WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 13)

“Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod.” Aye, but to love, and not be loved again, To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine, This body strong and healthy to become A walking mummy—and the once cheerful mind To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair And moping sit in melancholy mood, To feel the gusts of love and wild desire, And know friends, fortune, person, all combine To blast our hopes—or to feel tortures keener still, To see a rival snatch away the prize; Heavens! ’tis too horrible—the keenest pangs That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic, Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love. From Poems by Edward Rushton. London—T. Ostell, 1806.

If your heart for joy hath pined, Go and seek out Rosalind. In W. S.’s town you’ll find Mary A. as Rosalind; In “tights” most gracefully designed Will appear fair Rosalind. Methinks a damsel to your mind Will be Mary’s Rosalind. We hope she will not be maligned When she playeth Rosalind, But that critics will be kind To that fair Yankee’s Rosalind.

Young England’s Version of Hamlet’s Soliloquy. To smoke, or not to smoke, that is the question: Whether a mild cigar assists digestion; Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness, Which some would say was nothing but a faintness; To smoke—to drink and then to go to bed; To find a pillow for an aching head; To snore—perchance to dream! and half your senses scare With visionary demons or nightmare; To wake, in perspiration nicely dished, ’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished; For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse Of this base world, when he might cook his goose Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care For half the motley groups which at him stare, Some morning early, stuck before the bench, When soda-water would his fever quench, But that a little thing within doth call? Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all! And thus our resolution to keep sober Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October. But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear! Oh! think of me love—when you fetch your beer. Anonymous.

That Greenwich M.P. Which I wish to declare, And my story is sad, That for dealings unfair, And for ways that are bad, The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar— Which the same is a terrible “Rad.” ’Twas an October day, But a week or two back, When the mob yelled “Hurray” On the heath that is Black, As they gazed from afar upon William, And harked to his voluble clack. 245 Which this W. G., You will all understand, Is the Greenwich M.P., And his promise is bland; But then, over his sinister shoulder, He points with the thumb of his hand. So free from all guile, From intent to deceive, He seem’d all the while, You could hardly believe How, when talking to people of Greenwich, He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve. He was greatly concern’d For the Greenwichers’ weal, And he twisted and turn’d With his words like an eel— Praised himself, and the Radical party; It little—himself a great deal. Which is why I declare, And my feelings are sad, That for dealings unfair, And for ways that are bad, The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar— Which that same is a stone that is glad. Judy, November 22, 1871.

The Heathen M.P. Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for words that are dark And for tricks that are vain The Heathen M.P. is peculiar, Which the same I would wish to explain. Ben D——was his name, And I shall not deny That who went by the same Was exceedingly sly; But his smile it was pensive and child-like, As I often remarked to Bill-y; It was April the third, And quite soft were the skies; Let it not be inferred That Ben D——was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William In a way too adroit to be wise. Which we had a debate, And Ben D——took a part, After begging to state That it came from his heart; But he smiled as he stood by the table With a smile that was hollow and tart. Now his speech it was stocked In a way that I grieve, (And my feelings were shocked As you cannot believe,) It was stuffed full of stories and crammers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the points that were made By that Heathen Ben D——, And the fibs he essayed Were quite frightful to see, Till at last he came out with a crammar That was known to be such unto G——. G—— looked to the skies, (Which was sad for to see,) And he rose up likewise, And said, “Darling Ben D——, “This is false what you say about Russia!” And he went for that Heathen M.P. In the scene that ensued William took a large part, For the way he’d been Jewed Had gone straight to his heart, Like the fibs that Ben D——had been telling In the speech that had come “from his heart.” In which speech, which was long, He had twenty-four packs, Which was coming it strong As departing from facts; And they found in that speech, which was rant, What is frequent in speeches—that’s cant? Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for words that are dark And for tricks that are vain The Heathen M.P. is peculiar, And the same I am free to maintain. Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.

The Political Heathen Chinee. Ben Diz was his name, And it were vain to deny In respect of the same What the name might imply: For his nose had a hook that meant mischief, But the hook was a fool to his eye. “Heads I win, tails you lose,” Was the “lie” of his game. Turks, Afghans, Zulus— No matter who came— It was “beggar my neighbour” all round, Which all neighbours got treatment the same. Which he euchred the Turk— For he played from a hand Of “reserves,” that did lurk Underneath his wristband; And an island he quietly nobbled, With a smile diplomatic and bland. Bits of Beaconsfield, or a new Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature. (Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

On Chang, the Chinese Giant. Which I beg you won’t doubt, As you listen to me, A man longer drawn out You’re not likely to see Than this very remarkable giant, Which same was a heathen Chinee. 246 Mister Chang was his name, All alive! O, alive! From Fychow he came In eighteen-sixty-five, On the shillings of sight-loving public For some time to gleefully thrive. It was August, eighteen, That he first came to town, And by thousands was seen, And won highest renown; But so lofty was he, and so haughty, On all of his friends he looked down. When invited to sup He’d not touch flesh of cows, And he turned his nose up At an English carouse, For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows. But he fretted and fumed As the shillings got few, And his features assumed A cerulean hue, And he looked like a piece of blue china Of a size that you don’t often view. Judy, August 20, 1879.

On Bret Harte. (After “Jim”) Say there, then, Some of you men Might read Bret Harte, Not p’raps all through But one or two, Just a part? Try first that one Heathen Chinee, Then just for fun Take two or three More from his works— Rhyme all in jerks Where frequently Strange language lurks. Humbug? not much That ain’t his style, Rather a touch Of pathos, the while Sympathy true. Take Bret Harte’s Jim, Sure you know him, Says “D—n your eyes,” Frequently tries In manner most strange Both a scamp to appear And an angel that sheer Has dropped from the skies. Style? Some times Bret Harte Yes, that is he! Dickens in Camp— Wan Lee the scamp, Stick in your brain Live there as plain As highest art. You can’t say Good-bye Not if you try Eh? What’s that you say? You try to forget him When once you’ve met him. No? Yes! Ah well; There they will stay All thro’ life’s day And Never depart! Thanks to Bret Harte. J. W. G. W.

A Christmas Psalm of Life. Tell me not, thou soul that slumbers, Christmas is an empty dream; When these comic double numbers With the flash of humour gleam. Life is earnest, life is real, In our Fleet Street and the Strand; Many an honest heart and leal Shall be moved by laughter’s wand. “Sweet enjoyment and no damper”— Motto fit for every grade, [If my friends send me a hamper, Let them mark it “Carriage paid.”] Hearts which long with hope were beating Now shall flock to Drury Lane, There to give a friendly greeting To the clown and “pants” again. So in other fields of glory Comes the genial feud and strife, Each man, be he Whig or Tory, Finding happiness in life. Lives like Sloper’s should remind us Life can still be made sublime, Scattering all the trash behind us. Pointing to a better time. Sloper’s Christmas Number, 1884.

A Psalm for the Trade. Tell us not in doleful numbers Trade is done for evermore, That supply, demand outnumbers, And the drummer’s days are o’er. 247 Trade is real—trade is active, Better times again we’ll see; To remain stagnation’s captive, Is against all history. Time is long—bill maturing Must be paid without delay; Such the only way insuring Better trade at early day. Shun this reckless competition, Look beyond the moment’s gain, Learn that honest coalition Is far better in the main. Stop this scheme of future dating, Ere it has become too late; Act at once and cease all prating— Leave consignments to their fate. Lives of others all remind us, If our dealing’s just and fair, That a better time will find us Getting all our honest share. American Exchange.

A Phase of Life. (The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper.) Tell me not in rows of numbers, Of his assets as they seem, That if I would loan 1,000 He could bridge the turbid stream. Debts are real, debts are earnest, No transferring makes them less; “Dust” thou borrow, “dust” returnest Still as great thy sore distress. Trust no more the men who owe me, Let the debts just due be paid; Act, act promptly in collecting, Ere the last faint hope shall fade. Failures of great men remind us How they bought their goods on time, And departing left behind them For each dollar’s debt a dime. Seeing which perhaps another Almost ready to collapse, Takes a lesson from his brother— Leaves behind a few old traps. Let us then be up and doing, With a cheek quite undismayed, Every debtor close pursuing Till his bills have all been paid. American Paper.

A Psalm of Life. (As exhibited in Christmas Annuals.) Tell me not, O Soul that slumbers, “Life is placid, Life is pale!” ’Tis not so in Christmas Numbers; There quite other views prevail. Life is Foaming, Life is Frantic, Here the dagger, there the bowl; “Stick at nothing that’s romantic!” Says my Printer to my Soul. Not to live as boys and girls would Is our men’s and maidens’ way; But to act as if in Earlswood You might find them any day. Write of fire, and flood, and battle, Write of Earls that gaily sin, Write of Governesses—that’ll Bring the sweet subscribers in! Lives of Great Highwaymen show it, How to make our tales sublime; Bother sense and grammar. Go it— Give us something new in Crime Crimes that ne’er, perchance, another, As he reached his volume’s end, Dreamed of—give us these my brother, Something fresh in guilt, my friend! Let us then be up and raving, Rave of ghosts, and sin, and fate; These the gentle reader’s craving, And he does not like to wait! Punch, January 10, 1885.

