WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
Born July 26, 1802. Died July 15, 1839.
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD.
I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour,—
A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave,—
The world goes round for ever:
I think that life is not too long;
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song
Who will not read a sermon.
I think the studies of the wise,
The hero’s noisy quarrel,
The majesty of woman’s eyes,
The poet’s cherished laurel,
And all that makes us lean or fat,
And all that charms or troubles,—
This bubble is more bright than that,
But still they all are bubbles.
I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots:
I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to town,
And rather more to Heaven.
I think that very few have sighed
When fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them:
I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking,
I think that nought is worth a thought,
And I’m a fool for thinking!
(The complete poem consists of thirteen verses.)
W. M. Praed.
The Chaunt of the Political Brazen Head.
(Mr. Gladstones version.)
I think, that power the Tories crave,
With impotent endeavour,
Though Stafford is serene and suave,
And Randolph rude and clever.
I think my thoughts upon the throng
Fall sweet as dews on Hermon:
And that I’ll, set them to a song,
Though apter at a sermon.
I think that some are men of parts,
Whilst some are vulgar fractions,
That some are good at Liberals arts.
And some at liberal actions;
I think that Harcourt—with a bit—
Is not so bad a neighbour,
Though one who at, and with his wit,
Will labour, and belabour.
I think that Hartington is wise,
And Bright austerely moral;
Fawcett sees more than some with eyes,
And Forster’s sage, though sorrel;
That Granville has a feline pat,
Which much his foemen troubles,
So soft they scarce know what he’s at
Until it pricks their bubbles.
* * * * *
I think that Leadership’s a play,
Now Entrance and now Exit,
When fortune smiles upon it, gay,
And sad when failures vex it,
Like vessels in a seaway rough,
To pitches prone and tosses;
With little peace, pain quantum suff.—
A game of noughts and crosses.
I think the world, though hard it be,
Affords one constant pleasure,—
The felling of the forest tree
When one has health and leisure,
One volume—Homer—all delight,
One comrade—a ripe scholar,
One choice—when one can’t talk, to write,
One ease—a loose shirt—collar.
I think all aged Chiefs have sighed,
When years at last have found them:
New friends—though loyal—at their side,
New foes—though little—round them,
I think that those who long have fought
Grow weary, though unshrinking;
I think—that now you know my thought,
And that I’m tired of thinking.
(Four verses omitted.)
* * * * *
Punch. December 2, 1882.
——:o:——
PLUS DE POLITIQUE.
No politics!—I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics!—I do not dare
To paint our present shame!
What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me:
No politics to-day!
* * * * *
W. M. Praed, 1832.
A Lyric from Highbury.
By Joseph Chamberlain.
No politics!—I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics!—I do not dare
To paint our present shame.
What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me—
No politics to-day!
I loved to bind the Caucus chain,
I loved to drive the screw,
But now they’re binding might and main
And screwing me and you.
I cried, “Three acres and a cow,”
The cursed yokels say;
They’ve got a sort of conscience now—
No politics to-day!
I used to think my happy home
Was free from ransom’s law,
Though manor-house and church’s dome
Were caught in Demos’ maw;
I paid no borough rates—but you
And I must run away;
We cannot tell what Morley’ll do—
No politics to-day!
It seems I’ve missed the proper tack,
That justice holds the field;
That an orating platform quack
Is bound in time to yield.
That men are not of pocket made,
As Schnadhorst used to say;
That politics is not a trade—
No politics to-day!
Let’s talk of Spurgeon and of Dale,
Of Connie Gilchrist’s eyes,
Say, why did “Jim the Penman” fail,
Despite his brass and lies?
Let’s take to racing, try to win
A competence, at play;
Let’s take to fiddles, rattles, gin—
No politics to-day!
Pall Mall Gazette. May 28, 1886.
——:o:——
A LETTER OF ADVICE.
(From Miss Medora Trevillian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London.)
You tell me you’re promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover
The hue of his coat and his cheek?
Alas! if he look like another,
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say “No”
* * * * *
W. M. Praed.
A Letter of Advice.
(On a pending Election at the Athenæum Club.)
You tell me that What-you-maccollum
Is up for election this week,
And reasons, convincing and solemn,
For voting against him you seek.
Though Pollock propose, Arnold second,
And a duke and a marquis or so
Support him, they need not be reckoned;
My own Athenæum say “No.”
Though Browning and Bright try to kindle
Your zeal, and their notions instil—
Though Trevelyan, and Millais, and Tyndall
Should tempt you to keep back your “pill;”
If you think he would frown our cigars on,
Or to sixpenny whist prove a foe,
If he’s only a Gladstonite parson,
My own Athenæum, say “No.”
If you don’t, he will cut some new caper—
P’raps accuse the committee of crimes;
He will ruin the club in note-paper.
And use it to write to the Times.
So give him the cleanest of clean “sacks,”
Let him wander to far Jericho;
To an anthropomorphist of bean sacks
My own Athenæum, say “No.”
The Globe. February 25, 1858.
——:o:——
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
(Music by Mrs. Edward Fitzgerald.)
(This poem must not be confounded with the one by Thomas Hood, having the same title, parodies of which are contained in Volume I. of this Collection.)
I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,—
The mirth of its December,
And the warmth of its July;
On my brow, love, on my brow, love,
There are no signs of care;
But my pleasures are not now, love,
What childhood’s pleasures were.
Then the bowers—then the bowers
Were blythe as blythe could be;
And all their radiant flowers
Were coronals for me:
Gems to-night, love—gems to-night, love,
Are gleaming in my hair;
But they are not half so bright, love,
As childhood’s roses were.
I was singing—I was singing—
And my songs were idle words;
But from my heart was springing
Wild music like a bird’s:
Now I sing, love,—now I sing, love,
A fine Italian air;
But it’s not so glad a thing, love,
As childhood’s ballads were.
I was merry—I was merry
When my little lovers came,
With a lily, or a cherry,
Or a new invented game;
Now I’ve you, love, now I’ve you, love,
To kneel before me there;
But you know you’re not so true, love,
As childhood’s lovers were!
W. M. Praed.
June, 1833.
The Nelson Column Drama.
The earliest announcements of the late Covent Garden management was a piece entitled “Trafalgar Square, or the Nelson Monument.” We have obtained the following slight information respecting it. The drama is described as “a grand architectural and historical burletta,” in two acts; and the prologue was to have been spoken by Mr. Widdicomb, as Time. The two acts comprise the commencement and completion, and a lapse of twenty years is supposed to take place between them, in which time “the boy,” who is the principal character, becomes a middle-aged man.
The following duet is introduced by the boy and the man in the second act:—
Boy.
I remember, I remember,
When I was a little boy,
On the column in November
I was given some employ.
I help’d the man to build it,
And we laboured hard and long
But the granite came up slowly
For we were not very strong.
I remember, I remember,
How we raised its form on high,
With one block in December
And another in July.
Both.
We remember, we remember,
When St Martin’s bells were rung
In the laying of the first stone, for
We both were very young.
But weary years have past, now,
Since we our work begun;
We fear we shall not last, now,
To see our labour done.
We remember, we remember,
But we heard it on the sly,
’Twon’t be finish’d next November
Nor the subsequent July.
Punch. November 25, 1843.
The Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square was long unfinished, and it was not till January, 1867, that the four lions, designed by Sir Edwin Landseer, were placed in position, thus completing the monument.
