WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 7)

The News-paper; or, Ready-made Ideas. I sing not of a tale of woe That happ’d some ninety years ago: I urge a theme that all must know— The Paper. At morn, when tea and toast appear, And to the table all draw near, What gives a zest to welcome cheer? The Paper. In vain the urn is hissing hot, In vain rich Hyson stores the pot, If the vile newsman has forgot The Paper. What is’t can draw the Vicar’s eye, Ee’n from the tithe-pig smoking by, To mark some vacant Rectory? The Paper. What is’t attracts the optic pow’rs Of Ensign gay, when fortune show’rs Down prospects of “a step” in “ours”? The Paper. Who is’t can make the man of law, Neglect the deed or plea to draw— Ca. Sa.—Fi. Fa.—Indictment, Flaw? The Paper. What is’t can soothe his client’s woe, And make him quite forget John Doe, Nor think on Mister Richard Roe? The Paper. What is’t absorbs the wealthy Cit, The half-pay Sub, the fool, the wit, The toothless Aunt, the forward Chit— The Paper. What is’t informs the country round, What’s stol’n or stray’d, what’s lost or found, Who’s born, and who’s put under ground? The Paper. What tells you all that’s done and said, The fall of beer, the rise of bread, And what fair lady’s brought to bed? The Paper. What is it tells of plays and balls, Almack’s, and gas lights, and St. Paul’s, And gamblers caught by Mr. Halls? The Paper. What is’t narrates full many a story, Of Mr. Speaker, Whig, and Tory, And heroes all agog for glory? The Paper. What is it gives the price of stocks, Of Poyais Loans, and patent locks, And wine at the West India Docks? The Paper. What tells you too who kill’d or hurt is, When turtles fresh arriv’d, whose skirt is Much relish’d by Sir William Curtis? The Paper. What speaks of thieves and purses taken, And murders done, and maids forsaken, And average price of Wiltshire bacon? The Paper. Abroad, at home, infirm or stout, In health, or raving with the gout, Who possibly can do without The Paper? It’s worth and merits then revere, And since to-day begins our year, Think not you e’er can buy too dear The Paper. The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1823.

Velluti. Heards’t thou not the peacock shriek? Heards’t thou not the cricket squeak? Heards’t thou not the door-hinge creak? No—it was Velluti! Heards’t thou the parrot’s shrilly cry? Heards’t thou the screech-owl hooting by? Heards’t thou the sea-mew screaming nigh? No—it was Velluti! Heards’t thou the angry mastiff growl? Heards’t thou grimalkins midnight howl, And croaking frogs in waters foul? No—it was Velluti! Some there are who mock the song And warblings of the feather’d throng— But birds and beasts alike belong To thy tones, poor Velluti! For thou art each—first this, then that— A husky rook, a squeaking rat— Famed Punch, a frog, a love-sick cat— These form thy voice, Velluti! Spirit of the Age Newspaper, 1828.

The Bishop and Don Miguel. (A recent correspondence.) Who, false alike in war and peace, Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece, His brother bilk, and rob his niece? My Miguel! 123 Who, on his way to all this evil, In London looked so sweet and civil, In Lisbon pitch’d us to the devil? My Miguel! Whose tyrant deeds e’en roused the spleen Of tyrant-loving Aberdeen To call thee names he didn’t mean My Miguel? Who rules his realm with guns and drums, And sends poor devils to martyrdoms, With “little angels”[25] round their thumbs? My Miguel! Yet, ah! atrocious as thou art, So well thou play’st a monarch’s part, Thou’rt dear unto a bishop’s heart, My Miguel. For thine the sceptre and the purse, And wert thou even ten times worse, To us ’twould matter not a curse, My Miguel.

The Answer. As welcome as a richer see Would prove to Exeter, or thee, Thy kindly greeting comes to me, My Bishop! ’Tis sweet to think whoever draws His sword against the people’s cause Is sure, at least, of thy applause, My Bishop. And whether ’tis Old Nick or Nero, With morals, like my own, at zero, Thou’lt hail him as the Church’s hero, My Bishop. The world may hold thy “Nolo” light, But where men come to ask their right Thy “Nolo” may be trusted quite, My Bishop. Love to the bench, should you and they Chance to be ousted some fine day, Pop over here to Lisbon, pray, My Bishop. For though ’twill doubtless dull appear Without your thousands five per year, You’ll meet some kindred spirits here, My Bishop. Thomas Moore.

The Proctor. Who is it, that with bull-dogs two, With brass-bound book, and cloaks of blue, Is capped on Sundays by a few? The Proctor. Who is’t in bands and silk so fine, Is seen about soon after nine, Like glow-worm doomed at night to shine? The Proctor. Who was it when I doused a glim, Dispatched to catch me bull-dog Jem, And begged that I would call on him? The Proctor. Who was it too, when sporting hat, On Queen’s bridge rails one night I sat, Just asked my name—no more than that? The Proctor. Who was it, when a row began, Between the Snobs and Gownsmen ran, And seized me, as I floored a man? The Proctor. And when I bribed with half-a-dollar The bull-dog to let go my collar, Who was it ran, and beat me hollow? The Proctor. And when he caught me—asked my name— Who was it found I could die game? (For I kicked his shins and made him lame), The Proctor. Who was it of this aggravation, Before the vice laid accusation, Who kindly sentenced rustication? The Proctor. Who was it, when Degree was near, By frowning looks taught me to fear, He meant to harass me?—Oh dear! The Proctor. Who was it said, “Sir, if you please, “I’ll trouble you to pay your fees, “We never trust for no degrees”? The Proctor. Who after all this long delay Examination, lots to pay, Declined to make me a B. A. —And then got licked that very day? The Proctor. The Gownsman. (Conducted by Members of the University), Cambridge. No. 10. January 7, 1831.

Ode to a Blackguard. Who, nurs’d in ev’ry roguish villainy, Taught, while he shamm’d the face of truth, to lie, Who came into the world? the Lord knows why! Blucher. Who grew in size and cunning, till his eye, Trained to its art, gave what he meant the lie, Who, young in years, grew old in roguery? Blucher. Who trains a dog, which, Freshmen thinking cheap, Purchase, which leaves them with a homeward leap, Who keeps a dog, which no one else can keep? Blucher. 124 Who daring impudence, the Gownsman stops, To tell him of the B—nw—l evening hops, And then, brings Proctor who upon him pops? Blucher. Who is a Judas on the face of Earth, Spirit, accomplish’d in all blackguard mirth, Whose days disgrace the region of his birth? Blucher. Would, that the Castle Bell’s prophetic clang Should call grim Newgate’s Ketch, when next it rang, That he, next Session, Justice due, should hang. Blucher.

The Turncock. Who is it, when we’re taken ill, And slops require all day to swill, The grateful cistern helps to fill? The Turncock. Who is it, when the dreadful sound Of “Fire” echoes all around Is hardly ever to be found? The Turncock. Who is it, when upon his beat, Will very often, for a treat, Turn on the main and swamp the street? The Turncock. Who is it often comes to state The Company no more will wait, But must insist upon the rate? The Turncock. Who is it waits another day, And then no longer will delay, But cuts the water right away? The Turncock. Punch, 1843.

The Ramoneur’s Address. Who, when the chimney is on fire, Than any sweep can go up higher, And do whatever you require? The Ramoneur. Who saves the bother and the noise Of dirty little climbing boys, Whose feet the furniture destroys? The Ramoneur. Who human nature never shocks, By torturing mortal knees and hocks, And who deserves a Christmas box? The Ramoneur. Punch, Christmas, 1843.

