WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 14)

St. Stephen’s Revisited. Comrades, leave me here a little, I have thoughts you cannot know; Leave me, gentle ghosts, to ponder on the days of long ago. ’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the brawlers brawl, Dreary bores about St. Stephen’s vying for the Speaker’s call. Many a night from yonder benches, when I longed to be in bed, Saw I not the great Orion, but the Grand Old Man instead. Saw I not the starry Pleiads, but the meteor stars that fade, Flashing for their little moment, passing into outer shade. Here about the floor I waited, when I knew my youth sublime, Waited for the time to ripen, for the very nick of time— Then I dipped into the future, far as one keen eye could see, Saw the Vision of an earldom, and the garter round my knee. In the spring the little chicken only just has left the shell, In the spring that little chicken thinks himself a precious swell. In the spring a boy’s ambition leaps at once to summer heat, In the spring a young man’s fancy very seldom plays the cheat. Then my cheeks were white and waxen, thoughtful too for one so young, Black on brows of snowy marble then my silken ringlets hung. Yet on pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, When I met the jeers that mocked me, with a spoken scorn outright— Saying from a height prophetic, “You shall hear me by and by,” Saying, to the stoutest champion, “We shall meet at Philippi.” Many a morning saw me famous, many a night more famous still, Great to lead the grateful Tory, bold to bend him to my will. * * * * * O St. Stephen’s, false and fickle! O St. Stephen’s, mine no more! O the weary, dreary benches! O the aching, quaking floor! Is it proper not to scold thee? having known me—to decline On this spurious Gentile Joseph, in the screw and Caucus line? * * * * *

WHITTINGTON. By Alfred Tennisball. (N.B.—No connexion with “I waited for the Train at Coventry,” &c.) I waited for the boat at Hungerford; I hung with snobs and swells upon the bridge, To watch the muddy water; there I shaped The City’s ancient legend into this:— * * * * * Not only we of Eighteen Fifty-seven, Smart men that, swift as streak of lightning greased, Make and spend “tin”—not only we that prate Of progress, learning, and “Excelsior,” Have loved ourselves full well and turned up trumps At life’s great game of whist—but surely he “Did more, and underwent, and overcame,”— The wight of some few hundred summers back, Whittington, ’prentice erst to some dull cit, Some wheezy councilman—who worked him hard, And gave him the allowance monkeys have, More kicks than half-pence—and, when asked for more, Showed him the street, and kicked him into it With turned-up toe, saying “Begone and starve!” He sought relief in vain, for in those days Were no “relieving officers”—his thoughts Turned to his childhood’s home, far, far away, Embowered in tufted trees where cooed the dove, Where sang a chorus sweet of jenny-wrens, Tom-tits, and gay cock-sparrows—and he said, “It must be so—farewel, ambitious dreams,” (“Farewel,” he would have said, “to all my greatness,” But he had never gentle Shakespeare read, Nor seen the play of England’s bluff King Hal Performed at the Princess’s). “So, farewell— Clown was I born, and to clod-hopping life I must return”—and then he ’gan to snivel, And wipe his nose upon his jerkin’s cuff; (For his were days when Manchester was not, And dear were pocket handkerchiefs). Then this poor boy wound slow his mournful way Towards Highgate’s hill—and up the steep ascent Toiled wearily—yet deem not him alone, For at his heels there walked a faithful friend, A gentle quadruped—a fond Grimalkin Who purred between her master’s weary legs, Till he looked down and saw her at his feet, And wept at such four-footed sympathy. So with their honest backs to London town These twain toiled valiantly up Highgate hill. They sat them down at last—for Whittington Was very hungry—and on bread and cheese In equitable portions dined they then. But up he starts—and lo! what is’t he hears Clanged with great shock of sound from distant bells Of Bow in Cheapside? Say they rightly thus? “Return! return! great Whittington return! Thou shalt of London’s City be Lord Mayor!” Such were the words—or hope was much mistaken— Such were the words. Backward again they hied, He, and his cat, the solace of his sorrows, As partner of his joys—but, if she thought That such a Co. could long exist, methinks The poor Grimalkin then was slightly “sold.” But I am speaking rather in the tense Hight Paulo post-futurum. To my theme: Backward he hied—re-entered London town, Obtained employment as a quill-driver, A very drudge for three long bitter years; But still the cat sat ’neath his stool by day And slept upon his truckle-bed at night. Now Whittington’s employer was a merchant, Who sent forth ships to trade beyond the seas One of his captains saw—admired the cat, And with her sailed to China, land of dirt, Rice, lorchas, pigtails, ivory deftly carved, And ladies with short toes bent backward. Soon Made he acquaintance with the Emperor, The brother of the Sun and Moon, celestial “swell, First cousin to the Stars; for in those days Men craved not introduction—Bowring then Had not been sent out as Ambassador, Nor Seymour to bombard their tin-pot towns. Now it so happened that this Emperor’s Imperial snuggery was overrun With mice who stole the delicate tit-bits From off the table of the Stars’ first cousin, And cats till then in China were unknown, And Whittington’s Grimalkin had three kittens, And so the Brother of the Sun and Moon Purchased the cat of Whittington for a sum Which would content me for my lease of life, Invested snugly in the Three-per-Cents. The Captain homeward sailed to England’s shore, And paid his sum to Whittington—so he Became a sucking Crœsus—bought and sold, And “rigged the market” like our “bulls” and “bears,” Became a man whose name across a bill Drew ready cash—then Sheriff—then Lord Mayor, And built himself an everlasting name: And of his acts if more ye wish to learn, Are they not written in the picture books Of Messrs. Darton upon Holborn hill! As for his cat—I’ve little more to tell. Save that she lived and multiplied her species For the great Brother of the Son and Moon; And her descendants, worthy of their dam, E’en now are mewing loud in great Canton, Unless that stout Drawcansir, Chinese Yeh, Hath poisoned the poor innocents because Their ancestress was British! C.O. Tait’s Magazine, 1858

Fragment. He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Tennyson.

