MATTHEW ARNOLD.
In the second volume of this collection (p. 236) will be found several parodies of Matthew Arnold’s Sonnet to George Cruikshank, and The Forsaken Merman, which had been printed some years before. Yet a writer in the Saturday Review, in a notice of Arnold’s poems, made the following confession of his ignorance:—
“Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, and most of our lesser poets besides, have been parodied again and again; we do not remember to have seen a single parody of Mr. Arnold.… There is a subtlety about the structure of his verse and the harmony of his lines which defies imitation.”
The Superfine Review makes such claims to omniscience that it is refreshing to find a writer on its staff not only stating his belief that Arnold had not been parodied, but that his poetry defied parody, and this soon after the reading world had been delighted with the following successful burlesque, in Mr. W. H. Mallock’s The New Republic, published in London by Messrs. Chatto & Windus:—
“Softly the evening descends,
Violet and soft. The sea
Adds to the silence, below
Pleasant and cool on the beach
Breaking; yes, and a breeze
Calm as the twilight itself
Furtively sighs through the dusk,
Listlessly lifting my hair,
Fanning my thought-wearied brow,
Thus I stand in the gloom
Watching the moon-track begin
Quivering to die like a dream
Over the far sea-line
To the unknown region beyond.
“So for ages hath man
Gazed on the ocean of time
From the shores of his birth, and, turning
His eyes from the quays, the thronged
Marts, the noise and the din
To the far horizon, hath dreamed
Of a timeless country beyond.
Vainly: for how should he pass,
Being on foot, o’er the wet
Ways of the unplumbed waves?
How, without ship, should he pass
Over the shipless sea
To the timeless country beyond?
“Ah, but once—once long ago,
There came a ship white-sailed
From the country beyond, with bright
Oarsmen, and men that sang;
Came to Humanity’s coasts,
Called to the men on the shore,
Joyously touched at the port.
Then did time-weary man
Climb the bulwarks, the deck
Eagerly crowding. Anon
With jubilant voices raised,
And singing, “When Israel came
Out of Egypt,” and whatso else
In the psalm is written, they passed
Out of the ken of the land,
Over the far sea-line,
To the unknown region beyond.
“Where are they now, then—they
That were borne out of sight by the ship—
Our brothers, of times gone by?
Why have they left us here,
Solemn, dejected, alone,
Gathered in groups on the shore?
Why? For we, too, have gazed
O’er the waste of waters, and watched
For a sail as keenly as they.
Ah, wretched men that we are!
On our haggard faces and brows
Aching, a wild breeze fawns
Full of the scents of the sea,
Redolent of regions beyond.
Why, then, tarries the ship?
When will her white sail rise
Like a star on the sea-line? When?
“When?—And the answer comes
From the sailless face of the sea,
“Ah, vain watchers, what boots
The calm of the evening?
Have ye not watched through the day
Turbulent waves, the expanse
Endless, shaken with storm,
And ask ye where is the ship?
Deeper than plummet can dive
She is bedded deep in the ooze,
And over her tall mast floats
The purple plain of the calm.”
“Yes—and never a ship
Since this is sunken, will come
Ever again o’er the waves—
Nay, not even the craft with the fierce
Steersman, him of the marsh
Livid, with wheels of flame
Circling his eyes, to smite
The lingering soul with his oar.
—Not that even. But we
Drop where we stand one by one
On the shingles and sands of time,
And cover in taciturn gloom,
With only perhaps some tear,
Each for his brother the hushed
Heart and the limitless dreams
With a little gift of sand.”
Christmas Thoughts.
By a Modern Thinker.
’Tis Christmas-eve; a low wind breathes:
The windows of the church are bright,
And girls with happy eyes to-night
Are hanging up the Christmas wreaths;
And village voices by and by
Will reach my windows through the trees
With wild sweet music: “Praise on high
To God, on earth good will and peace!”
O happy girls that hang the wreaths
O village fiddlers, happy ye!
Christmas to you still truly breathes
Good-will and peace, but not to me!