Beware! I know a youth who can flirt and flatter, Take care! He loves with the ladies to gossip and chatter, Beware! Beware Trust him not He is fooling thee! He has a voice of varying tone Take care! It echoes many beside thine own, Beware, &c. He has a hand that is soft and white, Take care! It pressed another than thine last night, Beware, &c. His letters are glowing with love I ween, Take care! One half that he writes he does not mean, Beware, &c. He talks of truth and of deep devotion, Take care! Of loving truly he has no notion, Beware, &c. Your heart he will gain with his dangerous wiles, Take care! Of his whispered words, of his sighs, of his smiles. Beware! Beware! Trust him not. He is fooling thee! Anonymous.

The Barber Fiend. I know a barber who in town doth dwell— Take care!— He has a lot of things to sell For hair; forbear! Buy them not, Though he counsel thee. For he will charge thee four-and-six (Take care!) For a bottle of wash, worth less than nix, Beware, beware! Of his pomade pot, ’Tis a fallacy. And when thou goest to get a “crop,” Don’t swear, If he say thy hair is thin atop, Somewhere, somewhere; Believe him not, He is fright’ning thee. And if to take thee by thy nose He dare, Whilst sitting, in ungraceful pose, On chair, on chair; Resent it not, He is shaving thee. And he has dyes of every hue; Take care Lest russet locks be turned to blue, Or fair, or fair— To some hue not Such as pleases thee. He has bear’s grease in pots for thee (A snare). If on thy face no whiskers be, Don’t care, don’t care; Hog’s lard will not Make a man of thee. Judy, November 22, 1871.

Female Commercial “Travellers.” I know a maiden with a bag, Take care! She carries samples in a drag, Beware! beware! O Draper fond, She is fooling thee! She has the true “Commercial” style, Take care! To which she addeth woman’s guile, Beware! beware! O Grocer goose, She is plucking thee! And she has quite a flood of talk, Take care! She sells as cheese what’s only chalk, Beware! beware! O Dealer daft, She’s deceiving thee! Her eyes are really wondrous black, Take care! They make a shiver run down your back, Beware! beware! O Shopman soft, She is ogling thee! She sells you a silk of “perfect wear,” Take care! At it your customers will swear, Beware! beware! Trust her not, This Travelling She! Punch, February, 1885.

Into the Oyster Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Our hopes from the New World now pale and wither, There is no joy in Cheapside and the Strand. Who’ll lead us with a friendly hand, Thither, oh thither, Into the Oyster Land? Into the Oyster Land! To you, ye nameless regions Of Native worth. Delicious daily visions Of some Ostrealia, beautiful and bland. Where at the bar a man might stand, Gulping cheap bivalve beauties Down, in the Oyster Land. O Land! O Land! No longer hopeful joy stirs Within my bosom. Rubbish, tinned and potted, Mocks one, by no bright herald now doth stand, To lead us, with a liberal hand, Into the land of the cheap good Oysters, Into the Oyster Land! Punch, October 21, 1882.

I blew a bubble into the air, And bright and high it floated there; Till all who gazed both near and far, Declared the bubble was a star. I shot a bullet into the air, Worth twenty bubbles bright and fair; But the bullet’s flight was all in vain, It only fell to the earth again. Learn hence, in catching the public eye— Bullets are difficult things to fly; So bubble on bubble upward send And keep your lead for the heart of a friend! William Sawyer.

In his chamber grand and fitting, Was the Roman Prelate sitting, By his side St. Philip Neri Stood, the window looking thro’ When a strange, unpleasant feeling, O’er the Cardinal came stealing While, as if by wand of fairy, All things alter’d to his view. Vanished street, and dome, and steeple, Vanished crowds of priests and people, Lo, instead, a place of torture (Which politeness would not name), There he saw the souls tormented, Suffer all the pangs invented By the old Arch-fiendish Scorcher, He whose element is flame. Writhing in and out among them, Snakes and demons bit and stung them, Never ceased, the victims, therefore, Ne’er from anguish could be free, In their midst a seat most splendid, Seem’d for some great Prince intended, Asked the Prelate—“What’s that chair for?” Quoth St. Philip—“’tis for thee.” Then the Cardinal, in terror, Thought upon his life of error, Ask’d the Saint on what condition Heaven his soul would deign to spare, “’Tis, relinquish worldly pleasure, Love of sway and greed of treasure, Banish envy and ambition, Satan else will seat you there!” Then the Cardinal repenting, Soon the holy Saint, relenting, Gave him pardon, warning, blessing, Preaching, too, (without a text), Vanish’d then the Prelate’s panic, Vanish’d then that scene Satanic, Never more his soul distressing In this world—or in the next! Walter Parke. The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, June 25, 1878.

The City Blackleg. Under the railway arch there see, The villain Smith he stands; That Smith a puny man is he, With small and skinny hands; And the muscles of his bony arms Are like elastic bands. His hair you see’s by no means long, His face is lean and wan; His brow ne’er yet was wet with sweat, He lives as best he can; To owe he holds is no disgrace, For he owes to ev’ry man. He tries to tempt that countryman (Flinging a pair o’ dice), But having fleeced him once before, Upon his back he lies; And with his skinny hand he wipes A pair of blackened eyes. Swindling—skedaddling—borrowing Onward through life he goes; No morning sees him taken in, No evening sees him lose; Somebody tempted, some one “done,” Earns him a night’s repose. Judy, September 4, 1867.

Before a study of the nude The British Matron stands, A vivid blush is on her cheek, She raises both her hands, And for that hussy all undraped A petticoat demands. Her air is shocked, her face is long, Her mission is to ban; Her brow is set in lines of fret, As may be seen by man, And oft while gazing she exclaims, “I wonder painters can!” Sneak in, sneak out, brush-wielding wights, Tread softly and talk low, Take note of Mrs. Grundy’s scowl, Observe her wrathful glow; She don’t approve of frockless daubs And that she’d have you know! The Matron’s wishing even now She’d never sought your door, Since here are pictures on the line, Some ten, if not a score, That make her almost long to sink Unnoticed through the floor. Crimson, indignant, horrified, On through the room she goes; Each glance to left augments her pain, Each glance to right but shows Some one who’s classic, some one stripped Of decency and clo’es! Thanks, thanks to thee, our British M., For the lesson thou hast taught. Not to these Academic halls Must nudities be brought; In France the artist comes it strong, But here he “didn’t ought.” Funny Folks, June 6, 1885.

Flowers. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers so blue and golden, Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine. * * * * * Longfellow

Flowers (of Rotten-row). Spake full well in language most descriptive, One who walked by the Serpentine, When he called these ladies fair, deceptive, Beauties lost in crinoline. Monstrous are those petticoats inflated, Altering the syrens’ figures quite, While the swells who unto them are mated Are eclipsed from the beholders’ sight. Wondrous fashions, manifold as wondrous, Modern genius cuts its cloth into, From the head-dress to the sandals under us, From the “tile” unto the walking shoe. And the costume-connoisseur, observant, Sees alike in male or female dress, More than is by wearer, him or her, meant. More of folly—but of beauty less: Gorgeous neck-ties, glistening in the sunlight, Hats e’en whiter than their wearer’s hands, “All round” collars made to screw the neck tight, Coats “high-church”-like, and suggesting “bands.” Trousers in such “knee-plush-ultra” fashion, Wide above and at the ancles tight, As would put the ghost of Stultz into a passion,— Thus ye see the swell in all his might! “Hiawatha’s” author tells us in his verses, Men and flowers are very much alike, But methinks—although his language trim and terse is, Hyde-park flowers the simile won’t strike. Solomon, we know, in all his glory, Couldn’t to the lily’s dress compare; Shall then moderns, less than him in story, Likened be unto the flow’rets fair? Nay—to Solomon we’ll give the credit (This we hope his tailor gave him too,) And believe, although no Rabbi said it, He ne’er clothed himself as modern Britons do: For if like theirs had been his usual covering, We cannot help remarking, by-the-bye, That old Israel’s far-renowned sovereign, Little wiser was, dear sir, than you and I. C.O. Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

I lay in my bed at midnight, As the dogs were barking the hour, And I hurled at their heads, of language A maledictory shower! I heard their pestilent voices In the garden under me, Like a chorus of demons yelling In hideous symphony. Most gladly would I have strangled The Judge who lately said The Londoner never must hope for Repose in his little bed. How often, oh how often, In the nights that have gone by, I have tossed on my pillow and wondered Why cats seem never to die! How often, oh how often, I have wished that some tempest drear Would bear away in its bosom, My neighbour’s Chanticleer! And when his protest uplifteth The mongrel over the way, I look about for my pistol, And long for the dawn of day. And that terrible little Terrier— Why cannot its mistress see That it has no right to prowl at night And bark at the moon and me? When I think that this latest decision Of the case-encumbered Judge Will help my neighbours to beard me, And to dub my threats as “fudge,”— I seem to see a procession Of ills which must spring from it— The young man goaded to madness, And the old going off in a fit. And for ever and for ever, As long as those Dogs delight To bark, and the Cats to bellow, And murder sleep in the night. The Judge and his latest decision. And his cold remarks will show That he hears no “meowing” above him, And no “bow-wowing” below. Punch, February 7, 1885.

