WILLIAM COWPER,
Born, November 15, 1731. Died, April 25, 1800.
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.
Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again.
The story of John Gilpin’s ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet a sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the “Public Advertiser,” November 14th, 1782, anonymously.
A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons’ Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere—in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. It has fully preserved its popularity to the present date.
The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who, lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. He died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred years.
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
“Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
“To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
“My sister, and my sister’s child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.”
He soon replied, “I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.
“I am a linendraper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go.”
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.”
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O’erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad!
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse’s side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got in haste to ride,—
But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
’Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming, came downstairs—
“The wine is left behind!”
“Good lack!” quoth he; “yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.”
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red coat, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So “Fair and Softly,” John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt when he set out,
Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
Like streamer long and gay,
Till loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed.
Up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, “Well done!”
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he?
His fame soon spread around:
“He carries weight!” “He rides a race!”
“’Tis for a thousand pound!”
And still, as fast as he drew near,
’Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the Wash about,
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton, his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
“Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here’s the house!”
They all at once did cry;
“The dinner waits, and we are tired.”
Said Gilpin, “So am I!”
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why?—his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly—which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till, at his friend the calender’s,
His horse at last stood still.
The calender amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:—
“What news? what news? your tidings tell?
Tell me you must and shall—
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?”
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke:—
“I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,—
They are upon the road.”
The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:
“My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
“But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.”
Said John, “It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.”
So turning to his horse, he said,
“I am in haste to dine;
’Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.”
Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spoke, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin’s hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?—they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell,
“This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well.”
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy’s horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:—
“Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!”
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike-gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing long live the King,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
W. Cowper.
Mrs. Gilpin Riding to Edmonton.
Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said
Unto her children three,
“I’ll clamber o’er this style so high
And you climb after me.”
But having climbed unto the top,
She could no further go,
But sate, to every passer by
A spectacle of woe,
Who said, “Your spouse and you this day
Both show your horsemanship,
And if you stay till he comes back,
Your horse will need no whip.”
The above verses in the handwriting of Cowper were found among Mrs. Unwin’s papers, with a drawing, supposed to be by Romney, of Mrs. Gilpin sitting on the top of a gate. The idea seems to be that Mrs. Gilpin having tired waiting for her husband, wandered into the fields, and in an attempt to get over one of those awkward styles for which Enfield was then famous, got upon the top, but could not get down again. The drawing is very ludicrous.
From Hone’s Table Book, Vol. II., pp. 79-80.
The Diverting History of Moore’s Life of Byron.
Shewing how the Poet burnt the original, and afterwards published the copy.
Lord Byron was a nobleman,
Of wonderful renown,
A splendid poet eke was he,
Of famous London Town.
Lord Byron said to Tommy Moore,
Tho’ living I have been
At Newstead, ten long years, yet I
No happiness have seen.
To-morrow I shall sail for Greece
And you may then repair
To London (or to Jericho,
[Aside] for what I care.)
I’ll leave my life unto your child,
Whenever I may die;
And mind John Murray pays him well
For my Biography.
Tom Moore replied, I do admire
Of Poet-kind but one—
And you are he, my dearest Lord,
Therefore, it shall be done.
I really am not worth a damn,
As all the world doth know,
But if Lord Byron says I am,
Why, then, it must be so.
Quoth young Childe Harold that’s well said,
But for, that I’m a man!
Be sure you do not murder me
As you did Sheridan.
Tom Little shook him by the hand,
O’erjoyed was he to find,
That when he went, he meant to leave
His manuscript behind.
The morning came—the Poet went,
And when his life was o’er,
The tale of all his wicked loves
Was left with Tommy Moore.
So, on his table it was laid,
And he turned o’er the leaves;
Two precious volumes all agog,
And thick as any thieves.
Smack went the pen into the ink,
Was never Tom so glad?
His chin did chuckle up and down,
As if his jaws were mad.
From The National Omnibus. April 1, 1831.
Thomas Moore’s biography of Lord Byron was severely criticised, both for what it contained and for what it omitted. That Moore, the cherished friend of the great poet, should display all the faults and frailties of Lord Byron was ungenerous and ungrateful, but his ill-judged suppression of certain important matters of fact was far more inexcusable and damaging to Byron’s reputation.
A Ballad made for the delectation
of all True Sportsmen.
Prince Albert is a sportsman bold,
And eager for the chase,
Out with the hounds, like Gilpin oft
He seems to ride a race.
And oft in Windsor’s courtly Park
He loves to ply the gun,
Where hares so well bred are, that they
Up to his muzzle run.
Now when her gracious Majesty
To Stowe a visit paid,
(The newspapers contained a list
Of all the cavalcade.)
Scarce had the royal pair arrived
At Buckingham’s proud seat,
The Prince began in sportsman’s style,
The noble Duke to greet
“What shooting have you here, proud Duke?”
“Shooting, great Prince,” he cried,
“Not vainly in my choice preserves
I feel a housewife’s pride.”
* * * * *
A sporting suit his Highness donn’d,
On murderous thought intent
He sallies forth, his every look
Betrays the sporting gent.
Not far behind, the portly form
Of Robert Peel was seen,
His mind, less sporting than his coat,
Is far away I ween.
Five times ten keepers armed with sticks
Entered in close array,
And beat the cover, where the hares
Like lords in waiting lay.
Once and again Prince Albert shot,
Once and again shot he;
The hare, that erst on four legs ran,
Now limped away on three.
Each keeper raised his stick and struck
The hare upon the head;
The Prince he shot, the keepers knocked,
Until each hare was dead.
Dulce et decorum est, say some,
Pro patria mori,
And ’tis a fine thing for a hare,
By princely hand to die.
’Twas this perhaps the game inspired
To court their Prince’s aim,
They died to give Prince Albert sport,
And therefore they died game.
How many fell The Court Gazette
Better than I may say,
Hares that escaped will live to tell
Their children of that day.
Long live the Game Laws, though with ills
Some people say they’re fraught,
Long live the laws by which our Prince
Enjoyed such glorious sport.
Punch. 1845.
The Political John Gilpin.
George Bentinck was a sporting man
Of credit and renown,
A stud in training eke had he,
For Epsom’s famous down.
George Bentinck to himself, said he,
Though M.P. I have been
For many years, yet in debate
My name is seldom seen.
John Russell to the Commons goes,
As rumour doth declare,
A bill for Ireland to propose,
And I will meet him there.
There’s Borthwick, simple as a child,
Myself and Disrael(ee);
We’ll start the game, and other fools
Are sure to follow we.
I am a rider free and bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the Railway King
Lends me a dodge or so.
The evening came, the dodge was plann’d,
An Irish railway grant,
And sixteen million little pounds
Was all, they said, they’d want.
So Bentinck, Hudson, Borthwick, Ben,
The measure did bring in;
Four precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Away they rush’d, on went their tongues,
No rest their hearers had;
The speeches seem’d to be composed
Of eloquence run mad.
George Bentinck his steam hobby rode
With all his might and main;
And up he kept himself awhile,
But soon came down again.
Away went Bentinck, neck or nought,
’Gainst every timid Whig;
They little dreamt when he set out
He would run such a rig.
Some Irish members cheer’d him on;
Protectionists and all
Cried out “Go at it, George; well done!”
As loud as they could bawl.
Away went Bentinck, who but he
Could run such pace around?
He carries weight, he rides a race
For sixteen million pound.
And every one that saw him run
Believed it was for place;
Against John Russell they declared
George Bentinck rode a race.
And so he did, and lost it too,
For every one in town
Where he had been on getting up,
Found him on sitting down.
Let’s sing I wean, long live the Queen,
And Bentinck long live he;
When next he his steam hobby rides
May we be there to see.
The New John Gilpin.
Showing how Robert Peel went further than
he intended, and came safe home again.
Sir Robert was a Minister
Of credit and renown;
And eke, by virtue of his place,
Adviser to the Crown.
Now Richard Cobden said to him,
“Protected Corn has been
Thro’ thrice ten tedious years, since eight-
Teen hundred and fifteen.
“Yet landlords and eke tenants say
Of profits they despair;
Despite Protection, growing corn
Is a losing affair.
“There’s Mr. Bright, and there’s myself,
And Mr. Fox—make three;
We’ve raised a League, and you must ride
(As Ben says) after we.”
Said Peel, “Your doctrines I admire,
But I am only one;
Still, if the Duke will stick to me,
I’ll try what can be done.
“I am a Premier stout and bold,
As all my party know;
And my good friends in Manchester
Will lend their horse to go.”
Now see him in his new Tariff,
On Free Trade—noble steed!
Full slowly taking duties off,
With caution and good heed.
Then came the blight, and fears arose
We’d not have food to eat,
Free Trade, from walking, ’gan to trot,
Which shook Peel in his seat.
“Fairly and softly,” Peel he cried,
But Peel he cried in vain;
The trot became a gallop soon,
And Free Trade flew amain.
Then giving up, as needs he must
Who cannot help his plight
Peel seized Free Trade, and like a shot
Flew past Protection quite.
Free Trade, who by a Tory lord
Had ne’er been cross’d before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
Away went Robert—neck or nought
Past Radical and Whig;
He little thought when he began
His bill would be so big.