A Parody. The cup with trembling hands he grasps, Close to his thirsty lips he clasps, Ringed with its pewter rim-he grasps. The Eddying floor beneath him crawls, He clutches at the flying walls, Then like a lump of lead he falls. E. B. Iwan-Muller.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! sleep! sleep! My babe, I speak to thee; And, oh, could I put on paper The thoughts that occur to me! Oh, well for my dear little boy, Who shouts in the garden all day! Oh, well for my little girls, Who sing to their brother at play! But the baby still screams on, Let his mother do what she will; And it’s oh, could I get him to understand! And O that his voice would be still! Sleep! sleep! sleep! My babe I speak to thee; The quiet peace of a bachelor’s bed Will never come back to me. The Mocking Bird and other Poems, by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.

The Lost Joke. Good! good! good! Was the joke I heard last night, And I would that my tongue could utter The words of that joke aright. O, well for good memory’s aid That it passes old tales in review, O, well for the ready wit That can palm a stale joke as a new! And that cheerful yarn is gone, And the words I remember not, But O, for a guide to that vanished tale, And a clue to that joke forgot! Good! good! good! Is the story whatever it be, But the comic point from my memory fled, Will never come back to me. Judy, December 10, 1879.

A New Irish Melody. (As Sung by the Premier.) Talk, talk, talk, In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”! And I would I might utter the language That sometimes occurs to me! O well for Lord B. that he sits As a Peri among the Peers! O well for the Radical “Reds,” With their “warnings,” and worry, and jeers! And the stately Whigs go on Demanding a moderate Bill. But O for a prison for Parnell and Dillon, That the Land-Leaguers’ voice may be still! Talk, talk, talk, In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”! But the tender grace of your style just now Shall never bamboozle me! Punch January 22, 1881

Wake! wake! wake! In thy Northern land so free, And our eloquent leader utters A protest for you and me. Oh, well for Midlothian’s sons That they shout with him in the fray, Oh, well for our British lads, For we know he will gain us the day. And the Franchise war goes on, Though the Lords would have us be still; But, O, for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man, When the people have their bill Wake! wake! wake! To the war-cry of “Liberty!” And slav’ry’s old despotic days Shall never return to thee. Richard H. W. Yeabsley.

Warm Weather. Thirst, thirst, thirst! As I sit all day by the sea; And I would that the weather were colder, For it’s much too warm for me. And “Brandy and water” is “raw,” And “Brandy and soda” is “sloppy;” And its oh for five dozen of “natives” or more, And a “magnum” of “fizz” that is froppy. Ice, Ice, Ice! For the milk, the butter, and cream! And I would I might sit “for never” In comparative shade and dream. But the stately Eds. go on. Should they not get their copy in time; But hang it! the Mercury’s 99°, Which is even too hot to rhyme. Judy, September 21, 1881.

A Reminiscence of Redcar. Broke, broke, broke, By thy pitiless shores, O sea; And I grieve that my tongue should utter The groans that arise in me. Oh well for the hunter’s soul, Had he stopped at home that day, Oh well had he taken some lovelorn lass And spooned in his boat on the bay. For the favourites all go down, And I haven’t the price of a gill; And it’s oh for the touch of that vanished gold, And the tick of a watch that is still. Broke, broke, broke, By thy damnable crags O sea! And the tender faith of the Hebrew race Once more must be tempted by me. The Sporting Times.

Who Breaks Pays. Break, break, break, My china and glass. Oh she Wouldn’t like to hear me utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the lodging-house cat That at present it’s out of the way; O well for the plump page-boy That he didn’t take down that tray. 270 And the breakages go down To their haven in the dust-bin; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a rivet knocked in; Break, break, break, At the foot of the stairs. Oh she! Can’t expect that the whole of her wages Will be paid this month by me. The Age, June 27, 1885.

April Love. By a young Tory, after Tennyson. [Lord Randolph Churchill was expected back from India in April, 1885.] Gladstone hath us in his net. Dizzy’s gone—can we forget? Many sessions rise and set, Many a chance the years beget, Northcote muffs ’em all, you bet. Even so. Fruitlessly we jar and fret, Dizzy is a vain regret, E’en Hicks-Beach is in a pet. Censure votes fall idle yet, Where is Randolph? We forget? Ah, no! no!!! Funny Folks, 1885.

The Song of the Flirt. With many a prank my “ma” may fret— She wants me to be steady; But all her counsels I forget— For fun I’m ever ready. I go to many a rout and ball, And “star” it all the season; I stay at many a country Hall, And plot fresh plans of treason. I ride my bay mare in the “Row,” I go to fêtes and races; To croquet parties too I go, Sought out midst all “the graces.” I make men prisoners evermore By giving them my roses; I get love-letters by the score, And baskets full of posies. I toss my head and arch my neck, And they are plunged in sadness; I smile and with my finger beck, And they are filled with gladness. The strings are many to my bow; My followers fail me never; For men may come and men may go, But I flirt on for ever! Judy, September 4, 1867.