Yes, gladness is your simple rôle
Ye foolish girls, ye labouring poor;
But ill would joy beseem my soul,
To sigh, my past is, and endure.
For as once Rousseau stood, I stand
Apart, made picturesque by grief
One of a small world-weary band,
The orphans of a dead belief
Through graveyards lone we love to stray,
And sadly the sad tombs explore,
And contradict the texts which say
That we shall rise again once more.
Our faith is dead, of course, and grief
Fills up its room; and Christmas pie
And turkey cannot bring relief
To such as Obermann and I.
Ah, Obermann! and might I pass
This English Christmastide with thee
Far by those inland waves whose glass
Brightens and breaks by Meillerie!
Or else amidst the loveliest dells
Alp-crags with pine we’d mix our sighs;
Mourn at the sound of Christmas bells
Sniff at the smells of Christmas pies;
But thou art dead, and long dank grass
And wet mould cools thy tired hot brain;
Thou art lain down and now, alas,
Of course you won’t get up again
Yet Obermann, ’tis better so;
For if, sad slumberer, after all
We were to re-arise you know
’Twould make us feel so very small.
Best bear our grief this manlier way,
And make our grief be balm to grief
For if in faith sweet comfort lay
There lurks sweet pride in unbelief.
Wherefore remembering this once more,
Unto my childhood’s church I’ll go
And bow my head to that low door
I passed through standing long ago.
I’ll sit in the accustomed place
And make, whilst all the unlearned stare
A mournful atheistic face
At their vain noise of unheard prayer.
Then whilst they hymn the heavenly birth
And angel-voices from the skies,
My thoughts shall go where Weimar’s earth
For ever darkens Goethe’s eyes;
Till sweet girls’ glances from their books
Shall steal towards me as they sigh,
“How intellectual he looks
And yet how wistful! and his eye
Has that vain look of baffled prayer.”
And then when church is o’er, I’ll run
Comb misery into my hair,
And go and get my portrait done!
W. H. M.
This parody of Matthew Arnold appeared in The World some years ago, so that the Saturday Reviewer before alluded to must either have been Rip Van Winkle, or very fresh from school.
——:o:——
Guido and Lita.
For the son of a Duke, and the husband of a Princess, to write and to publish a poem was a pretty piece of condescension, which was not properly appreciated. But, alas! we live in a busy age, and two thousand lines of verse have a deterring effect on the average modern mind. To overcome the difficulty, Funny Folks condensed the Marquis of Lorne’s dismal poem Guido and Lita into half a dozen stanzas, faithfully preserving the pith of the original.
Guido on the Riviera
Talketh verse unto his dad,
Brusquely says the father, “Bother!
Where is shelter to be had?”
For a storm is fiercely rising,
And the old man hath the blues—
Here a fisherman’s small cottage
Sentimental Guido views.
Guido there beheld his Lita
Frying fish—she turned to grin;
Guido, fired with sudden passion,
“Chucked” her underneath the chin,
Saying, “Sweetest maid, I love thee!”
Said the maiden unto him,
“Get out with your stuff and nonsense!
See, your parent’s looking grim.”
Soon the Paynim host came fiercely,
Slaughtering with fire and sword;
Aid was sought from Guido’s father,
But that crusty knight was bored.
Off they carried beauteous Lita—
Guido could not bring relief;
Sirad, Saracenic leader,
Made her of his Harem chief.
There a victim of that Paynim
A goblet of “cold pizen” brings.
“When the Saracenic chieftain
At the banquet drinks and sings,”
Says this personage vindictive,
“Give this gruel, dear, to he—
It will cure him of his tantrums,
Straightway then arise and flee.”
Escaping thus, the dauntless Lita,
Emulating Joan of Arc,
Dons bright armour, sword, and buckler,
And in battle makes her mark.
This the “Elder Knight” perceiving
(Guido’s father), though a churl,
Said, “I never more will hinder
Guido’s penchant for the girl.”
Meanwhile, screwing up his courage,
Guido, maundering no more,
Has again put on his armour,
Plunged into the battle’s roar,
Deeds of daring without number,
Paynims driven from the walls,
Dying father, “Bless ye children!”
