PARODIES

OF THE WORKS OF

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY

WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.

“I have here only made a Nosegay of culled Flowers, and have brought little more of my own than the band which ties them.”

VOLUME IV.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

BALLADS, SONGS, and ODES.

T. HAYNES BAYLY.   ALFRED BUNN.   THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HENRY CAREY.   LEWIS CARROLL.   ELIZA COOK.

CHARLES DIBDIN.   THOMAS DIBDIN.

W. S. GILBERT.   ROBERT HERRICK.

CHARLES MACKAY.   HON. MRS. NORTON.

LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

SWINBURNE’S ODES.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. BARRY CORNWALL.

J. H. PAYNE.   R. B. SHERIDAN.   JAMES THOMSON.

IRISH SONGS.   SCOTCH SONGS.   WELSH SONGS.

MISCELLANEOUS OLD ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS.

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.

1887.

CONTENTS

VOLUMES I., II., III., and IV. PARODIES.

Each Part may be purchased separately.

AN

INTRODUCTION

TO THE

Parodies of Popular Songs.

cting on the suggestion of numerous friends and subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my Collection to Parodies of Popular Songs and Ballads, which are probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly, Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Macaulay, Dante G. Rossetti, Robert Browning, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most amusing Parodies of the principal prose writers, Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R. James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical, and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language consisting of, or containing, Parodies and Imitations. A list of all the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with Authors’ names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the date and place of first performance, and much other information useful to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations. The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently interesting.

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not so frivolous as it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an interesting article which appeared in The Daily News (London), October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following paragraphs:—

“Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass of virtue if we are to denounce them as a ‘debasing of the moral currency.’ Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out of a parody of ‘Adam Bede.’ No legitimate fun can be got out of an honest parody of ‘Hamlet.’ Any fun that is got must be lugged in from without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general. But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ especially when the mannerisms of the actors are well hit off. To ridicule mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment. Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has not artistic qualities and a considerable share of success.”

“As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of ravens which follow Edgar Poe’s are the bird’s courtiers, not his enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not striking and original features. ‘Excelsior’ and the ‘Psalm of Life’ are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe’s parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any in the ‘Rejected Addresses.’ There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is not so certain. But authors are not so touchy as actors, as the ancients knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist in the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice.’ Greek parody probably reached its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a bard wishes to know his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself ‘Am I parodied, and how much?’ Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne’s ’Dolores’ is the parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them, dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr. William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.”

The classification of the Parodies of Songs presents some difficulties, but the following arrangement will be adopted as far as possible; Popular sentimental and amatory songs; National and Patriotic (English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch); Naval and Military; Sporting, Convivial, Social and Humorous Songs.

WALTER HAMILTON.

57, Gauden Road,
Clapham, London, S.W.
December, 1886.

——:o:——

SENT TO HEAVEN.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear.

*  *  *  *  *

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate;

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

This poem first appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, November, 1860, in 13 four-lined verses, over the initials A. A. P. (Adelaide Anne Proctor). It is now better known as The Message, and has been frequently parodied.

The Message.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

For I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to the west,

To our pretty suburban villa,

At least five miles from here,

And my dear affectionate darling

Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her,

So tender, and loving, and sweet,

I longed for a seraph to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I gave it the clerk in the morning,

And the post was only next door,

But the stupid, forgetful fellow

Didn’t post it till half-past four.

I cried in my passionate longing,

“Has the earth no angel friend

Who will carry my love the message

My heart desires to send!”

The message at last was sent her,

And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove,

The telegraph boy brought my warning—

“Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.”

Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

The Message.

(Of the Future.)

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

But I had some letters to finish,

And it couldn’t go out with the rest—

With the rest to the first post-office,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to call back the porter,

He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her:

Some friends I intended to treat,

And I longed for a hansom to bear it,

But there wasn’t a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide)

In the pocket which lay on my breast,

But when I went out for my luncheon

I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper,

And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er,

But his fingers were faint and weary

And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing,

“Have I got no bosom friend

Who will kindly deliver the message,

That I am so anxious to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

And I wondered all cats weren’t dead,

But I found ’twas the wind that was passing

Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings

Like a fiddle-bow over the strings,

And I thought I would send my message,

By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound it resembled my speech,

Farther than I could travel,

Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message

Had been telephoned down to my wife,

And my mind was no longer uneasy

For I knew she’d expect us at five.