The Mont Cenis Train.[71] (In the line of the Laureate.) [Written 1868.] O train, he says, O trundling train, says Edmund in his rhyme, How go you? and the train, why not? replies— I leave the station, make a raid With sudden upward sally Upon the height—no lady’s maid, To bicker with a valley. Up thirty hills I mount amain, Or slip between the ridges, And sometimes find the hills made plain, Like David’s Psalm by Bridges.[72] Again the flat I seek below (No reference to you, Sir), And so men come, and so men go, From San Michel to Susa. I clatter o’er the stony way, A natural base of boulders, I raise the dust—what better trait In railway for shareholders? With many a curve aloft I toil, I rush o’er stream and runnel; And many a fairy foreland spoil With corrugated tunnel. I clatter, clatter to and fro Over Mont Cenis gaily, And men may come, and men may go, Vide time tables, daily. Though tired my wheels, I never tire, I carry young swells gay-geared: And here and there a lusty sire, And here and there a grey-beard. And here and there fair maidens take Upon me as I travel, Who many a gazer’s heart-peace break With chignon’s golden ravel. I bear them all along. Who knows Of more gallant endeavour? When WOMAN comes and WOMAN goes, I’d fain go on for ever! I steal through clouds to glacier’s height, In metres out do rhymers; And have the deadly peaks in sight, Which grew for Alpine climbers. I slip, I slide as I come down, My fit of peak being ended, Then glide into the little town To which my course has tended. I murmur under moon and stars. And under provocation; I rail against the rail là bas, The Gallic excavation, Well, should that oust me, as I know They’re wishing, from Mont Cenis, All men may go to—Jericho, And Frenchmen may be—bènis. Mrs. Gutch.

The Song of the Flirt. “I come to wage a war on men, None can withstand my sally; With me no man, that I can ken, E’er dared to ‘shilly-shally.’ “Full thirty Harries have been mine, And twenty-seven Neddies; A hundred John’s, of Herberts nine, And quite three-score of Freddies. 271 “Though all the rest I do not know, In spite of my endeavour; Yet men may come, and men may go, But I’ll flirt on for ever! “With many a slight I fellows fret, With many a smile I ‘draw’ them; And make them, ere I’ve done, regret Full sore I ever saw them. “I chatter, chatter! dont I, though? And some my talk call clever; And men may come, and men may go, But I flirt on for ever! “I run about, go in and out, Men’s hearts the while assailing; And some each week, I do not doubt, Think of me with bewailing. “I’ve booked of foreigners a few, When I have chanced to travel; And left them in a pretty stew, My conduct to unravel. “I draw all men along, I know, And that is my endeavour; And men may come, and men may go, But I flirt on for ever! “I steel their hearts with subtile plots, Not one my game discovers; They give me sweet forget-me-nots, And think they are my lovers. “I smirk, I smile, I glimpse, I glance, My moods are most ‘adaptive;’ I ne’er a valse or gallop dance, But what I make a captive. “I murmur out on balconies, And ‘spoon’ upon staircases; I like to see men on their knees, I put up with embraces. “And if they kiss me, well-a-day, The liberty I pocket; ’Twould be unkind to say him ‘Nay,’ Who’d given me a locket. “So on I mean to go the same, Though some may call it folly; And long as I my charms can claim My hope is to be jolly. “Let those who will do all they know From flirting me to sever— Whilst men shall come, or men shall go, I will flirt on for ever!” From Finis.

The Corn. (A Birmingham Ballad of the 14th Century.) I come when boots are small and stern, And make a sudden sally, To mar the lordly strut, and turn The trips of every ballet. Then fast and suddenly I grow With many a painful quiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever. I make men scream o’er stony ways, In screeching sharps and trebles, And make them swear in maddened rage, When slipping on the pebbles. With many a twinge their soles I fret, Soles arched and soles built shallow, And many an imprecation get From lips with pain grown sallow. I shatter comfort as I grow, The best of tempers shiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever. I wind about, and shoot and sprout, Keen anguish dire entailing, While here and there a swear and shout, Each precious unavailing. And oft-times, too, I make them quake, As o’er loose stones I travel, And make them with emotion shake Upon the new-laid gravel. I agonise them all, and go To make the strongest quiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever. I steal ’neath toes and in between, I slide where toe cap covers, I slink where p’raps a bunion’s been, But now no longer hovers. I twinge, I throb, I shoot, I prance. When damp about is lying, I make my victims fairly dance, When rain about is flying. And out I’ll neither come nor go, From feet I’m hard to sever, And they may cut and they may mow, But I grow on for ever. From Ye Old Brum and ye New, by Jayhay. Houghton and Hammond, Birmingham, 1878.

The River. A Steamboat Version. I puff, and roar, and shriek, and blow, Along the crowded river, For men may scull, and men may row, But I steam on for ever. Now crowd the towing-path along On foot and in the saddle, Of cads and swells a giddy throng, Yet still I onward paddle. And up the stream I gaily go Upon the sunlit river. For men may scull, and men may row, But I steam on for ever. And in and out I curve and glide, No other vessels fearing, And go full speed adown the tide, A reckless, wild course steering. I fizz and clatter as I go Fast up and down the river, For men may scull and men may row, But I steam on for ever. I turn astern, and back, and stop, With pant, and snort and clatter, As down mid-stream I gaily drop With rushing, dashing splatter. 272 I puff and roar, and shriek and blow Along the crowded river, For men may scull and men may row But I steam on for ever. Judy, April 2, 1879.