The Farmer’s Corn Law Song.
I remember—I remember—when the price was very high,
I’d my hunters for December, and my racers for July;
On my brow, Peel, on my brow, Peel.
There are sad signs of care;
For the prices are not now, Peel,
What once the prices were.
I was merry—I was merry—when the ’lectioneerers came;
And the Squire, he said the prices would always be the same!
Now I’ve no one, now I’ve no one,
To say a word of cheer.
For the Squire and ’lectioneerers
They never come anear.
Punch. 1846.
About the Weather.
(A Fragment.)
I remember, I remember,
Ere my childhood flitted by,
It was cold then in December,
And was warmer in July.
In the winter there were freezings—
In the summer there were thaws;
But the weather isn’t now at all
Like what it used to was!
The Man in the Moon. Vol. V.
The Bankrupt to the Commissioner.
I remember, I remember
How my tin once used to fly—
How at th’end of each December
Bills in bushels met my eye.
On my back, Sir, on my back, Sir,
Though my coat is not threadbare—
Yet those spicy things I lack, Sir,
Which of yore I used to wear.
(Two verses omitted.)
The Puppet Show. July 1, 1848.
Mistletoe Anticipations.
(By a young gentleman “who knows what’s good.”)
I remember, I remember,
We the mistletoe hung high
On a cold night in December,
When the Christmas Eve drew nigh;
I remember, from the ceiling
How its gleaming berries shone
On the pretty girls there squealing,
As I kiss’d them ev’ry one!
I remember, I remember,
How the mistletoe hung high
On that cold night in December;
And the tale that hangs thereby.
Then the dancing, then the dancing,
And the waving hair all tress’d;
And the bright eyes brighter glancing
When the little waist was press’d;
And the flirting, and the flirting,
Oh! how well I can recall!
And the lips their charms asserting,
For I think I kissed them all!!
I remember, I remember,
Each pretty girl and kiss;
And I judge from that December,
Of the fun I shall have this.
I was merry, I was merry,
When my pretty cousins came;
For their lips were tempting, (very!)
So I kiss’d them all the same!
Girls that night, sir, girls that night, sir,
As frolicsome as fair,
Ran about in wild delight, sir,
When the mistletoe was there.
I remember, I remember,
How they feign’d to hate a kiss;
But they kiss’d in that December,
And—I think they’ll do so this!
Cuthbert Bede.
This imitation first appeared in The Month, December 1851, a small humorous magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech, which is now exceedingly scarce. The poem was afterwards included in “Motley, Prose and Verse,” by Cuthbert Bede B.A., London, James Blackwood, 1855. Many parodies which appeared over the same well known nom-de-plume between thirty and forty years ago have been, and still remain to be, quoted in this collection. The creator of Mr. Verdant Green, still wields a prolific pen, but on more serious topics than of old, as witness his numerous contributions to “Notes and Queries” on Folk Lore, and his recent history of “Fotheringhay and Mary, Queen of Scots” published by Simpkin, Marshall & Co., London.
——:o:——
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.
“So runs the world away.”—Hamlet.
Good-night to the Season! ’Tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay;
The courtier, the gambler, the lover,
Are scattered like swallows away;
There’s nobody left to invite one
Except my good uncle and spouse;
My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes:
For want of a better employment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out,
I’ll cultivate rural enjoyment,
An angle immensely for trout.
Good-night to the Season!—the obbies,
Their changes, and rumours of change,
Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,
And made all the Bishops look strange;
The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers;
The Marquis’s eloquent thunders;
The Baronet’s eloquent cheers;
Denouncings of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion and oats;
Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.
Good-night to the Season!—the buildings
Enough to make Inigo sick;
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings
Of stucco, and marble, and brick;
The orders deliciously blended,
From love of effect, into one;
The club-houses only intended,
The palaces only begun;
The hell, where the fiend in his glory
Sits staring at putty and stones,
And scrambles from story to story,
To rattle at midnight his bones.
Good-night to the Season!—the dances,
The fillings of hot little rooms,
The glancings of rapturous glances,
The fancyings of fancy costumes;
The pleasures which fashion makes duties,
The praisings of fiddles and flutes,
The luxury of looking at Beauties,
The tedium of talking to mutes;
The female diplomatists, planners
Of matches for Laura and Jane;
The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,
The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.
Good-night to the Season!—the rages
Led off by the chiefs of the throng,
The Lady Matilda’s new pages,
The Lady Eliza’s new song;
Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’s
Was held to have something to say;
Mrs Splenetic’s musical poodles,
Which bark “Batti Batti” all day;
The pony Sir Araby sported,
As hot and as black as a coal,
And the Lion his mother imported,
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.
Good-night to the Season!—the Toso,
So very majestic and tall;
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,
And Pasta, divinest of all;
The labour in vain of the ballet,
So sadly deficient in stars;
The foreigners thronging the Alley,
Exhaling the breath of cigars;
The loge where some heiress (how killing!)
Environed with exquisites sits,
The lovely one out of her drilling,
The silly ones out of their wits.
Good-night to the Season!—the splendour
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;
Where I purchased—my heart was so tender—
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,
A bottle of perfume, a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full grown,
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone;
A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies,
A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.
Good-night to the Season!—the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was—not to be late;
When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o’er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.
Good-night to the Season!—Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married—or buried?—no matter:
Good night to the Season—good night!
Winthrop Mackworth Praed.
Good-bye to the Commons.
Good-bye to the Commons! Their places,
Rude strangers will seek to obtain,
And many familiar faces
We never may look on again!
Good-bye to their hasty expressions,
Their wrangles, contentions, and fights,
Their absolute waste of the sessions,
Their “personal” wrongs, and their rights.
The battle they’re off to prepare for,
And some who away from us fly
Will never return to us—therefore,
Good-bye to the Commons, good-bye!
Good-bye to the Commons! To speeches
Without either reason or rhyme;
To Irish Home Rulers; to breaches
Of privilege, wasting our time;
Good-bye to each wordy oration;
To Blue Books consigned to the shelves;
To small men who speak for “the nation,”
To great men who speak for themselves;
To voices once strong, now grown weaker,
To orators little and big—
To that excellent person, the Speaker,
His chair, and his gown, and his wig.
Good-bye to the Commons! To lobbies
Now empty, and silent, and still;
Good-bye to their various hobbies,
To motion, and question, and bill;
Their “Ayes” and their “Noes” and their prattle,
Their sittings so early and late—
For the trumpet has called them to battle,
And none can be sure of their fate.
We breathe just one sigh as they scatter,
Yet, somehow, we cannot deny
They’ve bored us immensely—no matter;
Good-bye to the Commons, Good-bye!
Funny Folks. March 27, 1880.
Vale.
Good-bye to the Season, its crosses,
Its care, and caress, its cabal,—
Let us drown both its gain and its losses
In Styx, or the Suez Canal!
Though pleasure be near, or too far be,
We’ve kept it up early and late,
From the dust and the din of the Derby
To the Fair at the Kensington Fête.
Let the desperate dog, or the dreamer
Dividing his lips with a weed,
Recross the sick streak in a steamer,
A travelling tourist—in tweed!
(Two verses omitted.)
Good-bye to the Season! but listen,
Old Time keeps reversing his sand,
Fresh tears in loved eyelids will glisten,
And hand will keep searching for hand.
We shall come from the sea and the heather,
Refreshed and with faces burned brown,
To face life with courage together,
Or find care in charge of the town.
