——

The Wife.

Her washing ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And passed the long, long night away,

In darning ragged hose.

But when the sun in all its state

Illumined the Eastern skies,

She passed about the kitchen grate,

And went to making pies.

From Poems and Parodies by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S. 1854.

The same interesting little volume contains a number of clever parodies, of which those on the best known poets have already been printed in this collection. The remainder refer principally to American authors whose works are not very familiar to British readers. The book is out of print and very scarce, and although there is a copy of it in the Library, British Museum (11687. d), it is difficult to find, as it is improperly catalogued under Cary, instead of Carey.

Another curious American book is entitled “Strange Visitors, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Bronté, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others, now dwelling in the Spirit World.” Dictated through a Clairvoyant while in an abnormal or Trance State. New York. G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

Most of the papers in this volume are in prose, the following only are in verse:—

To his Accusers	after Lord Byron.
The Lost Soul	“   E. A. Poe.
To her Husband	“   Mrs. E. B. Browning.
Hold Me Not,	“   Adah Isaacs Menken.
A Spirit Revisiting Earth	“   N. P. Willis.
Alone	“   Allan Cunningham.
The Spirit Bride	“   Adelaide A. Procter.

All these imitations are serious, and even sombre, not to be styled parodies, although of little merit, except, perhaps, the imitation of Mrs. E. B. Browning.

Her spirit speaks thus:—

To her Husband.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!

You cannot see her in her glad surprise,

Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes;

Moving about you through the ambient air,

Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!

Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead!

In your lone path the unseen angels tread!

And when your weary night of earth shall close,

She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.