The Song of the Steam Launch I steam from snug up river lairs, I make a sudden sally, And spread dismay among the “pairs,” Which by the rushes dally. On tiny craft I love to dash (As swallow darts on midges): The women scream as down I crash, And swamp them by the bridges. Ay, helter-skelter, on I go, Adown the crowded river, For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever! I drown with my shrill whistle’s scream The blackbird’s piping trebles; I churn up mud and foul the stream Above the tide-worn pebbles. With many a wave the punts I fret, My wash engulphs them neatly; I many a dainty lady wet, And spoil her dress completely. I clatter, splatter, as I go, A-muck upon the river, For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever. I twist about, dash in and out, T’annoy some merry party; And here and there receive a shout Of malediction hearty. Yes! here and there the worm may turn, And curse me as I travel; But victims, as a rule, I learn, Are far too scared to cavil, Or check me as along I go, Upon the crowded river, Where tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever. I steal by lawns when all is dark, Glide close to reedy covers, And there cut down the tiny bark, That bears the heedless lovers. I start, I dart, I screech, I blare, I belch forth coal-black vapours; I make the angry oarsmen swear To write to all the papers. I murder quiet ’neath the stars; For any mischief willing; I cut away young yachtsmen’s spars; Treat anglers to a swilling. The loveliest scenery I spoil, On beauty lay embargo; I reek with blacks and engine oil, I carry cads for cargo. I swill, I kill, I hoot, I snort, A nuisance all declare me; A river demon I disport, Yet you’ve to grin and bear me! Yes, on again I wildly go, To curse the crowded river; For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever! Truth, August 11, 1881.

The Sherbrooke. (Not by Tennyson.) I come from haunts of statesmen hard, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out a life-long bard En-thu-si-as-ti-cally. My life has run o’er stony ways, I’ve seemed all sharps and trebles; But now I mean to wring the bays From critics hard as pebbles. I on my Peer’s soft cushion fret, Because my life seems fallow, But ah! the “glowing Muse” shall yet Show me less sour and sallow. I steal away from Whiggish plots To Poesy’s green covers, I try my hand at true-love knots, I sing for happy lovers. I rhyme with Hudibras’s dash (Who fancied me all iron?) With here a touch of Canning’s flash, And there a tone of Byron. I sing Swiss glaciers, southern stars, Australian wildernesses, I sneer at old Colonial jars, And Antipodean messes. I fancy my old foes will quake, As this new path I travel; I think my rhymes the bards will shake, And all the critics gravel. Bravo, Bob Lowe! for do you know I think this dodge is clever, For Statesmen come and Statesmen go, But Bards live on for ever! Punch, May 23, 1885.

A Lay of Lawn Tennis. (By a Lawn-Tennysonienne.) With rackets poised against the foe, We scorn the shining river; Though other games may come and go, Lawn Tennis lives for ever. We roam the verdant lawn about, Our skill seems unavailing; For, sometimes in and sometimes out, ’Gainst fortune we are railing. We chatter in our eager ways, In merry girlish trebles; We rush for many a ball that strays Across the pathway pebbles. 273 We play upon the grassy plots, The “Court” the garden covers; We wear the blue forget-me-nots, Like Tennyson’s young lovers. We skip, we slide, with many a glance, As swift as eager swallows; And as the gay balls bound and dance, The ardent player follows. We murmur when the stern net bars The ball, we shake our tresses; We’ve played beneath the moon and stars, As many a girl confesses. And how to “screw” and “twist” we know, The “Service” to deliver: For other games may come and go, Lawn Tennis lives for ever. Punch, August 8, 1885.

The Worrier and his Wife. Home they brought her worrier, dead— Dead as any mummy he— So they thought, and so they said; But his helpmate—what said she? “Dead? I only wish he was! He is only extra tight! Too much liquor is the cause Of my husbands senseless plight! “Put him down—oh, anywhere!— Not upon the sofa—no! Drop him on the carpet—there! Now I’ll thank you all to go!” One by one they slowly went; Then she locked and barred the door, Then—above her worrier bent, Frowned and smiled and crossed the floor. From a corner back she tripped, Knelt beside her helpless mate, And, with scissors, clipped and clipped, Till he had a hairless pate! Then she rose and left him there— Left him there, and went to bed— Left him there without his hair, With his hair around him spread! In her bed she lay and slept, On the floor he passed the night… In the house for weeks he kept— Sober—hairless—such a fright! Not in vain was he deprived Of his glossy locks, I trow: With new hair new strength arrived— He’s a pledged abstainer now! C. Johns.

Let me Lie Here. A Parody on “Ask me no more” in The Princess. Let me lie here; the rain may rot the tree; The undiluted essence of the grape May set my plastic countenance agape; For O, how frail, when out upon the spree. Let me lie here! Let me lie here: no dry old brewer’s sieve Had greater need of liquor than had I; Now like a boiling gooseberry floats mine eye, Let me lie here, for I would quite as lieve. Let me lie here! Let me lie here: the secret is revealed; Though I could wend with thee I am not fain; Do not, policeman, take me home again, I dread my wife and would remain concealed, Let me lie here! John Cotton.

Bugle Song. (After Tennyson—and Butler.) The slander falls in different halls Where sounds the somewhat stale old story: With wrath he shakes, and fearless makes, Like the wild cataract, “leaps in glory.” Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying; Blow, Butler; answer people!—“Lying, lying, lying!” O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going From Truth,—as far as he from scar— The doughty general’s reckless blowing! Blow, Butler! let us hear the working men replying— Blow, Butler! answer, people!—“Lying, lying, lying!” Your yarns, Ben, die in this State’s sky; They fail in hall, on bench, by river: The answers roll from poll to poll— “He lies for ever and for ever.” Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying; Blow, Butler; answer, people!—“Lying, lying, lying!”