Tableau!—and the curtain falls.
Funny Folks, November 27, 1875.
——:o:——
NUTSHELL NOVELS.
Vol. I.
A winning wile,
A sunny smile,
A feather;
A tiny walk,
A pleasant talk,
Together!
Vol. II.
A little doubt,
A playful pout.
Capricious;
A merry miss,
A stolen kiss,
Delicious!
Vol. III.
You ask mamma,
Consult papa,
With pleasure!
And both repent
This rash event
At leisure!
Marriage a la Mode.
A hat, a cane,
A nobby beau!
A narrow lane,
A whisper low.
A smile, a bow,
A little flirt!
An ardent vow—
That’s cheap as dirt!
A hand to squeeze,
A girl to kiss
Quite at one’s ease
Must needs be bliss.
A ring, a date,
A honeymoon,
To find too late
It was too soon!
One Sleigh Ride.
A sleigh—
A day
Of glorious weather;
A girl—
A whirl
Of man and maid together.
A freeze—
A squeeze—
A touching of cold noses;
A crash—
A blush—
And cheeks as red as roses.
A yearn—
A turn,
And homeward they go flying;
A sigh—
Good-bye,
And then some more good by’ing.
* * * * *
A span—
A man
The livery stable trusted;
A youth,
In truth,
Demented, quite, and busted.
No Doubt of It.
Carpets rise,
Dust flies,
Confusion reigns supreme;
Mouth dries,
Aching eyes,
Almost makes me scream.
Floors wet,
House upset,
I think you catch my meaning.
If not yet,
Soon I bet
You’ll see it is house-cleaning.
G. L. Harrison.
The four following examples originally appeared in Truth, February, 3, 1887, together with many others of a less amusing character:—
“Hansom quick!
Waterloo.
First-class tick-
ets for two.”
Wretched train;
Bray as last!
Will it rain?
Sky o’ercast.
Sudden shock!
Boat upset!
Brand new frock
Soaking wet.
Back to town
Feeling small,
Parents frown,
That is all!
Charon.
The Old Maid.
Seventeen
Fairy Queen!
Rich and rare,
Golden hair!
Wilful maid
Youths upbraid:
Twenty-one,
Will have none!
Twenty-eight,
Getting late:
Rather vexed,
Unannexed!
Years advance,
Lost her chance;
Thirty-six,
Cross as sticks!
Schlemil.
Celandine,
Violet;
Shower and shine,
Baby Pet.
Sunny days,
Roses rare;
Woodland ways,
Maiden fair.
Changing leaves,
Busy feet;
Golden sheaves,
Mother sweet.
Angel cheer;
Hope grows bright,
Granny dear!
Delia.
Drinks.
Some like tea
Or cocoa;
Not for me—
Thank you, no!
B. and S.
After sup.?
Thank you, yes!
Finish up.
Sparkling “boy,”
If the best,
Bringeth joy,
Wit and jest.
But of the
Drinks that cheer
Give to me
Bitter beer!
H.M.D.
A COUNTRY QUARTER SESSION.
Three or four parsons, three or four squires,
Three or four lawyers, three or four liars;
Three or four parishes bringing appeals,
Three or four hands, and three or four seals;
Three or four bastards, three or four w——s,
Tag rag and bobtail three or four scores;
Three or four bulls, and three or four cows,
Three or four orders, three or four bows.
Three or four statutes not understood,
Three or four paupers paying for food;
Three or four roads that never were mended,
Three or four scolds, and the session is ended.
Anonymous.
Recipe for Lord Castlereagh’s Speeches.
Two or three facts without any foundation;
Two or three charges of party vexation;
Two or three metaphors warring on sense;
Two or three sentences ditto on tense;
Two or three knocks the table to hammer;
Two or three rants in defiance of grammar;
Two or three vows on economy’s plan;
Two or three hours ending but where you began;
Two or three novels in eulogium of tax;
Two or three hints about turning your backs;
Two or three boasts of venal majorities;
Two or three groans on dismal minorities;
Two or three cheers from two or three creatures;
Two or three fundaments, two or three features;
Two or three meanings which nobody reaches,
Will be certain to make one of Castlereagh’s speeches.