The Post did bark, the Herald scream’d,
Out spoke the farmers all,
And every Duke cried out “For shame!”
As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Robert! Who but he?
Free Trade still gaining ground,
He carries weight—he’ll win his race,
His horse’s wind is sound.
Still, as Division-day drew near
’Twas wonderful to view
How overboard the men in place
Their old convictions threw.
Thro’ manufactures of all kinds
His gambols he did play,
And came to Corn Laws at the last,
Which stood dead in the way.
The sliding-scale he knock’d about
Unto his friend’s dismay,
And fix’d how that at three years’ end
The tax should die away.
Free Trade, not satisfied at all
To wait for three years more,
Straight galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.
Away went Robert, with the League
Still thundering at his heel,
Insisting loud in total and
Immediate repeal.
The county members in the House,
Thus seeing Robert fly,
With Lord John Russell in his rear,
Set up a hue and cry:
“Stop thief! Stop thief! a highway man:”
Not one of them was mute,
And Ben D’Israeli and Colquhoun
Did join in the pursuit.
In the “Protection” heavy coach,
The Upper House gave chase;
But Free Trade’s bottom, bone, and wind,
Made it a hopeless race.
The race is run, the race is won
With credit and renown;
Nor did Free Trade draw breath until
The Corn Laws he ran down.
Now let us sing “Long live the League,
And Cobden, long live he,
And when Peel next doth ride Free Trade,
May Punch his Laureat be.”
Punch. February 14, 1846.
The Modern Peeping Tom.
Lord Trallala a noble was,
Of credit and renown,
A brave old Volunteer was he
Of famous London town.
A well known connoisseur was he
Of things antique and fine—a
His taste was good in rare old wine.
Old women, and old china.
A noted champion was he,
Of damsels in distress;
But as Companion of the Bath
He got into a mess.
A witch there was in Bond Street dwelt,
Whom Rachel men did call;
She took in women young and old,
And beautified them all.
With powders and with cosmetique,
And eastern bloom of Ninon;
And added to their tresses bright
The decorative chignon.
The bath the next essential was,
To clarify their skins—
Let’s hope it cleansed their conscience too,
And washed away their sins.
For if not so, why one would think
Such folks as these could never,
By any other process be
Made “beautiful for ever.”
Behind the bath a snuggery lay,
Though doors were hung a plomb;
And Trallala went in to play
The part of peeping Tom.
And now it is conjectured by
Each erudite surmiser,
He went, he saw, he came away
Considerably wiser.
From The Hornet. Sept. 9, 1868.
Tom Jones, Viscount Ranelagh, Colonel of the South Middlesex Volunteer Rifles, was called as a witness in an action brought by Mrs. Borrowdale against Madame Rachel of Bond Street, who professed to make ladies “Beautiful forever.” Rachel was convicted for obtaining money under false pretences, and died in Brixton Gaol.
The Railway Gilpin.
John Gilpin is a citizen;
For lineage of renown,
The famed John Gilpin’s grandson, he
Abides in London town.
To our John Gilpin said his dear,
“Stewed up here as we’ve been
Since Whitsuntide, ’tis time that we
Should have a change of scene.
“To-morrow is a leisure day,
And we’ll by rail repair
Unto the Nell at Dedmanton,
And take a breath of air.
“My sister takes our eldest child;
The youngest of our three
Will go in arms, and so the ride
Won’t so expensive be.”
John soon replied, “I don’t admire
That railway, I, for one;
But you know best, my dearest dear,
And so it must be done.
“I, as a linen draper bold,
Will bear myself, and though
’Tis Friday by the calendar
Will risk my limbs, and go.”
Quoth Mistress Gilpin, “nicely said
And then, besides, look here,
We’ll go by the Excursion Train,
Which makes it still less dear,”
John Gilpin poked his clever wife,
And slightly smiled to find
That though on peril she was bent,
She had a careful mind.
The morning came; a cab was sought:
The proper time allow’d
To reach the station door; but lo!
Before it stood a crowd.
For half an hour they there were stay’d,
And when they did get in—
“No train! a hoax!” cried clerks agog
To swear through thick and thin.
“Yaa!” went the throats; stamp went the heels;
Were never folks so mad,
The disappointment dire beneath:
All cried “it was too bad.”
John Gilpin home would fain have hied,
But he must needs remain,
Commanded by his wilful bride,
And take the usual train.
’Twas long before our passengers
Another train could find,
When—stop! one ticket for the fares
Was lost or left behind!
“Good lack,” quoth John, “yet try it on.”
“’Twon’t do,” the guard replies,
And bearing wife and babes on board,
The train without him flies.
Now see him in a second train,
Behind the iron steed,
Borne on, slap-dash for life or bones
With small concern or heed.
Away went Gilpin neck or naught,
Exclaiming, “Dash my wig!
Oh, here’s a game, oh, here’s a go!
A running such a rig!”
A signal, hark!—the whistle screamed,
Smash! went the windows all:
“An accident!” cried out each one,
As loud as he could bawl,
Away went Gilpin, never mind,
His brain seemed spinning round;
Thought he, “This speed a killing pace
Will prove, I’ll bet a pound!”
And still, as stations they drew near,
The whistle shrilly blew,
And in a trice, past signal-men
The train like lightning flew.
Thus, all through merry Killbury,
Without a stop shot they;
But paused to ’scape a second smash,
At Dedmanton so gay.
At Dedmanton his loving wife,
On platform waiting, spied
Her tender husband, striving much
To let himself outside,
“Hallo! John Gilpin, here we are—
Come out!” they all did cry;
“To death with waiting we are tired!”
“Guard!” shouted Gilpin, “Hi!”
But no—the train was not a bit
Arranged to tarry there,
For why? because ’twas an Express,
And did dispatches bear.
So, in a second, off it flew
Again, and dashed along,
As if the deuce ’twere going to,
With motive impulse strong.
Away went Gilpin, on the breath
Of puffing steam, until
They came unto their journey’s end,
Where they at last stood still.
And then—best thing that he could do—
He book’d himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down
Says Gilpin, “Sing, long live the Queen,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I’ll trust that line again;
Myself I blest will see!”
Anonymous.
From Partron’s Collection of
Humorous Poetry. Boston, 1881.
The True and diverting History
of Tom Tucker.
John Tucker was a broker bold,
Of very great renown:
A dab at putting bedsteads up,
And pulling bedsteads down.
A broker too in politics,
Had words at his command,
But, like his goods, his speeches are
Retail’d at second-hand.
(There are 16 verses in all of this, not very amusing, parody.)
From “The Argus, or Record of Politics, etc.” Southampton, 1831.
A long parody also appeared in Edgbastonia, June 1885. of which only a few verses need be quoted:—
A Second Holiday for John Gilpin;
Or, a voyage to Vauxhall, where tho’ he had better luck than before, he was far from being contented.
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A common councilman was he,
Of famous London Town.
Most folks had heard of Gilpin’s fame,
And of the race he won,
When he on horseback did set out
All unto Edmonton
And never since that luckless time
Which gave him such dismay,
For ten whole years, had he and spouse,
Enjoyed a holiday.
The main chance minding still at home,
On bus’ness quite intent;
He made amends, there is no doubt,
For what that day was spent.
Their daughters, rising in their teens,
Were innocent and gay,
And as young girls, they often begg’d
To have a holiday.
Good Mistress Gilpin had a heart
Her pretty girls to please;
But how to win John Gilpin to’t
Was not a task of ease.
“Howe’er,” said she, “leave that to me,
It never will cause strife;
And he will sure comply once more,
To please his loving wife.”
She mark’d the time, in cheerful mood
John Gilpin for to see;
Then unto him thus did she speak,
One evening o’er their tea.
“My dear you must a favour grant,
Your tenderness to prove.”
Said Gilpin, “What is your desire?
I can’t deny my love.”
“Why, there’s my sweetest life,” said she,
And strok’d his smirking face;
At which he kissed his dearest dear,
And smiled with kindly grace.
“You know,” said she, “since that sad day,
Which we could not foresee,
That we have never thought upon
Another holiday.
“Ten circling years have made their round,
And time comes stealing on;
Next Tuesday is our wedding day,
Then pray let us have one.”
John Gilpin hum’d and ha’d awhile,
Then cried, “It shall be so,
Yet hope, you do not mean, my dear,
To Edmonton to go.
“That cursed jaunt I can’t forget
Which brought me such disgrace.”
“No, no, my dear,” she quick reply’d,
“I mean a nearer place.
“Amusements round the town are found,
Delighting unto all;
Therefore with me, if you’ll agree,
We’ll go to sweet Vaux-hall.
“A sculler, sure, will take us all,
The purchase can’t be great;
And then along the silver Thames,
How we shall ride in state.”
“Thy will be done,” John Gilpin cry’d,
“I like thy thought in this;
The evening is not all the day,
Much business we can’t miss.”
Then Mistress Gilpin said to John,
“That we may all be gay
Your very suit you shall have on,
Made for your wedding day.
“Your lac’d cravat, and beaver hat,
Your cane, with head of gold,
With roll’d up hose, and then you’ll be
Most charming to behold.”
At length the happy time arrived,
John Gilpin, neatly dressed,
Look’d like a citizen, indeed,
Array’d in all his best.