The Light (Blue) Brigade. (The University Boat Race.) Half a length, half a length, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Thames Rowed the Eights, onward! “Go!” was the starter’s cry, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to win—or try; Into the valley of Thames Rowed the Eights, onward! 274 Steamers to right of them, Steamers to left of them, Steamers each side of them, Snorted and thundered! Cheered at by cad and swell, Boldly they rowed and well, Under Barnes Railway Bridge, On past the Ship Hotel, Rowed the Eights, onwards. O but the sight was fair, Flashed the oar-blades in air, Trying the rowlocks there, Rowing to Mortlake, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the steamer smoke, Fiercely in front they broke; Griffiths and Marsden; Strong was the Oxford stroke, Nobody blundered; Then they rowed back, but not As they rowed onward! Steamers to right of them, Steamers to left of them, Steamers in front of them, Snorted and thundered; Cheered at by cad and swell, While horse and Cockney fell, They that had rowed so well, Came through Barnes Railway Bridge, Back from the Ship Hotel, All that was left in them Since they rowed onward! When can their glory fade? O, the wild spurts they made! All the world wondered. Honour the spurts they made, Dark and Light Blue Brigade, Each worth a hundred! Fun, April 27, 1867.

The Gas Stokers’ Strike. Dark were the streets and wet; Out went each radiant jet, While all that passed or met Questioned and wondered. “Strike,” was the gasmen’s cry, Their’s not to reason why. Their’s to raise wages high, Pleasure and trade defy; Therefore the gasmen struck— Struck by the hundred. Darkness to right of them, Darkness to left of them, Darkness in front of them,— Every one blundered. Many an oath and yell On the fierce strikers fell; When to the gasworks came— Came to work swift and well, Another Six Hundred. Flashed all their elbows bare, Flashed all at once in air; Shovelling the Wallsend there, Filling retorts up, while Strike-men all wondered. Plunging in flame and smoke, Bravely the coals they broke; Strong was their pickaxe stroke. Loudly the public voice Cheering them thundered. Then to their beef and beer Rushed the Six Hundred. Strikemen to right of them, Strikemen to left of them, Strikemen behind them, Blasphemed and thundered. Stormed at with drunken yell, Boldly they worked and well, Rushing through flame and smoke, O’er piles of coal and coke, Saving from darkness then, Millions of Englishmen. Gallant Six Hundred. Honour the brave and bold, Labourers young and old; Long shall the tale be told, When by the gasmen “sold,” We were left undone. By the flame wearily, In the smoke drearily, On they worked cheerily. Lighting up London. Joseph Verey. The Hornet, December 11, 1872.

The Charge of the “Light” Brigade. “What Ho! there, lights; lights!” (Enter servants with a rush.) Old Play. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward; Till in valley of Lud, Pausing I pondered. “Forward the Light Brigade!” Charging my pipe, I said, Into the valley of Lud Rushed half-a-hundred. “Forward the Light Brigade!” Was there a lad delayed, Not though the mudlarks knew Nought could be plundered. Their’s s not to reason why, Their’s but to make him buy, “Wax” is their sole reply; Into the valley of Lud Rushed the half hundred. Cabmen to right of them, Cabmen to left of them, Cabmen in front of them, Holla’ed and thundered. Stormed at by “slop” and swell, Into the road pell-mell; Into the jaws of Death, Out of the paws of L, Wary policeman L, Rushed the half hundred. 275 Flashed all their ankles bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Tumbling in gutters there; Dodging the bobby, while All the world wondered. Bold in the matter o’ smoke, Right through the mob they broke, Mudlark and “crusher,” Reeled from their neighbour’s stroke Spattered and sundered; Ne’er till they’d served the “bloke” Turned the half hundred. Cabmen to right of them, Cabmen to left of them, Bobbies behind them Followed and thundered. But though policeman L On his proboscis fell, They knew the road so well Right thro’ the jaws of Death, Out of the claws of L All that was left of him, Slipped the half hundred. Long thrive their simple trade, Whatever tax be made, May they escape any; Honour the Light Brigade! Honour the Charge they made! ’Twas but a ha’penny.

Recitation.—The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin. By a Life Guards’ Officer. Half a league (more or less), Half a league onward; All in the moon’s pale light Rode the Six Hundred. “Forward!” cried Drury Lowe, “Goodness knows where you’ll go. I can’t see any foe.” Out into the pale moonlight Rode the Six Hundred! “Forward, Cavalry Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Or, so to speak, afraid? No; not a man drew back In all the Six Hundred, Theirs not to make reply (That they knew was muti-ny), Theirs not to wonder why No enemy was nigh, Theirs not (just then) to die. Out into the pale moonlight Rode the Six Hundred! Desert to right of them, Desert to left of them, Desert in front of them, Yet on they thundered; Whilst far above their head Bullets by dozens sped, Still not a trooper fled, Still not a man dropped dead, As into the desert wild Rode the Six Hundred! “Forward, Cavalry Brigade!” So ’twas their leader said, When, as the moon shone bright, Came the dread foes in sight, As to the left and right, Blindly they blundered. None at the guns would stay, Wildly they ran away; Whilst to their great dismay, Up dashed, in proud array, All the Six Hundred! Flashed then their sabres bare, Flashed as they turn’d in air, Halving Egyptians there, Slicing limbs off everywhere, Whilst “fellahs” wondered. Then, when of slaughter tired, They no more blood required, Copt or Egyptian, When they by valour fired, Plenty had sunder’d; Then they rode back again, All the Six Hundred! Desert to right of them, Desert to left of them, Desert behind them, Yet on they thundered; Storm’d by no shot nor shell, Nor horse nor hero fell, Whilst those who’d sliced so well, Came from they knew not where, Back, whence they could not tell, Back to their camp they came, All the Six Hundred! When can the glory fade Of this wild charge they made? Pish! what’s the Light Brigade, At which the world wondered? They didn’t all ride back After their wild attack; They lost one half, alack! Silly Six Hundred! Not so with our Brigade; They, when their charge they’d made, Rode back to their parade Still a Six Hundred!

