William Makepeace Thackeray,
Born, July 18, 1811. | Died, Dec. 24, 1863.
eparting from the plan hitherto adopted in this collection, Thackeray will have to be considered not only as the author of many poems which have formed the bases of parodies, but also as himself the writer of almost innumerable parodies and burlesques, both in verse and in prose. Having, indeed, such a natural penchant for travestie that he would rather parody himself, than remain long serious, or philosophical. One of his early friends and schoolfellows wrote of him, that, when quite a boy at the Charterhouse School, “he was known for his faculty of making verses, chiefly parodies.”
I only remember one, a parody on a poem by L. E. L. about ‘Violets, dark blue violets,’ which Thackeray translated into ‘Cabbages, bright green cabbages,’ and we thought it very witty.”
This parody will be given later on, but considerations of space render it necessary to be sparing of comment on Thackeray’s work as a parodist; some of his best poetical parodies will be given, as well as a list of his prose burlesques. But for historical details of these famous jeux d’esprit, with explanations of the allusions contained in them, the reader can be confidently recommended to turn to Anthony Trollope’s charming volume on Thackeray, in the “English Men of Letters” series, published by Macmillan & Co., London.
Certainly, as Anthony Trollope therein remarks, no writer ever had a stronger proclivity towards parody than Thackeray, and there is no form of literary drollery more dangerous. The parody will often mar the gem of which it coarsely reproduces the outward semblance.
But it must be acknowledged of Thackeray, that he has done little or no injury by his parodies. They run over with fun, but are so contrived that they do not lessen the flavour of the original. In the little set of verses of his own, called The Willow Tree, and his own parody on the same, we see how effective a parody may be in destroying the sentiment of the piece parodied.
But in dealing with other authors, he has been grotesque without being severely critical, and has been very like, without making ugly or distasteful that which he has imitated.
Violets.
Violet!—deep-blue violets!
April’s loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grown in the vale,
Kissed by the sun, woo’d by the gale,
None with the dew of the twilight wet
So sweet as the deep-blue violet!
I do remember how sweet a breath,
Came with the azure light of a wreath,
That hung round the wild harp’s golden chords,
That rung to my dark-eyed lover’s words;
I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the east and bands of gold.
But it never was sweeter than when set
With leaves of the dark blue violet.
And when the grave shall open for me—
I care not how soon that time may be—
Never a rose shall blow on my tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and bloom!
But let me have there the meek regret
Of the bending and deep-blue violet!
Letitia Elizabeth Landon.
In L. E. L.’s poetical works, “Excelsior” Edition, the above is called “The Violet,” and lines 3 and 4 are—
There are no flowers grow in the vale
Kiss’d by the dew, woo’d by the gale,
and the final lines are—
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and of bloom,
But there be that flower’s meek regret,
The bending and deep-blue violet!
Cabbages.
Cabbages! bright green cabbages!
April’s loveliest gifts I guess,
There is not a plant in the garden laid,
Raised by the soil, dug by the spade,
None by the gardener water’d I ween,
So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green.
I do remember how sweet a smell
Came with the cabbage I loved so well,
Served up with the beef that so beautiful looked,
The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked.
I have seen beef served with radish of horse,
I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos,
But it is far nicer, far nicer I guess
As bubble and squeak. Beef and cabbages.
And when the dinner-bell sounds for me—
I care not how soon that time may be—
Carrots shall never be served on my cloth,
They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth,
But let me have there a mighty mess
Of smoking hot beef and cabbages!
W. M. Thackeray.
This early parody has not hitherto been included amongst Thackeray’s collected ballads and poems. It was printed in an article which appeared in Cornhill, Vol. XI., 1865, entitled “A Memorial of Thackeray’s Schooldays,” signed J. F. B.
The Willow-Tree.
No. I.
Know ye the willow-tree,
Whose gray leaves quiver,
Whispering gloomily
To yon pale river?
Lady, at eventide
Wander not near it!
They say its branches hide
A sad lost spirit!
Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful.
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her steps moved fleeter,
No one was there—ah me!—
No one to meet her!
Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bells’ chime,
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time.
But the red sun went down
In golden flame,
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came!
Presently came the night,
Sadly to greet her,—
Moon in her silver light,
Stars in their glitter.
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow.
Still wept the maid alone—
There by the willow!
Through the long darkness,
By the stream rolling,
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness,
Lonely and stilly.
Shrill came the night wind,
Piercing and chilly.
Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold.
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold!
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the gray dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair,
Still stands the willow there—
The maid is gone!
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany—
Sing for poor maiden-hearts
Broken and weary;
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
Wail we and weep we a
Wild miserere!