Divitior. The shades of evening deepened fast, As, bank-ward, through the City passed A man, who in his pocket bore, His bank-book, strangely titled o’er— Divitior! His brow was wrinkled; keen his eye Flashed on each jostling passer-by, And still the strange mysterious word From his scarce-conscious lips were heard— Divitior! In humble homes he saw the light Of happy faces, warm and bright. Above, Ambition’s cold heights shone; He cried, his eye on these alone,— Divitior! 251 “Tempt not a path,” the preacher said, “Which none who loves his life may tread; The snares and chasms are deep and wide;” But, confident, he loud replied— Divitior! “Stay,” said Content, “Oh stay, and rest, Thy anxious head upon this breast:” A tear one moment dimmed his eye, But still he answered, with a sigh— Divitior! “Beware th’ alluring path of greed, There’s danger in thy headlong speed;” This was a brother’s parting word— He cried, the warning scarcely heard— Divitior! One morning, as the gossips tell, While neighbours, woke by matin bell, Were syllabling their morning prayer, A voice shrieked through the startled air— Divitior! Exhausted, over-wrought, at last His spirit from its tent had passed; Still grasping in his hand of ice, His bank-book, with the strange device— Divitior! There, in the twilight, cold and gray, The Mammon Martyr lifeless lay; And from beneath a voice was heard, Muttering in scorn the mocking word— Divitior! Tait’s Magazine, 1858. S.W.F.

Nettle-rash. (From St. Bartholomew’s.) The shades of night were falling fast, As through the Doctor’s office passed, A Boy, who bore upon his face The symptoms and decided trace Of nettle-rash. “You’d better go,” the matron said, “And rest your head upon your bed;” A tear stood in her bright blue eye, As he did question, have then I— Got nettle-rash? You’ll take two pills, the doctor said, And mind you cover up your head— I’ll see he does, the nurse replies, I hope you’ll cure me, sir, he cries, Of nettle-rash. There, in the gas light, far from gay, Spotted, but beautiful, he lay, And from the boys both near and far The question fell, like a falling star— How’s nettle-rash? Anonymous.

Young Lambs to Sell. The Lamplighters were scudding fast, As thro’ some half-blind alleys passed, A man who bore thro’ muddy way— A Tray with a most strange display, “Young lambs to sell.” His face was seamed, his bleary eye, Told tales of tankards, oft drained dry; The words were partly said and sung Which fell from his outlandish tongue— “Young Lambs to sell.” The Landlord cried, you’d better stay; The rain will wash your wares away, The wind will blow them up sky high, But loud and shrill he still did cry— “Young Lambs to sell!” “Oh, stay and drink” the Toper cried; “They’ll chalk me up a can inside.” His ferret eye a twinkle gave, But constantly he tipped the stave— “Young Lambs to sell.” “Beware the Peeler’s truncheon thick, Nor sleep on kiln of baking brick; You are a fool that won’t take treat.” A voice replied far up the street “Young Lambs to sell.” D4. upon his nightly round, The Merchant in a corner found; Upon his tin legged flock he lay, His open mouth still seemed to say, “Young Lambs to sell.” There, in the bull’s-eyes shining round, Dead-drunk and muddled was he found; And soon the lockups grim inside Contained the leary one who cried “Young Lambs to sell.” From The Free-Lance, Manchester.

U-Pi-Dee. The shades of night were coming down fast, U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, When through a Roman village pass’d U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. A youth who’d had champagne in ice They’d marked him with this strange device, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. His hat was bad his eyes were black A short tail’d coat adorned his back, And like a cracked Pianner rung The accents of this unknown tongue:— U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. Try not the pass the old man said Does your mother know you’re not in bed? He took the old man by the nose, And said one word which I suppose Was: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. “O stay!” the maiden cried, said she U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. We’re all just a going to sit down to tea U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. A wink was in the bright blue eye, As he said with a hiccough or a sigh, Oh, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. Remove the flags if you fall pat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, I say young man I’ll have your hat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, This was a cabman’s last good night, When a voice from somewhere out of sight Said, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. 252 Now you want a moral to my song, To know what is right and what is wrong, Don’t get champagne upon the brain, Or else instead of speaking plain, You’ll say: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. Night passed, and in the morning gray, He was found fast asleep by Policeman A, He asked his name, he turned him round In the pocket of his coat a card was found; It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. About a quarter past six the next forenoon, A man accidentally getting up soon, Heard utter’d above mid snow and ice, This remarkable song in a very weak voice, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. He’s dead, defunct, without any doubt The lamp of his life is entirely out, In the snow and the ice he now is laying, So it aint any use any more to be saying, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

A Christmas Pantomime. “The shades of night were falling fast,” As through the streets of London passed, A youth who trudged through snow and ice, Stamped on his heart the fond device, Loved Arabella! His coat was rough, his hat was sleek, The frost had nipped both nose and cheek; But as he walked he softly sung, Those words so often on his tongue, Loved Arabella! To Camden Town try not the way, The snow has fallen thick to-day: This was a comrade’s last good-bye, But bold he said “For her I’ll try,” Loved Arabella! “Oh! buy my chestnuts baked and warm,” A damsel cried, then touched his arm; A longing look was in his eye, But still he answered with a sigh, Loved Arabella! About the pantomime he’d read, Of fays and sprites, so onward sped; For to these scenes of festive light He’d vowed to lead his lady bright, Loved Arabella! The villa reached he saw the light Of chandelier and firelight bright, While on the blind he traced a shade Like that of his long worshipped maid, Loved Arabella! E’en as he gazed, beside her came A hated rival, “Jones” by name: One she had sworn no more to meet, Nor even bow to in the street, False Arabella! Above her head he held a spray— A sacred plant, ’twas once, they say, Then under this protection base, He bent and kissed her blushing face, False Arabella! The outside lover shook his fist, To choke his rival much he wished, For acting such a traitor’s part, And stealing thus his fair one’s heart, False Arabella! A moment later he was there, Glaring at the detected pair; With words of anger sharp, but few, He bade the maid a last adieu, False Arabella! Then on he went, for well he knew That maxim old, and yet so true— “There’s always good fish in the sea,” And therefore maids more true than she, False Arabella! London Society, Christmas Number, 1867.

Ye Poor Mahdi! The shades of night were falling fast As Mahdi through El Obeid past; He said good-bye to all his wives, Which caused a thousand stifling cries— Ye poor Mahdi! His brow was sad; his blessed eyes Were gazing steadfast on the skies; And from a weak consumptive chest; There came a voice of piteousness— “Ye poor Mahdi!” In Cairo’s Hall he saw the light; Of Gladstone laws, as dark as night, And in the merchants’ faces gazed, And saw that they too Gladstone praised, Ye poor Mahdi! “Try not this scheme,” good Randy said; “A scimitar hangs o’er thy head, For England hates thee, she’s so proud;” But a voice answered, “I’m quite cowed,” Ye poor Mahdi! “Stay,” cried an angry Custom’s Clerk, “You pay £5 to leave this barque; And if you don’t, why we shall paste On H.M.S. right round your waist”— Ye poor Mahdi! Beware, ye girls of Kensington, Beware that man called “Number One.” Thus warned our friend left Charing Cross With nearly all his money lost. Ye poor Mahdi! 253 At early dawn as servant maids Were nodding to their soldier slaves. A voice ran through the Castle shrill “Where’s Dr. Gull? I am so ill.” Ye poor Mahdi! An Eastern, in a lumber room Was found reclining on a stool, He raised to Heaven his bony hands And said, “Why crossed I desert sands?” Ye poor Mahdi! There dead and cold the Mahdi lay The servants round cried “Lack-a-day.” And then in coffin strong and fast They placed this son of desert vast. Ye poor Mahdi! From The Mahdi’s Diary, 1884.

Air—“Excelsior.” The mail train blew its final blast, When, dashing frantically past The barrier, rushed a breathless man, Who muttered ever as he ran— “Ten thousand pounds!” His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed To burn like fire, so bright they gleamed; And as all watched him disappear, The echo of a voice rang clear— “Ten thousand pounds!” All Europe soon he searched—in vain He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain, Alas! he found not him he sought, And vocal grew the luring thought— “Ten thousand pounds!” “Off to the east I’ll go,” he cried: “I’ll roam the deserts far and wide, I’ll Search the Sphynx, the rivers swim, To get my damages from him— “Ten thousand pounds!” One day the Mahdi’s army saw A man armed with a writ of law, And as in terror wild they fled, They heard the mystic words he said— “Ten thousand pounds!” Tradition doubtless will declare He’s been seen here, there, everywhere; And unborn savages will speak Of him who ceases not to seek— Ten thousand pounds. Funny Folks, January 31, 1885.

