WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Born April 7, 1770. Died April 23, 1850.
Appointed Poet Laureate, April 6, 1843.
WE ARE SEVEN.
—A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many, Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell,”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the churchyard-lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie;
Beneath the church-yard tree.”
“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem:
And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.
“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper there.
“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
William Wordsworth.
New Peers.
The Poet Wordsworth is supposed to propose to King William IV. that he, with Coleridge, Southey, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Croly shall be made Peers, there being then a necessity to create Peers in order to carry the Reform Bill, which had already passed the Commons.
A driver of a rattling cab,
Or gorgeous omnibus,
That passeth every great man by,
What could he know of us?
I met a driver such as this,
And I knew that he was king,
For his steeds trod over classic ground,
And they made its echoes ring.
He bore a thousand books along,
The best their authors had,
And his praise was fair, and very fair,
But his censure made me mad.
“Why come you here, why come you here,
And how many may you be?”
“We each come here to be made a peer,”
I said, “and seven are we.”
“And where are the seven—I see but one?”
I answered, “seven are we;”
But Rogers is digging up some old pun,
And Southey has gone to see.
“Tom Campbell is shaking Bentley’s hands,
And Croly a sermon giving,
In praise of the good Lord Chancellor,
Who popped him into his living.
“Coleridge is now expounding why
The Latin for “fish” is pisces,
While Moore has lunched on one lady’s sigh,
And will dine on another’s kisses.”
Then did the mighty king reply,
“Seven are ye, I see,
But the devil a peer in all the lot
Shall ever be made by me.”
With a rolling eye, and a visage sage,
I gazed on the glorious heaven,
Then turned away in a furious rage,
And shouted, “We are seven.”
The National Omnibus, November 4, 1831.
The Trustee.
(A True Story.)
The subject is that of a Trustee, who has been persuaded to accept a trust under the persuasion that as a mere trustee of property, the enjoyment of which he has nothing to do with, no liability of any kind can possibly attach to him. The simplicity with which he adheres to the impression of his being only a trustee, while suits at Law and in Equity, with their consequent costs, shower down upon him, will remind the reader of the innocent exclamation of “We are Seven!” so affectingly persisted in by the little child in the famous poem of Wordsworth.
A simple creature Gaffer Jones,
A Court he never saw;
An income adequate he owns;
What should he know of Law?
He had a quiet stupid air,
And he was richly clad;
I thought if he’s got cash to spare,
’Tis easy to be had.
A suit I heard was ’gainst him brought,
Which must expensive be.
“Expense!” he cried; Pooh pooh, ’tis nought;
I’m only a trustee.”
“But how is that? I pray you tell.”
He answered, “Don’t you see?
I’d got some property to sell—
Only as a trustee.
“Two purchasers they did apply,
Whilst, to prevent all bother,
When one hung back I by and by
Concluded with the other.
“The first from Chancery got a writ,
And served it straight on me;
But why am I to care a bit?—
I’m only a trustee.”
“You say in Chancery you are thrown;
Great the expense will be;
And since the fault has been your own,
The costs will fall on thee.”
Then did the simpleton reply,
“’Tis true the first vendee
Has filed a bill—I can’t tell why—
I’m only a trustee.”
“You’re in a mess, my little man,
As sure as you’re alive,
Unless to hit upon a plan
For safety you contrive.”
“You’re rather green, it may be seen,”
The silly man replied;
The purchase-money paid has been.
The fund I did divide;
“And when I’d parted with it, Sir,
Another suit they brought;
Because, they said, I’d sold it for
Less money than I ought.
“First, the original vendee
Had filed a bill to say,
His purchase-money paid would be,
Upon a certain day.
“But as it happen’d, I’d been paid
By number two, and I
To him had the estate consign’d,
Passing the first one by:
“And as I did not better know
With whom I ought to side,
I’ve let the money from me go—
The fund I did divide.
“So the executors have brought
An action ’gainst me, too,
Yet I’ve proceeded as I thought
’Twere best for me to do.”
“How many suits must you defend,
In numbers odd or even?”
Said he, “To say I can’t pretend:
I think, though, there are seven.
“But then, you know, you’ll understand
It matters not to me;
For though no fund I’ve got in hand,
I still am a trustee.”
“The cash is gone, the suits run on,
Each day requires a fee!”
’Twas waste of argument, for still
He said, “I’ve not to pay a bill,
I’m only a trustee.”
Only Seven.
A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth.
I marvell’d why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I ask’d her why she cried;
The damsel answer’d, with a groan,
“I’ve got a pain inside!
“I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven;”
Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?”
She answer’d, “Only seven!”
“And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?” quoth I.
“Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!”
“If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out,
“Of course you’ve had eleven;”
The maiden answer’d, with a pout,
“I ain’t had more nor seven!”
I wonder’d hugely what she meant,
And said, “I’m bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.”
“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,
“You’ll never go to heaven.”
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
“I ain’t had more nor seven.”
Postscript.
To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I’d better call my song,
“Lines after Ache-inside.”
From Carols of Cockayne, by Henry. S. Leigh. London: Chatto & Windus, 1874.
(This originally appeared in Fun. November 11, 1865.)
They are Three.
——A simple youth
That sits and smokes with fools,
And looks a fop in face and mien,
What should he know of Schools?
I met an undergraduate boy:
He was three times ploughed, I heard;
His head was like a pretty toy,
His language was absurd.
He had a town-bred London air,
And he was sprucely clad;
His face was soft, so was his hair;
His ‘side’ it made me sad.
“Of lectures, undergraduate sir,
How many may you keep?”
“How many? Three,” he did aver.
And cunning looked and deep.
“And what are they? I’d gladly know.”
He answered, “Three are they;
To one of them I never go,
And one I cut each day.
“But one of them is given by
My Tutor and my Dean,
So in the early morning I
Must go to that I ween.”
“You say that one you cut alway,
To one you do not go,
Yet you have three! Explain, I pray,
Sweet youth, how this is so.”
The wily youth thus answered me,
“Three lectures—three in all
The list of lectures you may see
Upon the board in hall.”
“You wander in your talk, I wot,
Or else you are in fun,
If one you cut, to one go not,
Then you have only one.”
“The list is there, that can I swear,”
The wily youth replied;
“In the second row of the letter O,
The three are side by side.
“I oft do paper work in hall,
My letters there I write;
And, though the dons are cutish all,
I sit and crib outright.
“And often, when the sun is down,
Beneath the gaslight’s glare,
I take my tattered cap and gown,
And eat my dinner there.
“The first I cut was Latin Prose;
In bed one morn I lay
Till ten had struck, and then I rose,
But ’twas too late that day.
“So in my room I sat and smoked,
And when my pipe was out,
To Russell’s lazily we walked,
I and my terrier, Snout.
“And when the clock eleven had struck,
I scarce had chalked my cue;
And though perhaps the schools I’ll muck,
I cut my Mods, Books too.”
“How many have you then,” said I,
“If two you cut each day?”
The wily youth would still reply,
“Three, if you please, we’ll say.”
“But one you cut, nay two you cut!
You never go, you see!”
’Twas throwing words away, for still
This wily youth would have his will,
And said, “Nay, they are three.”
From The Shotover Papers. Oxford: J. Vincent, 1874.
“I’ve got Seven.”
——A little boy,
A schoolboy he might be,
That shows his joy in every smile,
Of figures what knows he?
I met a little London boy,
He was nine years old, he said;
His face shone bright with mottled soap,
His hair curled on his head.