The Chester Cup. Frenchman’s mare from over the sea, “Stradella!” Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians are we, But all of us French in our welcome of thee, “Stradella!” 276 Welcome her myriads of horses so fleet, Welcome her thundering cheers of the street, Welcome her champagne, cooling and sweet,— Scatter the bank-notes under her feet. Burst poor book-makers into sad tears, ’Tis victory, and the Frenchman’s cheers! Welcome her, welcome her, winnings of ours! Mather and Russell, don’t bustle there, Fluttering, sputtering, chattering so! Like rivulets let your gold-dust flow. Pencils of gold in the suns’ rays flare Put down your marks and to wit aspire, We feel the breeze, but we do not care. Flash, ye ladies, in champagne’s fire, You shall have gloves, and by her desire, “Stradella!” Frenchman’s mare, from over the way, If thou would’st go, yet thou must stay, Or such a bore you then would be! Oh, joy to the “gentry,” if you should win, No matter the “people” who lose their tin. Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians, we Goths, or Roodes, or whatever we be, We are all of us French in our welcome of thee, “Stradella!” P.S.—Frenchman’s mare from over the sea, “Stradella!” Since these ere lines I’d been and done, An English horse has been and won; And all my prophecy is void, For I forgot that “Asteroid.” From Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey. London, G. H. Nichols, 1863.

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know; and ev’ry sense Is trembling with the great Intense And vibrating to what we speak. We ask too much, we seek too oft, We know enough, and should no more: And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore And look to earth, and not aloft. A something comes from out the gloom; I know it not, nor seek to know: I only see it swell and grow, And more than this would not presume. Meseems, a circling void I fill, And I, unchanged where all is change; It seems unreal; I own it strange, Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill. I hear the oceans surging tide Raise quiring on its carol-tune; I watch the golden-sickled-moon, And clearer voices call beside. O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where sea-weeds shone; O Moon! whose golden-sickles gone: O Voices all! like ye I die! From “The Month,” by Albert Smith and John Leech. December, 1851.

Of old the murmurs of the Delphian shrine, The dry leaves fluttering in the Sibyl’s cave, The mystic lights that shone upon the gems Of Israel’s pontiff, and all prophecy Were for the few, not for the common herd. I, who have spoken to my co-mates stanch Foregather’d by our mast, have spoken words, ‘Here in this roaring moon of daffodil And crocus,’ which to them are clear as light, Though dark as night to them that stand without. Not dark to us, for we have trod the heights ‘Of hoar high-templed faith;’ and we do know, For we have traversed them with fearless keel, The ‘Seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt,’ And we may win a ‘golden harbour’ yet. But since we know well all that we do know, The cunning plannings of our busy brains, And e’en the meanings of the words we frame, Let it content all men that stand without That we do know exactly what we mean; Nor let them rashly for their private ends Construct interpretations of our speech. Anonymous.

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft seaworthy still, Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past, Our true co-mates regather round the mast; * * * * *

A Parody of the Dedication. In Memoriam.—A Collie Dog. “These to its Memory—since from all I hear It was a dog most dutiful and dear— These simple lines, in which will p’rhaps be found Some lasting image of a faithful hound, I to its mourning mistress consecrate, 277 Hoping therewith her sorrow to abate; Aye, hoping to console her for its fate, With mingled doubts and fears I dedicate These verses. “And indeed it seems to me A most ideal kind of dog to be Which she has lost; not highly bred, indeed— But who, with sense, cares aught for birth or breed? I, as a poet, such vain things despise, And hold them low as titles in my eyes; Enough to know the dog at heart was true To her that long as mistress fond it knew; So true, in sooth, that others oft it spurned, And with a savage snarl upon them turned When they, with dainty bribe or gentle pat, Would try to pass it, watchful on its mat. “It loved her only, and with bounty kind She in its favour e’er was much inclined Since first she sadly called it to her side When its dear master, and her husband, died; And, gladly finding it come at her call, Put trust in it thenceforward, all in all. * * * * * “Yet would I bid that mistress to take cheer, Nor mourn too much that dog which was so dear. Nor o’er its empty collar still to weep, Nor its void kennel still unfilled to keep. For though ’mongst dogs about her she detects No one like ‘Laddie’ was, in all respects, Yet, as the ocean yields, without a doubt, Fish equal to the best ones taken out, So, too, ’mongst dogs that have not had their day May be as good as that one passed away; Quite as devoted, quite as strong and true, And possibly less rough and awkward, too. “Let, then, the mistress of this much-mourned pet, If she another collie still would get, Learn that amongst the dogs that crowd around Another ‘Laddie’ may with ease be found. Which if not quite so roughly fond, indeed, May points as good combine with better breed.” Truth, February 14, 1884.

A Little. A little rift within the lute And discord mars the pleasing strain; A little tightness in the boot Excuses epithets profane. A little tip, a little bet, A little silver from the till; He does his little sentence yet, And little likes the prison mill. Dry as a little bit of chalk, In a small pub they share a quart; A little stagger in their walk Shows they topped up with something short. A little more, perhaps, than he meant —Men sometimes speak a bit too fast— One little word—she gives consent; Her little fish is hooked at last. R.H.B. The Sporting Times, June 27, 1885.

No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. Tennyson.

Too Soon. Scene—The Pit door of the Lyceum. Time—Ten minutes before 7.30 on a winter’s evening. O let us out, the heat stifles us sore, O pray open kindly behind us the door, Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet. “Too long,” groaned we, for that we do repent: Let us pass out, have mercy and relent, No, no, too soon, ye cannot get out yet. Fate made us soft: this shoving is no joke, Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke; Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet. With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop, Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop, You should not have called us names quite yet. Ah! Parodies, we’ve heard you are so sweet: O let us out to hear “Amens” repeat His soft “Dryhilldics.” No, too soon, not yet. The Tonbridgian. March, 1879. C. C. H.

