AUSTIN DOBSON.
The proverb that “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” is somewhat the worse for wear, and perhaps Mr. Austin Dobson was not altogether inclined to agree with it when he heard that the Puzzle Editor of Truth had published the following notification:
“Truth” Puzzle, No. 472.
Thanks to the efforts of Messrs. Austin Dobson, Andrew Lang, and others, Triolets, Ballades, Rondeaux, Vilanelles, and other metrical devices used by Villon and other French poets of the past, have been freely adapted to English verse-writing, and I am assured that I shall be setting numerous competitors an agreeable task in asking them to write a rhyming composition on one of the revived French models now so fashionable.
The Prize of Two Guineas will accordingly be given for the Best Ballade, written on any Social Subject, in accordance with the following rules:—The Ballade in its normal type, consists of three stanzas of eight lines each, followed by a verse of four lines, which is called the “envoy”—or of three verses of ten lines, with an “envoy” of five lines, each of the stanzas and the “envoy” closing with the same line, known as the “refrain.” In this instance, a Ballade of the former length is asked for—viz.; one with three eight-lined stanzas and a four-lined “envoy.” But it will be, perhaps, a better guide for competitors if I print here a Ballade as a model on which they are to form the ones they compose. Here, then, is a well-known Ballade by Mr. Austin Dobson, which must be followed so far as the arrangement of rhymes goes. The metre, though, of the Ballade often varies, and competitors are not bound to use the same metre as that employed in the subjoined specimen.
ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.
Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou!
Picture above, if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,
This was the Pompadour’s fan.
See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through.
Courtiers as butterflies bright.
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue—
This was the Pompadour’s fan.
Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez vous!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great Ministers do;
Things that, may be, overthrew
Those in whose brain they began,
Here was the sign and the cue,
This was the Pompadour’s fan!
Envoy.
Where are the secrets it knew
Weavings of plot and of plan?
But where is the Pompadour too?—
This was the Pompadour’s fan?
Austin Dobson.
A very large number of replies were sent in, and examples were printed in Truth, February 23, and March 8, 1888. Although they cannot be called true parodies, yet two of the Ballades are so interesting as imitations that they are inserted. The first being that to which the prize was awarded, written by Mr. J. C. Woods, of Swansea, and the second written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, of Eastbourne.
A Ballade of the Grosvenor Gallery.
Art, fled from earth, Sir Coutts and Co.
Lured back to hold her state benign,
With all the newest masters know
Of magic colour, nude design,
Set in soft shade or mellow shine
Of dexterous curtain, clouded pane,
And tricked men so to deem, in fine,
Restored her grand Saturnian reign.
Thus passed ten grey-green years, when, lo!
What gurgling as from flasks of wine;
What whirl of revellers to and fro;
What lust of eight per cent., or nine,
Or ninety, broke her dream divine,
Her reverie of æsthetic pain.
Musing—can any care of mine
Restore the grand Saturnian reign?
Then said she; “Shall they flout me so?
Shall mortals in my presence dine,
Nor heed, for molluscs and clicquot,
The masterpieces on the line?
Forth from the temple, Philistine!
Fling out the banner—Art, not gain!
Carr, Hallé, and Burne-Jones combine;
Restore my grand Saturnian reign!”
Envoy.
Priest of the desecrated shrine,
Which drum and rout and dance profane,
Drive hence the Bacchant bands malign;
Restore the grand Saturnian reign!
Alltiago (J. C. Woods.)
A Ballade of Five o’clock Tea.
Served in most delicate ware,
Dresden or Sévres—where you spy
Dainty devices and rare,
Hues that enrapture the eye:
Hands that are shapely and white,
Pour out the fragrant Bohea,
Beauty presides at this rite—
This is your Five O’clock Tea.
Perched in the midst of the fair,
Masher resplendent, yet shy,
Awkwardly shifts in his chair,
He will gain courage by and bye.
Beaux so antique, most polite,
Prattle in garrulous glee,
Here in their element quite—
This is your Five O’clock Tea.
Characters melt into air;
Good reputations must die;
Think you “My Lady” will spare
For all that you murmur, “Oh Fy?”
Colloquies vapid and trite,
Slanderous tongues running free,
Small emanations of spite—
This is your Five O’clock Tea.
Envoy.
Sugar and cream can excite
Envy and malice, we see;
Satirists cry with delight—
“This is your Five O’clock Tea!”
Orchis (F. B. Doveton).
——:o:——
Ballade of Pôt-Pourri.
Oriental, and fragile, and old
Is the pôt-pourri bowl you see there;
Dreamy odours—romances untold
It confides to this latter-day air.
