WILLIAM MORRIS.
The author of “The Earthly Paradise” is much more than a mere poet, he is a thorough man of business, who works as an art designer, and lectures on the social improvement of the people. His poetry was thus amusingly criticised in London, 1877:—
Rondel.
Behold the works of W. Morris,
Epics, and here and there wall-papery,
Mild, mooney, melancholy vapoury.
A sort of Chaucer minus Horace.
Spun out like those of William Loris,
Who wrote of amourous red-tapery,
Behold the works of W. Morris,
Epics, and here and there wall-papery!
Long ladies, knights, and earles and choris-
ters in the most appropriate drapery,
Samite and silk and spotless napery,
Sunflowers and apple-blossoms and orris,
Behold the works of W. Morris!
There are not many good parodies of Mr. Morris, the following is one of the best, though where it first appeared, or by whom it was written, cannot be stated:—
In the cushioned Abbey pew
There is space for Me and You.
Twine the blossoms in my hair;
Never mind if people stare—
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one flirteth after death!
Hark—the organ shakes the pew!
Would it were for Me and You!
Yea, I would indeed it were!
Are they staring? Let them stare!
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one laugheth after death!
We will slumber in the pew—
I am weary, so are you,
And the cushions in repair!
Let the British public stare!
Never mind, for none knowèth
If one sleepeth after death!
All Sides of the River.
The Maidens.
We, with distaste, across the water wan,
The broadcloth of our modern lovers scan;
We each prefer a mediæval man.
The Youths.
We would not reach you, if we could dry-shod;
Not one of us would change, for even, his odd;
The Girl we like not of the Period.
The Mothers.
O daughters! make your markets while you can,
For bloom soon groweth like the water wan;
The early bird picks up the marrying man.
The Maidens.
Perhaps, O lovers, if we did our hair
A la Medea, and if our garments were
Draped classically, we should seem more fair.
The Youths.
By doing this ye would not us befool;
Medea! the idea makes our blood run cool,
Besides of classics we’d enough at school.
The Boys.
Come, I say, now, the girls can darn, and hem,
And cook a chop, and clean a meerschaum-stem;
Our sisters take, we are so tired of them.
The Maidens.
Perhaps if ruffs around our necks were tied,
Or you with idiotic stare we eyed
All angles, with our heads upon one side,
In short, the middle age style—
The Widows.
Suitors! stay,
We are less far from middle age than they.
The Youths.
Maidens, we then to you would make our way.
The Maidens,
Cross ye the water wan, then,—
Mr. Swinburne.
I demur
To “water wan,” it comes too often, sir;
Write next, as I should, rhyming, “wan water,”
The Maidens.
Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents,
Let us, too, have our mediæval bents,
Give us, for cricket-matches, tournaments.
The Widowers.
We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss
Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us,
In armour we should look ridiculous.
The Fathers.
Of money, tournaments would cost a heap:
Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap
But look to settlements before you leap.
The Youths.
O maidens! we in verse will call you queens,
And publicly extol your minds and miens,
Sending our poems to the magazines.
The Maidens.
Sith of Life’s arches bloom hath shortest span,
We will give up our mediæval man,
And meet you half way in the water wan.
The Editors.
Alas! the maidens have removed their ban,
We, vex’d with verses vile, e’en when they scan,
Shall very soon be as the water wan.
Anonymous.
Once a Week. February 20, 1869.
The Monthly Parodies.
AN APOLOGY.
After William Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.”
Of Love or War this is no hour to sing,
But I may ease the burden of your fears
(Lest you think death to mirth is happening),
And quote from wit of past and present years,
Till o’er these pages you forget your tears,
And smile again, as presently you say
Some idle jingle—or forgotten lay.
But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth
Thro’ comic journals, with a doleful sigh,
You feel unkindly unto all the earth,
And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy
These “weakly comics,” lingering like to die,
Remember, then, a little while, I pray,
The clever singers of a former day.
The pomp and power and grand majestic air
That marches thro’ their poems’ stately tread,
These idle verses may catch unaware,
And by burlesque call back remembered
Some rhymes “that living not can ne’er be dead,”
Though what is meant by that I cannot say—
But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.
Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme,
Now classified and placed in order straight,
Let it suffice it for the present time
That some be old, while some are born but late,
A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait,
Of those that in forgotten serials stay,
Or are, in passing journals, tossed away.
Folks say a wizard to a common King,
One April-tide such wondrous jest did show
That in a mirror men beheld each thing,
Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow,
While rosy face looked white as fallen snow,
Each visage altered in such comic way
That those who came to court, remain’d to play.
So with these many Parodies it is,
If you will read aright and carefully,
Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss
For lack of beauty in the themes to see;
Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we
But jest to make some little changeling play
Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay.
Gleeson White.