Thackeray wrote this pretty little ballad simply that he might render it absurd by his own parody, which is here printed side by side, as it was when it first appeared in Frazer’s Magazine for 1842, in The Fitz-Boodle Papers.
The Willow-Tree.
No. II.
Long by the willow-tree
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother’s screams
O’er the gray water.
“Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?
“Rouse thee, sir constable—
Rouse thee and look.
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily beds,
Dive in the brook.”
Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her.
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder.
Vainly he threw the net,
Never it hauled her!
Mother beside the fire
Sat, her night-cap in;
Father, in easy chair,
Gloomily napping;
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping.
And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother’s heart,
Sick with amazement,
And at the vision which
Came to surprise her!
Shrieking in an agony—
“Lor’! it’s Elizar!”
Yes, ’twas Elizabeth;—
Yes, ’twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
“Mother!” the loved one,
Blushing, exclaimed,
“Let not your innocent,
Lizzy be blamed.
“Yesterday, going to aunt
Jones’s to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold,
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.”
Whether her pa and ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know.
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short night,—
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.
Moral.
Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the fiddlety,
Maidens of England take
Caution by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key.
W. M. Thackeray.
LITTLE BILLEE.
(Air.—Il y avait un petit navire.)
There were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain’s biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They’d nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“I am extremely hungaree.”
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
“With one another we shouldn’t agree!
There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,
We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”
“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie.”
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket handkerchie.
“First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me.”
“Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up the main-top gallant mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. “There’s land I see:
“Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee:
There’s the British fleet a riding at anchor,
With Admiral Nelson, K.C.B.”
So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s ship
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill, he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-three.
It is stated that Thackeray first sang this amusing piece of nonsense extempore. When it first found its way into print is not known, but it occurs as early as 1863 in an article on Thackeray which appeared in the now defunct, “North British Review.” Prior to that date an incorrect version was printed in some American newspapers, and rumour at once fixed upon O. W. Holmes as the author. Perhaps Holmes may have written a parody on it, but if so, it does not appear in his collected poems.
The Modern Men of Gotham!
(Who went to sea [in] a Bowl.)
There were three dwellers in Gotham city
Who took a bowl and put to sea;
But first with fallacies, and figments,
And cooked statistics they loaded she.
There was bumptuous ’Arry, and bouncing Jemmy,
And the youngest he was little Randee;
And there wasn’t an able-bodied seaman,
Nor a skilful steersman among the three.
And the bowl was crank as the crankest cockboat,
It hadn’t a keel, and its bottom was queer;
And it rolled and pitched like a tipsy porpoise,
And it couldn’t sail, and it wouldn’t steer.
They might have sailed in a genuine clipper,
’Arry and Jemmy, and little Randee,
But they’d had a row with the Free Trade skipper,
And were filled with the spirit of mutinee.
Their craft—“Fair Trade” was the name they christened it—
They jointly launched on the tumbling ocean,
And they huddled into her with a lot of shouting,
But they soon felt queer, all along of her motion.
For she tumbled this way, and wobbled that way,
And she circumvoluted, like a tee-to-tum;
And the angry billows dashed damply over them,
Whilst they whistled for a fair wind, which wouldn’t come.
Thus bumptious ’Arry and bouncing Jemmy,
And the cocky urchin called little Randee!
And they had’nt got far from the Prime Meridian,
When they wished they were safe on a Seventy-three.
Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy,
“I fear we are very much at sea.”
To bumptious ’Arry says bouncing Jemmy,
“How about Reciprocitee?”
Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy,
“I begin to fear that it won’t help we
If this blessed bowl takes us bang to the bottom,
What do you think of it, little Randee?”
Says he, “Our Free Trade Catechism
We’d better repeat upon bended knee,
And be more particular about the Ninth Commandment,
Nor again go floating in a bowl to sea.”
* * * * *
So when they got back to the Free Trade skipper,
He chivied ’Arry and he chaffed Jemmee.
But as for little Randee, they made him—
Well, they who live longest will probably see!
Punch. November 15, 1884.
Henry Chaplin, M.P., James Lowther, M.P., and Lord Randolph Churchill, M.P., had recently been advocating several remedies for the agricultural depression. Fair Trade, Reciprocity, and a Protective Duty on imported corn, were proposed, but met with no general support either in Parliament, or out of it.
The Jolly Commissioners.
There were some Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses,
Who took a boat and went to sea,
Who took a boat to see what they could see.
There was Gorging Jack and Guzzling Jimmy,
With others, who ran up a little bill-ee
At the Waterloo, Grieve’s Hostelree.