The Protectionist Catechism. (To be Sung or Said in all places where they talk Nonsense.) What is it makes Provisions cheap, Turns last year’s corn too soft to keep, And breeds the rot in Cows and Sheep? Free Trade! What caused last summer’s heavy rains? What makes stiff clays insist on drains? What will have farmers use their brains? Free Trade! What brought about potato blight? What is the cause of Ireland’s plight? What won’t let anything go right? Free Trade! What caused two years’ short cotton crops? What made the Funds to ninety drop? What soon will make the world shut shop? Free Trade! What drains our gold and silver out, Makes quassia to be used in stout, Puts foreign monarchs up the spout? Free Trade! What makes poor tenants quite content To pay whatever’s asked for rent, Though corn go down fifteen per cent? Free Trade! What soon will raise the labourers’ hire To something past mere food and fire, And make him saucy to the squire? Free Trade! What works the Constitution woe, At Church and State doth strike a blow, And brings up everything that’s low? Free Trade! What is the thing to save our bacon, Restore our Constitution shaken, And give us back what Peel has taken? Protection! What will vote draining tiles a bore, What Coprolites and Guano floor, And good old rule of thumb restore? Protection! What will make sunshine, rain and snow, As farmers want them, come and go, Keeping all things in statu quo? Protection! What, for a shield ’gainst foreign grain Will give us Law to trust again, Instead of British Brawn or Brain? Protection! What will leave landlords as of yore, And tenants as they did before, On the old paths to snooze and snore? Protection! Then raise on high a general call, For that which works the good of all, By robbing Peter to pay Paul. Protection! Punch, April 21, 1849.

The Baker. Who is it, in an idle hour, Grinds up some beans both cheap and sour, To mix them with his wheaten flour? The Baker! 125 Who, if a trifling rise in price Occurs in corn, will not be nice, But in the bread will charge it twice? The Baker! Who, when the corn is “down again,” Is such a thorough rogue in grain, The rise in bread still to maintain? The Baker! Who is it, when we send a pie, Will child-like take a straw and try To suck it of the syrup dry? The Baker? Who is it, when we trust some ribs Of beef to bake, a portion cribs, And hides the fault by wicked fibs? The Baker! Who, if we miss a piece of fat, Has always got an answer pat, And lays it on a neighbour’s cat? The Baker! Who, from rice pudding, with a cup, Extracts the custard—every sup— And says the fire has dried it up? The Baker! Who, the unpleasant truth to state, Cheats us at such a fearful rate, That every loaf is short in weight? The Baker! Punch, January 15, 1853.

The Poet. Who welcomes first the powers of spring? The swallow twittering on the wing, Who pines to hear the cuckoo sing?— The Poet. Who loves the snowdrop, modest flower, First of the year to grace the bower, To cause its stay, who sighs for power? The Poet. Who marks it lowlier droop its head, And kiss its cold and damp death bed, Weeping when all its life is shed? The Poet. Who, when the lark awakes refreshed, And soars above its little nest, Loves its sweet morning song the best? The Poet. Who smiles to see the dark mist free, Young morning dawn o’er earth and sea, Who then feels proud of being free? The Poet. Who, when the bright stars stud the sky, The pale moon smileth from on high, Beholds them with admiring eye? The Poet. Who, when the snows of winter fall O’er earth, obedient at his call, Wondering, reveres the cause of all? The Poet. Who feels that love, which few e’er feel, Which bids him every thought reveal, To her—his own in woe or weal? The Poet. Who, when soft twilight’s sober grey Obscures the light of lessening day, To love’s pure feast hies swift away? The Poet. Who then in maiden’s raptured ear Pours the sweet sounds she loves to hear, Dispelling doubt, destroying fear? The Poet. Who pines not, toils not for the gold, In search of which the young grow old, To whom doth love true joys unfold? The Poet. Who dearest loves his brother man, Nor stains with hate life’s little span? Who glads the heart of all he can? The Poet. Who feels there is a God in Heaven, By whom all love, all life is given, Who oft the scoffer’s jest hath riven? The Poet. Who pauses, nor with hasty tread Stalks o’er the turf-hid, silent dead: Weeping, although no tear is shed? The Poet. Who, when his eye is glazed and dim, And life a dying ember’s gleam, Relies on, finds a friend in Him? The Poet. He’s not, who, ’mid Time’s onward flow, Can’t mark, and learn, and wiser grow, He’s not, who lives not, dies not so A Poet. Lays and Lyrics, By C. Rae. Brown, London. Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co., 1855.

King Clicquot. Who rules the Kingdom, till of late Which was a leading German State, But he has made it second-rate? King Clicquot. When Nicholas the Turks attacked, Who joined the league against that act, Then out of his engagement backed? King Clicquot. Who feigned to hold with the Allies, But to co-operate denies, And, underhand, to thwart them tries? King Clicquot. Swayed by domestic feelings weak, His people’s good who does not seek, But plays the traitor and the sneak? King Clicquot. By private ties who only bound Breaks those of honour, like a hound, And yet his head continues crowned? King Clicquot. Who has a crafty project planned, Denmark and Holland to command, Meanwhile betraying Fatherland? King Clicquot. Who Russia would abet, as base Accomplice, to enslave his race, If he but durst the danger face? King Clicquot. 126 Who, double minded, double sees? Whose conduct with his gait agrees? Who breaks his nose ’gainst apple-trees? King Clicquot. Whose dirty tricks have brought about His nation to be quite shut out From Europe’s Council? Germans, shout— King Clicquot. Who vacillates ’twixt knave and fool? Who’s the Czar’s satrap, pander, tool? Who is no longer fit to rule? King Clicquot. Punch, March 31, 1855.

By Mrs. Gamp. (Authoress of “Diary of a Monthly Nurse,” &c., &c.) Where is the man with soul so badge, Which could denige this moryal sage. That Babby-shows is all the rage! The Monster! Which he should instantaneous go Unto the famious Zo— —ologic Gardings, to the show Of Babbies. There, where the beastiges does roar, And bragian bands their toons play o’er, To see the babes, the people pour In thousands, Like Cowcumbers on summer days, These tender plants, though hard to raise, Does win our most maternial praise: The ducksy-wucksys! Ah dear! I knows a lady—which Her name is Harris—who had sitch Two little cherryubs, with the Scotch Complaint. Which, likewige, was the cauge why they Was not exhibited that day; So Mrs. Harris could not say As follows. 1st Mother.— Who was the babe who gain’d the prize For being, in the judges eyes, The little boy of finest size? My Tommy. 2nd Mother.— Who was the lion of the ground? Who gain’d the first prize of five pound For well-developed limbs, and round? My Billy. 3rd Mother.— And who was it, all cloth’d in red, Who for a month had been well fed On rice, and oil, and oatmeal bread? My Jimmy. 4th Mother.— But who was it, with teeth like pearl, And bright blue eyes, and sunny curl, Was judged to be “the prettiest girl?” My Jemimar. (Hysterical, unlooked for, and utterly-out-of-place, Chorus of Mothers): Singing: “Ri-tol-looral, lal-looral, lal-looral, lal la!” The Shilling Book of Beauty. Edited by Cuthbert Bede, 1856.

Lines by a Girl of the Future to a Girl of the Period. Who taught me that our English ways, So highly prized in former days, In her time only bred amaze? My Mother. Whose ev’ry action went to show That homely virtues were all slow, And fit but for the mean and low? My Mother. That girls of spirit ne’er should care For aught on earth save what they wear, Short skirts—high heels—and false dyed hair? My Mother. That thoroughly they should despise All plodding, dull, domestic ties, Know naught of pickles, or of pies? My Mother. That always they should imitate Young men in slangy talk and gait, As bashfulness was out of date? My Mother. That hearts were to be weigh’d ’gainst gold, Not love, as was the case of old And to the highest bidder sold? My Mother. And that when wed, all girls should learn Base thoughts of stupid thrift to spurn And spend much more than husbands earn? My Mother. Girl of the Period Miscellany, April, 1869.

Our Bishops. 1. Who follow Christ with humble feet, And rarely have enough to eat, Who “Misereres” oft repeat?— Our Bishops. 2. Who, like the fishermen of old, Care not for house, nor lands, nor gold, But boldly brave the damp and cold?— Our Bishops. 3. Who preach the gospel to the poor, And nurse the sick, and teach the boor— Who faithful to the end endure?— Our Bishops. 4. Who give up all for Jesus’ sake, And no thought for the morrow take, But daily sacrifices make?— Our Bishops. 5. And who count everything a loss Except their Lord and Master’s cross, And reckon riches as but dross?— Our Bishops. Jon Duan—Weldon’s Christmas Annual, 1874.