Little Miss Muffet. A Tennysonian Version of the Popular Nursery Rhyme. IN STURDY ANGLO-SAXON. Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away! RESET AS AN ARTHURIAN IDYL. Upon a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss, Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed, To where a linnet perched and sung, And rocked him gently, to and fro. Soft blew the breeze And mildly swayed the bough; Loud sung the bird, And sweetly dreamed the maid; Dreamed brightly of the days to come— The golden days, with her fair future blent— When one—some wondrous stately knight— Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;” One, brave as Launcelot, and Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad, Should come, and coming, choose her For his love, and in her name, And for the sake of her fair eyes, Should do most knightly deeds. And as she dreamed and softly sighed, She pensively began to stir, With a tiny golden spoon, Within an antique dish upon her lap, Some snow-white milky curds; Soft were they, full of cream and rich, And floated in translucent whey; 278 And as she stirred, she smiled, Then gently tasted them, And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more. Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill— Near and nearer yet, there to her crept A monster great and terrible, With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes— Full many a long and hairy leg, And soft and stealthy footstep. Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet, All unwitting his dread neighbourhood, Did eat her curds and dream, Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung— All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt In a most sweet tranquility. Closer still the spider drew, and— Paused beside her—lifted up his head And gazed into her face. Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive To his dread eyes upon her fixed, Turned and beheld him. Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed, And straightway sprung upon her feet: And, letting fall her dish and spoon, She—shrieking—turned and fled. Free Press Flashes, 1881.

So you’re minded to curse me, are you, for not having let you be, And for taking the trouble to pull you out when your wife was drowned in the sea? I’m inclined to think you are right—there was not much sense in it; But there was no time to think, the thing was done in a minute. You had not gone very far in: you had fainted where you were found; You’re the sort of fellow that likes to drown with his toe on the ground. However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of abuse; As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use To a man who refused to see what sort of a world he had got To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not. I am not sure what you mean: you seem to mean to say That believing in hell you were happy; but that one unfortunate day You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife. That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all round— My creed and the know-nothing books—and that truth is not to be found, That’s sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right, And you’re a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight— Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die, Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry. Not that you’re really unhappy. I don’t think you ever were. Give you a poet’s corner, and a pipe and an easy chair, And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave way to despair, You might sell it at so much a line—but that’s quite another affair. Why in the midst of your whines it’s impossible not to see How anxious you are to show that you’re only attacking me, And that you’ve not a word to say against respectable people Who own no connection between my chapel and their church-steeple. You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to feel That your creed would have been much better if your Church had been more genteel. Why, man, we’re all in one boat, as every one can see, Bishops and priests and deacons, and poor little ranters like me. There’s hell in the Church of England, and hell in the Church of Rome: And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home. The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you. Many brave men believe it—aye, and enjoy life too. The know-nothing books may alarm you; but many a better man Knows he knows nothing, and says so, and lives the best life he can. If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely; The best path to it must be to bear life’s burdens bravely. And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man, Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can. In the world in which we are living there’s plenty to do and to know, And there’s always something to hope for, till its time for us to go. Despair is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought, Whether there is a God and a future state or not. If you really are such a wretch that you’re quite unfit to live, And ask my advice I’ll give you the best that I have to give. Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right; I’ll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite. The St. James’s Gazette. November, 1881.

Tennysonian Toryism Developed. First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to Tories every guest; Next toast our leaders men of “light,” In whose effulgence we are blest! May carping Churchills ever live, And Cecils “flout and jeer” for aye; That man’s the best Conservative Who best obstructs vile Gladstone’s sway. Hands all round! God the Lib’rals’ hope confound! To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round. Drink health to lords of high degree, Who strive to thwart the land’s desire; May our opponent’s fail, while we Grow strong in borough and in shire, We fought wherever we could fight, We scrupled not to confiscate; We would be “great” by wrong or right: May England thus be ever “great.” Hands all round! God all Radicals confound! To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round. John Phelan. The Weekly Dispatch, April 2, 1882.

The Master to the Mistress, Loquitur. You—you—if you have failed to comprehend A Briton’s dinner is his all in all, On you a husband’s anger will descend, If that cold mutton pall Upon his palate keen. This meal the cheeriest—sacred hour of bliss! This one rare meal, the joy of every man; Poor Hubby, what would Life be, stripped of this? And what avail the lunch abstention plan, If Dinner brings the spleen? You—you—who have the ordering of the meat, If you can only compass horrid grub. When husbands starve—the hansom trim and fleet Shall whirl them to the Club— But then, you’ll call it mean! F. B. Doveton. Eastbourne, 1885.

Two Suns of Love make day of human life, Which else with all its pains and griefs and deaths Were utter darkness—one, the Sun of dawn That brightens thro’ the Mother’s tender eyes, And warms the child’s awakening world—and one The later-rising Sun of spousal Love Which from her household orbit draws the child To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps At that white funeral of the single life, Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her tears Are half of pleasure, half of pain—the child Is happy—e’en in leaving her! but Thou, True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones, Wilt neither quit the widow’d Crown, nor let This later light of Love have risen in vain, But moving thro’ the Mother’s home, between The two that love thee, lead a summer life, Sway’d by each Love, and swaying to each Love Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven Between two Suns, and drawing down from both The light and genial warmth of double day. Tennyson.

Latest by the Poet of Low-Rate. Two Moons for thee, of honey and of strife; The one with all its love, and joy, and bliss, And ample income; one the honeymoon Which shines for thee in Trixey’s tender eyes, And warms thee to our English home:—and one The moonshine of a watchful Ma-in-law, Who in her household orbit keeps her child To pine for other spheres. The Mother smiles At that white feather in thy jaunty cap; Her maiden daughter’s marriage does not rob Her of her close associate; her daughter Is happy, never leaving her; but thou, New Son-in-law, her watchful woman’s eyes— Which know the ways of young men sprung from thrones— Will watch thee with a jealous look, and curb Thy freedom as befits one who is Queen— So moving through the Mother’s home, between The two, thy life alternately will be Swayed by each one, swaying to this or that Like some erratic planet in mid air Between two Moons, and, trying to please both, The life you’ll lead will well be worth the pay. The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.