* * * * *
Davy Jones, a Gilpinic Tale, by Barnard de Burgh, 1823. This little work has some amusing illustrations, but a very misleading title, for it is not a parody of “John Gilpin.”
“John Gilpin” translated into Latin, was published some years ago by Mr. J. Vincent of Oxford. The pamphlet was entitled “Johannis Gilpiniiter, Latine Redditum,” and may probably still be obtained in Oxford.
Two other parodies of John Gilpin may be mentioned, one which appeared in “The Yorkshireman” for August 1876, entitled The Connaught Rangers, and commencing:
Bold Sutcliffe was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A Bowling dyer eke was he
And Mayor of Bradford town.
The other appeared in “The Idel News” in August 1878, and commenced thus:—
Paddy and the Mormon.
An Episode of Idel Green, Yorks.
Childe Evins was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A Mormon Elder too was he
Of famous Utah town.
His latest wife said in his ear—
“Though wedded we have been
These twelve long tedious months yet we
No holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then prepare
To take a voyage o’er the sea,
To greet the old folks there.
Sall, Ruth, and Ann, and Tabitha,
Thy other wives, shall stay
To nurse their bairns, and keep the home
The time we are away.
* * * * *
The latter parody was written by Mr. J. Horsfall Turner, unfortunately both poems are very long, and of only local interest.
——:o:——
THE ROSE.
The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it—it fell to the ground!
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind;
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloomed with its owner awhile;
And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be followed perhaps by a smile.
William Cowper.
Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, author of London Lyrics, has in his possession the first draft of William Cowper’s poem of The Rose, in the poet’s autograph. It is interesting, as it shows how much he altered and improved his poems:—
“The Rose that I sing had been bathed in a show’r,
Profusely and hastily shed,
The plentiful moisture incumber’d the flow’r,
And weigh’d down its elegant head.
The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem’d to a fanciful view
To weep for the home it had left with regret
In the flowery bush where it grew.
Unfit as it was for the use of the Fair,
With foliage so dripping and drown’d,
I shook it and swung it with too little care—
I snapp’d it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim’d is the pitiless part,
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign’d.
This Rose might have held, had I shaken it less,
Its unblemish’d beauty awhile,
And the tear that is wiped by a little address,
May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.”
My Uniform.
By a Damp but Determined Volunteer.
The corps had been washed, newly-washed in a shower,
Which, as usual, had spoiled our parade,
The plentiful moisture, poured down for an hour,
With our uniforms havoc had played.
My belts were all sodden, my shako so wet,
That it seemed to a fanciful view,
As if mere papier-maché ’twould prove, and forget
For what it had duty to do.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was—
Poor shako—a shaking to stand!
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
The peak came off, limp, in my hand!
“And such,” I exclaimed, “was the Dons[68] foolish act
With his helmet so neatly combined,
He exposed it to thwacks, which the joints rudely cracked,
Not for use but appearance designed.
“This elegant cap, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloomed, ’neath its pompon awhile;
And accoutrements wiped with a little address
May adorn next Review’s rank and file!”
Punch. July 28, 1860. (The wet summer.)
April:
Or, the New Hat.
My Boots had been wash’d—well wash’d—in a show’r;
But little I griev’d about that:
What I felt was the havoc a single half hour,
Had made with my costly new Hat.
For the Boot, tho’ its lustre be dimm’d, shall assume
Fresh sprightliness after a while:
But what art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath flown, to the Tile?
I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter:
The Driver look’d round in his affable way
And said huskily, “Who is your hatter?”
I was pleas’d that he’d notic’d its shape and its shine,
And as soon as we reached the Old Druid,
I begg’d that he’d drink to my new Four-and-nine
In a glass of his favourite fluid,
A gratified smile sat, I own, on my lips
When the landlady called to the master
(He was standing hard by with his hands on his hips),
To “look at the gentleman’s Castor!”
I laugh’d, as an organ-man paus’d in mid-air
(’Twas an air that I happen’d to know,
By a great foreign Maestro) expressly to stare
At ze gent wiz ze joli chapeau.
Yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears!
Our glories, how fleeting are they!
That Hat might (with care) have adorn’d me for years;
But ’twas ruin’d, alack, in a day!
How I loved thee, my Bright One! I wrench in remorse,
My hands from my coat-tail and wring ’em:
“Why did not I, why, as a matter of course,
When I purchas’d thee, purchase a Gingham!”
Charles Stuart Calverley.
(This poem is a double acrostic.)
The Rink had been Washed.
The rink had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Where Mary and Charley did skate,
While plentiful moisture enveloped the bower,
Where to rest or to flirt they would wait.
The eaves were all dripping—my spirits did sink,
For it seemed to a sensible view,
That it was not at all a good day for a rink,
Save perhaps for a venturesome few.
But they would go and skate, unfit though it was,
And cut figures so neat and so round,
When in turning round sharply, too sharply, alas!
They slipped and then—fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the result of a whim,
That might, could, and should have been saved,
Regardless of falling and breaking a limb,
They brave what should ne’er have been braved.
Had the rain kept away, or their speed had been less,
They ne’er would have tumbled at all,
But the figure that’s cut without skill or address,
May be followed perhaps by a fall.
A. W. Mackenzie
(Author of Idyls of the Rink.)
From Mirth, edited by H. J. Byron. May 1878.
The Rose and the Buckets.
One day, old George Rose, in a fit of finance
Saw, or thought that he saw, in two buckets,
The two gasping nations of England and France,
Not worth by their warfare three ducats.
* * * * *
This is the first of five verses of an old political parody, which originally appeared in The Morning Chronicle, but was afterwards republished in The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1812. (Volume XVI.)
——:o:——
Mary Anderson.[69]
(A parody of Cowper’s lines “To Mary.”)
She came; she trod our English land:
A masterpiece from Phidias’ hand—
Antique and classical and grand
Looked Mary.
And mashers flew the maid to greet,
Leaving the playhouse o’er the street,
And Nelly of the twinkling feet,
For Mary.
In vain for one sweet smile they sued,
She thought their conduct very rude;
You see that something of a prude
Is Mary.
Though titled splendour bade her come
And share the festive “kettledrum,”
Nothing could tempt the maid to roam—
Unless a Bishop was “at home”
To Mary.
Said Britain’s Heir, “She’ll not refuse
If I should seek to introduce
Myself to this dramatic Muse—
Miss Mary.”
But little noble Albert recked
The haughty damsel’s self-respect.
“I keep my circle most select,”
Says Mary.
So with a calm impassive eye
She gave his Highness the “go by.”
“Who wants to know you, Sir? Not I!”
Said Mary.
Across the Atlantic wave to-day
Columbia’s children proudly say,
“Guess naow who snubbed a Coming K.?
Why, Mary.”
Judy. October 24, 1883.
THE NEGRO’S COMPLAINT.
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric’s coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger’s treasures,
O’er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though slave they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England’s rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature’s claim;
Hues may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards,
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.
* * * * *
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
Furnish all your boasted powers;
Prove that you have human feelings
Ere you proudly question ours!
William Cowper.
Two parodies of this poem appeared in Figaro in London more than fifty years ago, they are consequently rather out of date, and it is unnecessary to give them in full.
The first referred to Henry Phillpotts, the stern, mercenary, and bigoted Bishop of Exeter, the bitter opponent of Roman Catholic emancipation, and the apologist for the Peterloo massacre. The second is supposed to be a complaint made by Lord Grey on his rejection from the office of premier by his late colleagues.
No. 1. Bishop Phillpotts’ Complaint.
Forced from dissipation’s pleasures,
Oxford’s walls I left forlorn,
To increase my worldly treasures,
Up to town a stranger borne.
Men in office bought and sold me,
Paid my price in shining gold,
But though theirs they then enrolled me,
Sentiments may twice be sold.
Still in thought as Whig as ever,
What are Brougham’s rights I ask,
Me with irony so clever
Cruelly to take to task?
Whigs may proudly all connection
With the Tories now disclaim,
But for place a fond affection
Dwells, we know, in both the same.
Why did Whigs the all engrossing,
Take the place for which we toil,
Tories now must keep them close in,
Lest our future hopes we spoil.
Think, ye ministers so grasping,
Lolling on the Treasury boards,
Think, what lots of us are gasping,
For the sweets your place affords.
Is it, as ye sometimes tell us,
That our gracious sovereign, Bill,
Gives you power to compel us
To Reform against our will.
Ask him if your Irish scourges,
Taxes—acts that press like screws,
Are the measures that he urges
Lib’ral ministers to use.
Hark! he answers, fierce coercion
Washing Ireland’s shores with blood,
Wasting towns, with a subversion
Of the rights to which it stood.
He foreseeing what oppression
Erin’s sons must undergo,
Kept the Whigs another session,
That they might lay freedom low.
(Two verses omitted.)
Figaro in London. March 9, 1833.
No. 2. Lord Grey’s Complaint.
Forced from place and all its pleasures,
Treasury bench I left forlorn,
To advance old Brougham’s measures,
In his cunning caput born.
All my former colleagues sold me,
Ousted me by tricks that told;
But though out at last they’ve bowl’d me,
Whigs are always to be sold.
