Part 1 — PARODIES OF "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE."

NOT half-sovereigns were we, but ten-shilling bits, The thin, jaundiced children of Childers; To name us the public were put to their wits, As some called us "Guilders," some "Gilders." We buried our heads in our cradle, the Mint, And were sparingly fed by our nurses; In our life, which was brief, we received without stint Abuse, imprecations, and curses. No useless retorts did we ever return To those who so coldly received us: But we patiently bore each contemptuous spurn, Till sweet death in his mercy relieved us. Few and short were our moments on earth, And they were brief snatches of sorrow; Our parents were told at the time of our birth, We were only for idiots to borrow. We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould, Of the fun we should have when grown older; But we learnt that all glittering things are not gold, That a "gilder" is hardly a "golder." Lightly they talked of our humble alloy, And how we were base and degraded; And tried in all possible ways to annoy Our lives, which already were faded. Though half our heavy blows and kicks, We never thought once of returning; We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx," Or the wonders of life ever learning. Slowly but gladly, too tired to laugh, We made room for the use of our betters; Heavy our grave-stone, and our epitaph Was a column of newspaper letters. DALETH.

NOT a "drum" was given, nor dance of note, From the "course" at fair Goodwood we'd hurried; Not a soul here but uttered farewell, and shot Out of town, looking jaded and worried. * * * * * And lightly they'll talk of the "Master" that's gone, And o'er his own "Hashes" abuse him; But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sail on In the yacht which was built to amuse him! But half of our heavy trunks were down, When the clock struck the hour for departing; And we heard the distant discordant groan Of the engine ready for starting! Slowly and smoothly we glided out Of the station so grim and so gritty; We cared not a doit, and we raised not a doubt, For we'd left care behind in the "city!" ORCHIS.

NOT a "strum" was heard, not a tune or a note, As his chords to the damp earth I hurried; Not a soul there was by when I stripped off my coat, O'er the grave where the banjo I buried. I buried it darkly at dead of night, The sods with a fire shovel turning. My heart throbbing fast with a wild delight, And revenge in my heart fiercely burning. No useless fingers I close to it pressed, Not as much as once did I sound it, But I laid it gently down to its rest, With a Daily News wrapped round it. * * * * * Quickly and gladly I laid it down To a place where no more it could worry, I stirred not a twine and I raised not a tone, But I silently left in my glory. GARRYOWEN JACK.

NOT a drum was heard, not a martial note, As our Gordon to Khartoum was hurried; But into the desert our hero we shot, And there in the desert he's buried. No useful soldiers were with him sent, Neither horseman nor footman we found him; But alone, on a camel, our warrior went, With the foe and the desert all round him. Few and short were the prayers he made, Not a word of complaint or of sorrow; But we coldly declined to give him our aid, And told him to wait—till "to-morrow!" And he thought as he lay on his anxious bed, Or the foe-threatened city defended: "'Tis plain that the men who are over my head Have ideas I've not quite comprehended." And lightly men talk of his fanatic ways, Because life and wealth he nought reckons; But little he recks of their blame or their praise, And goes straight where his own honour beckons. Not half of his heavy task is done, That of "rescuing and retiring"— He will not retire, for he has rescued none, And thousands upon him are firing. Slowly and sadly I lay my pen down, 'Tis a mean and pitiful story; God grant we mayn't have to carve on his stone, "England left him alone in his glory." GUINEA PIG.

NOT a franc he had, not a louis nor note, As forth from the tables he hurried; Resolved to discharge one fatal shot, And leave his corpse to be buried. They buried him deeply at dead of night, The soil with their mattocks turning; When the sinking moon refused her light, And the lamps had ceased from burning. A useful coffin enclosed his breast, Which the Administration found him; And he lay like a suicide sadly at rest, With none of his friends around him. * * * * * Silent and secret they left him there, The wound in his head fresh and gory; Replaced all the plants and the shrubs as they were, And hoped to discredit the story. JANE KENNEDY.

THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes, As his corpse to the City was carried; The soldiers discharged their farewell shots, Near the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him grandly in noon's full light, The clay to earth's bosom returning; With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright, And within the lantern burning. Three costly coffins encased his breast, (In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest With his marshal compeers round him. Many and long were the prayers we said, And we murmured last words of sorrow; As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead, And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?" We thought as they filled in his narrow bed, Of his struggles across the billows; And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead, As a Captain above his fellows. Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone, And grudge e'en the recompense paid him: But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, In the tomb where a grateful land laid him. At length our grievous task was done, And the masses were slowly retiring, And the clangour ceased of the minute gun, That for hours had been steadily firing. Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone, With his roll of deeds famous in story; We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone, And to-day—we've forgotten his glory! OBSERVER.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, As the groom to the wedding we carried; Not a jester discharged his farewell shot As the bachelor went to be married. We married him quickly that morning bright, The leaves of our Prayer-books turning, In the chancel's dimly religious light; And tears in our eyelids burning. No useless nosegay adorned his chest, Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him. Few and small were the fees it cost, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we silently gazed on the face of the lost, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hurried them home to be fed, And tried our low spirits to rally, That the weather looked very like squalls overhead For the passage from Dover to Calais. Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone, And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him alone, With his wife that the parson has made him! But half of our heavy lunch was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we judged from the knocks which had now begun, That their cabby was rapidly tiring. Slowly and sadly we led them down, From the scene of his lame oratory; We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, And we left them alone in their glory! YELRAP.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a time-worn jest, In the brougham in which we were carried; Not one displayed himself at his best, For our friend was going to be married. * * * * * Calmly and sadly we stood that day, To the sorrowful end of the story; But when all was o'er he hurried away, And left us alone in our glory. HOCKWOOD.