The Great Demonstration. Should you ask me why this hubbub, Why this motley-garbed procession, Filled with parties somewhat blatant, Bearing sundry gaudy banners— Like to banners borne by “supers”— Why these strains of weird-like music Fill the air on Easter Monday?— I should answer, I should tell you, “Tis the partisans of Orton— (Orton, that much-suffering martyr), Headed by their chief, Kenealee, Better known as Doctor “Dewdrops”— He who represents the people In the senate of St. Stephen. Often has he swayed his “gingham” When orating from the platform. Oh, the wicked judges fear him, And the Press with terror trembles When he mightily denounces Sundry falsehoods journalistic! See, they stay at Nelson’s column Waiting for the great contingent: Followers of Magna Charta From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch, From the Western Seven dials, From the Southwark Southern suburb, From the Northern wilds of Hoxton! Yea, assembled in their thousands (Well, we’ll say about two thousand), Enter they the gates of Hyde-park, And Kenealee, from his chariot, Speaks to them in silvery accents. Lo! they make a conflagration With an execrated journal, And the crowd, dispersing slowly, Seek the publics close adjacent, There to quaff their pots of porter— Porter, their belovèd liquor; There to puff their shag-tobacco, And, amid the fumes ascending, They will prate of him in Dartmoor. When the time shall come for quitting, They’ll depart with gait unsteady, Shouting in their native jargon, “We the people har of Hingland!” Fun, April 26, 1876.

Should you ask me whence this Chieftain?— Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong?— I should answer, I should tell you— From the realms of lake and forest, Where the mighty Saskatchàwan And the Kaministaquoiah Drain the happy hunting valleys; Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux, Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet, Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers, Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash; From the lakes of Manitoba, Winnipeg and Winnipags, Pickcògasi and Pàquash, Dòobiaunt, Wéenìsk, Wheldyàhad, From the shores of Athabasca, From the Land of the Ojibways. Should you ask me what he looks like— Wears he feathers and mocassins, 254 Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint, Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife, Musket quaint or modern rifle, Like to sitting Bull or Big Snake, Chingachgook, or Outalassi, Leather stocking’d Natty Bumppo, Hiawatha, Paw-puk-kewis, Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle) Died thro’ wooing sweet Awh-mid-way Beautiful as Minnehàha?— I should answer. I should tell you— Pahtahquahong Chase, the chieftain, Wears no feathers nor mocassins, Wields no tomahawk nor scalper, But a black suit and white choker, On his head a silk broad brimmer, In his hand a stick for walking, He has turn’d him from the war-path, He has buried deep the hatchet, Gives us sermons ’stead of war-whoops, And the Pale-face is his brother; Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong From the realms of Lake and forest, From the happy hunting valleys, From the land of the Ojibways. Walter Parke, The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, March 30, 1881.

The Song of Cetewayo. (With Apologies to the Noble Hiawatha.) Far across the big-sea-water— Which is sometimes termed the ocean— To the lodges of the pale-face Comes the gentle Cetewayo. (Lady Florence trisyllabic Makes the name of her odd hero; But, to suit this bards convenience, And his transatlantic measure, Pray let him say “Cet-e-wayo.”) If you ask me “Why ‘the gentle?’” I shall answer, I shall tell you, I shall pity you and tell you, ’Tis because he is a savage, Who by force compelled his people To become a tribe of cut-throats. Furthermore, because our brothers He has slaughtered by the hundred. Now, however, being captive, Very small and mild he singeth— Talks no more his spears of washing In our blood, or eating us up. That is why we call him “gentle,” And a lot of names as pretty, (“We” are Lady Florence Dixie, And Natal’s least Christian Bishop, Arithmetical Colenso; Also aqueous Sir Wilfred, And a varied mob of other Dames hysteric of both sexes.) So we bring him o’er the ocean— Otherwise the big-sea-water— Feed him up like any porker; Lodge him, and the British uni Form encourage him to scoff at. * * * * * Soon as a “distinguished stranger,” He will gaze down on the Commons— Gaze upon his friends and patrons— While beside him Shepstone Junior, Meekly nameth each one thusly, In a sort of Zulu-English; Yonder sits the aged chieftain, Gran-dole-man-o, whom the To-rees— Wicked race, who love their country!— Liken to the eel that wriggleth. Near him bideth Dil-ki-kilkee, Speaker of the thing which is not, With the mighty Ver-no-narker, Like some would-be dignified hip— Popotamus by your rivers, Far away see Carlisle’s Willfee— Pal o’-yours, my Cetewayo, Who’s so very fond of water That he puts it in his speeches, Till he drowns all his ideas, And his hearers think he has none.” * * * * * Thus, methinks, will Shepstone Junior Prattle to the “dusky Monarch” As he gazeth on the Commons, Or in greasy state “does” London, But if any one should ask me Why we’ve brought this big “He nigger” All across the big-sea-water— This sounds better far than “ocean”— Why we’ve coddled him and dressed him In a garb that once was glorious, I should answer, I should tell him, I should shake my head and tell him, That I’ve not the least idea, And I fancy no one else has! G. G. Evening News, Aug. 4, 1882.

The Printers’ Hiawatha. Should you ask us why this dunning, Why all these complaints and murmurs, Murmurs hard about delinquents, Who have read the paper weekly, Read what they have never paid for, Read with pleasure and with profit, Read the church affairs and prospects, Read the news, both home and foreign, Full of wisdom and instruction; Read the table of the markets, Carefully corrected weekly— Should you ask why all this dunning: From the printer, from the mailer, From the kind old paper-maker, From the landlord, from the devil, From the man who taxes letters With the stamp of Uncle Samuel— Uncle Sam the rowdies call him— From them all there comes a message, Message kind, but firmly spoken: “Please to pay the bill you owe me.” Sad it is to hear the message, When the funds are all exhausted When the last greenback has left us When the nickles all have vanished, 255 Gone to pay the toiling printer, Gone to pay the paper-maker, Gone to pay the landlord’s tribute, Gone to pay the clerk and devil, Gone to pay the faithful mailer, Gone to pay old Uncle Samuel— Uncle Sam, the rowdies call him— Gone to pay for beef and Bridget, Gone to pay the faithful parson. Sad it is to turn our ledger, Turn the leaves of this old ledger, Turn and see what sums are due us, Due for volumes long since ended, Due for years of pleasant reading, Due for years of anxious labour, Due despite of patient waiting, Due despite of constant dunning, Due in sums from two to twenty. Would you lift a burden from us? Would you drive a spectre from you? Would you have a pleasant slumber? Would you have a quiet conscience? Would you read a paper paid for? Send us money! Send us money! Send us money! Send us money! Send the money that you owe us. Printers’ Circular.

With breeches thread-bare and worn. With jumper running to seed, An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut, Smoking his favourite weed. Puff! Puff! Puff! “Oh! When shall I rise from this state?” And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, He sang the song of his fate. “Ride! Ride! Ride! While the cock is crowing aloof! And ride, ride, ride Till the stars shine through the roof! It’s oh, to be a super Along with some Western swell, Where man has never a stiver to save, But sometimes gets a spell. “Ride! Ride! Ride! Till my boots are rusty and worn! And ride, ride, ride! Till my breeches are tattered and torn; Plain, and gully, and range, Range, and gully, and plain, Till over the saddle I fall asleep, To waken and ride again. Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs! Oh! Squatters with fattening plains Not feet alone are you wearing out, But you’re sowing rheumatic pains! Twitch! Twitch! Twitch! I feel it in all my bones, Sowing at once with a double stitch, Colonial experience and groans. “But why do I talk of rheumatics? That phantom of aching bone; I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the spills I reap.[67] Oh! that runs should be so dear, And overseers so cheap! Ride! Ride! Ride! My labour never flags: And what are its wages? Forty a year, And these two wretched nags, This mutton chop, and this damper queer— A stretcher, a ’possum rug, And so wretched all that the traveller here But seldom shows his mug! “Count! Count! Count! The thousands of every flock, Count, count, count! Till I’ve counted my master’s stock; Ewes, and wethers, and lambs, Lambs, and wethers, and ewes, Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed, And my shins are all in a bruise. Snip! Snip! Snip! When the shearing season’s come, And snip, snip, snip! But never a keg of rum! Curse, and squabble, and row, Row, and squabble, and curse, Till my eyes are blackened, my ‘claret’ drawn, As well as my private purse. “Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the Royal Hotel in town; A prime manilla in my mouth, Whilst I knock my earnings down! Oh! but for one short month, To spree as I used to spree, Before I knew the super’s berth, In the days when I was free! 256 “Oh! but for one short week!’ A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or lush, But only time for grief! A little drinking would ease my mind, But in its secret lurk The grog must stop, for every drop, Would hinder station work!” With breeches threadbare and worn, With jumper running to seed, An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut, Smoking his favourite weed. Puff! Puff! Puff! Oh, when shall I rise from this state? And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark— Would that its wail would reach Long Clarke— He sang the song of his fate. Mark Pringle Stoddart. Canterbury Rhymes. Christ Church, New Zealand, January, 1853,