They went to inspect Lighthouses and Lightships,
All round the Scottish coast, N.B.
A very pleasant trip it was, N.B.
Says Gorging Jack to Guzzling Jimmy,
“What shall we do if we’re hunge-ree?
Which will happen very probablee.
“Oh, ain’t we going to drink and eat too
When Lighthouses we come to see?
Oh, this air gives such an appe-ti-tee.”
Says Guzzling Jim to Gorging Jacky,
“O Gorging Jack, what a fool you be.
Let’s store the boats provisionallee.”
With dinners and dessert and Amontillado,
And Chambertin they loaded she,
With Sixty-four Lafitte they loaded she.
* * * * *
They’d Steinberg Cabinet of Sixty-Eight too,
And other wines which were all first-rate to
Says Guzzling Jim unto Jackee,
“Oh, what a lot of lighthouses I see!
“But they all appear mos’ dre’fully shaky,
The Lighthouses appear mos’ horr’bly shaky!
Its very fortch-nate that we came to see.
Thesh Lighthousesh are not steadee.
“I think the Lighthouses have been drinking,
They have been taking too much whiskee!
“Look at the lightsh how they’re revolving,
I don’t think they’re working properlee,
The Board of Trade must hear of this from We.”
Before they finished their Waterloo Banquet,
They drank the health of her Majestee,
And they drank the Royal Jubilee.
And as for their little Bill (who paid it?)
It’s being examined by a Com-mit-tee
When next they want Lighthouse Commissioners
To examine the Scottish Coast, N.B.
Of candidates what crowds there’ll be!!
Punch. March 5, 1887.
A most exorbitant charge was made for the dinners and refreshments provided for these Commissioners.
——:o:——
Thackeray’s Burlesque Analysis of the
Sorrows of Werther.
Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
PEG OF LIMAVADDY.
Limavaddy inn’s
But a humble baithouse,
Where you may procure
Whiskey and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to his hotel come.
Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby’s cradle rocking.
To the chimney nook,
Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup,
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies;)
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it!
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!
Up and down the stair
Two more young ones patter
(Twins were never seen
Dirtier nor fatter);
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have—here the host
Kindly interposes;
“Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir,
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir?”
Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor,
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker,)
Gods! I did’nt know
What my beating heart meant
Hebe’s self I thought
Enter’d the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honour,
Lighted all the kitchen.
With a curtsey neat
Greeting the new comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word,)
On my what d’y call ’ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Misses, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal,
Specially Miss Peg’s was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was),
That the joyful sound
Of that ringing laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.
Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who’ve heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel
Singing “Giovinetti,”
Fancy Peggy’s laugh,
Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!
* * * * *
See her as she moves
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,
Vestris never show’d
Ankles like to Peggy’s;
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably boddiced.
* * * * *
W. M. Thackeray.
The ballad from which these extracts are taken first appeared in The Irish Sketch Book published in 1843.
A Beautified Being.
(Old Lady Sings.)
Only look at me,
Fair in every feature;
Don’t you think you see
A fascinating creature?
Venus, Beauty’s Queen,
Looked so lovely never.
Lo now, I have been
Made Beautiful for Ever!
Here are bust and brow,
White as alabaster;
Don’t you tell me, now,
That I am cased in plaster.
Here’s a cheek, whose rose
Time shall never pluck—Oh
Do not say it glows
With nought but painted stucco!
Oh, forbear to chaff,
Saying, Art doth trammel
Features, which a laugh
Would cause to crack enamel.
Freckles o’er this face
Where did Time’s hand sprinkle?
Point me out the place
Or show me any wrinkle.
I have undergone
Renovation thorough,
Loveliness, laid on,
Has filled up every furrow,
So, to win my hand,
Now, boys, who’ll endeavour?
Take me as I stand,
Made Beautiful for Ever.
Published at the time when the trial of Madame Rachel was in progress, and her devices for making women “Beautiful for ever” were being exposed.
Whiskey! Drink Divine!
Whiskey, drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?
Were it not a shame,
Whilst we gaily fling thee
To our lips of flame,
If we could not sing thee?
Whiskey, drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?
Greek and Roman sung
Chian and Falernian—
Shall no harp be strung
To thy praise, Hibernian?
Yes—let Erin’s sons—
Gen’rous, brave, and frisky—
Tell the world, at once,
They owe it to their whiskey.
If Anacreon—who
Was the grape’s best poet—
Drank our Mountain dew,
How his verse would show it:
As the best then known,
He to wine was civil;
Had he Inishowen
He’d pitch wine to the d—l.