Still in principle as ever,
I can shortly change my mind;
Join the Tories, ’twould be clever,
Leaving former friends behind.
Whig professions, Tory practice,
Both may sometimes kindred claim;
Names may differ, but the fact is
Whig and Tory are the same.
Why did all creating nature
Make us wish for place to toil,
Lies must earn it—which we ought to
Shun, lest we our souls should soil.
Think ye Ministers while boasting,
Lolling at your treasury boards;
How our souls must get a roasting,
For the sweets that place affords?
* * * * *
Figaro in London. August 2, 1834.
Jumbo’s Jeremiad.
Forced from fogs and all their pleasures,
England’s shore I leave forlorn,
To increase base Barnum’s treasures
O’er the foaming billows borne.
Yankee scamps have bought and sold me,
Paid my price—two thousand pounds;
And because their bonds enfold me
London with my roar resounds.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What is Barnum’s right, I ask,
Me from Regent’s Park to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
In the Zoo I’m never beaten,
Children hail me with three cheers;
Buns unnumbered have I eaten
To amuse the little dears.
Like tall ladders wearing trousers
Are the Guardsmen who have sat
On my back, the red carousers,
While they talked in loving chat
With the nursemaid, prim and pretty,
Who those soldiers so adore,—
Chat was theirs, both fond and witty,
Shall I never hear it more?
Now, to fill the bitter chalice
Of my grief, my foes discreet
Fain would make my lovely Alice
Lure me from my dear retreat.
Alice, Alice, don’t succumb, O!
Either to their smiles or sneers,
Listen to your husband, Jumbo,
Oh, have pity on his tears!
Alice, Darling, we’ll be jolly,
We won’t wander from the Zoo,
I’ll not go upon their trolly,
Smash my trunk, pet, if I do!
Judy, March 1, 1882,
(Alas, poor Jumbo! He was afterwards accidentally killed by a locomotive engine.)
The School Boy’s Complaint
1
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Father’s house I left forlorn;
To increase a master’s treasures,
To Carthusia’s mansions borne.
My lot was fixed, my place was taken;
Paid for too in paltry gold;
And thus by all my friends forsaken,
Unwillingly at school enrolled.
2
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are master’s rights, I ask,
Though they think themselves so clever.
Me to torture, me to task?
Vainly Saunders, Chapman, Penny,
Claim their right to power and rule,
Though they seldom call us any
Names but “stupid ass,” and “fool!”
3
Why did all-creating Nature
Plant that tree, the school-boy’s bane?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water;
Cause of woe and bitter pain.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Frowning from your desks of state,
Think how many backs have smarted
’Neath the object of our hate!
4
Are there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Mighty lords, who govern all,
Suff’ring boys and masters jealous.
Meeting in the Founders’ Hall?
Do they order impositions,
Learning in our brains to hammer?
Will they teach our repetitions?
Or instruct us in the grammar?
5
No, we never rule so cruel,
Never shall our spirits brook;
Desks and blocks shall turn to fuel,
Lighted by the dread Black-Book.
Now’s the hour, and now’s the season
For one well-directed blow:
Can they call such daring, treason?
Hark! our injuries answer, No.
6
By the years which we have wasted
In this dreary place of woe;
By the mis’ries we have tasted,
By the ills we undergo;
By our suff’rings since we entered
Chapman’s portals, op’ning wide;
When our joy in freedom centred,
Hope, alas! remained outside,
7
Deem us, therefore, fools no longer,
’Till some reason ye shall find,
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than your judgment of our mind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
All your precepts vain belie;
Destitute of human feeling,
Subjects fit for mockery!
F. N.
From the Charterhouse Collection of Poems, &c. Collected by Edward Walford, M.A.
——:o:——
Farewell to the Camp.
(A Lyric for the 20th August, 1853.)
A military camp was held during the summer months of 1853 at Chobham, and became a favourite place of resort for Londoners.
The Camp has departed!—farewell the parade,
And the earth-shaking march of the stern Colonade:[70]
The bands play no longer from manuscript leaves,
Nor detectives prowl stealthily watching the thieves.
The City of War, which immense fun we’ve had in
Is fled like the palace that flew with Aladdin;
And musketry’s crack, and artillery’s roar
Astonish the echoes of Chobham no more.
The Lancer in scarlet, the Rifle in green,
And the Horse-guard in blue, have abandoned the scene;
And we’ve witness’d the last of the blood-stirring frays
Where gallop’d in glory those terrible Greys.
No longer in toothsome libation is spilt
The Dew that is dear to the sons of the kilt;
No longer falls plashing in pleasantness here,
The frothy cascade of the black British beer,
O! Chobham Olympics, your games are all done,
The last close is wrestled, the last race is run,
The stone’s “put” away, to the leap-frog there’s truce,
And the ultimate caber is pitched to the deuce.
Rejoice in thy stable, thou omnibus steed!
For thee the campaign-times were wiry indeed,
No more shalt thou toil on that villanous road,
With a cargo of snobs for thy heart-breaking load.
Weep, rascally drivers of ramshackle flies,
Adieu your extortions, your sauce, and your lies,
Farewell to that Station, the cheating point where
You’ve so oft charged a pound for a two shilling fare.
Well, everything passes; a Camp like the rest,
But this ends while its novelty still has a zest;
And we’re free to confess that we see with regret
The Flutters Hill’s sun, like the Austerlitz set.
Here’s a health to the officer—liner or guard—
Who with Cambridge and Seaton has laboured so hard,
Here’s a health to his men, whose good looks and good will
Did such excellent credit to messman and drill.
The object was good, and the object is gained,
Right sound is the teaching the troops have obtained;
And we’ll mark that M.P. for a short-sighted scamp
Who grudges one mil for the Chobhamite Camp.
Shirley Brooks. 1853.
——:o:——
On the Death of the Princess Charlotte, of Wales.
(In imitation of Cowper’s dirge on the loss of the “Royal George.”)
Wail for the dead!
And rend thy streaming hair,
Thou fairest Island-Queen
That ever ocean bare!
All lonely on the rock,
To every passing sail,
Let thy deep shriek of woe
Fly pinioned on the gale.
Not light that tale of woe is,
No trouble of a day;
Thy cup of Joy is dashed,
Is dashed in haste away.
Wail for the dead!
The high-born and the good!
Long years must pass before
Her equal shall be viewed.
Three kingdoms longed to trust
The sceptre in her hand,
And send it down her race,
While their white cliffs should stand.
Each heart on tiptoe stood,
To hail a new-born son,
And merry bells were ready,
To make the welcome known.
Wail for the dead!
The babe lies cold in death!
Mother and offspring need
But one sad funeral wreath.
Stars sunk in ocean blue
’Merge from the eastern main;
But England’s star of glory
Shall never rise again.
(Several verses omitted.)
Clio.
From The Pocket Magazine, Vol. III. Published by John Arliss, London. 1819.
——:o:——
SOLITUDE.
Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, a shipwrecked sailor, who lived four years in the uninhabited Island of Juan Fernandez.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, Solitude! where are the charms
Which sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this desolate place.
I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must finish my journey alone,—
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh! had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth—
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasures untold
Reside in that heavenly word,
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard;
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Never smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds! that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me;
Oh! tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas, recollection at hand,
Soon hurries me back to despair!
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, (encouraging thought!)
Gives every affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
William Cowper.
In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of The Examiner, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:—
“What person would imagine in reading these astounding eulogies in The Morning Post, that this ‘Glory of the people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’ (Bravo, Morning Post!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness’ was a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this delightful, blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true and immortal Prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of posterity.”
The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future, the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:—
Verses.
(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the Examiner, whilst in prison.)
I am tenant of nine feet by four,
My title no lawyer denies.
From the ceiling quite down to the floor,
I am lord of the spiders and flies.
Oh, Justice! how awkward it is
To be griped by thy terrible squad!
I did but indulge in a quiz,
And the Quorum have sent me to quod.
Dear scandal is out of my reach,
I must pass my dull mornings alone.
Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech,
Nor get audience for one of my own!
The people, provokingly quiet,
My fate with indifference see:
They are so unaccustomed to riot,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Personality, libel, and lie,
Ye supports of our Jacobite train,
If I had but the courage to try,
How soon I would sport you again!
My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev’rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.
A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold
Which the Bank is reported to hoard!
But the Bench have no bowels for pity,
No stomach for high-seasoned leaven,
And though we be never so witty,
They trim us when judgment is given.
O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report,
Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.
Do my writings continue to tell?
Does the public attend to my lines?
O say that my Newspapers sell
Though the money must go for my fines!
How fleet is the growth of a fib!
The astonishing speed of its flight
Outstrips the less mischievous squib
Let off on a holiday night.
Then who would not vamp up a fudge,
When he knows how it helps off his papers
Were it not—that the thought of the judge
Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?
But Cobbett has got his discharge—
The beast is let loose from his cover;
Like him I shall yet be at large,
When a couple of years shall be over.
For law must our liberty give,
Though Law far a while may retard it
Even I shall obtain it, who live
By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.