L. S. D. What makes man selfish and morose, The cause of troubles, trials, and woes, What makes fierce friendship, fiercer foes? Money! What leads to murder and disgrace, What aids young sparks to go the pace; And takes him abroad to hide his face? Money! What leads to those sweet family rows, When Pa tells Ma with fearful vows, Tom shan’t spend more than he allows? Money! Again, what can’t we do without, What gives us power to gad about, Enjoy ourselves, and laugh and shout? Money! For what does man work hard all day, What makes him sad his bills to pay, (Paying them whether he will or nay)? Money! Oh, would I knew some little game To make my name well-known to fame, And bring me plenty of that same— Money! The Figaro Programme, November 28, 1874.

The Russians. Who spread no Sclavic Empire far O’er Khiva’s deserts and Kashgar, And murder not, and name it war? The Russians! Whose scourging armies never chose To make Darius’ sons their foes, And dye in blood the Persian rose? The Russians! Who camp by Attrek’s lonely shore? Whose sunny vales and Barakpore Shall hear the clang of arms no more, The Russians! Who did not dare destroy, annul, (Nor since defy us—coward, fool,) The record of Sevastopol? The Russians! Whose new embrasures speak not scorn? Whose fleet’s on never a billow borne That flows towards the Golden Horn? The Russians! Who turn no envious gaze upon The lands which Clive subdued and won— Our Indian Empire and Ceylon? The Russians! Who were our friends in ’fifty-four, And spared our country’s life and gore, And hope to shed them nevermore? The Russians! Whom should we court and value more Than bearded statesmen’s art and lore, And love and cherish evermore? The Russians! Benjamin D—— His Little Dinner, 1876.

My Father. By Mr. Gladstone, Junr. Who loved me when I was a child, And never at my pranks grew wild, And when I broke his china, smiled? My Father! Who, when I used to mix his work And his last manuscript to burke, Would merely say, “you little Turk”? My Father! Who, when—this was my boyish dread— My mother sent me up to bed, Would give me jam with my dry bread? My Father! Who, when we led the Liberal host, Made me so snug a treasury post? A thousand pounds a year it cost— My Father! Who, now that he has lost his pow’r, Is growing querulous and sour, And more eccentric every hour? My Father! Who must again the Liberals lead, And Hartington soon supersede? Who is it that the people need? My Father! Truth, September 6, 1877.

What makes the quartern loaf a sight To glad the heart and bring delight, So crusty brown, so crumby white? The “Doctor.” What turns the flour from mouldy wheat Into a substance looking sweet, Ambrosia that a god might eat? The “Doctor.” Who is the baker’s firmest friend? Who passes all they choose to vend? Who makes them wealthy in the end? The “Doctor.” Who is the public’s meanest foe? Who deals it many a stealthy blow With daily lumps of poisoned dough? The “Doctor.” Funny Folks, June, 1877.

What is it makes a lady’s head Feel heavy as a lump of lead? What makes her nose’s tip so red? Tight-lacing! What makes her cheek burn like a coal, Her feet as cold as Arctic pole? What cramps her body and her soul? Tight-lacing! What makes her temper short and sharp? What causes her to fret and carp, And on the smallest ills to harp? Tight-lacing! What checks her proper circulation, And dulls her ordinate sensation? What blighted babes breeds for the nation? Tight-lacing! What makes her waist a wasp-like thing, And gives her tongue a waspish sting? What baulks her when high notes she’d sing? Tight-lacing! What is it, with its vice-like squeeze, Destroys its fated victim’s ease, And brings her doctors countless fees? Tight-lacing! What is it makes her gasp for breath, And—so stern modern science saith— Dooms her too oft to early death? Tight-lacing! What brings a “corn upon her heart,” And makes her—spoil’d by cruel art— Unfit to play the mother’s part?— Tight-lacing! What tortures her into a shape Which “ruts the liver” past escape, And which, at most, makes gommeux gape?— Tight-lacing! What beauty’s lines in her destroys, And fashion’s powerful aid employs, To crush from out her life its joys?— Tight-lacing! What ages her before her time, And makes her feeble ere her prime? What tempts to a self-suffer’d crime?— Tight-lacing! What quite ignoring nature’s facts, Her waist so cruelly contracts, That each inch saved fresh pain exacts? Tight-lacing! And what bad fashion of the day Is it that ladies now should say They’ll spurn without an hour’s delay?— Tight-lacing! Truth, April 24, 1879.

“Baby” at the Strand Theatre. Who is’t whose life has just begun With quip, and crank, and mirth, and fun, Who cannot walk, yet’s bound to run—? “The Baby!” With grief o’erwhelmed and sore distrest, By fear disturbed, by care opprest, Who makes me laugh with merry jest?— “The Baby!” Who is it from each box and stall Each night receives applause from all, Because his birth was with a caul?— “The Baby!” French parentage he owns, but here He’s godfathered, the pretty dear, By C. H. Ross and A. T. Freer— Sweet “Baby!” And to the theatre ev’ry night These sponsors all the world invite To pay their money for a sight Of “Baby!” Fun, January 1, 1879.

A Song of the Season. By Viscount Sandon, M.P. What was it made the season fail, Our commerce languish, tradesmen rail, And landlords tell a dismal tale? The weather. What made the farmers grumble so, And struck alike at high and low, Till dukes and dustmen felt the blow? The weather. What caused the Customs and Excise To droop before our very eyes, Yet made quinine and borax rise? The weather. What made the Ascot week so dull, Of glorious Goodwood made a mull, And help’d the ring to backers gull? The weather. What made half London madly rush French plays to see, and so to crush, That they might hear “the Bernhardt” gush? The weather. 129 What made the people stay away From Mr. Boucicault’s new play? ’Twas very bad, though; so they say? The weather. What made the last new valse the rage, And caused gay youth and hoary age In Polo, that fresh dance, t’engage?— The weather. What made the hackney’d recitation At dull “At-homes” a new sensation, Much to Society’s vexation? The weather. What made all outdoor sports a snare, What spoil’d lawn tennis everywhere, And fill’d the archer with despair?— The weather. What “Princes’” turn’d and “Lords’” to mire, What wholly damp’d the batsmen’s fire, Till even Grace had to retire?— The weather. What made the late Lord Mayor abuse His colleagues, and his temper lose, And drove to acts we can’t excuse? The weather. What made him take so strange a view Of what to decency was due, And landed him in such a stew?— The weather. What made the Times such blunders make, And praise each Government mistake, Till honest readers’ hearts did ache?— The weather. What made the Great Sea Serpent late? What “Cato” gave a chance to prate, And gave us Mechi’s “Parson’s Grate”?— The weather. What was it rank obstruction bred, And made Sir Stafford lose his head? What kept the House from going to bed? The weather. What made the Home Rule Members spout Sedition as they stump’d about? What sent the threat’ning letter out? The weather. What brought the Bank rate down to one, And sent up “railways” with a run? What made so heavy Punch and Fun?— The weather. What made Lord B. to Aylesbury go, To prose of black-faced ewes, and show How from the land three profits grow? The weather. What made him, later try to pass As words of wisdom nonsense crass— Imperium et Libertas!—?— The weather. And to declare that for our land There was a future great and grand Since chemicals were in demand?— The weather. What made the British ironclads tack And sail due East, and then, alack! Upon the morrow sail straight back?— The weather. What made it cups and swords to rain, When home across the stormy main Our Zulu heroes came again?— The weather. What sent up bread and kept down wheat, And made the Russian troops retreat, Although the Turcomans they beat?— The weather. What made the youthful King of Spain Resolve that he would wed again, And add a bridal to his reign?— The weather. What made so many wives elope, What damp’d our joy, and dull’d our hope, And knock’d up Bismarck and the Pope?— The weather. What Bismarck to Vienna sent The Austrian union to cement, And Salisbury make so eloquent?— The weather. What made Peru and Chili fight, And nerved Bolivian arms with might? What smash’d up the Huascar quite?— The weather. In short, what can we safely blame For all the ills that on us came, Till one begins to loathe its name?— The weather. Truth, Christmas Number, 1879.