Though the past to the loved one and lover
Be sorrow, success, or a spell,
It has passed like a dream and is over,
Good-bye to the Season! Farewell!
Punch. July 28, 1883.
Good-Bye to the Season.
Good-bye to the season! ’Tis ended!
My friends are all flitting away,
And I murmured, as homeward I wended
From Goodwood, that last weary day,
Will no one invite me, I wonder,
To join them in shooting their moor,
Or shall I be left here to ponder,
While my chances get fewer and fewer?
Lord H. has gone sailing at Cowes,
And Carrie is bathing at Brighton,
And Charlie’s gone North with his spouse,
Ah! Who is there left to invite one?
Good-bye to the season! The Houses
Are leaving their Bills in the lurch,
And Gladstone with Northcote carouses,
While Bradlaugh looks after the Church,
And Warton has blocked his last measure,
And Worms has forgotten the Russian,
And Granville chuckles with pleasure,
And dreams of his ally the Prussian;
And Cairns in the Strand’s sweet seclusion
Is blessing Garmoyle and dear “Forty”;
And coals and commandments in fusion
Are joined for a sign to the haughty.
(Two verses omitted.)
Good-bye to the season! We care not
What the next may relinquish or bring,
If low dresses we wear or we wear not,
When green are the trees in the spring.
If tight laces and vile crinolettes,
Disfigure the forms of our girls,
Turn they Yankee or smoke cigarettes,
Or iron their hair into curls.
If the season is heavy or fast is,
If the beauties are many or few;
We don’t care if this season our last is,
(For our sweetheart is married) do you?
Life. August 23, 1883.
Good-bye to the Season.
Good-bye to the season! ’Tis over,
And London no longer is gay.
To Perth, to Penzance, and to Dover
(For Paris) all hurry away.
There’s scarce a soul left in this hot land,
For all the world now, and his spouse,
If not making tracks up to Scotland,
Pretend to be yachting at Cowes.
Whilst mothers whose ill-fated daughters
Strove vainly for husbands in town,
Are seeking, in Cheltenham waters,
Their grim disappointment to drown.
Good-bye to the Season—but truly,
To all its chief items go through
Would lengthen our rhymes so unduly,
We dare not the subject pursue;
Nor dwell on those purse-proud pretenders,
Who, ever so ill at their ease,
Give dinners, whose shoddyish splendours
Are far too oppressive to please,
And who, wheresoever we find them—
And they’re omnipresent, alack!—
Are given to leaving behind them
Of “h’s” a well-defined track.
Nor speak of the year’s recreations,
Its billiards, its cricket galore;
With breaks and with scores—such sensations
As London ne’er looked on before!
Nor talk of the lamp-lit “Inventions,”
Whose management, showing small nous,
A sum of enormous dimensions
Paid over to little Herr Strauss;
Nor even allude to those scandals,
The which, it would certainly seem,
That people with nominal handles
Their personal property deem.
Yes, these are the signs of the season,
And these are the lessons we’d teach,
As, mingling with rhyming our reason,
We try to a homily preach.
And out of the season’s excesses—
Its fads, and its follies, and toys—
Pick out what our mind most impresses
Amidst all its notions and noise;
And once more our moral commending
To those who its truths should apply,
Cry again, as our rhymes we are ending,
“Good bye to the Season! Good bye!”
(Six verses omitted.)
Truth. August 6, 1885.
Farewell to the Season.
Farewell to the Season! Not often
We take it so early as June;
But Chamberlain nothing could soften,
The Parties were all out of tune.
And so dissolution confronts us,
Ere roses are fairly in bloom,
And Gladstone from Westminster hunts us
To challenge our fate, and his doom.
Farewell to the Season! ’Twas scurvy
Of William to play us this trick,
Sets everything all topsy-turvy,
And banishes trade to Old Nick,
The Shopkeeper sighs with vexation,
The Milliner moans in despair;
In the West there is wild tribulation;
Teeth grinding and tearing of hair.
Farewell to the Season! The hunter
Of husbands is baulked of her game.
There is grief in the bosom of Gunter,
All Regent-Street’s soul is a-flame.
The Row is a wilderness utter,
The Livery Stables look sad,
The Cab-drivers mournfully mutter,
And Materfamilias goes mad.
Farewell to the Season! How dingy
A pall seems this close premature.
The shirkers, the stumped, and the stingy
May welcome the change to be sure;
But votaries of Commerce and Cupid,
Young seekers of fortune or fame,
All hold it confoundedly stupid,
And vote it a thundering shame!
Punch. July 3, 1886.
In the summer of 1887 the Puzzle Editor of Truth offered a prize of two guineas for the best parody of Praed’s poem, and on August 25, and September 8, 1887, he published a dozen of the parodies sent in for the competition. The prize was awarded to the following, written by Mr. G. M. H. Playfair, which is the only one worthy of reproduction:—
So the Jubilee’s over. Thank goodness!
I scarce fancy, from all that I hear,
We could stand (be it said without rudeness)
Such a function as that every year.
It was gorgeous, the drive to the Abbey,
And was fairly well managed, we know,
Since not even the critical Labby
Could deny ’twas a mighty fine show.
Such a crowd! Never saw I a larger,
And what cheering. Of that was no lack,
When they saw gallant Fritz on his charger,
And the Marquis of Lorne on his back.
Never was such a Royal ovation
Since the history of England began:
We had Princes of every nation,
We had Daimios straight from Japan.
There was soreness, of course, and dissension
Haughty Holkar was sparing of smiles,
Feeling hurt he should get less attention
Than the Queen of the Cannibal Isles.
Apsley House flew historical banners,
Mr. Smith spent a fortune in gas,
V.R.I. praised her people’s good manners,
And a bobby arrested Miss Cass.
Now the Jubilee season is over:
There are met at Victoria no end
Of Serenities hasting to Dover,
Of Transparencies bound for Ostend
While the Queen, with a thankful expression,
Packs her bag and portmanteau for Cowes;
Albert E. leaves the cook in possession
As he migrates from Marlborough House.
The beau monde copies Royalty’s caper,
And (excepting mere tradesmen and boors)
Every soul shrouds his window in paper,
And is off to the seaside or moors.
So the Park is deserted. The keeper
Stalks alone where pricked rider and groom,
All unswept is the crossing, the sweeper
Standing idly at ease with his broom.
Where but now rolled the Marquis’s carriage
The rare hansom crawls, hopeless of fare,
And there is not one notice of marriage
On the books of St. George of the Square.
All the noise and the glitter are banished
That came in with the Jubilee year;
Passed away into Ewigkeit—vanished
With Hans Breitmann’s proverbial beer.
Awful Warrior.
——:o:——
To a Jilt.
(An imitation of Praed.)
When rural boroughs are not bought,
Or lovely maidens sold;
When self is reckoned less than nought,
Or honour more than gold;
When money does not make the man,
Or gooseberries champagne;
When Poet Close’s verses scan,—
I may be yours again!
When Tussaud’s wax-works learn to think
Or Tories to be wise;
When local rates begin to sink;
Or Spanish scrip to rise;
When German princes live at home,
Or swells in Drury-lane;
When Dr. Cumming goes to Rome,—
I may be yours again!
When knaves and ranters cease to preach,
Or evening prints to lie;
When tyros do not try to teach,
Or silly girls to dye;
When Osborne quite forgets to jest,
Or Ireland to complain;
When taxes are no more assess’d—
I may be yours again!