This parody was given in Volume IV. (Part 41) of this collection, with George Cruikshank’s caricature of the Prince Regent,
“The Dandy of Sixty
Who bows with a grace,
And has taste in wigs, collars,
Cuirasses and lace,”
but it is necessary to repeat it here in its proper place, under the poet Cowper.
Verses.
(Supposed to have been written by Arthur, Duke of Wellington, during his late solitary visit to Downing Street.).
However horrible may have been the situation of that wretched man Alexander Selkirk, the Duke of Wellington’s place in 1832 must have been equally appalling. Thrown by the sea of politics on the rock of Government, out of the reach of all help, he found himself Prime Minister of England, without a single associate in his solitary Administration.
I am master of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
All the cormorants feeding on pay;
Yes, I’m Lord of each time-serving brute.
Oh Premiership! where are the charms
I formerly saw in thy face?
Better herd with the underling swarms,
Than alone in my horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must make up my council alone;
I am taxed by my foes in each speech,
And they cough at the sound of my own.
The clerks that loll over the desks,
My form with indifference see;
The supplies will, they know, meet with checks,
Oh! their apathy’s shocking to me.
Ye Liberals-aye, even more,
Whigs, Radicals, either or both,
Oh, had I ne’er ratted before,
To join you I’d be nothing loth.
My errors I then might atone,
By supporting the Bill with all zeal,
Though taunted with Winchelsea’s groan,
Or jeered by the sallies of Peel.
* * * * *
Figaro in London. June 2, 1832.
The Monarch of all they Survey.
(By a Railway Director.)
I am monarch of all they Survey,
My right there is none to assail;
O’er Great Britain Victoria may sway,
I am lord of the Line and the Rail!
Oh, Pimlico! where are the charms
Thy Buckingham Palace can boast?
What is sporting proud royalty’s arms
Of Railways to ruling the roast?
Prince Albert to prance on his nag,
And follow the lame deer is free;
But my quarry’s a different stag,
And the Engine’s the hunter for me.
An army our Queen may possess,
On the Ocean her navy may roll;
Of the Line I have regiments, no less,
And more numerous navies control.
My seat of imperial state
I’d not swop for Her Majesty’s throne,
Nor for that of my Sovereign vacate
The boiler that serves for my own.
Lords in Waiting are all very grand,
Maids of Honour are all very fine;
But the deft Engineer to command,
And to rule the sharp Stoker be mine.
Punch. November 15, 1845.
Verses.
Supposed to be written by William Smith O’Brien, during his solitary Abode in the Cellar of the House of Commons.
I am monarch of all I survey;
My right there is none to dispute;
From the break-fast time round to the tay,
I see neither Saxon nor brute.
O Solitude! where’s the atthractions,
That sages have seen in your face?
Better dwell in the midst of the Saxons,
Then reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must finish the Session alone,
Ne’er cry “hear!” to an illigant speech,—
Sure I start at the sound of my own.
Them beasts, the attindants and waithers,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unaccustomed to Marthyrs,
Their coolness is shocking to me.
Society—blarney—abuse—
Gifts dear to the boys of my name!
O if I had the wings of a goose,
It’s soon I’d be out of this same.
I then might enliven my gloom
In the ways of repalers and men,
Might learn from the wisdom of Hume,
And be cheer’d by the sallies of Ben.
Ye Mimbers, that make me your sport,
O convey to this desolate door
A Times, with a faithful report
Of the House I shall visit no more.
My frinds, sure they now and then sind
A joke or a laugh after me?
O tell me I yet have a frind
Though Bentinck I’m never to see.
The attindant is gone to his rest,
The Saxon lies down in his lair;—
While I think of the Isle of the West,
And turn up my bed[71] in dispair.
But whisky is still to be had;
And the whisky—encouraging thought!
As it is not by any means bad,
Half reconciles me to my lot.
Punch. 1846.
The Original Song of Robinson Crusoe.
I’m monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute:
No Poors Rates nor taxes I pay,
Nor take out a license to shoot.
No bailiffs or brokers I dread
To carry off me or my sticks,
And this hut I built over my head
Though of mud, is as jolly as bricks.
They may talk of residing abroad,
With limited means for a plea,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands for me.
Quite out of my fashion I strike
All habits defying my ease;
I wear my clothes just as I like,
And I think they are “rather the cheese.”
No poachers nor bailiffs I fear,
Nor e’er shot a man by mistake.
My venison though cheap still is “deer,”
And game of the game-laws I make.
They may talk of residing abroad,
At Boulogne, or Brussels, or Brest,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands are best.
I’ve no Mrs. Caudle to twit,
But go to sleep just when I choose,
And corn-laws don’t fret me a bit,
For I always wear very large shoes.
I’ve nothing to purchase, and so
With bills I am never afflicted,
And quarrels I never shall know,
Because I am ne’er contradicted.
They may talk of residing abroad,
Or of flight to the land of Yankee,
But of all the cheap places to live,
Uninhabited islands for me.
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith. London. D. Bogue. 1848.
The Modern Selkirk.
(Ballad of the Exeter Arcade Beadle.)
I am beadle of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre to over the way,
I’m lord of the playbills and fruit.
O, solitude, where are thy joys?
O, would I could see but one face!
’Tis but to be chaffed by the boys
I am left in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity’s reach,
I must walk up and down all day long,
I’ve no one to list to my speech,
I have not the pluck for a song.
The newspaper boys they peep in,
And laugh and insult me with glee;
To them it is very good fun—
Their jesting is shocking to me.
Lyceum! what pleasures untold
Reside in thy laugh-loving crowd;
But I may grow owlish and old,
Ere to witness a play I’m allowed.
The sound of the drop-raising bell,
Not once, as a beadle, I’ve heard;
Never sighed at a tragedy swell,
Nor laughed when a burlesque appear’d.
Shareholders, who’ve made me your sport,
Convey to this dreary arcade
A drop of that something called short,
Or with me ’tis all up, I’m afraid,
If my friends would but now and then send
A small drop of comfort to me,
I might know that I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith.
London. 1848.
A Savage Parody.
(Born 1845; couldn’t be borne any longer, 1866; retired from society, is buried in the seclusion of a garret, 1867.)
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,
For my creditors can’t do away
With their dread for the toe of my boot
O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face,
If forebodings one’s bosom alarms
That a bailiff may come to the place?
I am out of my landlady’s reach;
She knows it, and leaves me alone,
My skill there is none will impeach
At grilling a chop or a bone.
The clo’men in Petticoat-Lane
My form with indifference see,
For though making of most things some gain
They cannot make ought out of me.
New trousers! what visions unfold!
I dare not now venture abroad,
For the trousers I’ve on are too holed,
And a new pair I cannot afford.
The sound of the muffin-man’s bell
Makes me ready with anguish to bust,
For of money I’ve only heard tell,
And the beggars decline to give trust.
The pot boy has made me his sport!
He conveys to this desolate floor
From the pub at the end of the court
The bottles of Guinness no more.
My friends, when they wish to convey,
The hint that for me they have sorrowed,
“Feel very much hurt,” so they say,
I return not the trifle I borrowed!
But my landlady’s gone to her rest,
And the bailiff’s away in despair,
And everything seems to suggest
That I may with safety repair
To the printers—benevolent race,
Whose mercy may grant me a pot,
Which lends e’en affliction a grace
And reconciles man to his lot.
The Hornet. July 15, 1867.
Lines by the “Head of the Family.”
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From my husband right down to the cat,
I am mistress of man and of brute.
O servitude! where are thy charms
That pages and housemaids can trace?
Better reign in a sphere I won’t name
Than serve in the opposite place.
I either society seek,
Or live in my boudoir alone.
I can’t bear from others free speech,
Though fond of the sound of my own.
My husband, a sweet little man,
Has ceased a free agent to be;
In fact, he’s so under my thumb,
His tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
For him I have placed under ban;
And made him as meek as a dove,
The nice little, mild little man.
He once used to get in a rage,
Till I taught him religion and truth.
He has learnt all the wisdom of age,—
He has cut all the “Sallies” of youth.
Submission! what treasure untold
I brought when I taught him that word;
Far better than silver and gold,—
Though these he’d perhaps have preferr’d.
“The sound of the church-going bell”
Till married to me he ignored;
And p’raps that he did was as well,
Since all through the sermon he snored.
But, since he first paid me his court,
I’ve never allowed him to snore;
His rollicking ways I’ve cut short,—
He slumbers serenely no more.
My friends—I have many a friend—
Drop in rather often to tea;
And ma comes a twelvemonth to spend,
Which makes it quite pleasant for me.
How sweet ’tis a husband to find
Submissive and innocent quite;
Himself to assert not inclined;
Whatever I tell him is right.
When I think of my maidenhood’s home—
He bore me thence blushing and fair—
To this one conclusion I come,
I’m glad that no longer I’m there.
My husband has feathered his nest;
My progeny’s prospects are fair;
My own way, it must be confess’d,
I’ve got rather more here than there.
So, since he’s resigned to his place,
And no silly notions has got,
I very serenely say grace,
And reconciled feel to my lot.
The Hornet. November 1, 1871.
Woman.
She is monarch of all she surveys,
Her right there is none to dispute,
On her altar submissively lays
Its choicest, each fowl and each brute.