He had a cockney, saucy air,
And he was sparely clad:
His eyes were black, and very black;
—He looked a thorough cad.
“All sorts of marbles, little boy,
How many may there be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” he said,
And, whistling, winked at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
He answered, “Seven there be;
Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’
And all belong to me.
“The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece
Do count, and thus you see,
That they are seven in all, although
Their number’s only three.”
“You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’
And one small ‘commoney;’
Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell,
Youngster, how this may be?”
Then did the little boy reply,
“Seven marbles I possess;
Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’
And count for six—no less.”
“You cut along, my lively lad,
You’re gamesome, I can see;
Although for seven your marbles count,
Still they are only three.”
“They’re striped with red in lines of three,”
The little chap replied.
“Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door
I place them side by side.
“My spelling there I try to learn,
My tables there to say;
And there upon the ground I kneel,
And, knuckling, with them play.
“And often after ‘washing up,’
When the tea-table’s bare,
I take my bread and treacle, and
I eat my supper there.
“The first I had was given me
By my big brother, Bill;
He bought it with a ha’penny which
He cribbed from mother’s till.
“The next my sister Poll gave me;
She found it as she brushed
My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then
With it to me she rushed.
“The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got
From out the kitchen drawer;
I nailed it when I went to fetch
Pa’s usual spirit—raw.”
“How many have you, then,” said I,
“If two to you were given;
And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?”
“Lord love you! I’ve got seven.”
“Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy,
You’ll never go to Heaven!”
’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still,
The little wretch would have his will,
And would say, “I’ve got seven.”
Edward Compton.
Touchstone. November, 1878.
A Simple Lay.
By the Archbishop of Canterbury.
——A Rural Dean
That with the Church content,
Brooked not in any shape or form
The schism of Dissent.
He met an aged cottager,
He was eighty-two, he said,
His hair—as will to you occur—
Had some time left his head.
He had a dazed and rustic air,
In kettle-smock was clad;
The Dean a minute had to spare,
So spoke to this gran’-dad:
“Of sons and daughters cottager,
How many may you be?”
“I have had seven, they’re all in heaven,
Not one is left to me!”
“And what were they?” the Dean asked then;
“What were they?” echoed he;
“Why, three was Plymouth Bretheren,
And two turned Methodee.
“And two was Baptistes, I think,
The heldest an ’is brother;
The heldest, well, he tookt to drink,
An’ used to whack ’is mother.
“But in the hend he did reform,
An’ gived up bein’ cranky;
He was converted in a storm
By Moody an’ that Sankey!”
“That two were Methodists, you said,
And Plymouth Brethren three,
And Baptists two, then why say you
That seven in heaven there be?”
Then did that cottager reply,
“Seven boys and gals had we,
And now they’re dead, as I’ve a-said,
In heaven I hopes they be.”
“You’re very green!” observed the Dean,
“And won’t be long alive;
Your children seven are not in heaven,
Nor three, nor four, nor five!
“For all of them, by what you say,
Dissenters I must call;
And so you make a great mistake.
There’s none in heaven at all!”
“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The cottager replied.
“Ah, yes, I see, they are on the
Unconsecrated side.”
“The first that went was Mary Jane,”
The cottager did say;
“A rare good gal, too, in the main,
’Twere fine to yeer ’er pray!
“So in the ground, sir, she was laid,
Then Bill the fever caught;
A rare good workman with ’is spade,
And good in deed an’ thought!
“It seemed a despard cruel blow!”—
And here the old man sighed—
“For ’fore the ground was white with snow,
God help us! all ’ad died!”
“How many were you?” said the Dean,
“I think you mentioned seven?”
Then said the cottager, serene,
“Yes, we have seven in heaven!”
“They were dissenters!” cried the Dean,
“They cannot be in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away, for still
The cottager would have his will,
“And said “We’ve seven in heaven!”
From Finis, 1877.
The Ballad of the ’Bus.
——A simple ’Bus,
Belonging to a London “Co,”
That gets its ten per cent. with ease,
—Why should it crowd us so?
I hailed a raucous little “Cad,”—
“There’s room for one!” he cried;
But when I stood upon the step,
The facts his word belied.
He bore a bag to give you change;
His voice was very loud.
The simpleton he overcharged,
And timid ladies cowed.
“Within this vehicle,” I asked,
“How many may there be?”
“How many?” roughly he replied;
“Why don’t you look and see.”
“But where is room? I see no room?”
My wrath I tried to smother.
He answered—“On one side are six,
And only five on t’other.”
“Two of the five,” I pointed out,
“Must weigh a ton between ’em;
Two others have such tattered garbs
As barely serve to screen ’em.”
Then did the little “Cad” rejoin,
“Yet they are only five;
If you’re a-coming by this ’bus,
I wish you’d look alive!”
“’Tis shameful,” angrily I said,
“To play your fares such tricks!
If two do take the room of three,
Then surely there are six.”
“You’re jolly green, that may be seen!”
The rude Conductor cried;
“Until I’ve got twelve passengers,
I am not ’full inside.”
“I always travel in a ’bus,”
I thought it right to say,
“And frequently am over-pressed
In this atrocious way.
“My little bag I love to bring,
My paper here I read,
And, when there’s proper elbow-room,
’Tis very nice indeed.
“A Magistrate has just declared
You have no right to pack us,
And—ah, I see that person is
A votary of Bacchus!
“A nice quintette! The more I look
I seem to grow the sicker;
Two elephants—two more in rags—
The fifth, he is in liquor!
“But Mr. Partridge, he will see
These wrongs are not repeated—”
’Twas wasting words, for with a frown
The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down,
And cried. “Now you are seated!”
Punch. April 18, 1885.
They are Seven.
I marvelled why he looked so wild,
And fiercely drew his breath;
That Tory, who had lately smiled,
But now looked pale as death.
His cranium seemed in such a whirl,
He hated Fate, he said—
His hair was sadly out of curl,
He lowly bent his head.
Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’
All one sort seem to be.”
“Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum,
But, there, we’ve no M. P.!”
“And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!”
Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright,
And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too—
And ‘Joe’ has won his fight!”
“What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I.
“That Birmingham batch to leaven?”
“Ah, no,” he sadly made reply,
“Not one, while they have Seven!”
“Nay raise your head,” I gently said,
“Let mirth your mourning leaven;
Why, look at Liverpool”—but he
Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P.,
While Liberals they have Seven!”
Fun. December 2, 1885.
“We are Seven.”
——A Radical,
With tenets all complete,
Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain—
How should he know defeat?
I met—no little cottage gal,
With curls around her head,—
But Joe, the conquering Radical,
He’s more than seven, he said.
“In Brum what conquests have you made?
How many may you be?”
“How many? seven in all,” he said,
And winked and smiled at me.
“The Tories? Pray you, where are they?”
He answered: “Seven are we;
The Tories stood awhile at bay,
But they were all at sea!
“All of them knew the way to lie,
They tutored one another,
But each has gone to pipe his eye
And whimper to his mother!
“And as they went I raised my hat,
I smiled and coughed: Ahem!
And there upon the poll I sat,
I sat and laughed at them.
“The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill,
Bright made him dull, by Joe!
Then Showell showed extremely ill,
And Lowe looked very low!”
“But they are fled—their hopes are done.”
He said: “They are forgiven!
Seven seats there are, but they have none,
Seven seats—yet they have not won one,”
He said, “But we are seven!”
The Judge. London. December 5, 1885.
More Than Seven.
(Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times.)