The Weather. (By one who is much affected by it.) What made me careless, cheery, gay, What made me throw ten pounds away, And cheerfully some large bills pay? The weather! What made my head feel iron-bound, What made me kick my favourite hound, Quarrel with wife and friends all round? The weather! What made me open wide my coat, And get into a penny boat, And talk of spring time like a “Pote?” The weather! What made me suddenly feel ill, What gave me such a fearful chill, That I went home to make my will? The weather! Punch, March 12, 1881.

Which is the day that should be blest, And to the weary, work-opprest, Bring wholesome pleasure, peace and rest? Our Sunday. Yet which the day of all the seven To our sour lives adds sourer leaven And leaves poor folk most far from heaven? Our Sunday. 130 When gutter-brats of tender years, What filled our childish souls with fears Of father’s curses, mothers tears? Our Sunday. What makes the sound of prayer and praise, Heard ’mid our foul and filthy ways, Like echoes of an empty phrase? Our Sunday. What day down East,—where day’s half night, While West-End wealth enjoys the light— Most feeds the public’s frowze and fight? Our Sunday. What, when the week’s toil stills its din, Proclaims each simple pleasure sin, And, preaching grace, provideth gin? Our Sunday. What, when we strive up from our sink, Our souls with nobler things to link, Bars all,—but one bar labelled drink? Our Sunday. And, when of this world we are clear, What is it, in another sphere, Won’t be flung at us, as ’twas here? Our Sunday. Punch. June 12, 1880.

The Egyptian Baby. (As sung by the Khedive, Tewfik.) Who made affairs grow pretty hot About this Oriental spot? Who were a rather shady lot? My Pashas! Who put me in a dreadful fright, And wished to have me killed outright? Who vowed they were resolved to fight? My Army! Who with a fleet of iron came And stopped their naughty little game, And rescued this child from the same? My Beauchamp! Who first said nay, and next said yea, Asserting he would use his sway, Then waited for another day? My Abdul! Who led the British troops he’d brought, And with the rebels bravely fought Till Arabi was smashed and caught? My Garnet! Who now will raise me where I fell And kiss the place to make it well, And keep me happy ’neath his spell? My William! 1882.

What the Seasons Bring. When comes the Southern summer breeze, That softly blows from tropic seas, Who lives in impecunious ease! The bummer. When borean blasts blow fierce and free, And winter reigns on land and sea, Who chuckles then with fiendish glee? The plumber. Or warm or cold the breezes blow, From tropic seas or arctic snow, Who comes his “sample lot” to show? The drummer.[26] E. J. S. Free Press Flashes, 1882.

The Fog. What stops the nation’s loud lament, And makes some folks almost content With Liberals in Parliament?— The fog! What, when debaters disagree And fight on this and that decree, With Ministers is pol-i-cee?— Why, fog! When questioned by Lord Randy, and— Well, badgered by an adverse band, Where takes the Grand Old Man his stand?— In fog! Judy, November 22, 1882.

That’s “Him.” Who’s forty years—well-nigh, not quite? Who is about the medium height? Who has a beard as black as night? The Mahdi. Whose eyes with fire and passion gleam? Whose hue is that of coffee cream? Whose face shows many a scar and seam? The Mahdi’s. Who’s thinner e’en than Sally B? Who on his cheeks has gashes three? Who’s quite upset our William G.? The Mahdi. Who got his living in the East By dealing in wild bird and beast, And then turned hermit—later priest? The Mahdi. And yet in town receive we may As petted lion of the day— (Perhaps at Labby’s house he’ll stay)— The Mahdi. G. R. Sims, The Referee, May 11, 1884.

Our Marquis. By a long suffering Tory Peer. Who, by his tyrannous oppression And obstinate and proud aggression, Has really caused this Autumn Session?— Our Marquis! 131 Who made us vote against the Bill, And thus defy the people’s will? Who wants to keep us stubborn still?— Our Marquis! Who, much against our inclination, Forced us to take to “demonstration,” And foster outdoor dissipation?— Our Marquis! Who goaded us by his remarks To let off fireworks in our parks, And let in ’Arry, with his “larks”?— Our Marquis! Who, too, with malice so prepense, Made us attempt our own defence, In feeble words and weaker sense?— Our Marquis! Who, in his arrogance and pride, Brings us to town this autumn-tide, Decided facts to re-decide? Our Marquis! Who spoils our sport, upsets our plans, And trips to Cannes or Carthage bans, Whilst popular disgust he fans?— Our Marquis! Who takes the time we would allot To gun and game, to moor or yacht, To waste it in abortive plot? Our Marquis! Who, ’stead of pheasants, gives us fog Debate in place of horse and dog, And “Whips” us when our streams we’d flog?— Our Marquis! Who class ’gainst class insanely sets With his “Elizabethan” threats And “Burleigh-nods” and epithets? Our Marquis! Who, knowing we are somewhat dull, And slow of speech, and thick of skull, Has found it easy us to gull?— Our Marquis! But who, though he our pleas may spurn, Will find, ere we again adjourn, That even Tory worms will turn?— Our Marquis! Truth, October 23, 1884.

The Lords. Who, dwelling in ancestral halls, Surrounded by emblazoned walls, Are deaf to all the peoples’ calls? The Lords. Who, in a manner underhand, Have stolen from the people land, And on these stolen riches stand? The Lords. Who every measure do reject Which will the people’s rights protect, Or in some way their good effect? The Lords. Who always did oppress the Jew, And the Roman Catholic, too, Refusing to them their just due? The Lords. Who, Ireland ever did oppress, And never would her wrongs redress, But coercion always did caress? The Lords. Who, with well simulated fright, To every man denies the right With his wife’s sister to unite? The Lords. Who, in a manner uniform, For years rejected all reform, Till fearful of the coming storm? The Lords? Who, amidst speeches loud and shrill, Have now thrown out the Franchise Bill, And so oppose the peoples’ will? The Lords. Who, now their rashness recognise, And by dark deceitful lies, Attempt their action to disguise? The Lords. Who, though they’ve had long to repent, Now with an air so insolent, Appear on further follies bent? The Lords. Then since the warned ones will not mend, But still continue to offend, Let us now take quick means to end The Lords. H. E. Harker. Hull Express, August 30, 1884.

The “Comp.” Who is it that causes all the woes, The editor so often knows, And makes the poor man many foes, “Setting up” what he don’t propose? The “comp!” Who is it eyes “The Force” askance, Like he was waiting for the chance, Their local items to enhance, And cause “The Force” to swear and prance? The “comp!” Who is it grins in fiendish glee, His error on the press to see, And views all things cynically, And never gives a big, big “D?” The “comp!” Detroit Free Pree, January 24, 1885.

The Peoples William. How runs the ignominious story, Since Britain’s ancient fame and glory, Passed from its famous Premier Tory To William? Who fears the Bear’s aggressive paw, And dare not show the Lion’s claw But pleads the cause of vile Bradlaugh? Timid William Who feasts on legs of roasted lamb, Of game and fowl, beef, eggs, and ham, Then recommends the farmer jam? Sweet William! 132 Who went to Ireland one fine day, And promised Pat should have his way, Then shuffled out as if in play? Sneaky William! Who strokes poor Paddy on the back, And half persuades him white is black, And irritates him with his clack? Artful William! Who sent out Gordon to the fight, To set affairs in Egypt right, Then left him in a woeful plight? Base William! Who sat with patient smile and sneer The warning of M.P.’s to hear, Then said there was no cause to fear? False William! Who smilingly went to the play When news came of the sad affray Of Gordon’s death and Mahdi’s sway? Careless William![27] Whose weak and vacillating sway Has bartered Britain’s fame away, And made our hearts to bleed to-day? Weak William! Great Britain’s sons are true as steel, Now put your shoulders to the wheel, Let him your indignation feel— This William! And take from his weak hands the reins, Who only rules but for his gains; Then who will thank you for your pains? Not William! B. Ipswich Journal, March, 1885.