Behold her surrounded by those
Whose homage is lavishly done,
The world at the tip of her toes,
All its denizens crouching, save one.
Look proud, pretty Queen from thy shrine,
And thy vassals so loftily scan—
But tell them their labour, and thine,
Is to make thee seem fair to—a man!
Punch’s Almanack. 1874.
Solitude.
I’m monarch of all I survey;
I had no one my wrong to dispute,
So was forcibly hurried away
By an uniformed muscular brute.
Oh solitude! where is thy charm?
It’s certainly not in this place,
For my heart is filled with alarm
At the thought of a magistrate’s face.
I haven’t a friend to go bail;
I must drag out the night here, alone,
And it goes at the rate of a snail;
Was there ever so sad a wretch known.
The cause of all this to me’s plain,
My folly and wrong I now see!
Never more will I drink champagne,
But stick to the weakest of tea.
Society’s all very well;
But from dinners and suppers refrain,
Or one day you will certainly tell
Of the troubles of which I complain!
And remember, wherever you go,
To be sure and return home in peace.
If you don’t, well, you’ll very soon know
What ’tis to be in the hands of P’lice.
From The Figaro. December 19, 1874.
Verses
Supposed to be written by Edward Vaughan Kenealy in his seat in the House of Commons.
I am member for Stoke-upon-Trent,
My right there is none to dispute,
And the eyes of the million are bent
Upon me, so I dare not be mute.
O Parliament, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place!
The strangers who come and “withdraw”
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with law,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
The Claimant—what treasures untold
I found in that wonderful claim!
More precious than silver and gold—
It added M. P. to my name.
Ye Stokers who made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report,
Ere the public shall vote me a bore.
The bar, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O! tell me I yet have a friend,
Though but One in the lobby I see.
When I think how I stormed at the Bench
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollections that wrench
Soon hurry me back to despair.
But there’s comfort in every case;
There are Prittlewells—glorious thought!
Magna Charta’s a movement that pays;
And the Englishman[72] freely is bought.
Funny Folks. May 15, 1875.
Competition Parodies.
In 1879, The World offered prizes for parodies on this poem, the subject selected being The Frozen-out Fox Hunter.
First Prize.
I am rather left out in the cold—
Frozen out in more senses than one—
This skating is “jolly,” I’m told;
I’ll be hanged, sir, if I see the fun!
Society! What a dull part
I must play with these ladies and men!
I know nothing of music or art,
I never read Mallock or Gwen.
They are dancing to-night—so I stand
And sulk, with my back to the wall—
To the tune of “John Peel” by the band,
And feel myself out of it all.
I glance at the girls who go by,
My looks with amusement they see;
I’d ask them to dance, but I’m shy—
I know they are laughing at me.
How fresh are the breezes of morn,
While over the meadows we go!
What music can equal a horn?
Toot! Gone away! Yoicks! Tally-ho!
There’s a place we intended to draw
To-morrow, just under those rocks—
O, tell me it’s going to thaw,
You fellows who follow the fox!
But the ladies are going to bed;
At least I feel piously glad
That when all the good-nights have been said
There is pool and a pipe to be had.
Yes, while there’s a pipe and some grog,
All pleasure in life is not lost;
Come, throw on another pine log,
And be jolly in spite of the frost!
Fabula Sed Vera.
Second Prize.
I can’t go a huntin’ to-day,
That fact there is none can dispute—
In short, it’s the devil to pay;
I feel like a funeral mute.
O Leicestershire, these are the farms
I dreamt would have shown me the pace
That kills, with a scent! ’Tis the scent
Of the drains in this horrible place.
If fiends who have robbed me of sport
Should “wire,” to upset me still more,
Some fabulous weather report,
That somewhere they’ve heard of a thaw,
I’d saddle a reindeer or elk,
And sleigh myself down to the meet
With some couple of Esquimaux hounds—
By gad, we’d be tackle to beat!
“Gone away!” What eternity’s hopes
To hark to that heavenly word,
Were it whispered by mortal or beast,
Or bullfinch that’s seen or that’s heard!
Heaven’s frost-bitten rafters should ring
To my thaw’d “Tally-ho!” for the first,
While the “pack” on the “shove,” as they sing,[73]
Split pipes in one musical burst.
But the cold has got into my chest,
And the rime has got into my hair;
This manilla is none of the best,
So why am I maundering here?
There’s water in every place,
And water (encouraging thought!)
Gives whisky an excellent taste,
And reconciles man to it—hot.
King’s Cross.
The World. December 31, 1879.
The Lay of the New Ameer.
I am monarch of all I survey
(Tho’ many my right may dispute),
From Persia close down to Cathay,
I’m lord (so, at least, I compute);
I’m ruler from Káfiristan
To Beloochee plains in the south,
Where travellers reach Serawán,
Thro’ Bolan’s leviathan mouth.
(Three verses omitted.)
Funny Folks. March 15, 1879.
Ex-King Cetewayo’s Lament.
I was monarch of all I survey’d;
My right there was none to dispute,
From the Transvaal down to the sea
I was lord both of man of brute.
My men I could count by the score;
I’d an army devoted to me;
Of mealies and tusks I’d a store.
I was happy, and savage, and free!
Oh, Civilisation! the charms
That sages have seen in thy face,
I have fail’d to observe; but alarms
And dread thou did’st cause in their place.
For I’ve found it is part of thy creed
The blood of the helpless to spill,
And so that thy plans may succeed,
To burn, and to ravish, and kill!
And, oh, Christianity! blush
At the things which were done in thy name;
For that they my Zulus might crush,
They put thee full often to shame;
They robbed the poor neighbours they’re taught
By thy laws as themselves they should love.
And everywhere ruin they wrought,
In the name of that God who is love!
They caught me at last, as you’ve read,
And I now a State prisoner am;
And a wearisome life I have led,
Only temper’d with raspberry jam!
On the ways of religion and truth,
My captors as yet have been dumb,
But I notice in age and in youth
They are equally fond of ship rum.
In fact, we poor Zulus, I see,
From Christians have little to learn,
Unless it be vices which we
Were compelled in my kingdom to spurn.
And if to my desolate nation,
To go you will not me allow,
Your “religion” and “civilisation”
Will soon be my ruin, I vow.
Truth Christmas Number. 1879.
The Frozen-out Fox-Hunter.
At a Leicestershire Country Inn,
I am “Cock of the Walk” at “The Post,”
My commands there are none to forestall,
From the bandy-legged boots to the host
I am lording it over them all!
Oh! Leicestershire! where is the wag
Who called thee “a region of bliss?”
Better dine with “The Bore” at “The Rag,”
Than freeze in a pot-house like this!
I am outside society’s bounds,
Alone I must finish my weeds,
Never hear the sweet music of hounds,
I start at the neigh of my steeds!
The foxes that roam o’er the wold
Will soon get to laugh in my phiz;
They are so little used to this cold,
They’re shockingly tame as it is!
Tobacco! what solace divine
Resides in that comforting word!
More precious by far than such wine
As yon beggarly bar can afford!
But the click of a billiard ball
These desolate walls never knew,
Never heard the trim marker’s “Love-all,”
Or rejoice at the sight of a cue!
But the cattle are safe in their shed,
My hunters are wrapped in repose;
Even here is that luxury—bed—
Where I may forget all my woes!
It may thaw! I will hope for the best,
And the chance of a thaw, and some sport
Gives e’en to tough mutton a zest,
And reconciles man to bad port!
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. London.
The Griffin’s Lament.
(As sung by the Fleet Street Selkirk.)
I am Monarch of naught I survey;
E’en my site is a theme for dispute:
Every omnibus horse that I see,
As he passes me, says, “What a brute!”
Talk of dignity? What are its charms,
When, thrust in the popular face,
I fill the old street with alarms,
Looking down from this horrible place!
I’m out of humanity’s reach,
Stuck up here on the summit alone;
And as for the music of speech,
All I get is a hiss or a groan!
For no beast of the plain, old or new,
No brute from the depths of the sea,
No bird that you’ll find at the Zoo—
Has the vaguest resemblance to me!
But alas! spite rebuke and report,
And letters, and threats by the score,
I’ve been fixed! And, henceforth, without sport,
I shall hear my name mentioned no more!
My friends in the City, do they
Send a wish or a thought after me?
I trust that they do; for this way
Not a friend but old Birch shall I see!
So the traffic each night sinks to rest;
The barrister turns to his square:
The bustle all hurries due West,
Yet still I sit here in the air!
And if you could then see my face,
You’d say, “He has had it so hot—
Has that brute, that he knows his disgrace,
And admits he’s a precious bad lot!”
Punch. November 20, 1880.
The Parvenu.
I’m monarch of all I survey;
At least, when I put it like that,
I mean, if I’m willing to pay,
There’s nothing that I can’t get at.
I heard it was so from the fust,
When I thought that I would be a swell,
If I liked to come down with the dust,
Why everything then would be well.
Now a wife was my most pressing need,
That ’ad plenty of breeding and blood;
Well, I bought ’er—I mean it, indeed—
Yes, bought ’er like one of my stud.
For the Herl o’ Stoke Pogis was poor,
And he couldn’t afford to say “No,”
When he ’ad a good chance to secure
Such a rich son-in-law at a blow.