NOT a grumble was heard, not a guttural note, As we off to the Healtheries hurried; Not a cove of the party, but paid his shot, Though the seedy young man appeared flurried. * * * * * Slowly and sadly we dawdled down From the Doultons, and dresses, and dairies, We carved not a name, we grazed not a stone, But went straight to our alleys and "aireys." BOB RIDLEY.

NOT a sound was heard but a general drone, As remorselessly onwards we hurried; Not a soul but discharged a farewell groan For the House where those zeros erst worried. * * * * * But after our pleasant task was done, When the clock struck the hour for assembling, We stood in the distance and scanned the fun, As the Lords came suddenly trembling. Joyously, gladly, we heard them bemoan The fate of their famed upper storey; We'd moved every stick and we'd razed every stone, And bereft them of home and of glory. ESTRELLA.

NOT a sigh was heard, not a funeral note, As the malice of Gladstone she parried: "No taxes from me; I pay not a shot!" So her furniture off was carried. They carried it darkly—a deed of night, For desk, tables, and chairs oft returning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And a lantern dimly burning. The man in possession ate, drank of her best, In well-aired holland sheets he wound him; And he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his pipe alight—confound him! Few and short were the prayers he said, And he spoke not a word of sorrow; And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead, As she bitterly thought of the morrow. He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed, And smoothes down my lonely pillow, Don't you go for a stranger, nor wish me dead, If you don't want to wear the willow." Lightly he talked when the "spirits" were gone, For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him? But little he'd spy if she'd let him smoke on, In the bed where Britannia had laid him. But half of the tyrant's task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; The minion quailed at the sound of the gun, Which to signal her triumph was firing. Of that spinster householder martyr's crown, O, never shall perish the story: Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown— Thus we leave her alone in her glory! J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN.

SUCH a strum was heard—not a single right note, When to make you play every one worried; Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot As to the piano you hurried. You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right, I knew not the piece you'd been learning; But I saw by the flickering candle-light Your cheeks were with nervousness burning. No useless music encumbered the rest; No pieces had any one found you; But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best, Though the people would talk around you. Dreary and long was the thing you played, And we listened in suffering sorrow; And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed, You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow. Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done, And wonder whoe'er could have made it; But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on At the piece till she's thoroughly played it. When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or more, And no more such torture requiring, I managed to get to the open door, And succeeded in quickly retiring. I've but one thing more in conclusion to say, Though you no doubt will think it a story; 'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play, You will get neither money nor glory! MOZART.

NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note, As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, By the grave where our pauper we buried. We buried him quickly at shut of night, The sods with our keen shovels turning; By the closing day's last glimmering light, And the lantern palely burning. No oaken coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet for a shroud we wound him: And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest, With his four deal planks nailed around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we shed not a tear of sorrow; But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead, And we heedlessly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down its green turf billow; That haply a stranger would lay a wan head To-night on his tenantless pillow. Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where his parish has laid him. But half of our thankless job was done, When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring; And the raindrops came pattering one by one, And soon all the heavens were pouring. Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down, In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary; We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone, But we left him to earth with his story. SEFTON.

NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note, For my Lords are too awfully worried; Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot, Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried. They think of it sadly, at dead of night, The thing in their mind's eye turning, By the somewhat foggy, misty light In their noble bosoms burning. No useless logic confused their heads, 'Tis but little they ever heed it; But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds, And one and all they d——d it. "Few and short were the prayers they said"— The fact I record with sorrow; They thought of the day when the Bill would be read, And they wished there were no to-morrow. They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said— Each word was a thorn in their pillow— Of laurels that still would encircle his head, While they would be wearing the willow. Nightly they burn for their brothers to be Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em; And little they'll reck, till the "rustic" be free, Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em. But half of the weary night was gone, And my Lords were still busy enquiring, "The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done? And they found that the effort was tiring. Slowly and sadly they laid them down, And they murmured the old, old story, "We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we MUST have a share in the glory!" DARBY.

NOT a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught, As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried; Not a fielder but was a famous shot, At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried, We slogged the ball wildly with all our might, The sods with our willow-bats turning: But the leather was caught, and held so tight, And our cheeks with shame were burning. No useless figures my scoring blest, Not in cut or in drive I found them; But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest, With a line drawn all around them. Few, too few, were the runs we could claim, And we spoke many words of sorrow, And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game, As we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we watched how our wickets fell, And reckoned the meagre scoring, That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well, And we, far behind them, deploring. Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on, And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us; But little we'd reck if bad weather came on, And the rain further playing forbade us. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for refraining; And we saw by the distant and setting sun, That the light was steadily waning. Slowly and sadly did we disappear, From the field of our shame-laden story; We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer, But we left them alone to their glory. FRIAR TUCK.

NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, As the man to his bridal we hurried; Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, On the spot where the fellow was married. We married him just about eight at night, Our faces paler turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the gas-lamp's steady burning. No useless watch-chain covered his vest, Nor over-dressed we found him; But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, With a few of his friends around him. Few and short were the things we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we silently stood about, With spite and anger dying, How the merest stranger had cut us out, With only half our trying. Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, And oft for the past upbraid him; But little he'll reck if we let him live on, In the house where his wife conveyed him. But our heavy task at length was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the spiteful squib and pun The girls were sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we turned to go,— We had struggled, and we were human; We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe, But we left him alone with his woman. Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.