Nobody. When I’m in want, who’ll seek me out, And in my interest rush about, And not my truth and honor doubt? Nobody! Who’ll clasp me to his manly heart, Stick up for me, and take my part, And fresh in life give me a start? Nobody! Who’ll give me cash, or give me food, Who will believe me poor, but good, And always be in generous mood? Nobody!

Her Mother. Who, when I took my pet for life, Convinced me, through domestic strife, That I had married with my wife— Her mother? Who, though ’twas clearly understood That live with friends I never would, Came for a week, and—stayed for good? Her mother! Who, whensoever “tiffs” befell, Would irritating stories tell, And chafe the place to make it well? Her mother! Who to control my household dares, Each letter reads, each secret shares, And takes the lead in my affairs? Her mother! Who, when from home I chance to stay, Hints that work “might,” or business “may” Detain—but there, no more she’ll say? Her mother! Who breaks our peace, destroys our bliss, Coils on our hearth with frequent hiss— Connubial rapture’s Nemesis? Her mother! Enough! But has it not a flaw, That Act which says I may not draw Two wives, and yet makes mine in law, Her mother! Funny Folks.

Cattle-show Queries. By a Squeamish Visitor. Who looked at me with oil-cake eyes, Complaining dumbly of their size— Agglomerate monstrosities? The Cattle! Who pushed me there, and shoved me here, Who bawled their comments in my ear, Until I called a Southdown, “steer?” The Farmers! Who never more will strive with Tag, With Bobtail too, and eke with Rag, Within the portals of the “Ag.” The Writer.

Avitor. An aerial Retrospect. What was it filled my youthful dreams, In place of Greek or Latin themes, Or beauty’s wild, bewildering beams? Avitor! What visions and celestial scenes I filled with aerial machines,— Montgolfier’s, and Mr. Green’s? Avitor! What fairy tales seemed things of course! The rock that brought Sinbad across, The Calendar’s own winged-horse? Avitor! How many things I took for facts, Icarus and his conduct lax, And how he sealed his fate with wax! Avitor! The first balloons I sought to sail, Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail. Avitor! What made me launch from attic tall A kitten and a parasol, And watch their bitter, frightful fall? Avitor! What youthful dreams of high renown Bade me inflate the parson’s gown, That went not up, nor yet came down? Avitor! 133 My first ascent, I may not tell: Enough to know that in that well My first high aspirations fell, Avitor! My other failures let me pass: The dire explosions; and, alas! The friends I choked with noxious gas, Avitor! For lo! I see perfected rise The vision of my boyish eyes, The messenger of upper skies, Avitor! Bret Harte.

The Bible, the Best of Books. What taught me that a Great First Cause Existed ere Creation was, And gave a Universe its laws? The Bible. What guide can lead me to this power, Whom conscience calls me to adore, And bids me seek Him more and more? The Bible. When all my actions prosper well, And higher hopes my wishes swell, What points where truer blessings dwell? The Bible. When passions with temptations join To conquer every power of mine, What leads me then to help divine? The Bible. When pining cares and wasting pain My spirits and my life blood drain, What soothes and turns e’en these to gain? The Bible. When crosses and vexations tease, And various ills my bosom seize, What is it that in life can please? The Bible. When horror chills my soul with fear, And nought but gloom and dread appear, What is it then my mind can cheer? The Bible. When impious doubts my thoughts perplex, And mysteries my reason vex, Where is the guide which then directs? The Bible. And when afflictions fainting breath, Warns me I’ve done with all beneath, What can compose my soul in death? The Bible. Anonymous.

The Orange. What is that fruit, so round and sweet, So nice to smell, so good to eat, Which gives the children such a treat? An Orange! How yellow and how bright its skin, So smooth without, so sweet within! To scorn thee surely were a sin— Bright Orange! What treat so great for little boys, When, tired with their games and toys, They’re safe with thee from tricks and noise, Kind Orange! Right glad am I when Christmas comes, With puddings, mince-pies, tarts, and buns, And, best of all, thy golden suns, Round Orange! Oh! kindly native of Azores,[28] Round which the broad Atlantic roars, I bid thee welcome to our shores— Sweet Orange! Anonymous.

My Father. Who, when my eyes first saw the light, Upon me fix’t his eager sight, And bless’d me with unfeign’d delight? My Father. When basking on my Mother’s lap, To win me playful from my pap, Who would his hands so cheerful clap? My Father. When I was breech’d, a rosy boy, And danc’d, admiring them for joy, Who shared the bliss without alloy? My Father. Who, when the hobby horse aside Was laid, would set me “Ball” astride, And hold my leg, and walk beside? My Father. When bigger grown,—a paper kite, Who then would make me, with delight, Or place the leaping pole upright? My Father. When puzzling o’er my task, for play Oft laid aside, who then would stay, And teach me soon the easiest way? My Father. Or when my task I counted hard, My mind to study oft prepar’d, By hopes of pleasure or reward? My Father. Who made me tender to a brute, And told me, though their tongues were mute, As mine their feelings were acute? My Father. Who taught me pity for the poor, Blessing the beggar at his door, By me, who oft his bounty bore? My Father. * * * * * Now that thy vigour’s in decline, Whose strength was spent in rearing mine, The staff where should thine age recline? My Father. No!—tho’ He hung upon a tree, And bled, and groaned, and died for me, He will not love if I slight thee, My Father.

My Mother. When first my eyes beheld the light, Who said my little eyes were bright, And that I was her soul’s delight? My Mother. When fell disease her empire spread, And sickness droop’d my infant head, Who then the tear of sorrow shed? My Mother. Who watch’d my cradle ev’ry hour, And importun’d Almighty Power, Upon her babe his gifts to shower? My Mother. At length, when pain had fled away, And rosy health resum’d her sway, Who prais’d her God for that blest day? My Mother. When first my lisping accents came, And call’d mamma’s beloved name, Who felt a transport thrill her frame? My Mother. And when I stept from chair to chair, Who watched my steps with anxious care, Lest I should fall and hurt a hair? My Mother. And oh! Who would my food provide, And little errors gently chide, And dress me with maternal pride? My Mother. Who would my young ideas hoard, A tale of rapture to afford, When guests assembled at the board? My Mother. Who taught my bosom to rejoice In God alone, who hears my voice, And makes His ways my pleasant choice? My Mother. Affection’s tear would gem her eye, And who for me would heave the sigh, Or wing a secret wish on high? My Mother. O! she was kind and good indeed, Who gave me books that I might read, And taught me all my Christian creed! My Mother. Then let my grateful voice proclaim, (For else I should be much to blame) How much I love thy honour’d name, My Mother. And should I live to see thee old, O! may’st thou then in me behold, Whate’er thy fondest hopes foretold, My Mother. And may that pow’r which rules above, The wish record, thy pray’r approve, That you may share my filial love, My Mother.

My Brother. Who shar’d with me our parents’ love, And when my tender limbs could move, Would all my infant ways approve? My Brother. Who strove to give my heart delight, Would blow for me balloons so bright, And fly his flutt’ring paper kite? My Brother. For he was never rude or rough, And who would make me laugh enough, When we were playing blindman’s buff? My Brother. And if perchance he heard me cry, O! who would to my succour fly, And gently wipe my streaming eye? My Brother. 135 And who would tell me pleasing tales, How Vice the wrath of heaven assails, And Virtue ev’ry where prevails? My Brother. He made me love my books indeed; And who delighted heard me read Those tales he could recite with speed? My Brother. And when a present he had got, Oh! who was it that ne’er forgot To share with me his happy lot? My Brother. Then I do love thee very well, Yes, more than any words can tell; Thy name shall in my bosom dwell, My Brother. For well I know thee void of guile, When others frown’d thy soothing smile Would many a little woe beguile, My Brother. For thou wert always good and kind, And I could speak to thee my mind, Sweet solace from thy lips to find, My Brother. O may I live to see thee rise To man’s estate, revered and wise, To glad your friends’ delighted eyes, My Brother. May virtue be thy constant guest, And sweet contentment charm thy breast, And ev’ry gen’rous wish be blest, My Brother.