I met a little city child,
A small and vulgar boy,
His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled
As with an inward joy.
He had a look of saucy pride,
His legs were somewhat bent,
He walked along with careless stride,
And whistled as he went.
“Sisters and brothers, little child,
How many may you be?”
His whistle ceased, but still he smiled,
And stood and looked at me.
I said, “How many may you be?
Where dwell you under heaven?”
He smiled a simple smile at me,
And said “I’m more than seven!”
“I do not doubt your word,” I said,
“It gives me no surprise.”
I placed my hand upon his head,
And looked into his eyes.
“But pray you tell me, too, of those
To whom your love is given.”
He laid his finger on his nose
And said, “I am more than seven!”
“I asked you not your age to give,”
I said, with mild caress,
“But tell me if your parents live,
And what is their address?”
He fumbled with his jacket hem,
As only children can:
“I never tell such things as them
To any School Board man!”
“I’m not a School Board man, my child,
I am your friend,” said I,
But still he only stood and smiled,
And made this strange reply:
“If you tell whoppers such as that
You’ll never go to heaven!”
I reasoned vainly, I suppose,
For still he smiled and tapped his nose,
And said, “I’m more than seven!”
A. St. J. A.
We are One.
(More’s the Pity.)
——A single man,
That leads a quiet life,
Far from the din of family cares,
What should he know of strife?
I met a tall and ancient girl—
She was nineteen, she said—
Her wig was thick with many a curl
That bobbed about her head.
She had a very regal air,
And she was thinly clad,
As well befits an ancient girl
Whose beauty makes one glad.
“Sweethearts and lovers, lovely maid,
How many may they be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And gave a leer at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are they,
And two of them in Bedlam dwell,
And two have run away.
“Two more of them are underground
And then there is another
Who ——Ga ’long you naughty man,
Or else I’ll call my mother.”
I went along. That beauteous maid
Has followed me through life;
But now, alas! I sue no more,
Because—she is my wife.
“We are Seven.”
[The seven members who thus attained for a night a most unenviable notoriety were Mr. Parnell, Mr. O’Connor Power, Mr. Richard Power, Mr. O’Donnell, Captain Nolan, Major O’Gorman, and Mr. Whalley.]
’Tis Peterborough’s simple child,
Who knows not what he saith,
Replies to me in utterance wild,
And somewhat out of breath.
He has a rustic woodland air,
And he is strangely clad;
His eyes are wild, unkempt his hair,
As one a little mad.
“Of those who bring the House disgrace,
How many may there be?”
“Why, seven,” he said, with vacant face,—
“There’s seven—counting me!”
“But he who doth at Cavan dwell
Foremost is wont to be;
Yet you are ‘seven’—I pray you tell,
My friend, how that may be.”
He kept to the same statement still,
“Obstructives seven are we;
Our task to hinder every bill,
Aid spoil whate’er may be.
“And often after sunset, sir,
Until the morning fair,
The weary House we keep astir,
And eat our breakfast there.”
“We thought that Biggar and Parnell
Alone the House had driven”——
Again the self-same accents fell,
“Oh, master, we are seven!”
Funny Folks. July 21, 1877.
They are Five.
I met a statesman old and worn,
He was threescore years and more,
And in his trembling hand were borne
Vague Resolutions three or four.
[This is the first verse of a parody dated May, 1877, which occurs in a small anonymous pamphlet, entitled, They are Five, published by David Bogue, London. The parody consists of twelve dull verses, and is quite out of date.]
“We are Seven.”
(The Birmingham Version.)
——A Grand Old Man,
By self-conceit so eaten,
He cannot bring himself to feel
That he’s completely beaten.
He met a Midland Radical,
From Birmingham came he,
And eye-glass, orchid, monogram
All showed ’twas Joseph C——.
J. C.’d a perky, well-pleased air,
His “frock” was buttoned tight,
The glance that through his eye-glass shot
Was jubilant and bright,
“Ah,” said the G. O. M. to him,
“Your face I surely know.
Methinks you hie from Birmingham.
Say, how do things there go?”
“How many have elected been,
I’ve not had time to see?”
“How many? Seven in all,” said Joe,
And smiled at William G.
“And who are they, I pray you tell?”
He answered, “Seven are we;
Four sit for North, East, South, and West,
And one for Bordesley.
“This last one, by the bye’s my friend,
Who, spite your verbal maulings,
Has triumphed! need I add he is
‘A certain Jesse Collings?’”
“Collings?” the G. O. M. replied,
As he his brows knit sore,
“Oh, Jesse Collings; yes, I may
Have heard the name before.”
“But,” he went on—and he to keep
His temper much did strive—
“You said that you were seven, but you
Have only mentioned five.”
Then straight did Joseph C. reply,
“Seven Unionists are we,
For to the five you have to add,
My brother-in-law and me.”
“But you’re against me,” Gladstone said,
“I know your Caine-like tricks,
So Birmingham has only sent
For me supporters six?”
“What, do you mean you have not seen
The polls?” J. C. replied,
“Why, G. O. M., from Brummagem
Not one is on your side.”
(Seven verses omitted.)
“Nay, nay,” cried Gladstone, “I refuse
To own that things are so;
“Birmingham went for me!” said Joe—
“It did—nine months ago.”
“But you have since brought in two bills
So foolishly arranged
That your devoted followers
To bitter foes they’ve changed.”
“But they are dead; those bills are dead;
They’re dead, I say, by Heaven!”
The Old Man wasted breath, for still
Would Midland Joseph have his will,
And still exclaimed in accents shrill,
“We Unionists are seven!”
Figaro. (London), July 10, 1886.
——:o:——
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Besides the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
William Wordsworth. 1799.
Mr. W. Davenport Adams has asserted that the second verse of the above was written by Mrs. Wordsworth. Now Wordsworth was not married until 1802, three years after the poem on “Lucy” was written, and it seems very improbable that Mary Hutchinson would have contributed a verse praising a former sweetheart, even although she were dead.
On Wordsworth.
He lived amidst th’ untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake[74] that lead;
A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe”[75]
With dust is dark and dim;
It’s still in Longman’s shop, and oh!
The difference to him.
This clever parody was written by Hartley Coleridge, whose character Wordsworth prophetically divined when he was but six years old:—
“O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.”
Jacob.
He dwelt among “Apartments let,”
About five stories high;
A man, I thought, that none would get,
And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighbourhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife,—and O!
The difference to me!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.
Emancipation.
She dwelt within unyielding stays
That kept her bolt upright,
A nymph whose waist won doubtful praise,
She laced so very tight.
A maiden by a kirtle dun
Half hidden from the eye,
A single skirt when only one
Was worn by low and high.
She burst her bonds at last, and so
With perfect ease can stir.
She wears “divided skirts,” and oh!
The difference to her!!
F. B. Doveton.
——:o:——
THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.
Wordsworth was one of the authors selected to be imitated in The Rejected Addresses. These were supposed to be the compositions sent in by competing poets on the occasion of the opening of the new Drury Lane Theatre in October, 1812. They were all written by the Brothers James and Horace Smith, this imitation of Wordsworth being the work of James Smith.
The Edinburgh Review for November, 1812, contained an article (written by Jeffrey) on The Rejected Addresses, in which, referring to this particular poem, the reviewer remarks:—“The author does not attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ‘Alice Fell,’ and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation.”
The Baby’s Debut.
“Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;
For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee.”
Cumberland.
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle’s porter.]
My brother Jack was nine in May,[76]
And I was eight on New-year’s-day;
So in Kate Wilson’s shop
Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.
Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,—
He thinks mine came to more than his;
So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top’s peg,
And bang, with might and main,
It’s head against the parlour door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he’s to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll’s nose, and I am not
To draw his peg-top’s tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt:
“No Drury-Lane for you to-day!”
And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!”
Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”
Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,
And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,
Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber-room:
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopp’d it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.
My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
(I always talk to Sam:)
So what does he, but takes, and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me where I am.
My father’s walls are made of brick,
But not so tall and not so thick
As these; and, goodness me;
My father’s beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good
As those that now I see.
What a large floor! ’tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound.
And there’s a row of lamps—my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
um bob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, “Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to ’em, little Nan.
“You’ve only got to curtsey whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
And then you’re sure to take:
I’ve known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;[77]
Then why not Nancy Lake?”
But while I’m speaking, where’s papa?
And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma?
Where’s Jack? O, there they sit!
They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy’s chaise,
To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And if you’ll blow to me a kiss,
I’ll blow a kiss to you.
Blows a kiss, and exit.
From Rejected Addresses, by Horace & James Smith. (London: John Miller. 1812.)
THE PET LAMB.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
* * * * *
William Wordsworth.
Rink, Pretty Creature, Rink.
The dusk was falling fast, the lamps began to blink,
I heard a voice, it said, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.”
And looking o’er the edge, close by me I espied
A gentle youth on wheels, with a maiden at his side.
No other folk were near, and they were quite alone,
I saw the maiden sit upon a friendly stone.—
With one knee on the ground the gentle youth did kneel,
And stooping down, her skates he tenderly did feel,
I saw, when in his hand her little foot he took,
He seem’d with joy o’ercome, with sweet emotion shook,
“Rink, pretty creature, rink,” he cried in such a tone,
I saw that he had ta’en her heart into his own.
A handsome youth was he, while she had beauty rare,
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair;
Now, hand in hand, again, I saw them start away,
And as they passed me by, methought I heard him say:
“What ails thee, dear one? What? Why pull so at my hand?
Are not thy skates yet firm? dost feel thou canst not stand?
Ere long upon thy skates thou wilt be quite at home,
And fly across the ground like any fairy gnome.
“Art tired, sweet, or hot? See here a cosy nook,
Where we can sit and rest, and nobody can look;
Or would’st thou skate alone, then start in all thy pride?
One whistle and thou know’st that I am at thy side.
“Thou need’st not fear a fall when I am by thy side,
My arm will hold thee up, as round and round we glide;
Asphalte, I know, is hard, so it will always be,
But if you feel you must fall, dearest, fall on me.”
I could not listen more, I had no time to stay
But ponder’d o’er the scene as home I took my way;
Methought the servant-maid who oped the door did shrink,
For all I muttered was, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.”
A. W. Mackenzie (Author of Idyls of the Rink).
From Mirth. May, 1887.
——:o:——
MY HEART LEAPS UP.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth.
Extract from
Poems of the Apprehension.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A bailiff in the street:
’Twas so since from one first I ran;
’Twas so even in the Isle of Man:
’Twill be so even in Newgate hold,
Or in the Fleet!
A trap is hateful to a man;
And my whole course of life shall be
Bent against them in just antipathy!
William Maginn.
This parody originally appeared in the Literary Gazette for 1820, p. 427.
——:o:——
Lines originally intended to have been inserted in the last edition of Wordsworth’s Poems.
I.
I met an old man on the road,
His name was Robert Lake;
Old man, said I, how do you do?
He said his tooth did ache.
II.
I think, good Sir, he cried in grief,
My tooth’s not worth a pin!
But now and then to get relief
I fill my mouth with gin.
III.
You fill your mouth with gin, said I,
Your face, too, doth denote
That now and then, by way of change,
You pour it down your throat.
IV.
Indeed ’tis not a goodly drink,
It fills the mind with doubt;
And if your tooth doth ache, I think
You’d better have it out.
V.
So to his tooth a string I tied,
And pull’d right strong, forsooth;
The old man held tight by the post,
And soon out came his tooth.
VI.
The pain immediately took wing,
No ghost e’er vanished quicker;
“Ho,” quoth the man, “a bit of string
Is better far than liquor.”
From The Satirist. June 1, 1811.
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
(Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.
William Wordsworth.
The M.A. Degree.
It was a phantom of delight
When first it gleamed upon my sight,
A scholarly distinction, sent
To be a student’s ornament;
I did not know nor did I care
What work there might be to prepare,
For all my mind to work was drawn
Then, in my academic dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay
Before me then was my M. A.
I saw it upon nearer view,
A glory, yet a bother too!
For I perceived that I should be
Involved in much Philosophy
(A branch in which I could but meet
Works that were more obscure than sweet);
In Mathematics, scarcely good
For human nature’s daily food;
And Classics—rendered in the styles
Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.
And now I own, with some small spleen,
A most confounded ass I’ve been;
The glory seems an empty breath,
And I am nearly bored to death
With Reason, Consciousness, and Will,
And other things beyond my skill,
Discussed in books all darkly plann’d
And more in number than the sand.—
Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight
With something of its former light.
From The University News Sheet.
St. Andrews. N.B. March 24, 1886.
On Auberon Herbert.
He was a Great Panjandrum, quite,
When first he burst upon our sight;
An Admirable Crichton, sent
To be the nation’s ornament.
His eyes possessed the Sphinx’s glare,
The Sphinx’s, too, his stony air;
But all things else about him drawn
In tints of the millennial dawn.
A mighty sage, a Mentor great,
To chide, to chivvy, and to slate.
We saw him upon nearer view
A Radical, yet a Tory too!
With thoughts from Party bondage free,
And steps of chartered liberty.
A diction his in which did meet
Tart enmities and phrases sweet.
A creature far too wise and good
For civic nature’s daily food.
For Salisbury’s schemes or Gladstone’s wiles;
He rates, and rallies, and reviles.
And now cantankerously serene
He pitches into “The Machine,”
Breathing hot wrath in every breath
On Gladstone and his shibboleth.
Having the will, if not the skill,
All schemes—save his—to scotch or kill.
A perfect Oracle—nobly planned,
To scold, to scathe, and to command.
And yet with an admixture slight
Of blague and bounce, and blatherumskite!
Punch. June 5, 1886.
——:o:——
Dusty Bob.
A Parody upon the style of Wordsworth, one of the Lake Poets, and author of “The Oxford Street Fiddler,” &c.
See where old Bob the Dustman stands,
With dirty face and dirtier hands,
Swinging his huge bell to and fro,
Chaunting the while, “dust ho! dust ho!”
In sooth, it is a pleasant cry,
That hoarse and deep-toned harmony;
It speaks of health and strength, and, oh!
What dearer blessings here below?
Marry! he hath a sooty brow;
But there are brains within, I trow;
The blackness, that o’ershadows it,
Doth hide a mine of rude old wit,
Whose pleasaunce oft will downward fly,
And sparkle in his broad, bold eye;
A merry truth which ye, who’d know,
Go watch him, while he sings, “dust ho!”
Old brawny songster! ’tis to me
A marvel and a mystery,
The jovial and Stentorian gusto
With which thou daily callest “dust ho!”
How useful art thou, making clean
The dwellings both of rich and mean,
Unheeding each small street-boy elf
Who tauntingly cries, “clean thyself!”