When law and justice both unite,
Or Swan and Edgar part;
When London gas gives better light,
Or Ayrton takes to art;
When Leicester-square begins to smile,
Or “Bradshaw” to be plain;
When smart reviewers don’t revile,—
I may be yours again!
When Lord Penzance shall sit no more,
Or gaols no longer stand;
When want is banished from our shore,
Or love is in the land;
When earth is rid of every woe,
Or fools are blest with brain—
Why then, my faithless charmer, know
I may be yours again!
Anonymous.
——:o:——
A Parody.
On seeing the Speaker asleep in his chair, during one of the Debates of the first Reformed Parliament.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair,
If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer now they grow,
Tory and Radical, aye and no,
Talking by night, and talking by day,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a speaker’s eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill;
You have more need of repose than they—
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen-pence;
Statesmen will howl and patriots bray:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time
When loyalty was not quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.
Lord! how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.
Winthrop Mackworth Praed.
This parody is often referred to as being very clever, partly, no doubt, on account of its having been written by Praed. It is certainly a very fair parody, and the original Lullaby, in the drama of Guy Mannering, is neither so very pathetic, nor so very beautiful, that a humorous imitation of it can give offence. The parody has, however, one defect, it is scarcely close enough in its imitation of the original:—
O, hush thee, my babie!—the time will soon come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum!
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
THE BEGGAR’S PETITION.
Thomas Moss, a minister of Brierly Hill, Staffordshire, who died in 1808, published anonymously in 1769, a volume of miscellaneous poems, one of which, “The Beggar’s Petition,” became immediately popular.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindling to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief and heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I craved a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humble shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome:
Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold:
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e’er touch’d your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repressed.
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine?
’Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot;
Then like the lark I sprightly hail’d the morn,
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot,
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur’d by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandoned on the world’s wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whose days are dwindling to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.
A Hebrew translation of this poem, by Mr. William Salater, appeared in Kottabos, Vol. 3, No. 12. Hilary Term, 1881.
Kottabos was a small magazine published for Trinity College, Dublin, by Mr. W. McGee, and supported by many talented young writers.
The Goose’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Goose,
Whose feeble steps have borne her to your door,
Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use,
Oh! give me corn, and Heaven will bless your store.
My feather’d coat, once lily white, and sleek,
By cruel pluckings grown so bare and thin;
These rags, alas; doth misery bespeak,
And show my bones, just starting thro’ the skin.
Come, Biddy, come, that well-known pleasing sound,
Stole in soft murmurs from Dame Partlet’s farm;
For plenty there, in youthful days, I found,
So waddled on, unconscious then of harm.
Soon as I reach’d this once blest, happy cot,
Feeding the pigs, came Partlet from the stye;
More kicks than halfpence I too surely got,
She seiz’d a broomstick, and knock’d out my eye.
A bandy cur, sworn foe to all our race,
Some few years past, when I was strong and plump,
Who, if I hiss’d, would run and hide his face,
Now boldly tears my breeches from my * * *
The wall-eye’d brute next bit me thro’ the leg:
A naughty boy too, out of wanton joke,
For whom I’ve laid, aye, many and many an egg,
Seiz’d up a stone, and this left pinion broke.
To go from hence you see I am not able;
Oh! take me in, the wind blows piercing cold;
Short is the passage to the barn or stable;
Alas! I’m weak, and miserably old.
St. Michael’s fatal day approaches near;
A day we all have reason sure to curse;
E’en at the name my blood runs cold with fear,
So inimical is that Saint to us.
You have misfortunes; why should I repine?
We’re born for food to man, full well I know;
But may your fate, ah! never be like mine,
A poor old Goose, of misery and woe.
A numerous flock elected me their Queen;
I then was held of all our race the pride;
When a bold Gander, waddling from Brook Green,
Declar’d his love, and I became his bride.
Goslings we had, dear comforts of my life;
But a vile cook, by some mad fancy bit,
My pretty cacklers kill’d, then stuff’d with sage,
And their sweet forms expos’d upon the spit.
The murd’ress next seiz’d on my tender mate;
Alas! he was too fat to run or fly;
Like his poor infants, yielded unto fate,
And with his giblets, Cook she made a pie.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Goose,
Whose feeble steps have borne her to your door,
Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use,
Oh! give me corn, and Heaven will bless your store.
The European Magazine. 1804.
The Third Class Traveller’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a third class man,
Whose trembling limbs with snow are whiten’d o’er,
Who for his fare has paid you all he can:
Cover him in, and let him freeze no more!
This dripping hat my roofless pen bespeaks,
So does the puddle’ reaching to my knees;
Behold my pinch’d red nose—my shrivell’d cheeks:
You should not have such carriages as these.
In vain I stamp to warm my aching feet,
I only paddle in a pool of slush;
My stiffen’d hands in vain I blow and beat;
Tears from my eyes congealing as they gush.
Keen blows the wind; the sleet comes pelting down,
And here I’m standing in the open air!
Long is my dreary journey up to town,
That is, alive, if ever I get there.
Oh! from the weather, when it snows and rains,
You might as well, at least, defend the Poor;
It would not cost you much, with all your gains:
Cover us in, and luck attend your store.
Punch. March 1, 1845.
At that date the third class railway carriages were like cattle trucks, open to the weather, and only provided with rough wooden seats.
The Stag’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Stag,
Brought by the panic to the workhouse door;
Whose Scrip has dwindled into worthless rag:
Oh! give relief; part of his loss restore!
These tattered Shares my poverty bespeak;
These horrid deeds proclaim my length of ears;
I signed for many thousands every week:
I cannot liquidate the calls with tears.
Yon line, projected on no solid ground,
With tempting prospects drew me of my cash;
For plenty there the lawyer said he found,
And the Directors grandly cut a dash.
Hard is the fate of him who holds the Shares;
For when a slice of their rich gains I sought,
The pamper’d secretary only stares,
And tells me to go back to Capel Court.
Oh! take me to your comfortable Board;
Down is the Scrip—the Times are very cold!
Some of your premium you might afford,
For I’m let in, while you—for profits—sold.
Should I reveal the sources of your wealth,
I think that I could gibbet every name;
For to yourselves you have done “good by stealth,”
And even you might blush to find it fame.
You sent allotments—and ’tis very fine
That, spite of panics, you unharmed should be;
Some of your premium should have been mine;
Why should the discount all devolve on me?
A little batch of ten you did allot,
Then, like a trump, I my deposit paid;
But ah! the panic to the City got,
And not a sixpence now’s to be made!
My broker once his friendship used to brag;
Check’d by the panic in his zeal to pay,
He casts me off, a poor abandoned stag,
And sternly bids me think of settling day.
My creditors, who know I’ve dealt in Shares,
Struck with suspicion at the wreck they see,
Tell me for worthless Scrip there’s no one cares,
But ready money they must have from me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Stag,
Brought by the panic to the workhouse door;
Whose Scrip has dwindled into worthless rag;
Oh! give relief; part of his loss restore.
From George Cruikshank’s Table Book. 1845.
Stag was a term applied during the railway mania to a speculator without capital who took “scrip” in the Diddlesex Junction Railway, and other lines ejus et sui generis, got the shares up to a premium, and then sold out. When the panic came the Stags got severely pinched, they could neither sell their scrip, nor pay the calls as they became due. Capel Court is one of the entrances to the London Stock Exchange.
