Part 1 — Charles Wolfe.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning. By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him— But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory!

I. Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre ... Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son départ. Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres, Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart! II. De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre— La lune à peine offrait un débile-rayon: La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre, Quand de la bayonnette on creusa le gazon. III. D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS; Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos. IV. La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée: Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fut plein! Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ... Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain. V. Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête, Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots, L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête, Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots! VI. Ils terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol; Il les laissera dire.—Eh! qu'importe A SA CENDRE, Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol? VII. L'œuvre durait encore, quand retentit la cloche Au sommet du Befroi:—et le canon lointain, Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche, Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain. VIII. Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ... Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée: Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée!

Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning, We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him, And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshall cloak around him. "The Doctor's as drunk as the d——," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Would consumedly ache on the morrow. We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda water. Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done, When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun Of a watchman, "One o'clock," bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory. Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.—Virgil. I wrote the verses, * * claimed them—he told stories. Thomas Ingoldsby.

NOT a trap was heard, or a Charley's note As our course to the churchyard we hurried, Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot As a corpse from the grave we unburied. We nibbled it slily at dead of night, The sod with our pick-axes turning, By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light, And our lanterns so queerly burning. Few and short were the words we said, And we felt not a bit of sorrow, But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow. The useless shroud we tore from his breast And then in regimentals bound him, And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest, With his lobster togs around him. We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed, Our snatching trick now no look sees; But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled, And we far away towards Brooks's. Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him; But nothing we care if they leave him alone In a place where a snatcher has laid him. But half of our snatching job was o'er, When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling, And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling. Slily and slowly we laid him down, In our cart famed for staching in story; Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown, For we bolted away in our glory.

NOT a moan was heard—not a funeral note, As his corpse to the devil they hurried, Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our idol was buried. They buried him darkly at dead of night, With their threats our remonstrance turning, By the struggling Stephen's misty light, In the brazen socket burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet of parchment they bound him, And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest, With schedule A around him. Few and short were the speeches said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, And thought of the coming morrow. We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, And laid him at rest on his pillow, That the Radical soon would step over our head, And we be turned out by the bill—oh! Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him. But half our heavy task was done, When the time came for ending the session, And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun, That the King was now in procession, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the further defence of the Tory, We carved not a line on his funeral stone, But we left him alone in his glory.

Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, As down on the floor he hurried; Not a member offered to lend his coat, Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried We looked at him slily at dead of night, Our backs adroitly turning, That he might not see us laugh outright By the lights so brightly burning. No useless advice we on him press'd, Nor in argument we wound him; But we left him to lie, and take his rest, With his Irish clique around him. Few and short were the speeches made, And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead, He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow. We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, And avoid him where he's lying; For if we should tumble over his head, 'Twould certainly send us flying. Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him; But little he'll care, and again try it on, Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him. But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?" When the time arrived for retiring, And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun Our attendance to watch him requiring." Slowly and softly they shut the door, After Radical, Whig, and Tory; And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more," They left him alone in his glory. Punch, December, 1847.

He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry, That, alas! he had no testamur got; And he felt in a deuce of a flurry. He thought how he'd read at dead of night, The page of Herodotus turning, By the tallow-candle's flickering light, Or the moderator burning. No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, Nor did indigestion wound him; But he said—as the worry was breaking his rest— "That Examiner—confound him!" "What's the odds?" were the words that he said; But he choked not down his sorrow; For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, And pictured the "Governor's horror." Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed, And dashed his head down on the pillow, That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid, And would quickly be sending his bill, oh! Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone), "Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him; But nothing he'll get: I'll be off to Boulogne," And he went, out of Britain to shade him. Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, And he fancied that many a ravenous dun At the oak was sullenly knocking. He cautiously put out his head, and looked down From his room in the second story: He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone; He was all alone,—in his glory (?) JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford.

"Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note, As our friend to the bridal we hurried; Not a wit discharged his farewell shot, As the bachelor went to be married. "We married him quietly to save his fright, Our heads from the sad sight turning; And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light, To think he was not more discerning. "To think that a bachelor free and bright, And shy of the sex as we found him, Should there at the altar, at dead of night, Be caught in the snares that bound him. "Few and short were the words that we said, Though of wine and cake partaking; We escorted him home from the scene of dread, While his knees were awfully shaking. "Slowly and sadly we marched him down, From the first to the lowermost storey; And we never have heard or seen the poor man Whom we left alone in his glory."

Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note, As over the border he hurried; He took to his heels without firing a shot, Only looking tremendously flurried. No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast, As over the ground he jolted; Not caring a straw what became of the rest, He unhesitatingly bolted. And snug in his quarters, at dead of night, The Yankee General found him; His bed all ready, his candle alight, And bottles of whisky around him. And when at his door came the clanking and noise, His courage all sank to zero; For, though at the head of the Fenian "bhoys," He wasn't exactly a hero. When the Britishers find that he really is gone, In impotent rage they upbraid him; If Mr. O'NEILL they had laid hands upon At that moment, they surely had flay'd him! Few and short were the words they said— They only expressed their sorrow That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow. But safe in New York, under FOSTER'S convoy, He has gone to tell his own story; Where "shut up" very much, this broth of a boy Is at present alone in his glory! Judy, 22nd June, 1870.

A groan was heard, like a funeral note, From a toper in mud half-buried, And our Serjeant "Drunk and incapable" wrote, When his form to the station we hurried. We hurried him swiftly at dead of night, And oft with our truncheons spurning, Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light, Through alley and crooked turning. In rags and tatters the toper was dressed, For in poverty drink had bound him. And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest, With little pigs squeaking around him. We lifted him up, but he fell as one dead, And we tumbled him into a barrow; And the idle spectators shouted and said, "He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!" Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er empty bottles upbraid him; But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on In the cell where the constables laid him. No curtains had he to his lonely bed, And a rough deal plank was his pillow; He will wake with parched throat and an aching head, And thirst that would drink up a billow. Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down, That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary, And wished that the dissolute youth of the town A warning might take from his story. Funny Folks.

Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell, Though of both 'twas surely deserving— When, cruelly murdered, Macbeth fell By the hand of the eminent Irving. He murdered him, lengthily, that night, With his new and original reading. Till his efforts left him in sorry plight, And the sweat on his brow was bleeding. Five different garments enclosed his breast, Five brand-new dresses were found him, Though in never a one did he look at rest, Though the people might sleep around him. Many and long were the words he said, Till we wished in fervent sorrow, We could only get home to our welcome bed, And we vowed not to come on the morrow. We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode, And made us long for our pillow, That a taste of his tragic genius he owed To our cousins far over the billow. Even there, though his fame before has gone; He may find it melt in a minute; But little he'll reck, if they let him act on In a play with a murderer in it. But half the heavy play was o'er When we seized the chance for retiring, And left him grovelling about on the floor, With his friends all madly admiring. Sadly we thought as we went away, From his acting so dreary and gory, That the eminent I, if he's wise will not play, Macbeth any more, if for glory. The Figaro, 16th October, 1875.

Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note, As the Bill to the tellers we hurried; So solemn and dread is the midnight vote When a title has to be buried. We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, To make it a question burning; We strained every nerve to set it afloat, The hate of all Englishmen earning. They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul (There's much of it still adhering), And we knew by the distant and random growl That the foe was sullenly sneering. Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled (That Lowe's a most impudent monkey); For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said By the lips of some courtly flunkey. 'Twas fondly imagined a title of might, Renowned in an ancient story; But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight, And left it alone in its glory! The Figaro, April 8, 1876.

Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note, As away from the House we all scurried— Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot, The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night, For we had no hope of returning, By Reason's bright returning light, And our hearts were sadly yearning. Few indeed were the words we said, But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin fled To inspire us with hope for the morrow. No gaudy star was upon his breast, No ermine cloak was around him, Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest; And he smiled at us all, confound him! We thought, as we left with a silent tread, Of Cross and his dreadful Water, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, And we far away from that quarter. Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, And of course they've a right to abuse us; But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on In our places and wouldn't refuse us. But scarce had our sad hearts aching done. When again to the fight we were guided; And we knew that the foe had a victory won, That our fate was indeed decided. Slowly and sadly we all went down With the blood of our brethren all gory; But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down, So farewell to the hopes of the Tory.

Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell, As its corpse from the hustings we hurried; But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell To get the thing decently buried. With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave— (It was deep and contained some water)— All willingly helped, and the sexton gave An address on its deeds of slaughter. With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast, In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it, So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest, With its weapons all around it. Brief and stern was the service said, In its own peculiar lingo; By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read From the gospel according to Jingo. Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone. Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it, We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on In the dishonoured past where we've laid it.

'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast, Nor in cerement white we bound him; But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest, With a pool of that liquid around him.'

'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down, That image of humbug so gory; We wrote but one line—'Here, under this stone, Lies bombast, false glitter, and glory.'

'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed, And pommelled his lonely pillow, He was pitching away into Gladstone's head; And his fury was like the billow.'"

NOT a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound, As the song to an encore was hurried; Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found, On the night that the Masher was buried. He'd come before to a parlous pass, Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour; But "Blue Beard" gave him his coup de grâce. And finished him once for ever! It killed and buried him sitting there, By ridicule on him turning; 'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare, With the footlights brightly burning. His wired gardenia graced his breast, And sodden in scent one found him, As he sat there sucking his stick with zest, With his three-inch collar around him. A deep red groove in his puffy throat, That collar's starched edge was flaying; And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote, Were the clocks of his hose displaying. Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place. And his shirt front's wealth of whiteness Made yet more sallow his pasty face, More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness. No thought worth thinking was in his breast, Nor on his dull brain was flashing, But he sat encased in his board-like vest, Equipped for the evening's mashing. But few and short were the leers he gave At the chorus-girls singing before him; For cold and swift as an ocean wave, The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him. And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick, Some hope from the "Johnnies" to borrow; For they steadfastly sucked every one his stick, And most bitterly thought of the morrow. They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death, And foreshadowed their doom so plainly, That they next morning, with feverish breath, Might demand devilled prawns all vainly; That their faith in the curried egg might go, And a cayenne salad not serve them, Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low, Nor a fricassee'd oyster nerve them! They felt that the power to attention gain Would surely henceforth evade them, And that public contempt would let them remain In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them. And so, when Burnand his task had done, And received a right warm ovation, Of all the Mashers was left not one; 'Twas complete annihilation. And they buried them there, where they first were born, With gardenias on them clustered— In the mashing garbs that they long had worn— Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered. Blithely and gaily they laid them down, Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there; And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone— For the Mashers were worthy of neither! Truth, March 22, 1883.

I. He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, And, of course, exceedingly worried; He swore he'd never return to the spot, As out of the front door he scurried. II. He tried to banish her face from his sight, She for whom he was yearning; Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right, And that she was fond of spurning. III. But who'd have thought—ah, even guessed— That after she had caught and bound him; It was to be but a flirting jest. An impartial joke to sound him. IV. Few and short were the words he had said, Only this—only this, "love be mine." She gave him a rap with her fan on his head, And laughingly left him to pine V. What was he to do? should he hate her instead? Or weeping wail, waly willow; Or wiping away the tears he had shed, Launch in some fresh peccadillo? VI. Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens; Only to find his poor heart torn By devotion, which her hard heart hardens. VII. L'ENVOI. The moral of this I hope you won't shun, Don't be in your mind too enquiring, Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun, You're not cared for by her you're admiring. VIII. Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, And this is the end of my story. And as I don't mean to alter my tone, I drink to all flirts "con amore."

NOT a mute one word at the funeral spoke Till away to the pot-house we hurried, Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke O'er the grave where our "party" we buried. We buried him dearly with vain display, Two hundred per cent. returning, Which we made the struggling orphans pay, All consideration spurning. With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest, Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him; And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest, With his empty pomp around him. None at all were the prayers we said, And we felt not the slightest sorrow, But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead, Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow. We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter. So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head, For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter. Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone, Now all due respect has been paid him; Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on Near the spot where we fellows had laid him. As soon as our sable task was done, Nor a moment we lost in retiring; And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun, Gin and water each jolly soul firing, Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down, Singing song, cracking joke, telling story; And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town, Riding outside the hearse in our glory. Punch, January 5, 1850.

"JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ., At the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's, Clonoulty, Cashel."