From The New Tory Guide. London, 1819.
A Receipt for Courtship.
Two or three dears, and two or three sweets;
Two or three balls, and two or three treats;
Two or three serenades, given as a lure;
Two or three oaths, how much they endure!
Two or three messages sent in one day;
Two or three times led out to the play;
Two or three soft speeches made by the way;
Two or three tickets for two or three times;
Two or three love-letters writ all in rhymes;
Two or three months keeping strict to these rules
Can never fail making a couple of fools.
A Stock Exchange Ballad.
The Grand Promotion Army.
I am Colonel North of the Horse Marines,
I began promoting when in my teens,
And I rather think I’m behind the scenes
In the Grand Promotion Army.
’Tis said to the early bird is due
The worm, and I’ve collared of worms a few;
For I came from Leeds, and “I’m Yorkshire too,”
In the Grand Promotion Army.
With Chili for long I cast my lot,
And made some money in that far spot;
And Chilies are strong and I make it hot
For the Grand Promotion Army.
The City imagination fails
To realise how the Nitrate Rails
Were boomed so high; but we tell no tales
In the Grand Promotion Army.
Two hundred and eighty from fourteen!
Why, what could a rise so tremendous mean?
’Twas simply that I was upon the scene
With the Grand Promotion Army.
What great financial soul confines
Itself to a pitiful few designs?
There’s a smaller crop of Nitrate lines
For the Grand Promotion Army.
So we run them up, and the rig succeeds,
And if some day there’s somebody bleeds,
You bet it isn’t the tyke from Leeds,
Of the Grand Promotion Army.
Of Tarapaca I might be dumb;
For the waterworks have only come
To a trumpery thirty premium
For the Grand Promotion Army.
In promoting schemes I still persist:
There are lines that pay, yet don’t exist.
Egad! I’m quite the philanthropist
Of the Grand Promotion Army.
As all my friends and admirers know,
I’ve mixed myself up with Whitley’s show,
That the organ-grinder’s tin might flow
To the Grand Promotion Army.
Although I am bald, with whiskers red,
There’s Ouless, R.A., who paints one, said
He thought I had a wonderful head
For the Grand Promotion Army.
Then vive le jeu! and the game for me
Is starting a merry companèe
And waltzing away with the £ s. d.
For the Grand Promotion Army.
For “some has brains and some has tin,”
As Orton remarked; and if you’d win,
Why, stick to the Colonel, and all stand in
With the Grand Promotion Army.
Owlet.
The Financial News, May 26, 1888.
For reasons which can be easily understood by those interested in public companies it has suited the Editor of The Financial News to cry down the ventures in which Mr. John Thomas North is interested. It is easy enough to sneer at him as the “Nitrate King,” and to laugh at his Volunteer Colonelcy, but we do not hear that the Editor of The Financial News is either so successful in business, or so hospitable in private life, as “Colonel North of the Horse Marines.”
Lines on a Dead Dog,
Seen floating in the Canal.
(Not by A. C. Swinburne.)
In the stir and the tumult of nations,
’Mid the wrestlings of right and of power,
It is good to lay hold upon Patience
And sit by her side for an hour;
Apart from the world and her wonders,
In a garden of poppies to wait,
And list to the tremulous thunders
Of the chariot of Fate.
O carcase not fragrant but fetid!
O wave whither all things are shot!
O dogs not in honour, but treated
As of brutes the most rotten that rot!
O moment not gladsome but gloomy,
When the threads of our Fates intertwined;
O sepulchre, spacious and roomy
For thee and thy kind!
Thou wert fair ere the doleful disaster,
Firm thy muscles, thy bones featly set,
And they moved at the voice of thy master
Though obedience were tinged with regret.
What moved him, old dog, to thy slaughter,
To cast to the pike and the eel?
When o’er thy bright form closed the water
No remorse did he feel?
Dost thou dream in the night of existence
’Mong the things that have been and but seem,
Of thy passionate pulseful resistance
To the cad that consigned to the stream?