Poem Addressed to the Princess Beatrice, not by the Poet Laureate. Two Sums of cash will fill a German purse, Which else with all its pockets and elastic band Were utter emptiness—one, the round Sum down Of £30,000, which brightens up the mother’s eyes, And warms the child’s awakening greed—and one The annual sum of just six thousand pounds Which keeps her husband, and which helps the child To move in other spheres. The mother smiles At that gay funeral of the people’s cash, Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her thoughts Are half of pleasure, half of pain—the coin Is being spent—ev’n leaving her! But Thou, True daughter, whose all faithful filial eyes Have seen the costliness of earthly thrones Wilt neither quit thy new half-crowns, nor let Thy nice annuity have risen in vain, But moving through the Mother’s home, between Thy dividends and pension, lead an easy life, Sway’d by each Lump of cash, and swaying to each Lump Like some fat Pluralist in clover dwelling Between two Sums, and drawing down from both The light and genial warmth of double pay. Modern Society, August 1, 1885.

Two tones of love make woe of married life, Which, at its best, hath frets and jars enough For passive comfort—one, the voice of dole That frequent murmurs from the wife’s cold lips, And warns the spouse to meek assent—and one The keener-rising strain of mother’s plaint Which from obedience turns her daughter’s mind To undisguised revolt. The mother weeps At that black burial of the single life, Her hapless daughter’s marriage; and her tears Are half of sorrow, half of guile—the man Tormented, rids himself of her!, but thou, Poor bondsman, whose wealth-seeking, glamoured eyes Have caught the loveliness of palace-homes, Canst neither quit thy mother-in-law nor shun The scorn her princely kin to thee accord, But, moving in the mother’s shade, between Two fears that haunt thee, lead a tortured life, Bored by restraint, and maddened by contempt, Like luckless dweller ’neath Italian Alps, ’Tween ice and sun, and drawing down from both The chills and scorchings of a double clime.

To Prince Henry of Battenberg. Two things, no doubt, make day of married life, Which else, with all its cares and births and deaths, Were utter mis’ry! One a loving wife, Who brightens all the home, whose tender eyes Beam o’er the household world—and one, The secondary one, of needful cash, Which from far Germany has drawn thee, child, To move in English spheres. What Prince would keep In the mean penury of single life When he could make a marriage such as yours, With half its pleasure, half its gain, the while Your slyness draws an annual six thou? True German, whose all-seeking eager eyes Have seen the pickings round an English throne, You’ll cotton to our widow’d Crown, I’ll bet! Nor play the “light o’ love” and spoil your game; But, walking round your mother-in-law, between The two that keep you, lead a stunning life. Play well your cards—good playing, too, ’twill prove; But don’t—rememb’ring both are more than seven— Between two stools come tumbling down from both, And lose the genial game by doubtful play. Leonard Harding.

To My Sunday Suit. Two tricks of trade make bearable my life, Which else, with all its hunger and its thirst, Were utter mis’ry—one, to buy on tick By throwing dust into the tradesmen’s eyes. And so secure my Sunday clothes—and one The later-rising hope of pawning them, Which from my household orbit draws the suit To go up uncle’s spout. The tradesman weeps Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with, His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes, All nappy as they left his shop—yes, thou Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit, Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness, Wilt neither quit my gloomy home nor let Those gleaming three brass balls have risen in vain, But, moving through the popping-shop, between The two that own thee, glad my fretful life, Swayed by each need, and swaying to each need, Like some new-fangled toy acquired in shares Between two boys, and drawing down from both Their warm and genial zeal in double play. Edward Johns.

To the New Radical Members. Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train, Who else, with all their pomp and stars and glare, Were utter paupers—one, the grant for age That princes get when twenty-one they reach— Or set up their establishments—and one (The later asked-for grant) when spousal love Quite oft the Household charges takes the child— To let the parent save. The Commons shout At these extensions of the public tax. And vote them with a rapture—and the Peers, Amidst their pleasure, feel a pain that they Hold not the purse-strings national. But ye, True Radicals!—with earnest, rugged minds— Knowing the shams and uselessness of thrones, Will neither vote the first-named grant, nor let The later bold demand be made again. But, rising in the Commons’ House, between The sides that fear thee, make a stern protest; Bribed by no place, nor fearful of the frown That scares those noble patriots who’re in heaven When smiles a Queen, or whensoe’er they feel The snug and genial warmth of feathered nests. George Mallinson.

To Lord Tennyson. Two bridal loves make laugh of “You you’s” song, Which else, with all its gush and hollow praise, Were utter blankness—one, the German Prince Who settles ’neath his mother’s Castle roof, And claims her child’s unbounded wealth; and one— The not surprising one—his lady-love, Who from her wedding bower drawls the lines— And shows unto her friends. Her mother weeps At this vile twaddle from her great Laureate On Princess Trixie’s marriage; and her sighs Are half of pity, half contempt—the child Is muddled e’en at reading it! For thou O Alfred, whose erst faithful lyric pen Hath limn’d the loveliness of “The Princess,” Could’st ne’er forget whence came thy crown, nor let This little love-match pass without a strain; But, grovelling at the mother’s throne, between The two new lovers, act the toady’s part, Playing the fool, and playing unto fools, Like some contortioned jester of the Court Between two “spoons,” and drawing down from both A cold insipid smile on this glad day. Jesse H. Wheeler.