My Sister. Who was it, when we both were young, First prais’d me with her artless tongue, And on my neck delighted hung? My Sister. For we would run about all day, And when at hide-and-seek we’d play, Who came to find me where I lay? My Sister. When I would read of Robin Hood, Or little Children in the Wood, Who was it call’d me kind and good? My Sister. And when one day (’twas wrong I know) I trod on grandpapa’s sore toe, Who strove to shelter me from woe? My Sister. For she would cry if I was beat, And if she got a dainty treat, Who gave me half of it to eat? My Sister. And when to school I went to stay, (For boys must learn, as well as play,) Who sobb’d to see me go away? My Sister. For it was ever our delight, To love each other day and night, Nor would I do a thing to spite My Sister. For naughty boys and girls, ’tis true, Would pinch each other black and blue; But they were not like me or you, My Sister. For thou wert always kind to me, And it will my ambition be, To prove a faithful friend to thee, My Sister. To guard from hurt thy tender frame, To shield thy love and spotless name, And be the champion of thy fame, My Sister. For well I know thou would’st disdain, To be, or haughty, pert, or vain, And good and modest wilt remain, My Sister. O! may it be thy precious choice, Our aged parents to rejoice, And soothe them with thy tender voice! My Sister. And may that sacred pow’r above, Still fill thy heart with filial love, And all thy virtuous ways approve, My Sister.

What gives me endless toil, no rest As each subscriber sends with zest, The Parody he thinks the best—? Another! When Tennyson was twice laid by, Ere ink on final proof was dry, There came to spoil the set, oh my! Another! I started them in mood so gay, “Why this will be—not work—but play,” For joyfully I then could say— Another? Nor ever dreamt would come a day, That I should view, with grim dismay, When frequent posts should each convey— Another! I said—when grouped all carefully, And filled each Author’s set “sure he Is now complete. There cannot be Another! And yet, e’en now, I cannot bear To weed them out, and e’re I’d spare One—this volume finished, I’ll prepare Another! I would not one kind friend repel, Nor stay his help, for each may swell My readers if he’ll only tell Another! For when I’m feeble, old, and grey, And volumes stand in long array. There’ll yet be “copy” to essay Another! For when these Parodies are read And all the older poets bled, The yet unwritten ones may head Another! So each fresh parody I’ll prize, Nor look with sorrow in mine eyes At growing piles, nor e’er despise Another! J. W. G. W. April, 1885.

The Vulture. After Edgar Allen Poe’s “Raven.” 1. I once, upon a summer’s day, Strove to solve a solvent way To escape from skulking sharks;— For my heart was very sore, And I ponder’d, ah, how sadly! How I wanted money badly; My salvation I’d sell gladly For nimble notes, or gold galore, To pay those damn’d and dastard duns, And be, as I have been before, Safe from duns for Evermore. 2. While I ponder’d, nearly sleeping, Sad at soul, and nigh on weeping, I reckon’d up my many friends;— Care corroding my heart’s core, Those for years that I had known, Those who truth and trust had shown, And those, alas! who rich had grown And forgot they once were poor, And could not see a seedy chum, But in his face would close the door. And neigh or bray him—“Nevermore.” 3. Yes, I’m like a dotless i, And want and woe my wretched cry, With stress of sad starvation, Ah, me! it is a world of poor. There’s not a little cur that barks, Nor tiny birds, from wrens to larks, Nor even skulking sheriff’s sharks, Feel so sad, so sick and sore, As I, most wretched, dotless I, Doom’d for ever to be poor, And dunn’d by tradesmen Evermore. 4. Even while I thus was thinking, All my soul within me sinking, Fathoms deep in dark despair, A knock I heard at my front door, Which set my heart most wildly beating, And my blood to fever heating, As, coward-like, I kept retreating, Retreating to the basement floor, There I whisper’d to the slavey, Aged, I fancy, twenty-four, “Say I’ve left for—Evermore.” 5. For my nerves received a shock, I felt I knew that beastly knock, The knock of man who takes possession;— And it went to my heart’s core To lose my little household gods, My wear, my gear, and fishing-rods, All, all my sacred ends and odds, That cost at least of pounds a score,— All to go at one fell swoop, With tearful eyes I glanced them o’er, And sadly murmur’d,—“Nevermore.” 6. Yes, it was the sheriffs man; Like all his ugly kith and clan— The seedy, dirty, beery lot, Blood-shot eyes and red and sore. Then this vile and venomous vulture, Devoid of every civil culture, And meanly meaning to insult yer, Spits upon your carpet floor, Lights his foul, ill-smelling pipe,— Stuft’d with plug of negro core,— Sits and spits for—Evermore. 7. “Wretch!” I cry, with sudden start “From this second let us part, Get thee gone, possessing devil, Let me never see thee more.” My voice I raise as thus I cry, And anger gleams within my eye; Then the demon made reply,— “’Tis only thirty pounds, not more, So, sir, ’tis you, not I, must ‘part,’ If not, why then”—here he swore— “I shall stay here—Evermore.” 8. And that vulture, never soaring, Still is sitting, still is snoring, On my best Morocco chair, That I shall sit on now no more; And his visage is denoting, As my furniture he’s noting, A grim and ghastly gloating, As he gloats my sadness o’er; And my dreams by that vile vulture, Who my sadness does ignore, Will be nightmared—Evermore. Somers Bellamy. Under the Clock. March, 21, 1885.

A New Welcome in an old Form. Serenity’s son from over the sea, Prince Henry! English and Scotch and Welsh are we, But we all shall pay taxes through welcoming thee, Prince Henry! Welcome him, thunders of fleet and of fort! (It costs us five pounds or so, every report) Welcome him, now let the joy bells begin! (We shall pay forty pounds for that steamer he’s in) Break, happy land, into earlier flower! (Trixy, thank fate! ’s the last girl we’ve to dower) Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer— If it so be you are not a tax-payer! Warble, O bugle! and trumpet, O blare! True, we must pay, but we won’t seem to care. Welcome him, welcome him, then, to our stand! Blow ye his praises, ye huge German band! Penniless bridegroom, yet happy is he, Knowing his bride will have much £ s. d. So come to our heart, and accept, if you will, Posts and positions our own sons might fill! Come to us, love us, and make England your home, Draw your pay quarterly, never more roam; For English or Scotch or Irish we, Taffys or Cockneys, whatever we be, We shall all pay our share towards the keeping of thee, Dear Prince Henry!

THE FLEET. (On its Reported Insufficiency.) You—you—if you have fail’d to understand— The Fleet of England is her all in all— On you will come the curse of all the land, If that Old England fall, Which Nelson left so great— This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth, This one small isle, the lord of every sea— Poor England, what would all these votes be worth, And what avail thine ancient fame of “Free,” Wert thou a fallen State? You—you—who had the ordering of her Fleet, If you have only compassed her disgrace, When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet Will kick you from your place— But then—too late, too late. Tennyson.

The Bard. (On his reported imbecility.) You—you—if you have failed to understand— The bard of England is no bard at all— And but a thumb on great St. Jingo’s hand. See lines of his that sprawl Across the Times so great. That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth, That one great bard is very much at sea; Poor England, what would poetry be worth If thou could’st boast no wiser bards than he? A pitiable state. You—you—who wrote those verses indiscreet, If you have only covered so much space With lines as bad as these, or rather worse, Why then we’ll take your place, And not too soon—too soon. The Weekly Echo, April 25, 1885.

A Laurel. You—you!—and neither He nor She nor It, But if; if but, you fail to understand, Oh! shaker of this tiny English land, Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit— That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same, And blood is after all your little game, And peace an endless heritage of shame! You—you—who watch the Baltic and the Belt, Commingling verses to the whale and smelt. Great Nelson’s heart would melt If he could read’em. For such a Hanwell Muse, The public’s myriad shoes Would kick themselves with freedom, You—you!—if but a single soul would heed’em. J. Fox Turner. The Manchester Examiner and Times.