Dost thou dream, when of terriers the gamest
Thou didst leap from the leash to be freed,
And the blood of the rats thou o’ercamest
Besprinkled the mead?
By the maidens who love us and flatter,
By the maidens who flout us and jeer,
By the friends who but bore with their chatter,
By the others whose chatting can cheer,
By the tutors who woefully work us,
By the tutors who don’t in the least,
We adjure thee, respond out of Orcus,
Unfortunate beast.
The desire of an aimless flirtation
Is more than the wisdom of years,
Though we’ve tasted its utter nugation,
Light laughter and fugitive fears.
For the lords of terrestrial treasures
Afflict us and rack us with pains,
And we fly to the palace of pleasures
Forgetting their chains.
And we smile pressing hands in the dances,
And we feign what we give not nor take,
And indulge in the gleaming of glances
Though the heart is as cold as a snake.
As lovers, though loving not truly,
We are filled with the fire of the eyes
And with langours and laughs that unduly
Depress and surprise.
We are tender and warm in the twilight,
But the day finds us tuneless and old;
Till equally low light and high light
Have faded from field and from fold.
For the world hath in humbug abounded
Since the fiends bade the game to begin,
And the motto hath ever resounded,—
‘Let those laugh that win.’
Like Lady Macbeth or like Pontius,
We wash us, of these to be rid;
For sadly the soul is subconscious
That the fitness of things doth forbid.
But the water of Lethè were powerless
To cleanse from the rust of the years,
And the heavens are sultry and showerless
And the eye hath no tears.
Shall we e’er know what Atè intended,
Libitina and Clotho to boot,
When on Sunday three ’varsity men did
Encounter the corse, of the brute?
Oh why, as they walked in their wisdom,
And cramped with conventional togs,
Were they brought into contact with his doom,
Defunctest of dogs?
From the sides of the dogs of the Dorians
Fur has fallen, but fur is on thine?
Ah, where shall we find the historians,
In their pages to give thee a line?
Where are they—Macaulay or Lingard—
Thy tale and thy troubles to write?
Would they touch and cry “faugh!” as they fingered?
Would they turn from the sight?
Thou shalt change, and the rot and the canker
Make mock of thy beauty and bloom;
Thou shalt swell with thy gases, and ranker
And ranker shall grow thy perfume.
We shall fade, and diminish, and perish,
As the Hours and the Fates shall decree,
But till then in our bosoms we cherish
Remembrance of thee!
Eremus.
From College Rhymes. Volume XI. 1870.
The following are extracts from an imitation of A. C. Swinburne which appeared in The Century Magazine, February, 1883. As to any meaning to be attached to the lines each reader is perfectly at liberty to make what sense out of them he can.
The Song of Sir Palamede.
“Came Palamede, upon a secret quest,
To high Tintagel, and abode as guest
In likeness of a minstrel with the king.
Nor was there man could sound so sweet a string.
* * * * *
To that strange minstrel strongly swore King Mark,
By all that makes a knight’s faith firm and strong,
That he, as guerdon of his harp and song,
Might crave and have his liking.
* * * ‘O King, I crave
No gift of man that king may give to slave,
But this thy crowned queen only, this thy wife.’”
Swinburne. Tristram of Lyonesse.
With flow exhaustless of alliterate words,
And rhymes that mate in music glad as birds
That feel the spring’s sweet life among light leaves
That ardent breath of amorous May upheaves
And kindles fluctuant to an emerald fire
Bright as the imperious seas that all men’s souls desire:
With long strong swell of alexandrine lines,
And with passion of anapæsts, like winds in pines
That moan and mutter in great gusts suddenly,
With whirl of wild wet wings of storms set free:
In mirth of might and very joy to sing,
Uplifting voice untired, I sound one sole sweet string.
* * * * *
And many a theme I choose in wayfaring,
As one who passing plucks the sunflower
And ponders on her looks for love of her.