The Lament of Westminster Bridge.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old bridge
Whose tottering state has made him quite a bore;
Whose arches dwindle to the river’s ridge,
As they approach on either side the shore.
Those falling stones my craziness bespeak,
My smoke-dried aspect tells my lengthen’d years,
And many a furrow, worn into a creek,
The rain has made a channel for its tears.
Yon houses built on the adjacent ground
Have upon me my final doom bestow’d:
The Commons there a residence have found;
The Peerage a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of an infirm old pile,
While daily sinking on a cold damp bed;
If they don’t move me in a little while
I certainly shall tumble down instead.
My wretched lot your interference claims,
Much longer I cannot together hold;
Some morning I shall drop into the Thames,
For I am weak and miserably old.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old bridge,
Whose tottering state has made him quite a bore,
His piers have sunk down to the river’s ridge,
Oh! cast him off, lest he should tumble o’er.
Punch. 1846.
The Begging Impostor’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man
Whose bandaged limbs have brought him to your door,
Who rolls his eyeballs on a famous plan
Which he has practised for a month or more.
This studied shake paralysis bespeaks—
This shred of onion makes the best of tears;
And ’neath the whitening plaster on my cheeks,
The flush of last night’s lushing disappears.
Yon house erected on a rising ground,
(A serious maiden lady’s snug abode)
I visited, and there with depth profound,
A touch of first-rate pantomime I showed.
But, ah! how merit in this world gets stopp’d!
Just as to groan and shiver I’d begun—
A pamper’d peeler round the corner popp’d,
And made me shoulder up my crutch and run.
Oh, stand a trifle (just one’s throat to wet)—
See how my eye with tears of anguish swims;
But make it something decent, or you’ll get,
Ahem!—not blessings on your eyes and limbs.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose bandaged limbs have borne him to your door!
Who in these dreadful times—try all he can,
Can only make two pounds a day—no more!
The Man in the Moon, Vol. V. 1849.
The Prince’s Petition.
Pity the troubles of a poor young Prince,
Whose costly scheme has borne him to your door;
Who’s in a fix—the matter not to mince—
Oh, help him out, and Commerce swell your store.
This empty hat my awkward case bespeaks,
These blank subscription-lists explain my fear;
Days follow days, and weeks succeed to weeks,
But very few contributors appear.
Yon house, whose walls with casements tall abound,
With look of affluence drew me from the road;
But grumbling there a residence had found,
Light was so plaguy dear at that abode.
Hard was the answer, and the cut was sore;
Here, where I hoped for good a pound a head,
A maid-of-all-work drove me from the door,
“We pays too much for Winder Tax,” she said.
* * * * *
A great success I thought would be my lot,
When, for a lark, I broach’d my plan, one morn;
But ah! Taxation to such height has got,
That I’m afraid the thing will fall still-born.
The Income Tax, that burden of the age,
Narrows the comforts of so many a home,
That people can’t afford me patronage,
And I am doomed for charity to roam,
The tiresome duties that on Knowledge bear,
Retained by Government’s unwise decree,
A farthing will not let the poor man spare
To aid all nations’ industry and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor young Prince,
Whose costly scheme has borne him to your door;
Who’s in a fix—the matter not to mince—
Oh, help him out, and Commerce swell your store!
Punch. 1850.
Prince Albert was then begging for subscriptions for the guarantee fund of the 1851 Exhibition, in doing which he incurred almost as much ridicule, and opposition, as the Prince of Wales has recently had to suffer in connection with his favorite scheme, the Imperial Institute.
The Young Lady’s Complaint.
(Addressed to Messrs. Rowland & Son, from the Seaside.)
Pity the sorrows of a poor young girl,
(O, Rowland, great for oil and Kalydor;)
Whose tiresome ringlets will not keep in curl,
Tho’ they’re with hair-pins skewer’d o’er and o’er.
In vain at eve I paper them with care,
At morn releasing them in due array;
Ere breakfast’s done all loose and limp they are,
And I’ve to curl them twenty times a day.
’Mid the parade’s attractions could I show?
Dank and dishevell’d will my ringlets be;
I know the Captain doesn’t like bandeaux,
Yet what resource beside is left for me?
O, Mr. Rowland, do contrive some charm
That by the sea may keep our hair in curl;
Call it the Bostryk-Oceanic Balm,
And take the blessings of each English girl.
Diogenes. September, 1853.
The Clerk’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Clerk,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose eyes are gone, his hands too weak to work,
Give him a fair allowance, and no more.
The Treasury hard masters seemed to be,
And to the House with hopeful hearts we came,
Deeming with kindlier eye our case ’twould see,
And lend more liberal hearing to our claim.
Vain hope, alas!—the measure you propose
But serves to make our hard lot harder still;
Leave us untouched: we’ll bear our present woes,
But save us from the Civil Service Bill.
(Four verses omitted.)
Punch. August 2, 1856.
The Beggar’s Petition.
(The Tichborne Claimant.)
Pity the sorrows of an ill-used man,
On whom has closed the heavy prison door;
He only begs you’ll give him all you can—
Oh, give him that, and he’ll not ask for more.
These twisted thumbs my parentage bespeak,
And next the limp, the famous wink appears;
The eyelid drooping down upon my cheek,
Adds certain proof to my convincing ears.
A butcher’s cart was my paternal lot,
In Wapping stood my proud ancestral halls;
Ambition made me spurn a humble cot,
And lodged me where I am, in Newgate’s walls.
“Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence had found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.”
Hard was the fate, for one so very stout;
Here, when I told my wild advent’rous tale,
A pamper’d lawyer came and drove me out,
To find a shelter in a wretched gaol.
Some people has much money and no brains;
Some others plenty brains and little gold;
Those who’ve the wit, the coin take for their pains,
From those who’ve not the sense their own to hold.
Pity the sorrows of an ill-used man,
On whom has closed the heavy prison door;
Be generous, and give him all you can,
To rescue him from Justice—I implore.
Judy. April 24, 1872.
The Bar’s Petition.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Bar,[116]
Whose trembling base is rotten to the core;
For whose last day one scarce need look afar,
Whose tottering frame unsightly timbers shore.
My dismal lines my ugliness bespeak,
These blacken’d stones proclaiming lengthen’d years;
And many a patch of mud upon my cheek
Look like the grimy stains of scarce-dried tears,
Oh! take me down, and save me from the doom
Of being shortly in the roadway roll’d,
Sending some poor wayfarers to the tomb;
For I am pitiably weak and old.
Time brings misfortunes; and the surging tide
Of City traffic roaring under me
Hath sapp’d me to the base, and to one side
Hath made me lean, as now you sadly see.
Two centuries ago I graced this spot,
When these old stones by fewer feet were worn;
But now stern Progress vows that I cannot
Block up the street, or longer here be borne.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old Bar,
Whose trembling walls unsightly timbers shore
Whom Time has mark’d with many an ugly scar,
Oh! take him down, and stick him up no more.
Judy. September 9, 1874.
MY NAME IS NORVAL.
My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long’d
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And Heav’n soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills,
Rush’d like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover’d about the enemy, and mark’d
The road he took, then hasted to my friends;
Whom with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
’Till we o’ertook the spoil-encumber’d foe.