Well, next, goaded on by the Herl,
A seat in the ’Ouse ’twas I bought;
Which was dear at the price, I may say,
For it’s not so much fun as I thought.
Then the Baronet hafter my name—
This, too, was a stiffish affair;
But I don’t begrudge that, all the same,
For I liked it no hend as Lord Mayor.
Then I bought a big Family Tree,
With roots which to Normandy spread;
Whilst my ancestors cost—let me see!
Yes, close on two ’underd per ’ed.
And though they look well on the wall,
And come out exceedingly nice,
Yet I’m bound to admit that I call
’Em uncommonly dear at the price.
Well, I’ve also bought dozens of “friends,”
Not by paying ’em money down straight;
No, it on their position depends,
And there isn’t a regular rate.
To some ’tis a loan that I make,
Or berths to their boys I hallot;
Some I buy for a dinner-card’s sake,
Some by lending a horse or a yacht.
Why, I’ve Dooks as is under my thumb,
And the proudest my cards don’t decline.
Since I’ve heven got Princes to come
And sit at my table and dine.
In short, if he’s money, like me,
There’s nothing, I’m ready to vow,
That a man who is lavishly free
Can’t do in Society now!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.
Lawn-Tennis.
I am monarch of all British Games,
My right there is none to contest,
For Britons all over the world
Acknowledge that I am the best.
Oh, Billiards! say where are the charms,
That some people see in thy face;
Better have a good “rally” with me,
And endeavour “to keep up the pace.”
Other Games I admit are at hand,
But conscience constrains me to own,
There are maidens and men by the score,
Who live but for Tennis alone.
There is Croquet, that once was the rage,
Folks now with indifference see,
And candour compels me to say
Its tameness is shocking to me.
There is Cricket, an old English sport,
And a very good game in its way,
But its votaries all must admit
It is most inconvenient to play.
For its players have nothing to do,
Half the time that they own is so dear,
And I’ve noticed, when once they are “out,”
They hurry to ’baccy and beer.
And Archery, Rinking, and Bowls,
Your charms are displayed but in vain;
No one cares the least atom for you,
Or desires to taste you again;
But with me folks their troubles assuage,
With me they are merry and gay;
Each game they enjoy more and more,
And are cheered by the “rallies” they play.
When driven with judgment and skill,
How swiftly my balls cleave the air,
And “topping the net” by an inch,
Call for no little caution and care;
How merrily, too, sound my cries,
Though strangers can’t make out their use;
My language is strange, I admit,
“Fifteen, love,” “thirty, forty,” and “deuce.”
When worn with the troubles of life,
Or harrassed with business and care,
Cast your worries at once to the wind,
And straight to your Tennis repair.
In every “set” that you play,
There is pleasure and health to be got,
And I’m the best thing in the world,
To reconcile man to his lot.
A. W. Mackenzie.
From Pastime, July 20, 1883.
On the Annexation of New Guinea by Queensland.
Verses supposed to have been composed by the individual who annexed the Island.
I am monarch of all I survey,
Where only the savage disputes
My right to teach heathenish clay
The graces of trousers and boots.
O liberty! what are thy rules
To men with the Papuan skin?
Better bless them with churches and schools,
And plenty of powder and gin!
I am out of a Parliament’s reach,
And far from Gladstonian blame;
No fear that a Radical speech
Will spoil our Colonial game.
The Papuans don’t care a straw
If we claim all their acres in fee—
They are so unacquainted with law,
Their darkness is shocking to me!
With railways, and taxes, and gaols,
In store for this fortunate land,
That native is mad who assails
Such blessings so graciously planned.
But his sorrows we soon shall assuage
With this cheerfully practical test;
“To till your own soil for a wage
Is the pleasure of being annexed!”
Truth. April 26, 1883.
A Solitary Soliloquy by a Disgusted Dandy.
I.
I snoozle or snore all the day,
I loll in my silk smoking suit,
Yet, I’m drowsy and tired as can be,
And feel like a regular brute;
Oh! Solitude! where are your calms
My head’s going round such a pace,
All limp are my legs and my arms
And I hardly dare look at my face.
II.
My ‘pals’ stick to me like a leech,
When in want of a lunch or a loan,
At other times swagger and preach
And say: ‘I am wanting in tone’;
They tell me again and again
I need change—some fresh air by the sea;
Do they think I am mad or insane?
Their tameness is shocking to me.
III.
Society, friendship, and love,
Look at me, pale, sickly and wan,
I should like to give that footstool a shove,
But I really don’t know if I can.
As I listlessly turn o’er the page
Of some fanciful fickle untruth,
Bent double by premature age,
You hardly would guess at my youth.
IV.
Yes, alas! I feel seedy and old,
Though the notion is highly absurd,
For I’ve plenty of silver and gold,
And there’s nothing I cannot afford:
I’ve only to touch my hand-bell
For although not respected, I’m feared,
Though I live as a sot, I’m a swell
And am thinking of growing a beard.
V.
Ye wiles that have made me your sport,
Who have wasted my health and my ore,
Who’ve made me swill sherry and port
Till I could not contain any more;
Oh! how I do wish I could mend
Or begin life again and you’d see
If I wouldn’t do something to tend
To my taking my B.A. degree.
VI.
Just once in a way, I don’t mind,
But, thus happening night after night!
And the thoughts which the fumes leave behind,
Are anything but pleasant or bright;
I drink or I gamble till three,
And, if I do reach the right square,
Very often can’t find my latch key,
Or perhaps take my bath for a chair.
VII.
I’ve become a by-word and a jest,
And though I pretend I don’t care,
I feel I’m a bore and a pest,
Why, they laugh at the things that I wear,
I’ll pick my man, my pistols and place,
I know a very nice little spot—
Hand him one, with most infinite grace.
And either shoot him, or be shot!
From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. Jones and Piggott. Cambridge. 1883.
Verses
Supposed to have been written by Salisbury Selkirk, during his solitary abode in a Desert Chamber.
I am monarch of all I survey;
My facts there are none to dispute;
I can sneer in my nastiest way,
And the Government Benches are mute,
Oh, why do I constantly sit
In this roofless and desolate house?
For the Peers have had “notice to quit,”
And ’tis left to the spider and mouse.
I am out of Democracy’s reach,
My place the political shelf,
Never hear the sweet sound of a speech—
Except those I make to myself.
The policemen who haunt Palace Yard
My form with indifference see;
To a Marquis they pay no regard,
Which seems dreadfully “bad form” to me.
* * * * *
Oh, Granville! I wish I had known
What pleasure there lay in your talk,
Then I should not be pining alone
Where I once was the cock of the walk!
But the sound of the Lobby-going bell
These moth-eaten seats never hear,
Never fill at the voice of a “Swell,”
Or empty when dinner-time’s near!
Punch, November 8, 1884.
The Tortures of Tourists.
Yes, I am the monarch of all I survey,
My right, at the Club, there is none to dispute;
The whole of the papers are mine every day,
And no one esteems me a bore or a brute,
The waiters, too glad to have something to do,
Are eager to wait on the one man in town;
I get my pet chair, without strategy too,
And my button-hole’s free from the finger of Brown.
The Park is my own, I can loll as I will,
I can sit where I wish, I can dress as I please;
And at home or abroad, though a Londoner still,
I, with no one to censure, can live at my ease.
No longer condemned in a whirl to exist,
Nor my time in most senseless pursuits to employ,
I pass the glad hours of the week as I’ll sit,
And London, at last, to the full can enjoy.
But go where I will, be my tasks what they may,
As heedless of Fashion I linger at home,
My thoughts ever dwell, both by night and by day,
On my ill-advised friends who from happiness roam.
Nor can I deny it is one of my joys
To muse on the woes of that sorrowful band,
As victims to heat, to extortion, and noise,
They wander afar o’er the sea and the land.
* * * * *
As I dally awhile o’er my toast and the Times,
I picture these tourists, for time ever pressed,
Like spirits condemned, for most heinous of crimes,
To forfeit for ever the semblance of rest;
From foul-smelling places to towns fouler still,
I see them dragged hither and thither away;
Doomed mountains to climb, and spa waters to swill,
To touts and to guides and to vergers a prey.
I see them, deprived of the comforts they need,
Diurnally grow more distraught and distress’d,
And doom’d at hotels in succession to feed
On food that they loathe, and can never digest.
Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air,
And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal,
As each Galignani increases the scare,
And dread of the Cholera broods over all!
And then when at night I retire to my bed—
To my own cosy bed in my big airy room—
I think of those friends who from London have fled
To find on the coast of these islands their doom.
For I see them condemned—for the heed that they pay
To Fashion’s decrees—in a cupboard to sleep,
Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way,
And causes its victims long vigil to keep.
Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay,
To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace;
To be bitten by night and be bullied by day,
And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease;
Whilst e’en the ozone that they yearn to obtain,
And which to inhale they ’midst miseries tarry,
Can only be breathed by the side of the main
Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay ’Arriet and ’Arry
In a month or two’s time I shall welcome them back—
Save those too unwell from abroad to return—
And some Roman Fever to England will track,
Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn;
And all will be writing complaints to the Times,
To re-tell the story which every one knows,
As couriers’ guile and hotel-keepers’ crimes
They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose.
