"And we, howsoever we hated,
And feared, or made love, or believed,
For all the opinions we stated,
The woes and the wars we achieved,
We too shall lie idle together—
In very uncritical case;
And no one will win—but the Ether
That fills circumambient space."
Quaintly humorous ideas are spread among her score of contributions—and tenderness, too; but it is as a humorous versifier of refinement and originality that she has appealed strongly to Punch readers, although, as she herself says, "it seemed very wonderful to be in Punch, which I had venerated from my youth up."
The single contribution of Mr. Brandon Thomas has a rather interesting story. It was a patriotic song of a stirring sort, called "Britannia's Volunteers," composed at a time—in 1885—when patriotism was thick in the air. It was put to music by Mr. Alfred Allen; and two days after it was written, Mr. Thomas was at the house of Mr. Woodall, M.P., and there he sang the song. An old gentleman, who covered his mouth and chin with his hand, sat in the front row, and levelled a piercing look at the singer, listening with intense interest. During the second verse Mr. Thomas, who was much affected by the gazer, sang straight at the aged owner of the wonderful eyes:—
"They were no conscripts Marlbro' led,
But freemen—Volunteers,
A free-born race from fathers bred
That won for us Poictiers;
No conscript names were on the roll—
All heroes dead and gone—
That blazoned bright on Victory's scroll
The name of Wellington:
And Inkerman's immortal height
Will tell for many a day
How sternly sons of Freedom fight,
Let odds be what they may.
Thus Liberty scorns vain alarms,
And answers back with cheers!
No conscript legions flogged to arms
Have yet flogged Volunteers!"
Then the masking hand was removed, and the face of Mr. Gladstone was revealed. The sight of him seemed to stimulate the singer, an enthusiastic Conservative, and as he gave forth the last verse, with singular effect, his eyes so filled with tears that he could hardly see the piano keys:—
"They think to crush old England,
And take her mighty place!
When they wipe out from ev'ry land
The language of her race;
When Justice meekly sheathes her sword,
And Freemen ne'er make laws;
When Tyrants rule by force and fraud
And dead is Freedom's cause;
When Liberty shall see her home
Low levelled with the turf,
And watch each son in turn become
A tyrant-driven serf;
When Freedom's sacred name's forgot
Within the hearts of men—
They'll crush us to the earth, but not—
By Heav'n!—but not till then!"
When it was finished, Mr. Gladstone applauded vigorously, as though unconscious of the pointed way in which the verse had been sung at him, or respectful perhaps of the sincerity of the singer; and Mr. Burnand, who was present, and had been watching the scene with much amusement, enquired, aside, "Who wrote that?" "I did." "When?" "Two days ago." "Have you sent it anywhere?" "No." "Then let me have it." So with the metre slightly changed it appeared in Punch on May 23rd.
Some of the most delicate and humorous vers de société of the day have come from Mr. Warham St. Leger, and some of the best have appeared since the end of 1886 in the pages of Punch. "The Lay of the Lost Critic" was the first of his contributions, and it was sent in, not by its author, but by a friend who had read it. So well was it thought of that Mr. St. Leger was invited at once to become a contributor, and accordingly he sent in many poems during the four years that followed, together with odd papers in the form of letters, especially on pseudo-scientific lines. All these poems were collected into a volume entitled "Ballads from Punch" in which perhaps the most striking are that "To my Hairdresser," and the irresistibly comic satire on modern ordnance, in which during a naval battle, after all the fighting has been done by ramming, "the last stern order of the brave" is whispered through the ship: "We're going to fire the guns!!" This desperate course is taken and described—the air grows thick and dark with broken breech, flying tube, and disrupted armour-plate, and when all was over—
"... They punished the seven survivors
For wasting the ordnance stores."