Mild Dustman! in thy filthy face
A moral he who looks may trace,—
A moral which, perchance, hath struck
Thyself, when ’neath thy weight of muck;
For, to my fancy, in thine eye
A quaint philosophy doth lie,
Which says, “who dirt from others sweeps
More dirt upon himself but heaps!”
I met him last in Piccadilly;
His bell was faint, his howl was shrilly;
There was no more his lungs about
The force with which he used to shout;
A cry, but not as erst, was heard;—
I knew that “dust ho” was the word,
But all the depth, the soul was gone
As with his bell he “dust ho’d” on.
His hat was still in Dustman’s fashion,
But with a slouch that woo’d compassion;
Of velveteen still were his breeches,
But with a host of coarse-drawn stitches.
Of highloes still a pair he wore,
But laceless each, and with a score
Of holes that let the puddles in,
And wetted Bobby, sole and skin!
No, Bob was anything but garish;
’Twas time they sent him to the parish!
They tell me he is there at last,
And that his bell was with him passed!
The Dustman’s cart, the Dustman’s horse,
Still haunt the streets and squares—of course,
But other drivers do the job
That once was done by Dusty Bob!
From The Comic Magazine. 1834.
——:o:——
TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe new comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.
Though babbling only, to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird; but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery.
* * * * *
William Wordsworth.
Cuckoo Notes.
O blythe new paper! From thy page
Seductive scraps I cull.
O Cuckoo, shall I call thee sage?
I cannot call thee dull!
When I’m reclining—business done—
Thy “Notes” provoke a laugh;
From line to line my optics run,
And twinkle at thy chaff.
From Fetter Lane I hear thee call
To thousands far away;
And unto me thou bringest all
The gossip of the day!
“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!”
To me thou art, no doubt
No bird, but a most novel thing—
The brightest paper out!
F. B. Doveton.
——:o:——
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years;
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
William Wordsworth.
The Reverie of a Poor Squeezed ’un.
At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale;
And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”—the cry’s somewhat stale.
The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell
How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well.
His fancy runs riot! What ails him? He sees
A Boulevard appearing, all shaded by trees;
With ease and with comfort the ’busses now glide
From Cannon Street corner to busy Cheapside.
A road, “wide as Holborn,” allows him to view
The Cathedral uprising in dignity new;
And a fine open space lets the oxygen roam
Where school-boys and merchants once boasted a home.
He looks, and his joy grows intense! But they fade—
The visions of elbow-room, Boulevard, and shade;
And the space will be speedily built on, unless
To the cry of, “Oh, buy it!” the City says, “Yes.”
Punch. December 26, 1885.
(But the City authorities did not say “Yes,” and the ground has all been covered with lofty warehouses.)
Simplicity.
“Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now, no one has carried the simple so far as Wordsworth; and, as I hold it good always to imitate perfection, I have taken the following lines for my model:—
Violets, do what they will,
Wither’d on the ground must lie:
Daisies will be daisies still;
Daisies they must live and die.
I fear much, lest some meaning, which may have crept into my verses should prove destructive of that exquisite simplicity at which I aim; however, what scholar is not inferior to the master?
Fair women win the hearts of men,
Men the hearts of women too!
It has been so, the Lord knows when—
What then can the poor things do?
Their blue eyes will be blue eyes still;
Will have fire, and fire will warm:
Lips will be lips, say what they will;
And to kiss them, where’s the harm?
To church, to marry, fair one, go—
Bells in belfries toll, ding dong;
If your mother did not so,
Then your mother, child, did wrong.
(The last verse is omitted, not because it is too long, but because it is too broad.)
From The British Press. March 3, 1813.
——:o:——
What Women make of Man.
I heard her singing lively notes,
While on a chair I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sweet thoughts to the mind.
To her fair face had nature linked
A subtle charm that through me ran.
And it pleased my heart to think,
I was a lady’s man.
Soft blushes would, in that sweet hour,
Each time we met, her face suffuse.
And told me I had gained the power
To have her hand did I but choose.
Bright couples round me danced and played,
Their thoughts I could not measure,
But, as approached the beauteous maid,
My heart was full of pleasure.
My outstretched hands caught hold her arm,
And drew her to my side.
I told my love, confessed her charm;
The maiden quick replied
“Here comes my husband;” then she went;
The maiden even ran!
Have I not reason to lament
What maidens make of man!
Wm. E. Doubleday.
——:o:——
The Yarra-Yarra Unvisited.
Written in an Australian Album on its Home Tour.
Ne’er have I rambled on its marge,
Ne’er angled ’mid its willows;
I ne’er have sailed in skiff or barge
Upon its languid billows.
Yet will I sing as Callanan
Once sang at Gougaune Barra—
Yet will I sing as best I can
The lazy winding Yarra.
Ah! many a day of weary toil,
And much privation well borne,
Have served to tame the rampant soil
And raise this rising Melbourne.
Some forty years ago, as wild,
As lonely as Sahara,
Now rife with life and Trade’s keen strife,
Just at the mouth of Yarra.
It creeps between high wooded sides,
And ere it reach the city,
Past holy Abbotsford it glides—
To which it owes this ditty.
For in Australian album, why
Waste praise on Connemara,
Thy heart’s in Abbotsford, and I
Will praise its Yarra-Yarra.
The friend whose friendship gave me thine,
With kindness past all telling,
Pursues me since the “auld lang syne”
When first with him I fell in.
Ah! while we watched the summer tide
Lap thy gray rocks, Kinvara,
We recked not that o’er oceans wide
He’d fly to Yarra-Yarra!
He tells me that the sky above
Is bluer far and brighter
Than that which spans the isle we love;
The air is warmer, lighter.
Gay flowers along the margin float
And many an avis rara
Of brilliant plume but tuneless throat,
Skims o’er the sparkling Yarra.
When shall I breathe that purer air?
Quite lately I have had some
Fair chance of being summoned there.
If summoned, ecce adsum?
The motto of our Bedford race
Is this: Che sara sara.
(The accent slightly I misplace
To coax a rhyme for Yarra.)
More musical than new Adare
Its olden name Athdara,
And Tennyson’s meek Lady Clare
Grows statelier as Clara.
Had not my Muse such gems to spare
For gemming thy tiara,
She would not waste a double share
On this one stanza, Yarra!
There is not unity of theme
I grant it, in these stanzas,
The subjects as far sundered seem
As Kensington and Kansas.
’Twere better if in graceful round
My thoughts could move—but arrah!
What can a poet do who’s bound
To close each verse with Yarra?
And notice here our rhythmic chords
Are strict in orthodoxy,
Nor do they force two little words
For one to act as proxy.
An article to harshly treat
(As in this line) would mar a
Most conscientious rhyming feat
Achieved to honour Yarra.
But now, at last, we must give o’er
With our Wordsworthian sapphic,
Though sundry rhymes remain in store
Historic, topographic,
Like those we’ve hitherto impressed,
A Lara and Bokhara,
Carrara, Marat, and the rest:
But how link these with Yarra?
My trickling thread of metre wells
As if ’twould well for ever:
So mountain streamlet swells and swells
Into a stream, a river.
But now my harp as mute must grow
As that which hangs at Tara.
Farewell, dear Maid from Bendigo!
Farewell, O Yarra-Yarra!
W. L.
This imitation of Wordsworth’s poems, Yarrow Unvisited, Yarrow Visited, and Yarrow Revisited, appeared originally in The Month, May and June, 1872. The allusion in the first verse is to J. J. Callanan, an Irish poet, who wrote Gougaune Barra, which is inserted in Bell’s Standard Elocutionist. (Belfast, 1874) p. 436.