Truth. August 13, 1885.
The Limited Monarch.
“Her Majesty’s ship Monarch, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down.”
I’m the Monarch of all I survey,
And Brassey the fact won’t dispute,
For here I’ve been sticking all day
Like some waterlogged sea-going brute!
O Cheeseparing, where are the charms
That Northbrook has seen in thy face!
Look at me—in the midst of alarms!—
And yet mine’s but a typical case.
But the upshot of all is quite clear;
If matters go on as they do,
Well, the Navy will soon disappear,
And “My Lords,” well—they’ll disappear too!
So now that I’m docked, and they find
That I never was fit for the main,
Let us hope that a thing of the kind
Won’t occur—till it happens again!
Punch. April 25, 1885
A Song for Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
O Society, where are the charms
That once I could see in thy face?
To escape from these Duchesses’ arms,
I would live in a desolate place!
But alas! since I’ve turned on my chief,
My peace has been wrecked in this way,
And nothing can bring me relief
Whilst I still with the Unionists stay!
Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose,
’Twas at best but a poor faded flow’r!
But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants,
And threaten my peace to devour.
And instead of the orchid so famous
My buttonhole once used to bear,
’Tis a primrose (of silver enamel)
That now I’m expected to wear!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.
The Lament of the Sportive M.P.
I am weary of all I survey,
I am sick to the heart of debate;
It is something too awful, I say,
To be thus kept in London so late.
O Parliament! where are the charms
That candidates in thee can trace?
For, worn out by the “Whips’” false alarms,
I am sick of the horrible place!
I am out of Society’s reach;
At the Club I am well-nigh alone;
And not e’en the smile of Hicks-Beach
For my dulness extreme can atone.
Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern,
Have not the least pity on me,
But they all make long speeches in turn
In garments most shocking to see.
Had I known it was certainly meant
The House through September should meet,
My money I’d never have spent
In order to carry a seat!
It is shameful, this tax on my brain,
And this daily compulsion to work;
And yet fussy voters complain
If by chance a division I shirk!
Each post brings to me a report
That but makes my position more hard,
As I read of the excellent sport
From which I am wholly debarr’d.
Whilst the “guns” I had asked to my moor,
At Pittwithiebothie, N.B.;
Big bags are content to secure
By blazing away without me!
Yes, I think of these fortunate men,
As I aimlessly wander about,
Or rush to my place now and then,
When Biggar attempts a “count out.”
And sometimes I doze till I dream
Of the things which my thoughts always fill,
Till I wake with disgust most extreme,
To find Dr. Tanner up still!
And then there are Radicals too,
Who want all the votes to discuss,
Instead of “Supply” rushing through
At one sitting, without any fuss.
Whilst some seek the people’s applause
By stating that we of the House
Had better be there making laws
Than shooting at blackcock and grouse.
Such rubbish I never have heard,
For what, pray, becomes of my ease?
It seems to me too, too absurd
That I’m not to do what I please.
The people elected me, true,
But that, let me say, to be frank,
Was the very least thing they could do,
Consid’ring my fortune and rank;
And yet they now tell me, forsooth,
That, since I’ve become an M.P.,
I must give up the sports that in truth
Make life most worth living to me;
And, heedless what fashion may claim,
In London continue to live;
And the days I’d intended for game,
To Crofters and Irishmen give!
What nonsense it is, I repeat,
That a rich young patrician like me
Should be forced, for the sake of a seat,
With a view so advanced to agree.
But I will not submit; they shall find
That I’ll start off for Scotland this day—
But what’s this, though—a whip five times lined?
I suppose, after all, I must stay!
Truth. September 16, 1886.
The Modern Alexander Selkirk.
(By Sir Charles Warren.)
I am monarch of all I survey;
My might there is none to dispute;
I will prosecute all whom I see
If they argue, remonstrate, or hoot.
O Liberty, where is the charm
That Socialists see in thy face?
The tradesmen have taken alarm
At such views being heard in the place.
I am out of society’s reach,
I can issue my edicts alone;
I laugh at the rights of free speech,
For I tolerate none but my own.
The mobs that collect in the Square
I can’t with indifference see,
So outspoken, so bold—I declare
Their language is shocking to me,
How sweet is the constable’s stave
For putting the rabble to flight,
When they bludgeon some vagabond knave,
Then arrest him for brawling outright!
Who talks of a free native land?
I’ll teach them ’tis otherwise there,
With the cells and police-court at hand,
And no speaking allowed in the Square.
So let orators note my behest,
Let each pauper slink back to his lair;
They can go to the workhouse for rest,
While I to my mansion repair.
There’s a workhouse in everyplace,
And the guardians (encouraging thought)
Give relief when they’ve sifted each case—
Why ain’t they content with their lot?
Pall Mall Gazette. November 25, 1887.
Several other parodies of this poem are scattered about in various Magazines, but they are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. See
- Punch. January 10, 1880.
- Judy. June 30, 1880.
- St. James’s Gazette. April 22, 1881.
- Moonshine. January, 1882.
——:o:——
Burbaban’s Defeat.
A Warwickshire Lay.
Count Peste, he was a nobleman,
Of credit and renown,
A jockey-club man, too, was he,
Of old Newmarket town.
Count Peste said to his love, “My dear,
Though with me you have been
These many tedious years, yet you
No racing yet have seen.
To-morrow is a racing day,
And we will then repair
Unto the town of Warwickshire
And see the racing there.
I am a nobleman so bold,
As all the world doth know,
So I will ride old ‘Burbaban,’
You’ll see how we will go.”
Quoth Lady Peste, “That is well said,
For jockey’s fees are dear,
So you can ride, and be your own,
That is both nice and clear.”
* * * * *
He lost the race, he lost it quite,
And back he got to town;
All wished he never had been up,
For it was up and down.
Now let us sing, “Long live the Queen!
And Count Peste, long live he!
And when he next a race does ride,
May I be there to see!”
There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863.
——:o:——
A RIDDLE.
I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told;
I am lawful, unlawful—a duty, a fault,
I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought;
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.
The answer, not given by Cowper, is “A Kiss.” The riddle was first published in The Gentleman’s Magazine in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T.” being appended to it:—
A riddle by Cowper
Made me swear like a trooper,
But my anger, alas! was in vain;
For remembering the bliss
Of beauty’s soft kiss,
I now long for such riddles again.
In Notes and Queries April 2, 1887, a poem was printed as having been written by William Cowper, but not hitherto included in his works. This gave rise to some controversy, the general opinion being, that although probably not actually written by Cowper, the poem was a by no means poor imitation of his lighter style.
Bless my Heart, how Cold it is.
Hark! the blustering Boreas blows.
See! the waters round are froze.
The trees that skirt the dreary plain
All day a murmuring cry maintain;
The trembling forest hears their groan,
And sadly answers moan for moan.
Such is the tale,
O’er hill and dale,
Each traveller may behold it is;
While low and high
Are heard to cry,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
Now slumbering sloth, that cannot bear
The question of the piercing air,
Lifts up her unkempt head, and tries,
But cannot from her bondage rise;
The while the housewife swiftly throws
Around the wheel, and quickly shows
The healthful cheek industry brings
(It is not in the gift of Kings).
To her long life,
Devoid of strife,
And justly, too, unfolded is,
The while the sloth
To stir is loth,
And trembling cries, “How cold it is!”
Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed,
All shivering like a shaken reed,
“How sharp the wind attacks my back!
John, put some list across that crack;
Go, sandbag all the sashes round,
And see there’s not an air-hole found.”
Indulgence pale
Tells this sad tale
Till he in furs enfolded is;
Still, still complains,
O’er all his pains,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
Now the poor newsman from the town
Explores his way across the down,
His frozen fingers sadly blows,
And still he seeks, and still it snows.
“Go take his paper, Richard, go,
And give a dram to make him glow.”
Such was thy cry,
Humanity,
More precious far than gold it is,
Such gifts to deal,
When newsmen feel,
All clad in snow, how cold it is.
Humanity, delightful tale,
When we feel the winter gale,
May the cit in ermined coat
Lend his ear to sorrow’s note;
And when with misery’s weight oppressed
A fellow sits, a shivering guest,
Full, ample may his bounty flow,
To cheer the bosom dulled by woe.
In town or vale,
Where’er the tale
Of real grief unfolded is,
Oh, may he give
The means to live
To those who feel how cold it is,
Perhaps some soldier, blind or maimed,
Some tar for independence maimed;
Remember these. For thee they bore
The loss of limbs, and suffered more.
Oh, pass them not; for if you do,
I’ll blush to think they fought for you.
Through winter’s reign
Relieve their pain,
For what they’ve done, sure bold it is;
Their wants supply
Whene’er they cry,
“Bless my heart, how cold it is!”
And now, ye sluggards, sloths, and beaux,
Who dread the breath that winter blows,
Pursue the counsel of a friend
Who never found it yet offend.
When winter deals his blasts around,
Go beat the air and pace the ground;
With cheerful spirits exercise,
’Tis there life’s balmy blessing lies.
O’er hill and dale,
Though sharp the gale,
And frozen you behold it is,
Your blood shall glow,
And swiftly flow,
And you’ll not cry, “How cold it is!”