Funny Folks. October 19, 1878.

I had a message to give her,

But she too early had fled;

I thought of it since we parted,

And she had gone home to bed

To rest in the highest attic,

Far up near the starry sky:

And she never could hear me calling—

Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her

(A line which I here repeat),

But I thought it would not be proper

To shout it from out the street;

So I tried to attract attention

By flinging aloft a stone,

But I only broke a window,

And left her—in haste—alone.

I gave it to “milk” next morning,

And I watched if she took it in.

But ’twas somebody else who did it

(I’d to stand the “milk” some gin).

And I cried in my passionate longing,

“Oh! is there no other way

I can get to my love the message,

And say what I have to say?”

Then I heard a sweet voice singing

Up high in the morning air;

She was cleaning the first-floor windows,

And I beckoned her down the stair.

And she came to the front door quickly—

For her mistress was not yet up—

And she said I must come that ev’ning

(For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast

(I had coffee and salted fish),

And went to my work as happy

As lover who’s got his wish;

For I knew I should give my message—

And I felt it was not too late—

I should meet her that night at supper,

So I was content to wait.

Fun. October 17, 1883.

——:o:——

“OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?”

[According to England, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt,

Sweet William wot chops treeses down?

How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote

And said he’d soon down with the Crown.

Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt,

Or a hactor hobscure and halone,

He have positive shown in a letter so gay

That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt?

His tongue it would never keep still;

And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack

To the click of the Radical mill.

Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt

And I looks for their meaning around;

For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince

That he’s artful and werry profound!

Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With its master, the Brummagem screw?

And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?—

A howling Republican crew!

I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt,

For that letter have made me feel dry:

And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben,

YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!!

England, January 24, 1885.

——:o:——

THE LOST CHORD.

The Lost Ball.

(A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne
Proctor. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Batting one day at the Oval,

I was scoring and quite at ease,

And I “placed” the bowling neatly,

Piling up twos and threes.

I know not whom we were playing

Or what was my total then,

But I struck one ball of Morley’s

Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.”

It fled in the golden sunlight

Like the devil away from psalms,

And swiftly, though long-leg fielded,

It slipped like an eel through his palms.

It quieted chaff and chatter

Like loves overcoming dears,

And raised a harmonious echo

Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen,

Simple as perfect geese,

And rolled away in the distance

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought and still seek vainly

Of the lost ball a sign,

That came from the shoulder of Morley

And travelled away from mine.

It may be some man from the gas-works

Will find it on his domain;

It may be that only next season

I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

The Lost Cord.

(Words by an Organ-grinder.
Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Andante Moderato.

Seated one day on the organ

Was my monkey, but ill at ease,

For his fingers wandered idly,

Searching for—what you please.

I know not what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming, quite,

But I dropped his cord and, quickly,

With a bound he was out of sight!

With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight,

With some clothes on his outstretched arm;

And the way that he sought to wear them

Had a touch of infinite charm.

While riot and shrieks of sorrow

Above, from a plundered wife,

Recalled the harmonious echo

Of my discordant life.

The things perplexed the monkey,

He spoilt them piece by piece:—

Animato.

I trembled away in my silence,

In fear of the dread police!

Agitato.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one last cord, and pine

For him, for the soul of my organ—

That vanished ape of mine!

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only decamps

When he hears the organ-men

(Repeat.)

Judy, March 3, 1880.

The Lost Voice.

Seated at Church in the winter

I was frozen in every limb,

And the village choir shrieked wildly

Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing

But while I was watching them

Our Curate began his sermon

With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”

It frightened the female portion

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,

Both maidens and matrons heard it

With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,

Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,

Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate’s life.