We fought and conquer’d. ’Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierc’d their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d
The shepherd’s slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon’d his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father’s house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:—
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass’d these towers,
And Heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
This speech occurs in Act II of John Home’s tragedy “Douglas,” which was originally produced in Edinburgh, and was afterwards brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, London, on March 14, 1757.
This tragedy gave rise to a work entitled “Douglas, a tragedy, by John Home, reduced to rhyme in the broad Buchan dialect,” which few people of the present day would care to read, even if they could do so.
The Jew Stock-broker.
My name is Moses:—In theft-famed Rag Fair
My father sells old cloathes.—A bearded Smouch;
Whose constant aim was to humbug his buyers,
And teach his only son, myself,—to cheat.
But I had heard of Gambling,—and I long’d
To lighten, with false dice, some sporting Lord.
Change Alley granted, what my fate denied:
This moon, which rose last night, crooked like my fingers,
’Pear’d not i’ th’ almanac, when in dark street,
A band of lucky Bulls, from Garraway’s—hot,
Rush’d like a torrent down chaste Goodman’s Fields,
Row-wing and breaking lamps. The Rabbis fled
To fetch their canes brass headed:—I alone
With breeches pack, and box of ladies’ caxens,[117]
Shuffled about the jolly dogs, and filch’d
Their pocket-books;—I sought Ben Israel;
Whom with a troop of fifty perjur’d Brokers
I Bank-ward follow’d: the notes we parted;
Next morn we fac’d the Stock-encumber’d foe.
We bought up Consols. Ere a transfer made,
A bargain from my tongue did up their chief,
Who held that day the scrip since in my name.
Returning home half-groggy, I disdain’d
Th’ old cloathes man’s stitching life, and having heard
The financier had summon’d all loan jobbers
To bring their Rino to the Treasury side;
I left old Shylock’s house; and stole with me
His fraud-earn’d bags to pay my quantum down;
(The electric Spankers which have skirk’d their masters!)
Intent on lies and rapine, I have prowl’d,
Till, hell-directed, I a Bear became,
The accursed deed that dickies all my hopes!
From “Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau,” Chichester. 1803.
The following parody appeared in The New Tory Guide, a small collection of political and satirical jeux d’esprit published by J. Ridgway, London, in 1819. “The Doctor” was a nickname bestowed, by his political opponents, upon Henry Addington, first Viscount Sidmouth, who was the son of a medical man, Anthony Addington, M.D.
Henry Addington was Prime Minister in 1801, he was created a Viscount in 1805, and held several lucrative appointments. He was the subject of many bitter lampoons, and in 1817 he attempted by strong measures to limit the freedom of the Press, in which he signally failed. Hone’s publications contain several caricatures of him by George Cruikshank, as well as the following parody, which is there ascribed to the pen of the Right Hon. George Canning, but without any mention of the paper in which it first appeared. It is also quoted in Vol. VIII. of The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1804, where it is stated to have been taken from the Oracle.
“My name’s the Doctor: on the Berkshire hills
My father purg’d his patients; a wise man,
Whose constant care was to increase his store,
And keep his only son—myself—at home.
“But I had heard of politics, and long’d
To sit within the Commons’ House, and get
A place; and luck gave what my sire denied.—
Some thirteen years ago, or ere my fingers
Had learn’d to mix a potion, or to bleed,
I flatter’d Pitt; I cring’d, and sneak’d, and fawn’d,
And thus became the Speaker. I alone,
With pompous gait, and peruke full of wisdom,
Th’ unruly Members could control, or call
The House to order.
“Tir’d of the Chair, I sought a bolder flight,
And grasping at his power, I struck my friend,
Who held that place, which now I’ve made my own.
“Proud of my triumph, I disdain’d to court
The patron hand which fed me, or to seem
Grateful to him who rais’d me into notice.
And when the King had called his Parliament
To meet him here conven’d in Westminster,
With all my Family crowding at my heels,
My brothers, cousins, followers, and my son,
I show’d myself prime Doctor to the country;
My ends attain’d, my only aim has been
To keep my place, and gild my humble name.”
My Name is Scraggem.
My name is Scragg’em. On famed Mutton Hill
My father sells his pies, a frugal man
Whose constant care it was to win the toss,
Increase his store, and keep my humble self at home.
But I had heard of winning, and I long’d
To follow to the hill, to call out head or tail,
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
Yon gas, which blazed last night long as my stick,
Had scarce burst into flame, when by its light
A half-starved, hungry mortal, rushed furiously
On my stall, devouring mince and mutton.
The watchman fled for succour, I alone
In Crib-like attitude, hover’d about the enemy,
Then pounced suddenly upon his meagre carcass,
And drew a half-munch’d pie from his devouring jaws.
I fought and conquer’d, ere a Charley came,
I’d drawn the claret from his olfact’ry organ.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d
The vulgar cry of apple, mince, or mutton;
And having heard of one Sir Walter Scott,
And Bernard-Barton, bard of broad-brim’d beaver,
Filling their pockets with produce of a pen,
I left my stall, took up the grey goose quill,
And wrote these lines, with the intent
That Mirror’s page should gild my humble name.
From Limbird’s Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Vol. vi.
My Name’s Tom Dibdin.
My name’s Tom Dibdin,[118] far o’er Ludgate Hill
My master kept his shop, a frugal Cit,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only ’prentice, me, at home;
For I had heard of acting, and I long’d
To mimic on the stage some warlike lord,
But fortune granted me what trade denied.
Yon moon, which rose one night across Moorfields,
Had scarcely fill’d her horns, when by her light
A band of merry mad-caps from the town
Rushed like a torrent to the water’s edge
Seeking the Margate hoy—with them I fled
For liberty and acting. Thus alone,
With walking strides, and bundle thin of linen,
Hover’d about the Kentish coast, and mark
What trade I took—I hasten’d to East-Bourne,
Where Richland,[119] and a troop of actor folks
I met advancing. Merry lives we led,
Till we had eased the cash-encumber’d clowns,
I wrote and acted, ere long time had flown,
A scribble from my quill, produc’d a farce,
Which bore that day the name that now it bears,
Elated thence, with triumph I disdained
A country actor’s life, and having heard
That Mister Harris wanted some bold bard,
To lead his actors to old Nilus’ side,[120]
I left my manager, and took with me
A chosen fair one to console my steps,
Yon merry female who delights her master.
Journeying to town from Kent, I pass’d the Tower,
And, chance directed, came this day to write
An opera that’s wormwood to the Jews.[121]
From The Times, also quoted in The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1803.
Address,
To be spoken by the Author, dressed in the garb of a
Brewer’s Porter, armed with a Spigot, &c.
My name is Whitbread. Upon Hertford’s hills
My father kept his house; a brewer rich,
Whose constant cares were to increase his wealth,
And keep his only son, myself, at school;
For I had heard of speeches, and I long’d
To follow in the House some noisy chief,
And Bedford granted what my sire denied.
This House which opes to-night, large as my brewhouse,
Had not yet rais’d its head, when on its site
A band of Irish bricklayers, from the street,
Rush’d like mad dogs upon the ruin’d walls,
Wheeling the bricks and stones; the Renters fled
For Sheridan and Peake; whilst I alone,
With bended quill and book full of subscribers,
Hover’d about the ruins, and well mark’d
The road they went;—then hasted to some friend,
Whom with a list of fifty wealthy men
I met advancing. Then the chair I took
And soon o’erturned the debt-encumbered foe;
We talked and argued: ere a pound was paid,
A promise from my tongue upset the chief,
Who had that day the box which now I have!
Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d
A brewer’s vulgar life; and having read
That our old King had summoned his good towns
To send new members up to Abbot’s side,
I went to Bedford, and behind me left
A chosen Lord to follow in my steps—
Yon bald-head bigot who forsook his master.
(Pointing to Lord H’s box.)
Journeying with that intent, I’ve ’scaped the Tower,
And, pride directed, come this night to hear
The rabble shouts that greet my brazen name.
The Morning Post. October 29, 1812.
Samuel Whitbread, M.P., took a very active part in the rebuilding of Drury Lane Theatre, which had recently been destroyed by fire. Mr. Whitbread is frequently mentioned in The Rejected Addresses. He committed suicide in 1815.
The Mélange (Liverpool, 1834), also contains another parody on the same original. It is an address supposed to be delivered by a lad named William Leigh, who was wounded in the Peterloo massacre in 1819, when the Yeomanry Cavalry and Hussars brutally charged into a public meeting held to deliberate on the Reform Bill, and killed and wounded many people. The parody is now devoid of interest.
Canning’s History of Himself.
(Written in April 1822.)
My name is Canning; on the Thespian boards
My mother played her part—a thrifty dame,
Whose only care was to increase her store,
And teach her hopeful son the “Rule of Three.”[122]
But I had heard of sinecures, and long’d
To follow in the track that leads to Court,
And Heaven soon granted what I so desir’d:
The Gallic sun rose from chaotic night,
And by its blaze, a horde of Sans Culottes
Rush’d, like a torrent, o’er the affrighted world—
Threaten’g all crowned heads. The Courier wrote
The Jacobins to succour. I, on place
Intent, wrote, in the Anti-Jacobin,
Phillippics against France, and Pitt soon mark’d
The squibbs I penned, and rank’d me with his friends,
A chosen band of needy, hungry placemen,
In fortune all advancing. This life I led
Until at Waterloo we met the foe:
We fought and conquer’d, thank our lucky stars,
The loitering Grouchy seal’d the fate of Nap.,[123]
Who wore that day the crown fat Louis wears.
Exulting in our triumph, I disdain’d
A rhyming punster’s life, and having heard
That Lusitania’s king, called by his peers,
His course was bending to the Tagus side,
I left my native land and took with me
The sum of fourteen thousand pounds a year.
The King came not; but what cared I for that?
I ate and drank, and then came back again;
And, Heaven be prais’d, have liv’d to see the day
When India hails me as her Governor!
From The Mélange, Liverpool, 1834.
Dr. Lardner’s Cyclopædia.
My name is Lardner, in St. Paul’s Churchyard
My Cyclopædia sells, a weighty book
Whose constant pages do increase my store
And keep their editor, myself, at home!
For I was born a janius, and I longed
For some two thousand pounds per annum, and
My book soon gave what Gower Street denied.
From The National Omnibus, May 27, 1831.
Norval.
My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills,
My faither keeps his whisky stills,
His occupation is to shield
His whisky stills frae the gauger chiels;
And to keep his son at hame as weel,
Fal, lal, &c.
The moon which shone so bright last night,
Had scarcely set itself—not quite;
When a band o’ gaugers o’er the hills
Cam’ tumblin’ down like Jacks and Gills,
And pounced upon our whisky stills.
Fal, lal, &c.
My faither he was off like a shot,
And said the stills might go to pot;
While I alone withstood the shock,
And tumbled the gaugers o’er a rock,
And made their heads play nick-ety-knock.
Fal, lal, &c.
Full fifty fathoms they fell, I think,
And spattered the rocks all over with ink;
The first he fell down with a thump, thump, thump,
The next he fell down with a dump, dump, dump.
While they all fell together in a clump, clump, clump.
Fal, lal, &c.
The Modern Norval.
Scene.—The Treasury Bench in the House of Commons. As the scene opens, the new Chancellor of the Exchequer is discovered on his legs, and forthwith proceeds to thus address the House.
Lord R. Churchill:
My name is Randolph; in the Blenheim fields
My father fed his flocks; a frugal duke
Whose constant care was to increase his store
Of ready money, hoarded for my sake,
That I, although not heir, might have wherewith
To help me in my fight for power and place.
For I had suddenly (what time I sat
For Woodstock borough) gained myself much fame,
And finding that sharp wits, and daring pluck,
And matchless impudence were strangely rare
Amongst the Tories, straightway resolved
To raise myself, as in the past men said
That wily Hebrew and great Tory chief
Lord Beaconsfield, long time as Dizzy known,
Had raised himself to foremost place and fame.
Aye, I had read his doings, and I longed
To follow in the path of such a chief
And trade, as he did, on the ignorance
Of those who called themselves Conservative.
What happ’d I need not tell you; ’tis enough
That Fate soon granted what my soul desired,
And that the chance I yearn’d for came full soon,
I pass in silence o’er those merry months
When aided by three henchmen (each of whom
Has since had cause to bless the day he helped me),
I made notorious our Fourth Party’s name.
Are not its deeds in Hansard duly writ?
How ’twas I teased and “drew” the Grand old Man?
How, too, I all but broke poor Northcote’s heart?
These things are recent, and men still recall
How, like a freelance, rising from my seat,
I made my verbal spear thrusts right and left,
And dealt deep wounds to friend and foe alike.
Men still recall, I say, the things I did,
When office came to crown my lawlessness,
And the proud Marquis had to own my might;
How, cool and confident, I laid my plans,
And, armed with weapons such as Dizzy used,
Made haste to wield them. Aye! whilst others slept
I hovered round the Tory camp and shot
My venowed arrows till the air was full
Of groaning, as the wounded Tory dolts
Were borne complaining to the House of Lords.
Thus did I clear the path that led me here,
Thus paved the way to that great victory
Which has been gained but lately o’er our foes.
’Tis true that other leaders led the van.
Whigs fought and won, but Tories claimed the spoil,
And I, insisting on a lion’s share,
Am here to-day as Leader of that House
In which I’ve played my pranks in sessions past,
And outraged precedent and party faith.
Yes, Randolph is my name, I would repeat,
And whilst my brother Blenheim doth denude
Of all its treasures, to increase the sum
Accruing after mortgages are paid,
I bring the House of Churchill fresh renown
(My foes will call it notoriety),
And seated on this bench prepare to reap
Those oaths so wild I sowed below the gangway
But thirty-seven, yet trusted to control
The realm’s finances, and to have my way
Despite the Marquis and his played-out friends;
But thirty-seven, yet filled with the belief
That greater honour still will soon be mine.
And that the baser Tories, tickled by
My daring tricks, my voluble command
Of words abusive, and the ready way
I pelt my friends and foes with verbal mud,
Will with one voice proceed to summon me
To lead their party to fresh victories,
E’en though it may be o’er Lord Salisbury’s corse.
The London Figaro. August 21, 1886.
The Infant Prodigy.
My name is Balfour! On the Irish ills
My uncle feeds his flock, a frugal swain
Whose only care is to enforce the law,
And keep myself, his nevvy, in the swim,
And so, relinquishing a placid post—
That is, the Scottish Secretaryship—
I have been promptly thrust into the gap
Which the involuntary exodus
Of poor Sir Michael E. Hicks-Beach has made.
Now must I urge a valiant attempt
To show my mettle, and, in constant fray
With Ireland’s Home Rule representatives,
Or Ireland’s agitating multitudes,
To justify my elevated state.