Bright as beauty’s eye,
When no sorrow veils it;
Sweet as beauty’s sigh,
When young love inhales it;
Come, then, to my lip—
Come, thou rich in blisses—
Every drop I sip
Seems a shower of kisses.
Could my feeble lays
Half thy virtues number,
A whole grove of bays
Should my brows encumber.
Be his name adored,
Who summed up thy merits
In one little word,
When he called thee spirits.
Send it gaily round—
Life would be no pleasure,
If we had not found
This enchanting treasure:
And, when tyrant death’s
Arrow shall transfix ye,
Let your latest breaths
Be whiskey! whiskey! whiskey!
Whiskey! drink divine!
Why should driv’lers bore us
With the praise of wine,
Whilst we’ve thee before us?
By Joseph O’Leary (a parliamentary reporter for the Morning Chronicle). 1840.
Henry and Ellen.
O’er Atlantic wave
Comes a fearsome babel;
Every sort of stave,
Fact confused with fable.
Henry some assail,
T’other side the ferry;
But the western gale
Blows love of Ellen Terry!
Black is Henry’s guilt,
Passing all contrition;
For he runs atilt
At a pet tradition.
When he seems to fail
Philistines make merry;
But the western gale
Blows love of Ellen Terry!
Shylock is too tame
For a taste robustious;
Oracles acclaim
Henry is “industrious!”
Still the crafty Jew
Agitates the scholars—
Hebrew never drew
Such a pile of dollars.
Melancholy Dane,
Why this grief abysmal?
Democrats would fain
See a Prince less dismal.
How can Boston praise,
With this thought unnerving—
Edwin’s crown of bays
On the brow of Irving?
For the Martyr King
Countless cheeks are dewy;
Critics sweetly sing
Anthems to the Louis.
Many love him best
When his vein for sport is—
Prize the polished jest
That his Doricourt is.
Mathias appals
With his conscience deathless
Gallery and stalls,
Sitting mute and breathless.
What though taunting scribe
Write himself a noodle?
Henry turns the gibe,
Whistling “Yankee Doodle!”
But when Ellen smiles,
Glows the most sedate eye;
Lightly she beguiles
Boston literati.
Never did the sword
Win such wide submission—
Slavery restored,
Spite of Abolition!
We who saw thy tomb,
Pride of all Verona,
Mourned thy piteous doom,
Sweetest Desdemona;
Gladly would we sail
Ocean in a wherry,
While the western gale
Blew love of Ellen Terry!
Portia, we know
What it is that tutors
Blest Bassanio
To vanquish other suitors!
Beatrice might rail
From Sandy Hook to Kerry,
Still would western gale
Blow love of Ellen Terry!
May red rose grow pale,
Juice desert the berry,
Ere the western gale
Blow slight of Ellen Terry!
Which of us would quail
Before the worst of sherry,
To drink “Columbia, hail!”
For love of Ellen Terry!
The St. James’s Gazette. January 10, 1884.
——:o:——
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.
Ye Genii of the nation,
Who look with veneration,
And Ireland’s desolation onsaysingly deplore,
Ye sons of General Jackson,
Who’d thrample on the Saxon,
Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore.
When William, Duke of Schumbug,
A tyrant and a humbug,
With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,
Our fortitude and valiance
Insthructed his battalions,
To respict the gallant Irish upon Shannon shore.
Since that capitulation,
No city in this nation
So grand a reputation could boast before,
As Limerick prodigious,
That stands with quays and bridges,
And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.
A chief of ancient line,
’Tis William Smith O’Brine
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more;
O the Saxons can’t endure
To see him on the flure,
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!
This valiant son of Mars
Had been to visit Par’s,
That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor;
And to welcome his return
From pilgrimages forr’n,
We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.
* * * * *
When full of tay and cake,
O’Brine began to spake;
But juice a one could hear him for a sudden roar
Of a ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.
As Smith O’Brine harangued,
They bathered and they banged;
Tim Doolan’s doors and windies down they tore:
They smashed the lovely windies
(Hung with muslin from the Indies),
Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.
With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead rats,
These ruffin democrats themselves did lower:
Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.
“Cut down the bloody horde!”
Says Meagher of the sword,
“This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;”
But the best use Tommy made
Of his famous battle blade
Was to cut his stick from the Shannon shore.
Immortal Smith O’Brine
Was raging like a line;
’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar:
In his glory he arose,
And he rushed upon his foes,
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.
Then the Futt and Dthragoons,
In squadthorns and platoons,
With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;
And they bate the rattatoo,
But the Peelers came in view,
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.
W. M. Thackeray.
Mr. Patrick O’Rory’s Account of the
Hampton Court Meet.