——:o:——
A SONNET ON THE SONNET.
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay mirtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
William Wordsworth
Translation by M. De St. Beuve.
Ne ris point des sonnets, ô critique moqueur;
Par amour autrefois en fit le grand Shakspeare;
C’est sur ce luth heureux que Petrarque soupire,
Et que le Tasse aux fers soulage un pen son cœur;
Camoens de son exil abrège la longueur,
Car il chante en sonnets l’amour et son empire:
Dante aime cette fleur de myrte, et la respire,
Et la mêle au cyprès que ceint son front vainqueur.
Spenser, s’en revenant de l’ile des féeries,
Exhale en longs sonnets ses tristesses chéries;
Milton, chantant les siens, ranimait son regard:
Moi! je veux rajeunir le doux sonnet en France,
Du Bellay, le premier, l’apporta de Florence,
Et l’on en sait plus d’un de notre vieux Ronsard.
An American Parody.
Scorn not the meerschaum.
Housewives, you have croaked
In ignorance of its charms.
Through this small reed
Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed;
The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked
The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked
And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood;
Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude;
A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked;
Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch,
And many more whose verses float about,
Puffed the Virginian or Havana leaf;
And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch,
Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout
Consolatory whiffs—alas, too brief!
Bull in the Printing Office.
A Wordsworthian Sonnet.
Oh! Bull, strong labourer, much enduring beast,
That with broad back, and sinewy shoulder strung,
Draggest the heavy wain of taxes, flung
In growing heap, from thy poor brethren fleeced.
Hadst thou a literary sense of shame,
How woulds’t thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore,
The printing press, and hands that work therefore,
For the sad trash that issues from the same.
If they would print no other works than mine,
The task were nobler; but, alas, in vain,
Of audience few and unfit I complain,
Bull won’t believe in Southey’s verse and mine.
Arouse thee, John, involve in general doom
All who bid Wordsworth rise for Byron to make room.
Cruikskank’s Comic Almanack. 1846.
——:o:——
Billy Routing.
A Lyrical Ballad.
Fit subject for heroic story,
I sing a youth of noble fame;
Town and country, ten miles round,
Awaken at the glowing sound,
Of gallant Billy Routing’s name!
This poem, written in imitation of Wordsworth, consists of thirteen verses. It will be found in Vol. I. Miscellanies by W. Maginn, London. Sampson, Low and Co. 1885.
In the same Volume will be found a rather dull imitation of Wordsworth’s Excursion, entitled The Kail Pot, which originally appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine for May, 1821, as did also the following much more clever parody:—
Billy Blinn.
I knew a man that died for love,
His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn;
His back was hump’d, his hair was grey,
And, on a sultry summer day,
We found him floating in the linn.
Once as we stood before his door
Smoking, and wondering who should pass,
Then trundling past him in a cart
Came Susan Foy, she won his heart,
She was a gallant lass.
And Billy Blinn conceal’d the flame
That burn’d, and scorch’d his very blood;
But often was he heard to sigh,
And with his sleeve he wiped his eye,
In a dejected mood.
A party of recruiters came
To wile our cottars, man and boy;
Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue,
And boldly, without more ado,
Off with the troop went Susan Foy!
When poor old Billy heard the news,
He tore his hairs so thin and grey;
He beat the hump upon his back,
And ever did he cry, “Alack,
Ohon, oh me!—alas a-day!”
His nights were spent in sleeplessness,
His days in sorrow and despair,
It could not last—this inward strife;
The lover he grew tired of life,
And saunter’d here and there.
At length, ’twas on a moonlight eve,
The skies were blue, the winds were still;
He wander’d from his wretched hut,
And, though he left the door unshut,
He sought the lonely hill.
He look’d upon the lovely moon,
He look’d upon the twinkling stars;
“How peaceful all is there,” he said,
“No noisy tumult there is bred,
And no intestine wars.”
But misery overcame his heart,
For all was waste and war within;
And rushing forward with a leap,
O’er crags a hundred fathoms steep,
He plunged into the linn.
We found him when the morning sun
Shone brightly from the eastern sky;
Upon his back he was afloat—
His hat was sailing like a boat—
His staff was found on high.
Oh reckless woman, Susan Foy,
To leave the poor, old, loving man,
And with a soldier, young and gay,
Thus harlot-like to run away
To India or Japan.
Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white
Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold;
Will Adze he made a coffin neat,
We placed him in it head and feet,
And laid him in the mould!
William Maginn.
——:o:——
Fragment in Imitation of Wordsworth.
There is a river clear and fair,
’Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there—
It winds about like any hare;
And then it takes as straight a course
As on a turnpike road a horse,
Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore,
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing.
Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they’d nothing else to do,
But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and sky
Have reared their stately stems so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaft,—
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee—
Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix’d are their feet in solid earth,
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.
For they have gained the river’s brink,
And of the living waters drink.
There’s little Will, a five year’s child—
He is my youngest boy;
To look on eyes so fair and wild.
It is a very joy:—
He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,
As fresh and gay as them.
He loiters with the briar rose,
The blue belles are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will,
Why should not he continue still
A thing of Nature’s rearing?
A thing beyond the world’s control—
A living vegetable soul,—
No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to see
That child become a willow tree,
His brother trees among.
He’d be four times as tall as me,
And live three times as long.
This parody was written by Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe, and is included in her “Literary Remains,” published in 1876 by B. M. Pickering, London. In a foot note to the parody it is stated that a distinguished lady friend, and admirer, of Wordsworth thought it beautiful and was surprised that he had never shown it to her.
The same little volume contains an “Ode in imitation of Gray,” in which the following lines occur relating to the purchase of a lady’s hat:—
The milliner officious pours
Of hats and caps her ready stores,
The unbought elegance of spring;
Some wide, disclose the full round face,
Some shadowy, lend a modest grace
And stretch their sheltering wing.
Here early blooms the summer rose;
Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;
Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,
Swan-like, and as her feathers light
When on the still wave spread;
And let it wear the graceful dress
Of unadornèd simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;
Of modest fancy cheaply bought,
A stranger yet to Payne.[78]
With undissembled grief I tell,—
For sorrow never comes too late,—
The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall
Is sold for £1 8s.
To Calculation’s sober view,
That searches ev’ry plan,
Who keep the old, or buy the new,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the shabby and the gay,
Must meet the sun’s meridian ray;
The air, the dust, the damp.
This, shall the sudden shower despoil;
That, slow decay by gradual soil;
Those, envious boxes cramp.
Who will, their squandered gold may pay;
Who will, our taste deride;
We’ll scorn the fashion of the day
With Philosophic pride.
Methinks we thus, in accents low,
Might Sydney Smith address,
“Poor moralist! and what art thou,
Who never spoke of dress?”
“Thy mental hero never hung
Suspended on a tailor’s tongue,
In agonising doubt;
Thy tale no flutt’ring female show’d,
Who languished for the newest mode,
Yet dar’d to live without.”
There is also a serious imitation of Cowper’s “Alexander Selkirk;” it is entitled:
Lines
Supposed to have been written by Robinson Crusoe
on the acquisition of Friday.
I have stood on the brink of the grave:
Savage feet have imprinted the sand;
But an arm that was mighty to save,
Has saved in this terrible land.
* * * * *
——:o:——
Ralph Rattat.
A Wordsworthian Warble.
[Lady John Manners thinks it would be so nice to offer the postmen temperance gifts at Christmas—a cup of “tea, coffee, or cocoa,” for instance, and something to eat.]