Yea, her flower-named whose fate was like a flower,
Being bright and brief and broken in an hour
And whirled of winds: and her whose awless hand
Held flickering flame to fawn against the brand,
Till Meleager splendid as the sun
Shrank to a star and set, and all her day was done:
And her who lent her slight white virgin light
For death to dim, that Athens’ mastering might
Above all seas should shine, supernal sphere of night:
And her who kept the high knight amorous
Pent in her hollow hill-house marvellous,
And flame of flowers brake beauteous where she trod,
Her who hath wine and honey and a rod,
And crowneth man a king and maketh man a slave,
Her who rose rose-red from the rose-white wave:
And her who ruled with sword-blue blade-bright eyes
The helpless hearts of men in queenly wise,
And all were bowed and broken as on a wheel,
Yet no soft love-cloud long could sheath that stainless steel,
Her tiger-hearted and false and glorious,
With flower-sweet throat and float of warm hair odorous:
These sing I, and whatso else that burns and glows,
And is as fire and foam-flowers and the rose
And sun and stars and wan warm moon and snows.
Who hath said that I have not made my song to shine
With such bright words as seal a song to be divine?
Who hath said that I have not sweetness thereon spread
As gold of peerless honey is poured on bread?
Who hath said that I make not all men’s brains to ring,
And swim with imminent madness while I sing,
And fall as feeble dykes before strong tides of spring?
And now as guerdon of my great song I claim
The swan-white pearl of singers, yea Queen Fame,
Who shall be wed no more to languid lips and tame,
But clasp me and kiss and call me by my name,
And be all my days about me as a flame,
Though sane vain lame tame cranes sans shame make game and blame!
Helen Gray Cone.
MR. SWINBURNE’S PROSE.
As a critic and a scholar Mr. Swinburne ranks among the first of the day, yet his style has its defects, as was clearly pointed out by a correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette in November 1886.
If one of Mr. Swinburne’s long and involved sentences is printed side by side with one selected from Mrs. Gamp’s repertoire, the comparison is not altogether to the advantage of the poet:
Mr. Swinburne.
We may even, and not unreasonably, suspect and fear that it must be through some defect or default in ourselves if we cannot feel, as they do, the force or charm of that which touches others, and these our betters as often as our equals, so nearly; if we cannot, for example—as I may regretfully confess that I never could—feel adequately, or in full, the bitter sweetness that so many thousands, and most notably among them all a better man by far and a far worthier judge than I, have tasted in these pages of Dickens which hold the story of Little Nell, a story in which all the elaborate accumulation of pathetic incident and interest, so tenderly and studiously built up, has never, to speak truth, given me one passing thrill—in the exquisitely fit and faithful phrase of a great living poet, “one sweet, possessive pang” of the tender delight and pity requickened well nigh to tears at every fresh perusal or chance recollection of that one simple passage in “Bleak House” which describes the baby household tended by the little sister, who leaves her lesser charges locked up while she goes charing; a page which I can imagine that many a man unused to the melting mood would not undertake to read out aloud without a break.—Note on Charlotte Brontë, pp. 64-65.
Now for Mrs. Gamp.
To think as I should see beneath this blessed ouse which well I know it Miss Pecksniff my sweet young lady to be a ouse as there is not a many like—and worse luck, and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin’ guardian Mrs. Chuffy; to think as I should see identically comin’ Mrs. Pinch—I take the liberty though almost unbeknown—and so assure you of it Sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever Mrs. Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’ your own, my dear good lady, and your good lady’s too Sir Mrs. Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as need’nt look through millstones Mrs. Todgers to find out what is wrote upon the wall behind: which no offence is meant ladies and gentlemen none being took I hope: to think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine took notice of among the packages down London Bridge in this promiscuous place is a surprise indeed!
Six of One and Half-a-dozen of the Other.
(Some little way after the late Mortimer Collins.)
Oh, Summer said to Winter,
“Earth lovers love me best;
For I flush the mead, and I fill the rill,
And the violet and the daffodil,
And the red, red rose o’er the world I spill;
And my dawns are cool, and my eves are chill;
And don’t I run up the doctor’s bill
For bronchitis and all the rest!”