Och, the glorification of bicycleation,
What is’t in the nation can ever compare,
With all of them fleeting to Hampton, and meeting
Like temperance preachers all in the open air.
Och, for the numbers with Singers and Humbers,
Piling their instruments up by the gates;
And patent Eclipses, and policemen, and gipsies,
And boys with the programmes all eating of swates.
Their bicycles shining all standing a line in,
’Twas done by designing, and splendid to see;
With people all flocking, and each other knocking,
And all of them happy as they could be.
Then over the courses two policemen on horses,
A-dancing and prancing, decipher the line;
Quickissimo! steady! the riders get ready
To jump in their saddles when they get the sign.
Then the bugle sounded, and all of them bounded,
Right on to the top of their lovely machines;
Only some of them hopping too hard took to flopping,
And mixed themselves up by all manner of manes.
Then the first couple dodges right in by the Lodges,
At the Lion Gates, into Bushy Park.
Their club was the Pickwick (which wanst had a picnic
In Epping Forest and got back before dark.)
And next comes the Surrey up all in a hurry,
With nice Mister Budd, ’kase he thought they were late;
And Mister Oxx laughing so wide at the chaffing,
He had to stop smiling to get through the gate.
And then came the Temple, a pleasant exemple
Of teetotal members who never drink beer;
In front of them “Maccy,” who rode on his “jacky,”
And young Charley Liles bringing up the rear.
Then comes Lacy Hillier—’twould purty well kill ye,
To watch him a-spiling his beautiful face
In such a sad manner, just by the Diana,
As only a knocker could make such a grimace.
And H. Liddel Cortis, who’d only just bought his
New Surrey Machinist a couple of weeks;
And being a novice, ’twas hard luck of his,
To have a great wapse get inside of his breeks.
The next was the London, and may I be undone,
By faith, if they wasn’t the best of them all.
With Handicap Rucker in front, on a duck o’
A beautiful Humber from ’Cultural Hall;
And then came the Saturn, a worthy pattern,
With lace on their jackets, and gould on the front;
And R. Vazie Simons, all shining like di’mon’s—
The sun he complately put out of the hunt.
(Three verses omitted.)
Then the eggs and the cresses and the ladies’ dresses,
And all other things which are good for to eat,
With tea to delight ’em all ad infinitum,
And waiters to cut up the plates full of meat;
There was punch and toddy for everybody,
And anyone else who could only get in;
But poor Mister Sopper eat more than was proper,
Which made him so fat that he’ll never get thin.
Then the crowd disperses—the sojers and nurses,
And dames with their purses for to catch the train,
Wid all of them boring, each other assuring
It’s the grandest sight they’ll never see again.
And now that I’ve finished my tale and diminished
The beautiful nagus ye mixed before,
I’m dhry as a dragon, so hand me the flagon—
Sure it can’t hurt to drink one glass more.
H. A. V.
From Icycles. The Christmas number of The Wheel World, 1880.
The Battle of O’Brine.
Great jaynius of the nation,
Ould Ireland’s veneration,
Come over, Mr. Gladstone, most honourable sorr;
And sling your grand old axe on,
To slay the tricherous Saxon
That raised that dridful shindy on fair Ontario’s shore.
As bould as any line
Came W. O’Brine
(A pathriot as eminent as ever Ireland bore),
To prache Home Rule Salvation
To this benighted nation
That grope in degradation by fair Ontario’s shore.
Tin gintlemen united
The orator invited
To meet Toronto citizens—some twenty bhoys or more—
To purge the foul pollution
Of the toirant Constitution
By a pathriot risolution from fair Ontario’s shore.
And the blaggart Lansdowne trimbled
At our gallant bhoys assimbled,
Though his craven crew dissimbled all the fears their bosoms tore,
When, Will Mulligan beside,
Did the bould O’Brine ride
With Dan Cahill and Kilbride to fair Ontario’s shore.
For the toirant thraithors knew
What the bould O’Brine could do:
So with rage and imulation in their black heart’s core,
They hired a howlin’, shrakin’,
Mob to interrupt the spakin’
That would else have bought true freedom to fair Ontario’s shore.
With an illoquence most takin’
O’Brine began the spakin’;
But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
Of the ragamuffin rout
Began to yell and shout,
And frighten the propriety of fair Ontario’s shore.
W. O’Brine harangued;
But they battered and they banged,
And they stormed the pathriot’s platform and the pathriot’s breeches tore.
Till through all the shout and shindy
He retreated by the windy
With an angry curse at parting upon fair Ontario’s shore.