Ghosts of laughter, of love, and despair,
Dim strains of a quaint minuet
Bnd a gallant’s low words to his fair—
“Our Lady of Roses—Coquette!”
* * * * *
Premier Pas.
Truth. March 8, 1888.
Of the other examples that were printed it must suffice to mention the titles:—
Ballade of Five o’clock Tea—(Five thus).
Ballade of the Amateur Reciter.
Ballade of Leap year—(Two thus).
Fashion’s Fig-leaf.
Our Whistling Drawing-room Man.
Ballade of an Axe—(The G. O. M.’s Axe).
On the modern method of shaking hands.
Our grand Fancy Fair.
Pat the Patriot.
Ballade of a Primal cigar.
Ballade of a Programme.
A “Blue” Ballade—(“These are the ’Varsity Crews”).
Ballade of Pôt-Pourri.
Ballade for Diogenes.
A Ballade of Girls and Wedding.
Girls’ Gossip.
——:o:——
TU QUOQUE.
An Idyll in the Conservatory.
(Inserted with the Author’s permission.)
Nellie. If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,
If I were you!
Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would at least pretend I recollected,
If I were you!
Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish,
If I were you!
Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff of the best,—the mildest “honey dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!
Nellie. If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,
Even to write the “Cynical Review;”—
Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter.
If I were you!
Nellie. Really! You would? Why, Frank, you’re quite delightful,—
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
If I were you!
Frank. “It is the cause.” I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I’d spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!
Nellie. Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir;
Where shall it be? To China—or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,
If I were you!
Frank. No—I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do—
Ah, you are strong,—I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!
Nellie. One does not like one’s feelings to be doubted,—
Frank. One does not like one’s friends to misconstrue,—
Nellie. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?
Frank. I should admit that I was piqué, too.
Nellie. Ask me to dance. I’d say no more about it,
If I were you!
(Waltz. Exeunt.)
Austin Dobson.
An Idyll of the Lobby.
Liberal Seceder.
If I were you, when friends electioneering
Wish to preserve consistency of view,
I would forewarn when Hawarden gales are veering—
If I were you.
Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone.
If I were you, when issuing addresses,
I would observe the simple rule of two
Meanings in a sentence—tip for safe successes—
If I were you.
L. S. If I were you, when older friends reveal a
Freedom in spending time and money too,
I would not rush to dance a jig with Healy—
If I were you.
W. E. G. If I were you, who swear you cannot suffer
Plutocrat and peer, landlord and Jew,
I would not tilt against the people like a duffer—
If I were you.
L. S. I would not go at such an awful rate, or
Friends may forsake you—thing they’re apt to do—
W. E. G. I would remember the fate of such a traitor—
If I were you.
L. S. Surely you never—call a party meeting;
Try to arrange that each may get his due;
Keep the dear Irish; I’d avoid a beating,
If I were you.
W. E. G. No, I depart, I must consult the people,
Chamberlain’s coming—Randolph with him too—
I wouldn’t pray ’neath Chamberlainic steeple,
If I were you.
L. S. Go, if you will; my faith is not so flabby;
Cowards in midlands happily are few.
Stay! I would take that little trick from Labby—
If I were you.
W. E. G. Done! I remain—Brummagem to pound well.
Leave it till autumn—now, of course, you’re true?
Wouldn’t smash the party (surely doesn’t sound well)
If I were you.
L. S. One does not like that Caucus-pressure leaning.
W. E. G. Yes, I was sorry—had to use the screw.
L. S. If I confess that I mistook your meaning—
W. E. G. I will allow ’twas fair to misconstrue.
Late L. S. Ask me to vote. You’ve got to put the green in,
And cannon off the blue: I’d chalk my cue
If I were you.
K.
The Pall Mall Budget. June 3, 1886.
——:o:——
The Prodigals.
(After Mr. Austin Dobson’s famous ballade.)
[Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power,
M.P., and 223 who followed them.]
Ministers!—you, most serious,
Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,—
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of posts or fees;
Worry us not with objections pray!
Lo,—for the Speaker’s wig we seize
Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.
Scots most prudent, penurious!
Irishmen busy as humblebees!
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,—
Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
For Sir Joseph’s sake, and his owner’s, please!
(Solomon raced like fun, they say)
Lo for we beg on our bended knees,—
Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.
Campbell-Asheton be generous!
(But they voted such things were not the cheese)
Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!
(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)
And shortly they got both of help and ease
For a mad majority crowded to say—
“Debate we’ve drunk to the dregs and lees;
Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.”
Envoi.
Prince, most just was the motion of these
And many were seen by the dusty way,
Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze
Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.
W. E. Henley.
