“When lovely woman, lump of folly,
Would show the world her vainest trait,—
Would treat herself as child her dolly,
And warn each man of sense away,—
The surest method she’ll discover
To prompt a wink in every eye,
Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,
And spoil a scalp-skin, is—to dye!”

Examples like these are numerous, and may be found in the “Bon Gaultier Ballads” of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun; “The Ingoldsby Legends” of Barham; and the works of Lewis Carroll.

One of the “Bon Gaultier” travesties was on Macaulay, and was called “The Laureate’s Journey;” of which these two verses are part:

“‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ Thus, thus the cry began,
And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured in with eldritch din.
Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
‘Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I swear,
I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!’”

It is necessary, however, to confine our quotations within reasonable limits, and a few from the modern writers must suffice. The next is by Henry S. Leigh, one of the best living writers of burlesque verse.

Only Seven.[2]

(A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.)

“I marvelled why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I asked her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
‘I’ve got a pain inside.
I thought it would have sent me mad,
Last night about eleven.’
Said I, ‘What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?’
She answered, ‘Only seven!’
‘And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid,’ quoth I.
‘Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie.’
‘If that’s the case,’ I stammered out,
‘Of course you’ve had eleven.’
The maiden answered with a pout,
‘I ain’t had more nor seven!’
I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, ‘I’m bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling tarradiddles.
Now if you don’t reform,’ said I,
‘You’ll never go to heaven!’
But all in vain; each time I try,
The little idiot makes reply,
‘I ain’t had more nor seven!’
POSTSCRIPT.
To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I’d better call my song,
‘Lines from Ache-inside.’”

Mr. Swinburne’s alliterative style lays him particularly open to the skilful parodist, and he has been well imitated by Mr. Mortimer Collins, who, perhaps, is as well known as novelist as poet. The following example is entitled

“If.”