That infuriated curse
Only made the thraithors worse
And the howling mob in hundreds after bould O’Brine did pour,
As with cat-calls, shrieks, and whistles,
And the most unginerous missiles—
Rotten eggs, sticks, stones and carrots—they disgraced Ontario’s shore.
With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead cats,
These ruffian democrats themselves did lower.
“Och! a national disgrace,”
Cried O’Brine, and with quick pace
Boulted down into a friendly and convanient ’cycle “store.”
And there pale the bould O’Brine
Halted, raging like a line:
’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard how he swore!
Then he pinned up his trunk hose,
And, retreating from his foes,
By the back door, turned for ever from that tricherous thraithor shore.
The Globe. May 21, 1887.
When Lord Lansdowne was appointed Governor General of Canada, Mr. W. O’Brien went over to the Dominion to expose the harsh manner in which the tenants were treated on the rack-rented estates of Lord Lansdowne in Ireland. Mobs of rioters attacked Mr. O’Brien, who was nearly killed, and the Canadian police proved utterly inefficient to cope with the disorder.
——:o:——
LOVE AT TWO SCORE.
Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber’s shear,
All your aim is woman to win.
This is the way that boys begin.
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell’s window panes.
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are grey:
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome, ere
Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month was gone.
Gillian’s dead, Heaven rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian’s married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
This poem first appeared in Thackeray’s burlesque of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, entitled “Rebecca and Rowena.”
Love at Sixteen.
In answer to W. M. Thackeray, Esq. By a Pretty Page.
The affections, when young, are more prone to unite,
As the flowers of the forest together entwine,
Than when age with her vigour has frozen our might,
And manhood has gone past the bounds of its prime.
Forty years—ah! why wait for enjoyment so long,
For a home with the heart and the hand of the fair?
Why cheat expectation while time circles on,
And marry a girl, in your fortieth year?
With no one to share life’s troubles and crosses,
Or cheer you with smiles when sickness is near,
Or console you amidst your privations and losses,
Would you wait for a bride till your fortieth year?
Why not taste of the fountain of pleasure while beauty,
Lends grace to the features now withered and sere?
Oh! lose not the chance, for numbers will suit ye,
Unless they’re put oft to the fortieth year.
To sweeten the cup of the bitter we’re drinking,
And mourn o’er the corpse when the spirit has gone,
To soften our fears when hope is fast sinking,
Are to woman allotted, sad tasks! to be done.
Oh! give me a home with a fair English maiden,
Who’ll beguile the dull days of my sojourning here;
While blest with a wife and two rosy young children,
I’ll leave others to wed in their fortieth year.
Cheltenham. January, 1850.
——:o:——
The Snob’s Version of the Cane-Bottom’d Chair.
(It is said that the Prince of Wales, being late for Church on the day of his arrival at Cannes, slipped in among the footmen and ladies’ maids. One of the latter marked the chair he occupied, and after evening service, her mistress, the wife of a Liverpool cotton-broker, was much disappointed at not being able to buy it from the sexton.)
Was ever a woman so wretched as I,
To long for a treasure that wealth cannot buy!
That sexton has surely the heart of a bear,
Or else he would sell me that cane-bottom’d chair.
’Tis nothing to look at, you crusty old man!
And no one would give you the price of a fan;
But since the fair evening when Albert sat there,
I yearn and I burn for that cane-bottom’d chair.
To think I have seen him as yet but in dreams,
And that he should sit between Mary and Jeames!
What rapture with Albert a prayer-book to share,
Had I been as close to that cane-bottom’d chair!
O sexton, how can you compel me to pine
For a seat that can never be chaste in design?
And yet could I win you, no Chippendale rare
Should wean my heart from you, my cane-bottom’d chair!
I’d work you a cushion; I’d dust you myself—
The shrine of my saint, and the throne of a Guelph!
No Liverpool rivals would dare to compare
Their stale bric-à-brac with my cane-bottom’d chair.
And oft in the twilight my fancy would see
My Prince in that seat sitting smiling at me!—
O sexton, kind sexton, give heed to my prayer,
And take all I have for that cane-bottom’d chair!
——:o:——
THE KING OF YVETOT.
There was a King of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days in bed,
And every night as night came round,
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of King for me.
* * * * *
W. M. Thackeray.
The Great News-maker.
It was the “crack” news-maker,
The champion of the gang,
A knowing wide-a-waker,
Who would without a pang
Supply strange stories without stint,
Shoot emperors, blow up the Mint—
In print.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
Where find the match of this hero?—
Ho, ho!
He every week discovers
Fresh dynamiters’ schemes,
And scores of sighing lovers
He’s drown’d in Lethean streams;
He knows the Ministerial mind,
Whispers that Gladstone has, we’ll find,
Resigned.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
The whole world’s secrets he does know—
Ho, ho!