Oft had I heard of Ralph Rattat—
His name is known to most men—
And t’other day it was my luck
To meet that pearl of postmen.
Upon a doorstep Ralph was stretched,
The while he let off stout cries,
And silently a crowd stood by
And listened to his outcries.
Epistles round about his frame
Formed quite a pretty border;
Tossed here and there the missives lay
In most admired disorder.
His waistcoat all unbuttoned gaped,
His coat was all undone,
For one as unconfined of waist
You might have searched wide London.
But though poor Ralph no more was pinched
By swathes of tailors’ stuff, he
Still suffered pain. I ne’er before
Had seen a wight so puffy.
So swells sometimes a huge balloon
Within its hempen fetters.
D. Lambert had been beaten by
This bloated lord of letters!
“What’s wrong?” I asked the groaning wretch.
“Say, have you ‘growed’ like Topsy?
Is poison lurking in your veins?
Or is your ailment dropsy?”
“It’s Manners’ tip that’s laid me low,”
This answer did Ralph mutter.
“I’m busting, sir, with cups o’ tea,
And plates o’ bread-and-butter!”
Funny Folks. December, 1885.
——:o:——
THE POETS AT TEA.
Such is the title of a series of short clever parodies which appeared in The Cambridge Fortnightly (Feb. 7, 1888). This bright little magazine is published by Mr. Octavus Tomson, 16, King’s Parade, Cambridge. Four verses are here omitted, but the titles are given:—
Macaulay, who made it.
Pour, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
No Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athos
With port at thirty-six;
Whiter than snow the crystals
Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires,
More rich the herb of China’s field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield
For ever let Britannia wield
The tea-pot of her sires!
Tennyson, who took it hot.
Swinburne, who let it get cold.
Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it.
Browning, who treated it allegorically.
Wordsworth, who gave it away.
“Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me.”
She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk.
And she replied, “Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk.”
“Why, what put milk into your head?
’Tis cream my cows supply;”
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”
“You call me pig-head,” she replied;
“My proper name is Ruth,
“I called that milk—she blushed with pride—
“You bade me speak the truth.”
Poe, who got excited over it.
Here’s a mellow cup of tea-golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune
To the tintinabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavour
Now, now to sit or never,
On the top of the pale-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n-th,
Rossetti, who took six cups of it.
The lilies lie in my lady’s bower,
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost)
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady’s head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand,
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
She poured; I drank at her command,
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).
Burns, who liked it adulterated.
Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined,
Whusky or tay—to state my mind
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou,
And gin the next, I’m dull as you,
Mix a’ thegither.
Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute.
One cup for my self-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it.
What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got; I don’t want to be personal.
All-right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.
Allons, from all bat-eyed formules.
B. E. O. P.
PETER BELL.
Peter Bell: A Lyrical Ballad. London. Printed for Taylor & Hessey, 93, Fleet Street. 1819.
Such is the title of an amusing parody, contained in a small pamphlet of 29 pages, with Preface, Poem, and Foot-notes, all in ridicule of the vanity and egotism of the author of the real original “Peter Bell.” The Preface states:—
“It is now a period of one-and-twenty years since I first wrote some of the most perfect compositions that ever dropped from poetical pen. My heart hath been right and powerful all its years. I never thought an evil or a weak thought in my life. It has been my aim and my achievement to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself, hath it) ‘such small deer.’ Accustomed to mountain solitudes, I can look with a calm and dispassionate eye upon that fiend-like, vulture-souled, adder-fanged critic, whom I have not patience to name, and of whose Review I loathe the title, and detest the contents. Philosophy has taught me to forgive the misguided miscreant, and to speak of him only in terms of patience and pity.
My ballads are the noblest pieces of verse in the whole range of English poetry: and I take this opportunity of telling the world I am a great man. Milton was also a great man. Ossian was a blind old fool. Copies of my previous works may be had in any numbers, by application at my publisher.
Of Peter Bell I have only thus much to say: it completes the simple system of natural narrative which I began so early as 1798.
It is written in that pure unlaboured style which can only be met with among labourers; and I can safely say that its occasional meaning occasionally falls far below the meanest capacity. I commit my ballad confidently to posterity. I love to read my own poetry: it does my heart good.”
W. W.
The parody consists of 42 stanzas, and relates how Peter Bell, visiting the churchyard, comes across a gravestone on which is engraved W. W.
I.
It is the thirty-first of march,
A gusty evening—half past seven;
The moon is shining o’er the larch,
A simple shape—a cock’d up arch,
Rising bigger than a star,
Though the stars are thick in Heaven.
IV.
Beneath the ever blessed moon
An old man o’er an old grave stares,
You never look’d upon his fellow;
His brow is covered with grey hairs,
As though they were an umbrella.
VI.
’Tis Peter Bell—’tis Peter Bell,
Who never stirreth in the day;
His hand is wither’d—he is old!
On Sundays’ he is us’d to pray,
In winter he is very cold.
VII.
I’ve seen him in the month of August,
At the wheat-field, hour by hour,
Picking ear—by ear,—by ear,—
Through wind,—and rain,—and sun,—and shower,
From year,—to year,—to year,—to year.
XXXVII.
Patient Peter pores and proses
On, from simple grave to grave;
Here marks the children snatch’d to heaven,
Nor left to blunder “we are seven;”—
Even Andrew Jones no power could save.
XXXVIII.
What a Sexton’s work is here,
Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone;
And Barbara Lewthaites’ fate the same,
And cold as mutton is her lamb,
And Alice Fell is bone by bone.
XXXIX.
And tears are thick with Peter Bell,
Yet still he sees one blessed tomb;
Tow’rd it he creeps with spectacles,
And bending on his leather knees,
He reads the Lakeist’s Poet’s doom.
XL.
The letters printed are by fate,
The death they say was suicide;
He reads—‘Here lieth W. W.
Who never more will trouble you, trouble you;’
The old man smokes who ’tis that died.
XLI.
Go home, go home—Old Man, go home;
Peter lay thee down at night,
Thou art happy, Peter Bell,
Say thy prayer for Alice Fell,
Thou hast seen a blessed sight.
XLII.
He quits that moon-light yard of skulls,
And still he feels right glad, and smiles
With moral joy at that old tomb;
Peters’ cheek recalls its bloom,
And as he creepeth by the tiles,
He mutters ever—“W. W.
Never more will trouble you, trouble you.”
There has been some speculation as to the author of this parody, and as far back as 1866 the following letter appeared in Notes and Queries:
“It was Reynolds, too, who, in 1819, anticipated the genuine Peter Bell of Wordsworth by a spurious Peter Bell, in which were exhibited and exaggerated the characteristics of Wordsworth’s earlier simplicitas.
I knew Reynolds, and often talked to him about Peter Bell. Wordsworth’s poem had been advertised, but its publication was from time to time put off. Some literary men were guessing at the cause of this delay, and one said, Wordsworth is keeping it back to elaborate. ‘Elaborate!’ said Reynolds, ‘I’ll see if I can’t get one out before him.’ He set to work that afternoon, and sent his poem to the printer the next evening. I think it was out about a fortnight before Wordsworth’s. Up to the publication of Peter Bell, they were literary friends, and occasionally exchanged letters. The joke annoyed Wordsworth, who gave up the acquaintance.”
Shelley also wrote a parody of Peter Bell.
A parody entitled “The Dead Asses, a Lyrical Ballad” was also published in 1819, but no copy of it can be found in the British Museum Library.