“We we” to the Poet-Laureate. On reading a (surely!) misreported insufficiency called “The Fleet.” You—you!—we do not fail to understand— You, Laureate, are not England’s all in all; On you is poured the laughter of the land For your wild Jingo call; Although you once were great. Wild jingo cry!—“We mightiest upon earth, Our naval power supreme on every sea.” Poor England! What are all these howlings worth And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?— A drivelling Laureate! You—you—possessed with such a dervish heat, Spinning and raving to your own disgrace! While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet Shall kick you from your place. Ah, then—too late, too late! E. S. Watson. The Christian Leader, April 30, 1885.

Tennyson. (On his reported Lunacy.) You—you—if you have failed to understand That England thought you knew the poet’s trick, On you now comes the laughter of the land For that mysterious kick Which falls too late—too late. Poet of perfect diction highly wrought, Poet whom England loved in every sea, Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought, And what avails the ancient fame of thee Whom once we called “the Great?” You—you—who had the ear of all the world, If you can compass only pathos, see! When all men laugh, a million lips are curled, To send a jeer at thee, Our laughed-at Laureate! The Liverpool Mercury.

Tennyson Tackled. I. The Flight! Companion Poem to “The Fleet.” A Rejoinder. You—you—if you have failed to understand How ships are built on paper at Whitehall, Have picked up from the Pall Mall, second-hand, Facts which but after all Make circulation great. 138 Your Isle—where you possess the snuggest berth, The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea— Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth, So why this unprovoked attack on me,— This—regular slate? You—you—who, I admit, can write, If you have talked of “kicking” to my face:— Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight, And kick you at your place; And may—though late, though late. II. The Bard. Another Companion Poem. A Reply. Yum-yum,[29]—if I have failed to understand The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl, At me, at least, can no man paint the hand, For hypothetical Purely, is all I state. Yum-yum—if any man has starved the Fleet, If any man has his head punched for this, Kicked by a million boots along the street, That sight I would not miss, Nay, nor arrive too late! And what, if flying collars and a face Familiar once in Highland tour with me, I saw thus pelted in the market-place? Well, well, so might it be; And, if deserved, First-rate! Punch, May 2, 1885.

Our Fleet. You—you—if you have read the silly rhymes About our Fleet just published in the Times— Should raise your hands and righteously exclaim: “If this be poetry, What the de’il is fame?” “This isle the mightiest naval power on earth, This one small isle—the land of every sea— Poor England!”—what are Poets Laureate worth? And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T., When thou art fallen from thy high estate? You—you—who had the penning of those lines— If you have compassed your own disgrace, When all men laugh—“the wild mob’s million feet” Will kick thee to a place—the name’s not long— It’s called by the polite—“Hong Kong!” Moonshine, May 9, 1885.

You—you—if you have failed to understand The lesson taught by previous blow-ups, Learn that on you the weight of Rossa’s hand— When he’s not in his cups— Still falls, despotic State! This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth, Has sworn a swear to ne’er let Britain be. Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth, And what avail detectives unto thee, To guard thee from his hate? You—you—who catch a Cunningham or so, If you imagine that the danger’s o’er, You’re much mistaken, as you’ll shortly know, So now to gain the door And slope—ere it’s too late! Funny Folks, May 9, 1885.

Whew! whew! if you are hailed the master-hand— The Laureate of England over all— On you will come the laugh of all the land If you to bathos fall, Who erst did things so great. This verse—the veriest doggrel verse on earth— For this small beer were you a lord to be? Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth? And what avails thine ancient fame to thee, Now in thy fallen state? Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete, If you can only compass your disgrace, When all men read these lines of halting feet. They’ll hurl you from your place As England’s Laureate!

A Conservative,—(On his Leader’s Reported Inefficiency.) You—you—if you have failed to understand That hope of office is our all in all— On you will come the curse of all our band If that old Party fall, Which Beaconsfield made great— This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth, This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee— Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth, And what avail our love of place and fee, Wert thou a fallen State? You—you—who should have led to Downing-street If you have been too laggard in the race, Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet Will kick you from your place— But then—too late, too late! Henry L. Brickell.

The Government.—(On its Reputed Inefficiency.) You—you if you should fail to understand That Peace for England is her all in all— On you will come the curse of all the land If that old England fall, Which Peace has made so great— This isle, the mightiest moral power on earth, This one small isle, the lord of all the sea— Poor England, what would all thy Fleet be worth, And what avail thine ancient name of “Free.” Wert thou a tyrant State? You—you—who have the ordering of her choice, If you shall only compass her disgrace, When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice Shall hurl you from your place— But then—too late, too late! John Carter.

The Laureate.—(On his Regrettable Decadency). You—you—if you have ceased to understand Why once your song did England’s heart enthral— On you will come the gibes of all the land If that old grandeur fall From eminence so great. ’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth— ’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea— Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth, And what avail thine ancient fame to thee, If bathos blur thy state? You—you—whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet, If with a careless pen you mar her grace, While true men sigh, the million, as ’tis meet, Will laugh you from your place— But then—too late, too late! Exe.

The Corporation (Alderman loq.) We—we—who have not failed to understand That Soup of turtle is our all in all— On us may fall the anger of the land, And that old charter fall, Which kings have left so great— That charter, noblest instrument on earth, That grand old charter, gift of royalty— Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth, And what avail thine ancient liberty, When in a lapsed state? We—we—who strove to hold our powers complete, If we have only fought and toiled in vain, When all men kick, the region of our seat Will suffer mortal pain— Too hard—too hard a fate! Thomas H. Knight, jun.

To the Jingo.—(On His Reported Reappearance.) You—you—since you have failed to understand The Brag of England serves no turn at all— Will never rise to curse again this land, And never have the fall Five years ago your fate. This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth, That one small isle should lord o’er all lands be— Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth, Where its great wealth, its ancient name of “Free,” Wert thou to rule our state? You—you—when you’d the ordering of the Fleet, Did you not strive to compass our disgrace? Do you forget ’twas once the “wild mob’s” feat To kick you from your place? You’ll mend—too late, too late! George Mallinson.

Few—few—so few can really understand Why all this fighting to our share should fall— Or why Old England should protect a land That is not hers at all, Although she is so great— This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth, The would-be lord of every land and sea— Poor England, what is all the honour worth, To crush a people struggling to be free, And help a rotten state? Few—few—there are who would not wish to fight If Russia should encompass our disgrace, And make for India—why, then with right We’d kick her from the place— But now—we’ll wait, we’ll wait. Edward Scott.

Gladstone’s Rebuke. You—you—if you have failed to understand The peace of nations is our all in all— On you will come the blame of all the land If those strong efforts fall That we have used of late. This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth, This one small isle that boasts the name of “Free”— Poor England! what will that fair name be worth, And what will be thy “prestige” presently, At war with every State? You—you—who grovel still at Jingo’s feet, If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace While thousands, starving, walk about the street, They’ll hiss you to your face; But all—too late, too late! Jesse H. Wheeler.

Britannia to Gladstone. You must save me from the Jingoes, from the Jingoes, Gladdy dear— To morrow’ll be the wretchedest time of all this tragic year; Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day, For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war they say. The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass, And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass; 140 The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray, For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war, they say. All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call, As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall; The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll, And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul. O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun, Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true— But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado? For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam— Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come? For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest, And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest! J. Arthur Elliott.

Hodge’s Emancipation. The elections will be early, will be early, brother dear; There is no doubt we’ll have to vote before another year. The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite to-day, And think it will be most unkind if we don’t vote their way. They forget we were the black sheep—the blackest of our time— Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master’s swine; Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day, If we will vote their way, brother—will only vote their way. As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should see But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be? He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him yesterday— When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way. Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we’re in the right, Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light. They may call us cruel-hearted—I care not what they say— For we will vote by ballot, brother—why should we vote their way? You must wake me and poll early—poll early, my brother dear— That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year! That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day, If we vote for those who helped, brother—who helped us on our way! John H. Gibson. The Weekly Dispatch, April 26, 1885.

Picked up Outside the Lyceum. You must wake and call me early—call me early mother dear, Our Irving, as you’ll recollect, does now once more appear, And so I’m bound, ere yet ’tis dawn, my humble couch to quit, For I have to book for the pit, mother—I have to book for the pit. Funny Folks.