For lovers of sensations
Who like news dashed with “spice,”
He’ll hint at revelations,
Hatch scandals in a trice.
And when he sees the gaping crowd,
He’ll laugh—he’s of his wit so proud—
Aloud.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho!
This is the age of shams, you know.
Ho, ho!
Funny Folks. June 5, 1886.
Thackeray’s translations, or imitations, of some of Beranger’s songs are well known, it is interesting to compare them with the versions written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony), who has not only followed the originals more closely, but seems also to have preserved more of their light-hearted gaiety, than did Thackeray. When Thackeray projected “The Cornhill Magazine” Father Prout sent an “Inaugurative Ode to the author of Vanity Fair.” Thackeray was too fastidious to allow it to appear exactly in the form in which it was written, but having considerably altered it, and added two stanzas, it was printed in the first number of the Cornhill, January, 1860. The two versions will be found in the appendix to The Maclise Portrait Gallery by William Bates, B.A. (London Chatto and Windus, 1883.) The version given in The Works of Father Prout, published by Messrs. Routledge, London, is simply a reprint of the Ode as it appeared after it had been altered, and cut about, by Thackeray.
——:o:——
In his “Memoirs of C. Jeames de la Pluche, Esq.,” and “The Ballads of Policeman X” Thackeray allowed his fondness for eccentric orthography to become somewhat tedious, but they contain many gems of humour, such as the song of the love sick Jeames:—
When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily’s bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?
I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England’s lovliest shine—
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems—
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?
* * * * *
Burlesque verses, such as these, may be imitated, but they cannot be parodied, and, indeed it must be admitted that few of the imitations are really humorous.
The Arcana of Cabinet-making.
(An Epistle from James de la Pluche, Jun., Esq.)
“Lady Frederick Cavendish’s house, Carlton House-terrace, and Devonshire House, the town residence of the Marquis of Hartington, were the centres of interest on the Opposition side. Mr. Gladstone, who is at present the guest of Lady Frederick, at half-past ten received a visit from Mr. Godley, a former private secretary. Lord Granville walked across from his residence about eleven o’clock, and had a long interview with Mr. Gladstone, Sir Henry James, ex-Attorney-General, also called on Mr. Gladstone, and remained with him for about half an hour. He was followed by Lord Hartington, who walked to Carlton House-terrace from the Reform Club. He and Mr. Gladstone remained in conversation for over an hour. At the close of the interview his lordship crossed the street to Lord Granville’s residence, and in a few minutes they came out together in earnest conversation. Lord Hartington left the leader of the House of Lords at the corner by the Athenæum, and strolled back in the direction of the Duke of York’s Steps, where he was shortly joined by Lord Rosebery, who had called on Mr. Gladstone in the meantime. Later in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone went for a drive in the Park, after which the former was again visited by Lord Granville and Lord Derby.”—Times. January 28, 1886.
You scribblin’ fellers makes a show,
Of bein’ reg’lar “in the know,”
On pollytix an’ pollytishns
Haffectin’ habsoloot homnishns—
But wen there comes a cryziss, who’s
The whery fust as knows the knoos?
Who’s hex hoffisho on the spot
To let you press-chaps know wot’s wot?
Who’s plaist by Fête in sich a stashn
As quite commands the sitiwashn?
Who tells you penyalinin’ lyres
The hins an’ houts of wot perspires?
In short, who knows the time of day,
Is hup to snough, hall there, ho fay?
Who ’olds the pulse of Isterry?
I hansers ortily, Y, ME!—
Me, an’ a few kongfrares as well
Wot waits upon the Front Door Bell.
The wuld is pantin’ for to know
The goins on of WEG. an’ Co.—
His bedtime an’ the time he riz,
His hegsits an’ his hentrances,
His hax each minnit of the day,
Who cawld on ’im, who stade awhey,
Wen Herbert wisited the Guv,
An’ wen he wawkt, an’ wen he druv,
An’, most of hall, wot lucky feller
He last took hunder his humbreller,
Did Granwill pop across the streat?
Did ’im an’ Wernon Arkrt meat?
Were it at arf past twelve or wun
The Gee Ho Hem sor ’Artington?
He stayed—’ow long? An’ who come nex?
Wot other bigwhigs paid respex?
Who were it wrang the hairey bell
An’ slipt in privit?—Not P—rn—ll?
Wen came the darlin’ of the Corcus.
His butnole gorjus with a horchus?
Wile he enjyd a tateytate,
Were Rowsberry ablidjed to wate?