In a room up a squalid court, Where “tramps” sleep three in a bed, Where the baby sleeps by the sick man’s side, And the dying beside the dead; Rich! Rich! Rich! Your feelings perhaps may be hurt, That a woman there, to a dolorous pitch, Should sing this “Song of the Dirt.” Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! From basement up to roof, And dirt, dirt, dirt, Where sickness stands never aloof. It’s oh! to dwell and toil With the heathen Esquimaux, To batten on filth and oil, If Christians should live on so! Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! On ceiling wainscot and floor, And dirt, dirt, dirt On sidepost, lintel and door. Stench, and fever, and death, Where huddle the young and old, Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep By the side of the corpse just cold![69] “Oh! men with thousands a year, Oh! men with mothers and wives, Oh! read that report, and think of our sort, Oh! think of our bestial lives. Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! Can such as we grow good, When filth is around us, night and morn, In sleep, work, drink and food? “But why do I talk of dirt, Where nothing else is known? I hardly know the foul thing’s form, It seems so like my own. It seems so like my own— While three in a bed we sleep, Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear, While water and soap are cheap. Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! We cannot sleep on the flags, So together we herd in our fetid dens, And fever nurse in our rags,— Small-pox, fever, and cough, Where the slimy vapour doth reek, Where children are born near the livid corpse, That cholera killed last week? Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! In the cold December night, And dirt, dirt, dirt When summer days are bright, When God’s blessèd winds do blow, Like a message from bygone years, From the broad green fields at home, Till I wash my face with tears! “Oh, for one breath of air, Away from this sick’ning smell, Where the only flowers we ever see, Are the flowers we cannot sell, Which we hawked in the street all day, Till hunger our cheeks doth blench, And we bring ’em home to wither and die, And fragrance fades into stench!” Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

The Song of the Student. With body weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A young man sat, and a longing glance Was thrown on his lowly bed. Grind, grind, grind, Till your head is like to break; Work through the livelong night, For your honour is at stake. 257 Grind, grind, grind, Till the brain begins to swim; Grind, grind, grind, Till the eyes are heavy and dim. Homer, Virgil, Euclid, With numerous others, I ween, Till over my lessons I fall asleep And get them all in a dream. O Dominies, why do you give, Such lessons for students to get? ’Tis wearing out their precious lives By keeping them up so late. Grind, grind, grind, Throughout the livelong night; This harassing cannot be borne, For it passes human might. * * * * * Grind—grind—grind, In the dull December light; Grind—grind—grind, And work with all my might! But oh! if, while I work, The seeds of death are sown, What profit will it be If honor’s all my own? * * * * * Oh! but for one short hour To close my weary eyes, But visions cross my mind Of losing every prize. A little sleep would ease my limbs And cool my aching head; But I must not think of ease or rest When stretched upon my bed. With body weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A young man sat, and a longing glance Was thrown on his lowly bed. Grind—grind—grind, Till your head is like to break; Work throughout the live-long night, For your honor is at stake. Fin. Aberdeen University Magazine, June, 1854.

The Song of Exams. With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill, A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill— Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams, And still, in a croak no crow could match, he sang this “Song of Exams”:— “Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof, And work! work! work! while the cats serenade on the roof; It’s oh! to be a slave with the most unspeakable Turk, Who neither professors nor colleges has, if this is Christian work. “Work! work! work! till the head begins to swim; And work! work! work! till the eyes are heavy and dim— Mathematics, and logic, and phil., philosophy, logic and math., Till with props. and deductions the brain is crammed, and no sensibility hath. “Oh! Profs., with well-lined nests!—oh! Profs., with incomes good! The solutions of your questions stiff are solutions of brains and blood— Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams, Writing at once, with our heart’s best blood, death warrants as well as exams. “But why do I talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone; I hardly fear its terrible shape, it seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, because of the way I sweat, And oh! this session of endless toil is not nearly ended yet. Work! work! work! my labour never flags; And what’s it all for? a mortar board, a gown to be torn in rags; This shattered health, a head growing bald prematurely, at end of my name To write M.A., for one brief day, in the papers to win some fame. “Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime, And work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime— Philosophy, logic, and math., mathematics, and logic, and phil., Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, and I have to take a pill. “Work! work! work! in the dull December light; And work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright; While underneath my window “caller haddies!” the fishwives screech, And, of course, no boots are handy, and the coals are out of reach. “Oh! but to breathe the breath of a glass of barley bree, With my heels upon the mantel-piece where no such heels should be; For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel Before I knew of the awful fag of climbing the Spital hill. “Oh! but for one short hour, a respite however brief, Just leisure enough to get a nip, and a smoke of the fragrant leaf; A little strong language would ease my heart. A little enough, I think, To oblige the recording scribe below to get a fresh bottle of ink.” With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill, A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill— Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams; And still in a croak no crow could match (Would that the ear of some Prof. it could catch!) He sang this “Song of Exams.” From Alma Mater, Aberdeen University Magazine, February 4, 1885.

With a voice that was hoarse and low, Then shrill as the night wind’s shriek, A woman, weary with want and woe, Wan, and worn, and weak, 258 A woman sang this song: Oh, that into men’s hearts it would sink This song of anguish, and ruin and wrong, She sang this song of the Drink. “Gin, and brandy, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, Till the eyes are blind, and the tongue is dumb, And the heart is rotten within. O men, with souls to be saved, O men, drawing living breath, It is not liquor you’re pouring out, But misery, ruin, and death.” * * * * *

The Song of the Wheel. A man in a factory far away Is polishing burnished steel, And still, as he works the live-long day, He sings the song of the wheel. Oh, I make them smooth and I make them bright, And many the miles they run, As they skim along in the dusky night Or onward fly in the morning light, Ere the day is yet begun. Much joy there is with lightning speed To traverse the gleaming snow, Or over the waters a race to lead, But the joy of a ride on the silent steed The wheelman alone may know. * * * * * And still in the factory far away, The man is polishing steel, And still throughout the live-long day, He sings the song of the wheel. Springfield Gazette.

With system weary and rack’d, With nerves all shattered and sore, A sponge lay full of petroleum soap, Wishing existence o’er! Soap, soap, soap, With every squeeze and plunge! And still with a voice half drowned and faint It sang the song of the sponge. O you who “tub” each day! O men, and sisters, and wives! They are not sponges you’re squeezing up, But fellow creatures’ lives! Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, With each agonising plunge! Squeezing at once, with cruel hand, A nerve as well as a sponge! * * * * * O but to feel the wash Of the free, wild wave again! With the glorious sea above my head, And no hand to give me pain! O but for one short hour Of that glad old life of mine! Before I knew the woe of soap, And its horrors alkaline! * * * * * With system weary and rack’d, With nerves all shattered and sore, A sponge lay full of petroleum soap, Wishing existence o’er! Soap, soap, soap, With every squeeze and plunge! And still with a voice half drowned and faint— Would bathers could only hear its plaint!— It sang the song of the sponge. January, 1885.

Our heads have met, and, if thine smarts Like mine, you hope they won’t again. Friends who saw the painful scene Laughed till laughter grew a pain. I only know we bumped them once, I only know we looked insane: Our heads have met (mine seemed in parts).— I hope they’ll never meet again. Then we fell, but lent a hand To raise each other from the wet. My head’s alter’d form above Prevents my hat from fitting yet. Friends no doubt we seemed to be, And pardon begged in phrases set: Our heads have clashed, and still mine smarts,— I would our heads had never met.

Reminiscences of a “Grinder.” I remember, I remember, The garret where I GROUND, While slowly on the wheels of time The circling hours went round, As rendering Tully’s florid page, Or Virgil’s polished lay, I lengthened out the weary night To meet the weary day. I remember, I remember, How hard I strove to SHINE, But always some superior LIGHT Arose eclipsing mine; Another gave a better Phrase, Or fairly struck me dumb, By showing I’d erred in mood and tense, With Qualis, Quis or Quum! I remember, I remember, Those versions, three per week, Which I did strive, as few have striven, To write in Attic Greek; Yet oft the Doctor by mistake, Though never by design, Gave better marks to idle rogues, Who copied theirs from mine. I remember, I remember, The X.’s and the Y.’s O’er which I frequent toiled in vain, Till slumber sealed my eyes; The pentagons, the polygons, The spheroids and the planes, The conjugates and ordinates, Which nightly vexed my brains. 259 I remember, I remember, Linnæus and Jussieu!— I own I never learnt their lists, And never mean to do; But still, my College chums would hint That my unhonoured name Might yet be known to naturalists, And rival theirs in fame. I remember, I remember, My castles in the air; The honours, wealth, and fame, I dreamt Would recompense my care— “O, these,” thought I, “will flow on me In one continued stream;” But time has ope’d my eyes to see The folly of my dream. Aberdeen University Magazine, April, 1854.