Wages. Hundreds of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash, Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me; Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dash— Nay, but the Editor aim’d not at poetry, no lover of poetry he: Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.! The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me? I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the “dust,” To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree; Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.! Judy, February 19, 1868.

Give me no More, (With apologies to Lord Tennyson.) Give me no more: a man might drink the sea— If it were drinkable, and yours to give— Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live And not exhaust your hospitality; Give me no more. Give me no more: I’m nearly tight already, Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye; Yes, O my friend, ’tis time to say good bye, My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady Give me no more. Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad To drink with you all night, and glass for glass, But not just now—my honest word I pass— Your liquor is so execrably bad, Give me no more!

The Onion-Eaters. “Courage!” she said, and pointed with one hand (A hand that held a heavy metal spoon), “Ere dies the day ye all will understand The solemn myst’ry of this afternoon, The luscious dish will ready be full soon!” 141 Above the cauldron rose a fragrant steam, Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon: The boiling broth, with energy extreme, Within the pot to bubble up did seem. The dancing fire flicker’d up and down, Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale, And by its crimson light was plainly shown The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail. Upon the table stood a jug of ale, Some plates and knives and forks were near the same; A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail. With faces ruddied by the leaping flame, The eager, hungry onion-eaters came. Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem, Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave To Cook, who gladly did receive of them. With careful hands these roots she well did lave In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave; Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make. ’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave; The echoes with their eager cries they wake,— “Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!” They sat them down, a longing, hungry band, To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before, Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand, Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar— “’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, more, MORE! ’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.” Then some one said,—“Eat not, friends, I implore! Or how, when back to our own shores we roam, Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?” Judy, September 25, 1872.

“‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan; Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’

The Slug. No more this silent grief I’ll hug, What shall I do to kill the slug, That haunts the beds which I have dug?— Curst slug! I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail, But less than naught does that avail, Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail— Vile slug! I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime, Dropping it where I saw the slime, But it did change its route next time— Sly slug! I keep some salt mixed in a jug, In which I hoped to pop it snug, But it declined to show its mug— Shy slug! What lots of mischief it can do— Would you believe it bit in two My Vincitoxis Thunbergu? Base slug! Could it not e’en have spared me this? My bulb Incomparabilis Hookeri Walkeri insignis— Low slug! If I could find its hidden lair! I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair, That breaks upon the tortured air— Oh, slug! Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still, I’ll leave you something in my will— Give me a recipe to kill That slug! Judy, July 30, 1873.

What comes this year before its time, To make us execrate our clime, And doth the City streets begrime? The fog! 142 What makes the trains late up in town, And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown; And stops them when they would go “down?” The fog! What spreads destruction round one’s feet By dark’ning every crowded street— Invades the most secure retreat? The fog! What fills the atmosphere with smoke, Till all who breathe it, all but choke; And much bad language doth provoke? The fog. What hurts the eyes and makes them red, Gives one a bad cold in the head, And makes one think one’s nearly dead? The fog! What in the day produces night, And keeps the flaring gas alight, And takes away one’s appetite? The fog. What doth all London discompose, Yet whence it comes and where it goes No living human being knows? The fog! Judy, November 1, 1876.

The Nervous. Who taught me when there was a draught, And showed me perils fore and aft And frowned when I untimely laughed? The Nervous. Who told me when the glass would rise Or fall, and with their prophecies, Or recollections, made me wise? The Nervous. Who heard a crash before it fell And knew things were not going well, And would some warning story tell? The Nervous. Who, when I was a pachyderm, By many a proper piercing term Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm? The Nervous. The Argosy Magazine, 1866.

“I know a bank which when a wild time rose, Stopped payment, and resolved its doors to close.” —Shakespeare perverted. Though times are hard, who is’t one sees Enjoying life’s luxurious ease By spending others’ £. s. d’s? My Banker. Who cows the trader with a glance, And eyes poor shopkeepers askance, And wastes their money in—“finance”? My Banker. Whose style the ignorant delights, Who orphans’ confidence invites, And freely takes the widows’ mites? My Banker. Who finds religion’s cloak to pay And client’s money ev’ry day In charity, who gives away? My Banker. Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide For wealth and ostentatious pride Until for peculation tried? My Banker. Who makes of roguery a trade, Who, by his conscience undismayed, To other rascals lends his aid? My Banker. Who is’t would have us to believe A child in arms he’d not deceive, Yet all the while will lie and thieve? My Banker. Who, when my Banker stares aghast At prison walls which hold him fast, Rejoices that he’s caught at last? My-self. Judy, January 29, 1879.

My Brother. Who held the tempting apple nigh And always tried to make me cry, And stuck the scissors in my eye? My Brother. Who left us all on Christmas Day And to the cupboard made his way And on the tree left not a spray? My Brother. Who threw my playthings on the floor. And broke my doll behind the door, And my best ribbons always tore? My Brother. Who pinched my kitten’s ear, or tail, And ducked her in the water-pail And pinched my cheek for turning pale? My Brother. Who spilt his coffee on his lap, And tore his mother’s new lace cap, And blurred with ink my atlas map? My Brother. Who’s glad he is at school now, And not at home to make a row I know who’s happy, anyhow, His Sister.

Valentine. Why at my church do I select a pew, Commanding always one particular view Alas! I fear it is to look at you The Curate. When do I shun the theatre or the ball, For spinsters’ tea that’s weak, and talk that’s small ’Tis when I think it probable you’ll call Our Curate. 143 Why, by my hands, industriously were tied The holly wreaths in church at Christmas-tide? Because I loved to labour by your side Dear Curate. And when the living fat shall fall to thee, Shall all thy flock forgotten be, Or wilt thou then begin to think of me My Curate.

My Baedeker. Who teaches me to go abroad To Paris, Rome, or Venice-ward, Or Norway’s fjeld and deep fjord? My Baedeker. Who gives the annals of each nation, Maps, money, language, vegetation, And what’s about the population? My Baedeker. Who says what galleries there may be For which one pays, which open free From ten to four, or nine to three? My Baedeker. Who says what churches I’m to visit And if a picture’s framed which is it? And puts a star lest I should miss it? My Baedeker. From Tracks in Norway.

Who are the anxious watchers o’er The slumbers of a little bore, That screams whene’er it doesn’t snore Why, Mothers. Whose pity wipes its piping eyes, And stills maturer childhood’s cries, Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies? Oh, Mothers! The Humorist, 1861.

My Tutor. Who was’t when I came fresh from School Up here, was so polite and cool, And showed me each Collegiate rule? My Tutor. Who bade me shun those friends of vice Which undergraduates entice, In shape of billiards, cards, and dice? My Tutor. Let Paley be my constant friend, Eight hours each day in studies spend, And chapels night and morn attend? My Tutor. By such a course that worthy planned First class in Little Go I’d land, A credit to my College, and My Tutor. But who next day, by all that’s odd, Happened to note me as I trod Across the grassplots in the quad? My Tutor. And saw (what fools some people are!) Me puffing at my first cigar, And called it “most irregular”? My Tutor. Who’s now my foe inveterate, Who every night at half-past eight Keeps me within the College gate? My Tutor. Because I chanced to skip, you know, And thought intolerably slow His lectures on the Little Go? My Tutor. Who is so shy he shuns to meet One of his College in the street? Who dare not let you see his feet? My Tutor. Who always is agreable with Lord Jones, but keeps a great broad frith Between himself and Sizar Smith? My Tutor. Who is it whom I ought to dread And hang on every word he’s said But whom I caricature instead? My Tutor. From Paulopostprandials, published by Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.

Prologue. Most potent, grave, and Reverend Signiors, My very noble and approved good Masters Of Arts, ye Bachelors and Commoners, Ye Doctors, Proctors, Scholars, Dons, and Men, And last, not least, Subscribers, to whose kindness We owe our life; that we have rushed to print It is most true, true we have headlong rushed, The very head and front of our offending, Hath this extent, no more: and pray you all If any chaff be found amongst our Parodies, For the wheat’s sake, oh! pardon it!