Who was eggscited? Who was carm?
An’ who with who went harm-in-harm?
For tips on sich pints Kings an’ Doox
An’ Hurls is on the tenteroox—
From Galway to Hafganistan
Hall Ize is on the Grand Old Man;
The Zar’s gone oph his sleap at night,
Prints Bizmark’s lost his happytight,
The Greax for hinfamashn long—
An’ who, pray, keaps ’em ho koorong?
Who plays, in langwitch mettyforacle,
The mitey roll of Yewrup’s Horacle?
Who lets you scribblers suck his branes
An’ gits a quid, praps, for his panes?
R! Sich the lot (’ow ’ard it seams!)
The loly, lophty lot of Jeames.
The Pall Mall Gazette. January 30, 1886.
——:o:——
The Ballad of a Rural Pleceman,
by “whackery.”
Tory gents of Lincoln county,
Lincoln famed for minster grand,
Whence a “party,” as is nameless,
Looks they say across the land.
I’m a bold and rural Pleceman
Keepin’, as in duty boun’,
Hi’s on all them poachin’ raskles
As infestes Spaldin’ town.
And my hobject is remonstransh
(Which I feel I’m to it drove)
With that ere ’Ome Secertary,
A most harbetary cove.
In this hex’lent town of Spaldin’
Lives a gent of whom I speak,
Most respectful,—as a Rev’rent,—
And a most intel’gent Beak.
And this Rev’rent Beak afore him
Had a gal—of crackter rum,
Caught most flagrant in the hact like
Priggin’ a Geraneum.
And her prevus hantecedants
(Which the law they couldn’t reach)
Bad they was,—I’d o’mmost warrent
She’d not heerd that Rev’rent preach.
Niver been to Skool and sich like,
Niver curtsy’d, I’ll be boun’,
When she met that Rev’rent party
Walkin’ meek in Spaldin’ town.
So his Rev’rent Washup hearin’
All the fax to which I speaks,
Sent that most owdacious huzzy
Into quod for several weeks.
When that wicked gal was quodded
(I wish more was, on my sowl)
All them penny Radikle papers
Made a most infunnil ’oul.
And they said as this ere Rev’rent,—
(Bless his gentle ’art—for years
I have heeard ’im for them ’ethens
Preach till every hi was tears).
Yes,—they said this pious gen’lm
(Which I knows the coals he give)
Was a cruel ’artless tyrant,
O’mmost ’ardly fit to live;
When they know as ’e’s as kind like
As his little boys wot sings,
Allus gettin’ good old ladies
To be givin’ of ’im things.
Now no word was too revileful
’Cos o’ this gals “tender years”
(As they called ’em), and ’cos mostly
Of her Corkodilish tears.
Then this ere ’Ome Secertary
(Which of this I now complain)
Spoke quite stern-like to this Rev’rent,
And released that gal again.
And what’s wus,—another Conviction
Of this hex’lent J. P.,
Though not ’arf what I’d ’a given,
Was just squashed like, d’ye see.
And this Radikle ’Ome Secertary,
Speakin’ in a public place,
Hinted as this Rev’rent party
Worn’t quite fitted for his place.
This I call a most etroceous,
And a hins’lent thing to speak;
Who is ’e I’d like to know now,
To hinsult a Rev’rent Beak?
I on’y wish that Rev’rent had ’im
Afore him with a fairish tale,
I don’t think that cheeky party
Would too easily get bale.
And I call on all them ladies
Which his church and sich-like give,
All them gents upon his Boards like,
And them lawyers, as must live,
Now to jine in this remonstransh
At the truth which now I told,
And in gen’ral hindignation,
With a rural Pleceman bold.
From Grins and Groans, 1882.
——:o:——
Old Fashioned Fun.
When that old joke was new,
It was not hard to joke,
And puns we now pooh-pooh,
Great laughter would provoke
True wit was seldom heard,
And humour shown by few,
When reign’d King George the Third,
And that old joke was new.
It passed indeed for wit,
Did this achievement rare,
When down your friend would sit,
To steal away his chair;
You brought him to the floor,
You bruised him black and blue,
And this would cause a roar,
When your old joke was new.
W. M. Thackeray.
The original of this parody will be found on p. 167 vol. iv., with two imitations.
In the fourth volume of this collection several parodies, written by Thackeray, were given, amongst them being two upon Wapping Old Stairs “Untrue to my Ulric I never could be” and “The Almack’s Adieu,” also one, on page 173, commencing:—
“Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,” and “Larry O’Toole” on page 250.
In a future volume, devoted to prose parodies and burlesques, those written by Thackeray will be fully described.