The Age of Sighs. One more unfortunate Laid on the shelf; Loveless—without a mate, All by herself. Speak not too tenderly, Kiss her with care, For awfully vain is she Now, as once fair. Gaze on her lineaments! Fingers like filaments! Poor hopeless creature, Stamped on each feature Is grief and despair. Look at her there, Braiding her hair— How she caresses The fast thinning tresses, Dreaming that some still consider her fair. Was she a beauty once? Yet could not ensnare Never a stupid dunce Into her lair! Had she no sweetheart? Had she no lover? Had she no dearer one Still than all other; Nearer and dearer one, Coming to bother? Yes, by the dozens She counted her cousins, Once a young milliner, With as much sin in her As milliners now possess; Equally fond of dress— Craving for show, Throwing her kisses And smiling—the sinner— At all the young coxcombs Going to dinner. Now, never a smile Gets she all the lone while Where’er she may go. Alas! for the scarcity Of masculine pity? Oh! ’tis most pitiful Near a whole cityful Beau she had none Sing we her requiem, Never a man to come Now to console Her desolate soul. Hope is all gone! The Owlet, 1868.

1885. Old Year, unfortunate, Fatal in trust; To many disconsolate, Fatally bust. Ope the Bank carefully, Ope, if you dare, People’s deposits Are very scarce there. Think of it tearfully, Think of it fearfully. No watch this Christmas? Last year, I declare, A watch I could wear; But now it is naught, It is gone, It is bought; It is hung at my uncle’s With gems and carbuncles. For the Savings Bank bust, Wherein was my trust, And it scattered my fortune And brought me to crusts. Turn the key carefully, Swing back the door. See the securities Lie on the floor. At least that’s where they should be, And that’s where they would be, If— The chief’s speculations had turned out all right, And the chief’s peculations had ne’er come to light, Why— The bonds would lie there on the floor, But— They lie there no more! Old year!—eventuate! Fatal in trust, To many unfortunate Fatally bust. Detroit Free Press.

Mariana on the Second Floor, Waiting for her Lodgers. (Another subject for the Pre-Raphaelites.) With polish bright the coffee pots Were newly cleaned up, one and all, And hooks and pegs were screwed in lots, To hold the hats in the entrance hall. The drugget was still clean and strange, Unhampered was the Bramah latch And unconsumed the congreve match Beside the new-set kitchen range. She only said, “The Season’s dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, When will the great rush come?” Upon the middle of the night Waking she heard the cabs below; Some gents sang out before ’twas light— From Smithfield Bars the oxen’s low Came to her in a fit of gloom, In sleep she dreamt of beds forlorn, Till carts and busses woke the morn About the lonely furnished room. She only said, “It’s very dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And yet no lodgers come!” About a stone’s throw from the wall, A man with blackened features swept, And round him, large and small, Ill-manner’d boys for mischief crept. Hard by an organ’s dismal moan Play’d worn-out tunes of nigger airs, And mock’d with “Sich a gittin’ up stairs;” Yet no one came to mount her own. She only said, “It’s very dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And yet no lodgers come.” All day within those lonely walls, The maid kept clean to let folks in; The lilac blew i’ the grate; the squalls Of coop’d up children did begin; Yet no one came a room to seek, No strangers waited at the door, No lodgers viewed the second floor, No people asked, “How much a week?” She only said, “It’s very dreary, They do not come,” she said. She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And cannot let a bed.” The men who came to mend the roof, The tax collector, and the sound Which to the weary maid aloof The pot-boy made, did all confound Her sense, but most she loathed the hour When all the last up-trains were in Without the lodgers, and the din Of wheels began to lose its power. Then said she, “This is very dreary, They will not come,” she said, She said, “I am aweary, aweary, Why won’t they hire my bed?” The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, 1851.

The cats were mewing in the street, With many a mew of love’s delight; Policeman X’s heavy feet Returning marked old Time’s dull flight, While, as the laggard hours wore on, In nightcap, in her wretched room Waiting until her husband come, Sat Mary Anne in tears alone. She only said: “I’m very weary, He cometh not,” she said; She said—“And if he cometh beery, He’s sure to punch my head! Her tears fell all that bitter even, As sighing she sat there alone, She ’gan to weep at half-past seven, And she was weeping there at one. After the flitting of the bats, She gazed adown the dreary street, But nought her aching sight did meet, Save one policeman and two cats. She only said, “My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said, “And if he cometh beery, He’s sure to punch my head!” About the middle of the night, She heard a key clink in the latch, She went to take her spouse a light. He cursed her first, and then the match. A wretched life—no hope of change— Even in her sleep she is forlorn, In tears at night, in tears at morn Like her within the “moated grange,” She only said—“Dear John, I’m weary. You break my heart,” she said— He hiccuped forth—“Best not come near me, Or I shall break your head!” 261 About a mile from that sad home Our river’s sluggish waters creep; She sought that bridge where wretches come, To woo oblivion dark and deep, Maddened by patient love’s despite, With haggard cheek with salt tears wet, She stood upon the parapet, And glared a last glance on the night. Once more she said—“My life is dreary, Oh! aching heart and restless head, Love long has lost all power to cheer me, But soon I shall be dead!” A downward plunge—one stifled scream,— No more she’ll watch, and weep, and sigh, She sank beneath the gurgling stream, Whose murmers were her lullaby! Oh! think awhile on lives like these: Why should the rich alone divorce? Why drive the poor from bad to worse, Because of Doctors’ Commons fees? For many a Mary Anne’s aweary, Oh! widowed wife—oh! lonely bed; And many a husband reels home beery, To punch his poor wife’s head! Yet these must live in hate together, Because they’re poor—they can’t afford To snap their galling, golden tether; While you, my lady, and my lord, As neatly as you can your clothes, Can change your names by process easy, Ye pay your fees—and, an it please ye, Adieu for aye to taunts and blows. The poor wife only sighs: “I’m weary, He cometh not to bed;— Death only can divorce me dreary, Oh! would that I were dead!” Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

The Owl’d Yarn. When the cats were home, and light was come, And dew was cold upon the ground, Outside a door, with stop bell dumb, A whirring wheel has stopped its round. A whirring wheel has stopped its round. Alone and warming, by rubbing, his hands, A “night-riding wheelist” shivering stands. In vain he tries to “click the latch,” To move the door that bars his way; A lecture from his dad he’ll catch; “We rode all night” has had its day! “We rode all night” has had its day! While he knows that the tale has too often been told, He stands there still trying and shivering with cold. R. P. Hind, “Harberton,” Torquay. Wheeling Annual, 1885.

Yule-Tide. Sit we in the ancient hall, Oh, my gracious! Listening to the nor’ wind’s squall, Oh, my gracious! Thrice our empty flagons fall, Ten good wassail bowls withal, Oh, my gracious! The hours wax long, and then grow small, Oh, my gracious! The hours were long that had been short, Oh, my gracious! When like babes our homes we sought, Oh, my gracious! Was I led by rage or sport. To offer fight for level quart? Oh, my gracious! Know I not but that I fought, Oh, my gracious! ’Neath the gas-light’s feeble flutter, Oh, my gracious! Like a roll of helpless butter, Oh, my gracious! Lay I in the filthy gutter, Till my kinsmen on a shutter, Oh, my gracious! Raised me in prostration utter, Oh, my gracious! They with solemn step and slow, Oh, my gracious! To my habitation go, Oh, my gracious! Did my bosom’s partner show Pity in my abject woe? Oh, my gracious! Or commiserate me?—no! Oh, my gracious! The Hornet, January 3, 1872.

Ah, yes, I ’members what you say, Hoary Anna. I often tinks about dat day, Hoary Anna, Which robbed me of a lubbin’ wife An’ changed de current ob my life, Hoary Anna, An’ cut me up wuss den a knife, Hoary Anna. You used to lub me ’ears ago, Hoary Anna. Dat’s when I ’gun to dig an’ hoe, Hoary Anna. Dem eyes wuz ’tractive speres to men; You wuz a lubly nigger den, Hoary Anna. I wish dem times wuz here agen, Hoary Anna. We used to meet us in de dusk, Hoary Anna, When Massa slep’ upon his busk, Hoary Anna. Dat mouf wuz roses ob de glen; Lord bless dose ’ours dis nigger spen’, Hoary Anna. I wish Gem cheeks wuz dat agen, Hoary Anna. 262 I stoled out by de stars pale light, Hoary Anna. De boss wuz fast asleep dat night, Hoary Anna. I clustered top de water tub, An’ whispered o’er de wall my lub, Hoary Anna, With nuffin’ but de stars above, Hoary Anna. Dis heart kep’ tickin’ loud and fast. Hoary Anna. Dis nigger wuz in lub at last, Hoary Anna. Dis soul wuz bustin’ wid my bliss, You must hev’ seed dem sighs I guess, Hoary Anna. Dat Cupid’s darts warn’t made to miss, Hoary Anna. I ’voked dem stars, den ’voked de Lord, Hoary Anna. I ope’d dese lips to say de word, Hoary Anna; When—glanced dat cussed lid aside, An’ dropped your lubbin’ Sam inside, Hoary Anna. Your Sam what woo’d you for his bride, Hoary Anna. You sclutched me by dis curly pate, Hoary Anna. Dem curls wuz small, dat strenf’ wuz great, Hoary Anna. Dis wool most nobly stood de strain, I scrawled dat cussed tub agen, Hoary Anna, Dat duckin’ had not cured de pain, Hoary Anna. Dat lid was fixed what warn’t secure, Hoary Anna. Dat dampin’ made me lub you more, Hoary Anna. It could not squench de fire wid’in It only bust it out agen, Hoary Anna. I’d ’gun dat race an’ meant to win! Hoary Anna. You blushed at what I goed to do, Hoary Anna. Perked on dat lid I knelt anew, Hoary Anna. De boss just come a creepin’ sly, Then dropped your Sam one in de eye Hoary Anna. Dat cussed lid—an’ den—good bye! Hoary Anna. I tried to scramble up de top, Hoary Anna. De boss he said. “I guess you’ll stop,” Hoary Anna. He bobbed me down, den bobbed agen, Jes’ let me out as life wuz spen’, Hoary Anna. You wuz a lubly nigger den! Hoary Anna. Benjamin D——. His little Dinner, 1876.