But Winter said to Summer:
“Earth-lovers best love me:
For I now bring slop instead of snow,
(Which comes in June, or mostly so;)
And roses and noses at Christmas blow,
And the birds their nesting-time don’t know,
But lay in December—a pretty go!
And your azure skies, and your sunny glow
Are silly legends of long ago;
Whilst as to the Doctor’s Bills, oho!
We are equally good at them I trow.
Fact is, the difference ’twixt us two
Is the purest fiddle-de-dee!”
Punch. December 15, 1888.
Several humorous parodies written by the late Mr. Mortimer Collins have already appeared in this collection, but his lines to Chloe, with her supposed burlesque reply to them, deserve to be quoted:—
Ad Chloen M.A.
(Fresh from her Cambridge Examination.)
Lady, very fair are you,
And your eyes are very blue,
And your hose;
And your brow is like the snow,
And the various things you know,
Goodness knows.
And the rose-flush on your cheek,
And your Algebra and Greek
Perfect are:
And that loving lustrous eye
Recognises in the sky
Every Star.
You have pouting piquant lips,
You can doubtless an eclipse
Calculate;
But for your cerulean hue,
I had certainly from you
Met my fate.
If by some arrangement dual
I were Adams minced with Whewell,
Then some day
I, as wooer, perhaps might come,
To so sweet an Artium
Magistra.
Chloe. M.A.
Ad Amantem Suam.
Careless rhymer, it is true,
That my favourite colour’s blue:
But am I
To be made a victim, Sir;
If to puddings I prefer
Cambridge pie?
If with giddier girls I play
Croquet through the summer day
On the turf,
Then at night (’tis no great boon)
Let me study how the moon
Sways the turf.
Tennyson’s idyllic verse
Surely suits me none the worse
If I seek
Old Sicilian birds and bees—
Music of sweet Sophocles—
Golden Greek.
You have said my eyes are blue:
There may be a fairer hue,
Perhaps—and yet
It is surely not a sin
If I keep my Secrets in
Violet.
Mortimer Collins.
——:o:——
The following song was written by Mr. Collins in the days when George the Third was King. It was published, with music, by T. Broome, 15 Holborn Bars, London.
The Romans in England they once did sway,
And the Saxons they after them led the way,
And they tugg’d with the Danes ’till an Overthrow,
They both of them got by the Norman Bow,
Yet barring all Pother, the one and the other,
Were all of them Kings in their turn.
Little Willy the Conqueror long did reign,
But Billy his Son by an Arrow was slain:
And Harry the first was a scholar bright,
But Stephy was forc’d for his Crown to fight.
Yet barring &c.
Second Harry, Plantagenet’s name did bear,
And Cœur de Lion was his Son and Heir;
But Magna Charta we gain’d from John,
Which Harry the Third put his Seal upon.
Yet barring &c.
There was Teddy the first like a Tyger bold,
But the Second by Rebels was bought and sold
And Teddy the third was his Subject’s pride,
Tho his Grandson Dicky was popp’d aside.
Yet barring &c.
There was Harry the fourth a warlike wight,
And Harry the Fifth like a cock would fight
Tho Henry his son like a chick did pout,
When Teddy his Cousin had kick’d him out.
Yet barring &c.
Poor Teddy the fifth he was kill’d in bed,
By butchering Dick who was knock’d in head;
Then Harry the Seventh in fame grew big;
And Harry the Eighth was as fat as a Pig.
Yet barring &c.
With Teddy the Sixth we had tranquil days,
Tho’ Mary made Fire and Faggot blaze;
But good Queen Bess was a glorious Dame,
And bonnie King Jamie from Scotland came.
Yet barring &c.
Poor Charley the First was a Martyr made,
But Charley his Son was a comicle blade;
And Jemmy the Second when hotly spurr’d,
Run away, do ye see me, from Willy the Third.
Yet barring &c.
Queen Ann was victorious by Land and Sea,
And Georgey the First did with glory sway,
And as Georgey the Second has long been dead,
Long life to the Georgey we have in his stead,
And may his son’s sons to the end of the Chapter
All come to be Kings in their turn.