Wherefore an’ these, the enemies of law,
Oppose the mandates of our Government,
It shall be mine to head the countercharge,
And bring them to their knees. My trusty sword,
Albeit ’tis of wood, can deal hard knocks;
And slashing, prodding, whacking right and left—
As thus—and thus—unless I greatly err,
I’ll pretty soon assert supremacy,
And make the varlets mind their P’s. and Q’s.
Fun. March 16, 1887.
GO, LOVELY ROSE.
(Edmund Waller, born 1603, died 1687.)
Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had’st thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,—
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;
And teach the maid
That goodness Time’s rude hand defies,—
That virtue lives when beauty dies.]
The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, and is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it.
The Wedding Cake.
Verses to accompany the wedding cake prepared by Messrs. Purcell of Cornhill, for the Emperor Napoleon’s marriage.
Go, wedding-cake!
And tell the Emperor, from me
That no mistake,
When I resemble him to thee,
About his work and state can be.
Tell him that’s rich,
And deck’d in jewels, stars, and rings,
That dainties which
Are faced by plaster tinsellings
Are not the wholesomest of things.
Too large a slice
Of plums and almonds thickly press’d,
Though passing nice,
And swallow’d, at the time, with zest,
Is apt to lie upon the chest.
A fair outside,
Of lily whiteness, ne’er so much,
May chance to hide
A mass of black material, such
As dainty palates fear to touch.
Then go, that he
May learn the fate of humbugs past,
Like him, and thee,—
To be, their transient splendours past—
Pitch’d into, and cut up at last.
Diogenes. February 1853.
The Æsthete to the Rose.
(By Wildgoose, after Waller.)
Go, flaunting Rose!
Tell her that wastes her love on thee,
That she nought knows
Of the new Cult, Intensity,
If sweet and fair to her you be.
Tell her that’s young,
Or who in health and bloom takes pride,
That bards have sung
Of a new youth—at whose sad side
Sickness and pallor aye abide.
Small is the worth
Of Beauty in crude charms attired.
She must shun mirth,
Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,
And wear no flush by hope inspired.
Then die, that she
May learn that Death is passing fair:
May read in thee
How little of Art’s praise they share,
Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!
Punch. October 1, 1881.
The Message of the Rosebery.
Go, my Primrose,
Tell them the new Secretaree
Is one who knows
His mind, and hath not a weak knee,
How bland so’er he seem to be.
Tell them you’re young,
And in so high a post untried;
But having sprung
Into the saddle at one stride,
You’re going to sit down and ride.
Small is the worth
Of a “light hand” that soon gets tired;
Better stand forth
As the strong man so long desired,
Abroad respected, here admired.
In Granville we
The fate of weakness debonair
May clearly see;
Put down your foot, sit firm and square,
And keep us free from shirk and scare!
Punch. February 13, 1886.
WANTED—A GOVERNESS.
A governess wanted—well fitted to fill
The post of tuition with competent skill—
In a gentleman’s family highly genteel.
Superior attainments are quite indispensable,
With everything, too, that’s correct and ostensible;
Morals of pure unexceptionability;
Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility.
The pupils are five—ages, six to sixteen—
All as promising girls as ever were seen—
And besides (though ’tis scarcely worth while to put that in)
There is one little boy—but he only learns Latin.
The lady must teach all the several branches
Whereunto polite education now launches:
She’s expected to teach the French tongue like a native,
And be to her pupils of all its points dative;
Italian she must know au fond, nor needs banish
Whatever acquaintance she may have with Spanish;
Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German,
In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann.
The harp and piano—cela va sans dire,
With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier.
In drawing in pencil, in chalks, and the tinting
That’s called Oriental, she must not be stint in;
She must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet;
And if she knows gilding, she’ll not need to shelve it,
Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades,
The Polish mazurka, and best gallopades;
Arithmetic, history, joined with chronology,
Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology,
Grammar, and satin-stitch, netting, geography,
Astronomy, use of the globes, cosmography,
’Twas also as well could she be calisthenical,
That her charges’ young limbs may be pliant to any call.
Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition,
Must be superintended without intermission:
At home, she must all habits check that disparage,
And when they go out must attend to their carriage.
Her faith must be orthodox—temper most pliable—
Health good—and reference quite undeniable.
These are the principal matters. Au reste,
Address, Bury Street, Mrs. General Peste.
As the salary’s moderate, none need apply
Who more on that point than on comfort rely.
Anonymous.
Wanted—An Alderman.
Wanted, an Alderman, fitted to fill
His post in the City with competent skill.
If no judge of justice, a good judge of wine,
Who knows how to ride and who knows how to dine.
When needed to Time he must be in “the nick,”
And if he makes watches must not go on tick;
Who three times on Sundays to church does repair,
Who knows how to feather the nest of a mayor.
Who well the importance of beakdom can feel,
For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel.
Wanted—an Alderman!
He must not at Greenwich, with Radicals shout,
Nor yet to a beanfeast with workmen go out;
And if at a tavern to dine he doth please,
Must not make a bet on the height of the cheese.
He must vow Temple Bar still shall weather the storm,
And not say a word about City reform,
He must swear vested rights are of all rights the best,
And not a chain cable wear outside his vest.
He his mind must not speak, whatsoe’er he may feel,
For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel.
Wanted—an Alderman!
Wanted—an Alderman—portly and fat,
To wear on occasions a gown and cocked hat;
To look sharply after the City police,
And fine costermongers his five pounds apiece.
To let out on bail each embezzling clerk,
And lock up young swells who are “out for a lark;”
To vote for the Tories or not vote at all,
To ride in his carriage, and cabs never call;
In short, “fit and proper” to be and to feel,
For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel!
Wanted—an Alderman!
Funny Folks.
Wanted an Editor.
Wanted an Editor, burly and big,
Clever, and willing, and hearty.
Neither a Radical, Tory, nor Whig,
But able to please every party.
He must not be squeamish, nor over nice
In tracing out jobs, root and fibre
He must loathe every sinner, lash every vice
But never offend a subscriber.
(This last is a process requiring great care,
Since vices are plenty, subscribers more rare.)
Learned, yet practical, he must unite
Natural talent with science,
These, with that which can alone keep him right,
Judgment, well worthy reliance.
He must always be able to crack a good joke,
And ready to tell a new story
Know all the authorities, Camden and Coke,
The Stud Book and Sir Peter Laurie.
(He may have what he likes in his head; but beware!
The latter authority don’t like long hair!)
He must know all the turns of the Turf and the tricks
Which folks would involve in such mystery;
If a horse should be poisoned, be able to fix
On the rogue—and relate the whole histr’y.
He must watch every dodge and deceit in the odds,
By discerning ’twixt better and hedger;
He must mark all the winks, and the nudges and nods,
And Prophesy Derby and Leger.
(This last is a matter of lucky fortuity,
Which when you are “out” merely wants ingenuity.)
And now as to terms, we already have shown
How pleasant this Editor’s place is—
He must hunt, and of course keep a horse of his own
Shoot—fish—and attend all the races;—
Thus his work is so light, yet so pleasant withal,
From the honest fame he must inherit,
The Proprietors don’t wish to pay him at all,
But let his reward be—his merit.
(Another announcement will appear by and by
Directing all candidates where to apply.)
From Songs of the Press, and other Poems relating to Printing, collected by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son & Co. 1845.