Idadæca. Coals are again announced to rise, Idadæca: I cannot half believe my eyes, Idadæca. Here, as I grope, and freeze, and hark The listless curs ayont me bark, Idadæca, At the great moon that gilds the dark, Idadæca! Ah, when will these things have an end, Idadæca? I call to thee, as to a friend, Idadæca. Already prices range so high, I cannot with my income, buy, Idadæca, Food, light, or fuel; no, not I, Idadæca. So in the dark I starve and freeze, Idadæca: I hear the knocking of my knees, Idadæca: There is none other help for me, Nor will there ever likely be, Idadæca, Except I find that help in thee, Idadæca. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Idadæca: How I wonder what you are, Idadæca: On ledge, on wall, on window frame, In spots unknown, in haunts of fame, Idadæca, I see huge placards with your name, Idadæca. Oh, say whatever can you be, Idadæca? The Governor-general of Fiji, Idadæca? Some horse’s name, some favourite foal, Or, may be, (peace, my panting soul), Idadæca, Some good cheap substitute for coal, Idadæca? Some new-style “dolman” for the spring, Idadæca? Another “Idyl of the King,” Idadæca? Some highly-recommended tea? Or, (hence, ye frisky fancies, flee,) Idadæca, Another Ouida novelty, Idadæca? Alas, I cannot make thee out, Idadæca! My mind is clouded with a doubt, Idadæca: But Time, which raises bards to fame, (And murder,) I suppose the same, Idadæca, Will solve the mystery of thy name, Idadæca. Samuel K. Cowan. Kottabos. Hilary Term, 1881. Dublin, William McGee, 18, Nassau Street.

Randy Pandy. (As sung by Sir Stafford Northcote.) My heart is wasted with my woe, Randy Pandy; There is no rest for me below, Randy Pandy: I went my way and still would go, For slow and sure, and sure and slow, Randy Pandy, That is the only way I know; Randy Pandy. There came a wise man from the East, Randy Pandy; Most wise of men, as you are least, Randy Pandy: We made him leader, lord, high-priest, And did his bidding till it ceased, Randy Pandy: The tribe of Benjamin increased Randy Pandy. He passed away, we know not where, Randy Pandy; And named me for his lawful heir, Randy Pandy: But Salisbury said, “We’ll share and share;” He took his pick, and called it fair; Randy Pandy— He knew he had no business there— Randy Pandy. * * * * * I cannot stand your mad displays, Randy Pandy; I cannot bear your wilful ways, Randy Pandy: They trouble all my nights and days, They shatter all the hopes I raise, Randy Pandy— Why will you set the world ablaze, Randy Pandy? If feud there be you make it sore, Randy Pandy; If peace, you leave it peace no more, Randy Pandy: Where lay a sleeping foe before, You wake him up to hear him roar, Randy Pandy: You make me swear who never swore, Randy Pandy. And when the Grand Old Man begins, Randy Pandy, To lay about our heads and shins, Randy Pandy; You make a joke of all your sins, Forgetting he may laugh who wins, Randy Pandy: You think the moment meet for grins, Randy Pandy. Would I were safe where Salisbury sits, Randy Pandy! And he were here to deal his hits, Randy Pandy! So might I calm my troubled wits, So might he smash you all to bits, Randy Pandy! Come, happy fate that best befits Randy Pandy!

“The last long day of Bumbledom had ceased, And all the myriad miles of street and square That form this busy London where we live Became one city: all whose myriad hordes Flocked to the polls, and of their fittest men Chose a great Council Metropolitan, To whom the law gave charge to rule and keep This vast imperial London.”

Block, block, block; Whatever the bills may be: Of all the blockheads alive or dead There’s none to compare with me. O well for the bore and his bill, That he makes his speech while he may! O well for the man with a fad, That he says his little say! For the stately bills are read, And they sweep along with a will, Till they feel the touch of a brandished hand, And the voice of their movers is still. Block, block, block: O the havoc is fine to see! For the cool repose of a true block-head You must always come back to me.

Miss Matilda Johnson Jones. Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, You and I at length must part; There are things call’d paving-stones, You have got one for a heart. When you hear the roaring sea Making wild and wond’rous moans, You may sit and think of me, False Matilda Johnson Jones. 264 Young Matilda Johnson Jones, Pride has made you what you are; Though I think my lineage owns Better men than your papa! On the field of Waterloo My sire and grandsire left their bones; But what is that to me or you? Ask your heart, Matilda Jones. Well I know you, Johnson Jones, You at times are very sad; And your broken spirit groans Over what it might have had. ’Tis in vain—your fickle soul My much nobler soul disowns; You have taught me to control E’en myself, young ’Tilda Jones. Oh! Matilda Johnson Jones, What is all this wayward life? Tears and laughter, gifts and loans, Joy and sorrow, peace and strife. If I could have shared with thee Either cottages or thrones, Both had been the same to me; But ’tis past, light-minded Jones. Young coquettish Johnson Jones, If beloved you still would be, Go to one a heart that owns, You have stolen mine from me. Give it back,—ha! ha! ’tis here, But ’tis hardened into bones; Feeling’s dead, and so is fear, Kind Matilda Johnson Jones. Gilbert Abbott à Beckett. George Cruikshank’s Table Book. 1845.

The Mer(ry)man. Who would be A Premier bold, Standing alone, Shining alone, For the world to see, In purple and gold, Close to the Throne? I would be a Premier bold, I would play the potentate all the day; I would chuckle and crow with a voice of might; But all in the dark I would flirt and play With the caucuses in and out of the towns, And the sly little conclaves, out of sight, That manage the polls and marshal the clowns. All the caucuses, great and free, Would loyally take their cue from me, Steadily, steadily; Then I would blaze away, away, And the Tories would yield and the Whigs say “Yea,” Readily, readily. * * * * * The Banquet, W. Blackwood & Sons, 1885.

Song: The Lord Mayor. You must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear, To-morrow’ill be the happiest day that I have had this year; That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor! There’s nine-and-twenty Aldermen, and Sheriffs too galore, There’s Common Councilmen as well, you reckon by the score; But none will be so grand as me of all the lot, I swear, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor! O sweet is the first fur-edged gown that councilmen put on! And sweeter is the scarlet robe that aldermen may don; But what is there in all the land for sweetness can approach To putting on the Lord Mayor’s chain, and riding in his coach? Seven bands will go with me to-morrow all the way, And cavalry will me surround in all their grand array; Whilst men-in-armour caracole and trumpets loudly blare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor! I lay awake the other night and thought of what was nigh, And my new flunkeys’ liveries I saw in my mind’s eye; The menu of my banquet, too, was present in my mind, And up the terrace came a smell of turtle on the wind. I thought it must be fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, And then I fancied some one spoke, I know not what was said; But my mouth watered, and delight took hold of all my mind, And up the terrace came again the turtle on the wind. “What can it mean?” said I; “in truth the odour’s very fine,” And if it comes three times, thought I, I’ll take it for a sign. And sure enough it came again, though closed my window bars; Then seemed to change to venison till my bedroom smelt like Carr’s. From that I judge the banquet will be good to-morrow night; I’ve called at Ring and Brymer’s, and I’ve seen a glorious sight! They’ve never known, or so they say, their turtles run so fat; And I consider that the sign I smelt referred to that! So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear, To-morrow’ill be the jolliest day that I have had this year; That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor! From Finis.

Call me Early, Mother Dear. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow will be the happiest day of all the glad new year, To-morrow will be the happiest, the maddest, merriest day, For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May. 265 I must wear my new kid slippers and my charming muslin dress, And every one who sees me will admire my loveliness; They’ll weave a garland fair for me, they’ll weave a garland gay, And I will be crowned the Queen, mother, crowned the Queen of the May. Prepare the mustard plasters, mother, a mustard bath likewise, For chill the wind blows though the sun is shining in the skies, And in this dress so very thin, no shawl around me rolled, I know that while the sport goes on I’ll catch my death of cold. My new kid slippers, too, are thin, although they look so sweet, And dancing on the dewy grass, I know will wet my feet; But I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May, So make the mustard plasters hot to fight Pneumon-i-a.