“Benjamin the Waggoner, a Ryghte merrie and conceitede tale in verse.” A Fragment. London, Baldwin. 1819. Anonymous. The introduction is signed Peter Plague-em.
This clever burlesque of “Peter Bell,” is an octavo of 96 pages, and consists of an Introduction, the poem, and some very prolix notes, all in ludicrous imitation of Wordsworth.
There’s something in a glass of ale,
There’s something in good sugar candy;
And when a man is getting cold,
And when the weather’s getting cold,
There’s something in a glass of brandy.
There’s something in Gambado’s horse,
There’s something in a velocipede;
That’s the horse I’d like the best,
On it your book may easy rest,
And he who runs may read.
I wish I had a pair of wings,
And like the arab, a little peg;
I’d instant lay across my leg,
And rising up to other spheres,
No more should critics vex my ears.
And now I have a velocipede,
And now I have the little peg,
And now I’ve fix’d upon it wings,
And bidding adieu to earthly things,
I lift,—and lay across my leg.
Now I rise, and away we go,
My little hobby-horse and me;
And now I’m near the planet Venus,
Nothing seems to be between us,
Not a bit of earth I see.
* * * * *
I love the words which run so easy—
Boat and float—and you and do—
Ass and grass make pretty rhyme;
Boat, I’ve used it many a time,
And ass—times just forty-two.
The parody is amusing, but exceedingly frivolous, as no attempt is made to do more than ridicule the simplicity of Wordsworth’s diction.
Lord Byron on “Peter Bell.”
Messrs. J. W. Jarvis & Son, booksellers, of King William Street, Strand, have a scarce little work from which they kindly allow the following extracts to be made:—
The book is entitled “The Private Libraries of Philadelphia,” and describes the curious Bibliographical collection made by Mr. George W. Childs, of that city.
This catalogue is by Mr. F. W. Robinson, and printed by Collins, of Philadelphia, in 1883.
Mention in it is made of a six volume edition of Lord Byron’s works presented to Mr. Childs by John Murray, the publisher. In the first volume of this set is inserted a copy of Wordsworth’s poem Peter Bell, a poem for which Lord Byron, who generally disliked Wordsworth’s poetry, had a special aversion, and in this copy he had scribbled on the margin a parody of the commencement of the poem. This parody has not hitherto been published in England.
Wordsworth’s Peter Bell commences thus:
Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.
Prologue.
There’s something in a flying horse,
There’s something in a huge balloon:
But through the clouds I’ll never float,
Until I have a little boat,
Whose shape is like the crescent moon.
And now I have a little boat,
In shape a very crescent moon:—
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail,
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up—and you shall see me soon!
Lord Byron’s disgust is expressed in these lines:
Ravenna, 22 March, 1820.
Epilogue.
There’s something in a stupid ass;
And something in a heavy dunce;
But never since I went to school
I heard or saw so damned a fool
As William Wordsworth is for once.
And now I’ve seen so great a fool
As William Wordsworth is for once;
I really wish that Peter Bell
And he who wrote it, were in hell,
For writing nonsense for the nonce.
I saw the “light in ninety-eight,”
Sweet Babe of one-and-twenty years!
And then he gave it to the nation,
And deems himself of Shakspeare’s Peers.
He gives the perfect works to light!
William Wordsworth—if I might advise:
Content you with the praise you get,
From Sir George Beaumont, Baronet,
And with your place in the Excise.
——:o:——
A Mood of my own Mind.
Much grieved am I in spirit by the news of this day’s post,
Which tells me of the devil to pay with the paper money host:
’Tis feared that out of all their mass of promises to pay,
The devil alone will get his due: he’ll take them at his day.
This the first verse of one of the Paper Money Lyrics (in imitation of William Wordsworth) written by T. L. Peacock. The poem will be found in the third Volume of The Works of Thomas Love Peacock. London. R. Bentley & Son, 1875.
A great many parodies of Wordsworth are to be found in books published forty or fifty years ago, but they are, for the most part, dull and uninteresting, a few of the best only need be enumerated.
Old Cumberland Pedlar. In “Warreniana.” By W. F. Deacon. Longman & Co., London. 1824.
The Stranger, The Flying Tailor, and James Rigg. In “The Poetic Mirror.” By James Hogg. Longman & Co. London. 1816. Specimen the Fourth, in “Rejected Odes” (London, 1813), is a parody of “Alice Fell.”
The Story of Doctor Pill and Gaffer Quake, after the most approved modern style, and containing Words-worth imitation, appeared in Vol. 10 of The Satirist (London.) This is a long and spiteful parody of Goody Blake and Harry Gill, which was first published in Lyrical Ballads (Bristol) in 1798.
“Tim the Tacket, a lyrical ballad, supposed to be written by W. W.” is to be found in Poetical Works by William Motherwell, Paisley. Alexander Gardner. 1881. It is a fairly good imitation of style, and might pass for one of Wordsworth’s minor ballads.
——:o:——
WORDSWORTH AS POET LAUREATE.
On the death of Robert Southey, in 1843, the appointment of Poet Laureate was offered to Wordsworth. At first he declined on the plea that he was too far advanced in life to undertake the duties of the office; thereupon Sir Robert Peel wrote:—“Do not be deterred by the fear of any obligations which the appointment may be supposed to imply. I will undertake that you shall have nothing required from you.” Thus pressed, Wordsworth accepted the title and the pension, he being already in the receipt of a handsome annuity from the Government. The warrant was dated April 6, 1843, and he retained the office till his death in 1850. He wrote a sonnet on the occasion of his appointment, which for vanity and egotism is probably unparallelled in literature, but beyond this he paid little further attention, either to the office, or its ancient duties.[79]
Mr. Wordsworth’s supposed Ode on the
Installation of H.R.H. Prince Albert at
Cambridge, June, 1847.
(Exclusive.)
I.
Sons of the Cam, awake!
Come, stir, ye sleeping elves;
Arise, or else your Prince will take
A rise out of yourselves.
Fast man, come breakfast faster,
Slow man, drink off your sloe;
Proctor and Doctor, gyp and Master,
Do show some little go!
Ye Principals, majestical move on;
And all ye Dons, come rolling like the Don.
II.
We’ve our Field Marshal now,
Let Isis pride be o’er;
Those sons of Oxon shall not cow
Our spirits as of yore.
“Pig” of St. John,
With “Fox” of Bonn,
Henceforth in learning’s feast go snacks,
And Germany
Shall crowd to see
Our Cambridge races run in Saxe.
III.
Where art thou, learned Whewell?
Thy “euge!” haste and utter;
If tired of giving freshmen gruel,
Come give the Prince fresh butter.
If all be true that Cantabs state,
Thy cant-ability is great.
Come, meek of speech, and bland of style,
Come, smile as thou wert wont to smile.
At fairs, you know, for hats they grin,
But here for mitres—come begin,
Lack you a theme for laughter? better
Think of your own election letter;
Or of your epitaph—“Here Whewell lies,
Master of Arts—that caused himself to rise.”
IV.
Throw up your caps in fury, O!
Shout till you’re hot and red,
Tam marti, quam Mercurio,
Dear is your chosen head.
He holds a baton and its true,
That Wellington can’t carry two.
Waste ye the midnight oil by pails
Your chieftain claims the Prince of Wales.
At home his window-view explores
Those classic scenes displayed,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry’s holy shade.
He’s fit to rule, with gifts like these,
Cam—nay, Kamskatcha—if he please.
From The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.