Russia to England. You must wake to catch me early, very early, brother, dear, The day you do will be the longest of all the circling year, Of all the circling year, brother, if you my plans would baulk, For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk. There’s many a shrewd countree, they say, but none so shrewd as I, There’s Germany and England, there’s France and Italy, But none so shrewd as Holy Russia, from Caucasus to Cork, So I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk. You sleep so sound and safe, brother, I hope you’ll never wake, As in the Eastern Empires my day begins to break, But I must gather countries, peoples, over Asia stalk, For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk As I move to the southward, what think ye that I see, But Herat, leading to the lands that must belong to me? It knows my hungry look, brother, I watch it like a hawk, But I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk. It knows I am no ghost, brother, although my Tzar is white, And I move to it slowly creeping, like the morning light, They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not how they talk For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk. Choice Chips, May, 1885.

A Dream of Fair Drinking. * * * * * At last methought me I had wandered near Wines in the wood; Old Tom and mountain dew Shone in pale splendour, cheap, and yet so dear As one to love them grew! I paused upon the threshold, all apart, As some stray bird upon an ocean drift, Unstirred by any wave, save when my heart Yearned for its morning “lift.” And from within me a strange undertone Thrilled thro’ my bosom with a wish for wine,— “Pass freely!—these in wood may be thine own, Dry, sweet or superfine!” I looked—and saw a lady within call, Brow bound with golden ringlets standing there; And women, if they draw man’s wine at all, Draw it extremely fair! Her loveliness, her figure, and her eyes Froze my quick speech: she, turning round her head, Smiled, saying, “Sherry wine’s about your size!” And all my doubting fled. * * * * * I drank myself to sleep;—and so I lay Prone on the bosom of the Strand for hours, Till life stirred briskly, and, at early day, I wakened—before Flowers. Judy, May 5, 1880.

First Prize. It little profits that with boundless powers, Divine and human, I extend my sway, From Finland southwards to the Chersonese; Or that mine armies eastwards (like the tide O’er low-laid littorals) flood all the steppes From Caucasus to Khiva, till no khan But dreads, and hopes, and dreams, and thinks of me. How fruitless are my efforts! I have given Unasked, with hand unstinting. I have risked Defection of my nobles, that my poor Might rise and bless me. But unshamed they crave For ever more concessions, till I see That license ranks as liberty, and law And order seem but forms of tyranny. 266 I cannot journey but a hundred knives Attempt my life; I cannot sleep or eat Within my very palace but the floors Rise to assault me, and the walls resound With treacherous murder’s dread artillery. This is my son, a true bred Romanoff, To whom I leave my labours and my crown: His years are fewer; and the sapling grows The stronger for the bondage, whose restraint Would kill the tree. It may be that mine age Has made me too unbending, that my thoughts. For ever travelling in the same sad course, Have worn themselves such grooves within my brain As ceaseless care has graved upon my brow, And cannot change their channels. Ye, my friends, Who love me for my virtues, or in spite Of vices,-who with me have borne the brunt Of turbulent sedition, and the blows Of faithless friends and open enemies,— If life be grudged us for the few short years That yet remain, away, and let us seek Some deed of noble note, and let our foes Feel that our souls are yet alive in us, Invincible in courage, strong in will, To fight, to win, or, winning not, to die. APIS MATINA., The World, March 17, 1880.

Lay of Boxing Night. Attributed to Alfred Tennyson (But not believed to be his). Proudly stalking o’er the pavement, as the clock is striking one, Go the nine good men and valiant, who the glorious deed have done; And they laugh with all their vigour, till the narrow courts resound, The policeman hears the tumult, and he turns his lanthorn round. And their course they still continue, and their laughter is not o’er, Till they all come to a standstill at lion-knocker’d door. There they thump with noise so mighty, that they make the neighbours wake, Till a dull-eyed damsel opens, who appears but half awake. Then a lighted room they enter, where great works of art are found, Color’d prints of Esmeralda, and of Elssler hang around. Plaster statuettes, by Danton, stand the chimney-piece along, From a hook above the wainscot hangs a cornet-à-piston. And—a better sight than any—there a table, too, was placed, With a mass of native oysters, and a can of porter grac’d. Oh! so prime appeared the oysters, that they charm’d the eyes of all, For the fat part was so milk-white, and the beard so very small! But how vain is earthly beauty—lovely things must pass away, For the oysters soon are swallowed, and the girl takes off the tray. Yet new pleasures follow old ones; thus the damsel reappears, And a Jug of boiling water with her dingy fingers bears. Then a brace of labell’d bottles were upon the table seen, One glowed deep with noble brandy, one was pale with humble gin; When they all had “mixed” at pleasure, proudly rising o’er the rest, Stood the chieftain of the party, and his comrades thus address’d: “We may well be proud, my brethren, we a noble deed have done; ’Tis the virtue that delights me, to say nothing of the fun. “Against private friends and clacquers, we have fought the cause of right, We have dar’d to damn a pantomime upon a boxing night. “’Twas a horrid ‘Introduction,’ as you all, my brethren, know, And the pantomimic business only made the thing more slow. “All the tricks were void of humour; all the songs were sorry rhyme, Sum up all, we never witness’d such a wretched pantomime. “Though the audience bore it calmly, yet they knew as well as we, That so dreadful a concoction they had never met to see. “But they dar’d not speak their minds out—they believed it was a crime, A most horrid profanation to condemn a pantomime. “Five-act plays without a scruple they have driven from the stage, They have whizzed off tragic actors in a hurricane of rage; “On burlesque and one-act farces they could fell destruction bring, But a pantomime, my brethren—it was quite another thing. “Ay, at harlequin they trembled—it was we and only we That from bonds of superstition could the British public free; “We have rent apart the fetters, that were forged by ancient time, Yes, my friends, upon a boxing night, we damned a pantomime. “We stuck firmly to our purpose, when the clown said ‘Here we are!’ We with laughter did not greet him, but we rais’d the shout of war. “When the manager came forward, and some mercy bade us show, We subdued all softer feelings, and we sternly answered ‘No!’ “When the clown had sung ‘Hot Codlins’ we prevented an encore, And we ceased not opposition till the pantomime was o’er. “Then at last the public join’d us—on our side was ev’ry voice, And the wretched thing died hardly in a hurricane of noise. “I am sure successive ages will our mem’ries ne’er efface, We shall live on future hist’ry, and give lustre to our race, “And our sons shall say, a cent’ry hence—or perhaps a longer time, ‘Gallant spirits were our fathers, for they damn’d a pantomime.’” From The Man in the Moon.—1847.

Lincoln’s Inn. Comrades, leave me here a minute, for it is not five o’clock, Leave me here, and when you want me, you will find me at the Cock. 267 ’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the smoke-cowls spin, Dreary gleam the dirty windows, never cleaned in Lincoln’s Inn. Lincoln’s Inn that from its chambers overlooks a grimy square, With some blackened stubby bushes, killed by smoke and want of air. Many a morning from my office, have I heard the dirty boys, Shouting “Paper” down the area, in the full delight of noise; Many a night I’ve watched the gas-light—all around a dazzling host, Gleaming like a lot of glow-worms, stuck by bird-lime on a post. In the Spring a lighter paletot is by Messrs. Nicoll made; In the Spring a young man’s neck is in a brighter tie arrayed; In the Spring the Opera opens, and an order may be got; In the Spring the oysters finish, as the weather gets too hot. Then I saw her dress was smarter than the other Cranbourne girls, And her eyes gleamed softly on me, shaded by her glossy curls, And I said, “Dear Amy Johnson, wilt thou my own sweetheart be? For, my pretty bonnet builder, I am much in love with thee!” Love toss’d off the glass of time, as though it had been only gin, Love dwelt in those dreary chambers three pairs up in Lincoln’s Inn. When my master had departed, and I felt unwatched and free, Would my Amy come to see me, and assist in making tea. Many a Sunday by the railway did we go to Hampton Court, When the chestnuts were in blossom, and the days were not so short; Many a Sunday on the water, made we inexpensive trips, Talking then was not the only use to which we put our lips. Oh! my Amy, Amy, Amy! Oh! my Amy, mine no more! Oh! the dreary, dreary Sundays; Bushy has become a bore. Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me thus to drop To a man with lots of money, but who keeps a retail shop? Yet it shall be! thou shalt lower still, in spite of all his pelf, Till from sad reverses you may have to sweep it out yourself. As the gent is, so the lady; thou art mated to a snob, And he’ll sink thee to his level, in a cheap Excursion mob. He will treat thee, when he wearies on thy jaded face to look, Something better than his strop, but more as if thou wert his cook. What is this? His speech is hazy—think not he has had too much. Go to him—it is thy duty—you re his wife—behave as such. He will answer to the purpose—perhaps he’ll murmur “It’s all right;” Better thou wert dead before me, though I gave thee arsenic white! (The rest of the MSS. is so blotted with tears as to be illegible.) From The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech. August, 1851.