WALTER HAMILTON,
Reading edition
Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank” “The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.
“We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these Parodies.”
D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature.
VOLUME II.
CONTAINING PARODIES OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
JOHN MILTON, JOHN DRYDEN, DR. WATTS,
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,
H. W. LONGFELLOW, THOMAS HOOD, BRET HARTE,
MATTHEW ARNOLD,
E. A. POE, WOLFE’S ODE, AND “MY MOTHER”
REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. 1885.
“It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing!”
Isaac D’Israeli.
“La Parodie, fille ainée de la Satire, est aussi ancienne que la poésie méme. Il est de l’essence de la Parodie de substituer toujours un nouveau sujet & celui qu’on parodie; aux sujets sérieux, des sujets légers et badins, en employant autant que possible, les expressions de l’auteur parodié.”
Traité des Belles-Lettres sur la Poésie Française, par M. le Père de Montespin,
(Jesuite) Avignon, 1747.
BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C.
hen this Collection was originally projected it was intended to publish a few only of the best Parodies of each author. After the issue of the first few numbers, however, the sale rapidly increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the collection should be made as nearly complete as possible, but by the loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies, helped to make it so.
This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it would have been monotonous to have filled a whole number with parodies of one short poem, such as those on “To be or not to be,” “Excelsior,” “My Mother” or Wolfe’s Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several numbers: In the Index, which has been carefully prepared, references will be found, under the titles of the original Poems, to all the parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do so, full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been given; any omission to do this has been unintentional, and will be at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied.
By the completion of the second Volume of my collection, the works of the following Authors have been fully treated, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, Dr. Watts, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, H. W. Longfellow, Thomas Hood, Bret Harte, Matthew Arnold, E. A. Poe, Wolfe’s Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore, and Miss Ann Taylor’s poem “My Mother.” Certainly most of the best parodies on these Authors have been collected, yet as new ones are constantly appearing, a further collection of them will appear in a future part of Parodies, which will also contain any good old parodies that may hitherto have escaped notice.
In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible works, extracts only have been quoted, or references given; but it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, to give the parodies in full, as they are found to be useful for public entertainments, and recitations. When the older masters of our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing information will be given, and it is intended to conclude with a complete bibliographical account of Parody, with extracts and translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst arranging the first and second volumes, I have been gathering materials for those to come, which will illustrate the works of those old writers whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that is quaint and amusing will thus be collected, whilst many illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse, which are valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically arranged, annotated, and published in a cheap and accessible form.
In all Collections, such as this, there are some pieces which offend the taste, or run counter to the prejudice of some individual reader, but great care has been taken to exclude every parody of a vulgar or slangy description, although it need hardly be said that many such parodies exist.
Every effort has been made to avoid giving preference to the parodies of any Political party, and this could only be done by inserting the poems on their own merits. If any good Political Parody has been omitted, ignorance of its existence, not party motive, has been the cause.
I am much indebted to the following gentlemen either for permission to quote from their works, or for copies of parodies sent to me for publication:--Messrs. P. J. Anderson, of Aberdeen; A. H. Bates, of Birmingham; W. Butler; George Cotterell (Author of the “Banquet”); T. F. Dillon-Croker; F. B. Doveton; James Gordon, F.S.A., of Edinburgh; John H. Ingram; Walter Parke (author of “The Lays of the Saintly”); F. B. Perkins, of the Free Public Library, San Francisco; W. Smith, of Morley, near Leeds; Basil H. Soulsby, Corpus Christi, Oxford; Joseph Verey; John Whyte; J. W. Gleeson White; and A. R. Wright. The following ladies have also sent me some amusing parodies:--Miss E. Orton; Mrs. S. A. Wetmore of New York State; and Mrs. J. E. Whitby. My best thanks are also due to Mr. Walsh, and his courteous assistants in the Guildhall Library of the City of London, as well as to the gentlemen in the Library of the British Museum.
WALTER HAMILTON.
64, Bromfelde Road, Clapham, London, S.W.
December, 1885.
CONTENTS OF PARTS I. to XXIV. PARODIES.
EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.
Part 1. Introduction.
Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems.
Part 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems.
Part 3. Alfred Tennyson’s Later Poems.
Part 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems.
Pages 62, 63 & 64. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris.
Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. Hiawatha.
Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.”
Part 8. Page 113. “Not a Drum was heard.”
Page 113 to 128. Thomas Hood. The Song of the Shirt, etc.
Part 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood.
Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte.
Pages 140 & 141. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.”
Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson.
Part 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson.
Page 187 to 190. Rev. C. Wolfe. “Not a Drum was heard.”
Page 190 to 192. Thomas Hood’s Song of the Shirt.
Part 13. Page 1 to 4. Parodies on Bret Harte.
Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood.
Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow.
Part 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow.
Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe.
Part 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe.
Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody.
Page 106 to 112. “My Mother,” by Miss Anne Taylor.
Part 18. Page 113 to 135. “My Mother.”
Page 136 The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”)
Page 136 A Welcome to Battenberg (after Tennyson).
Part 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s “The Fleet,” etc.
Page 141 to 143. “My Mother.”
Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy.
Part 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. The Seven Ages of Man, etc.
Part 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques, of his Plays.
Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts.
Part 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts.
Page 217 to 232. John Milton.
Part 23. Page 233 John Milton.
Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.
Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold.
Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare.
Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte.
Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow.
Pages 255 and 256 Thomas Hood.
Part 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood.
Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson.
NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.
The Parody of “The Village Blacksmith,” on page 9, signed Sphinx, was written by Mr. W. Sappe, of Forest Hill.
Foot Note, page 112.—Mr. Artemus Ward is here credited with the advice “Never to prophecy unless you know,” an Aberdeen correspondent points out that Mr. R. Lowell was the real author, the phrase occurs in “The Biglow Papers:”—
My gran’ther’s rule was safer’n’t is to crow, Don’t never prophesy—onless ye know.
Page 232. Milton’s Epitaph on W. Shakespeare, the fourth line should read:—
“Under a star y-pointing pyramid.”
Page 24. Read Charles Baudelure, not Beaudelaire.
Page 219. Wine, a Poem. The Copy of this old poem in the Editor’s possession, was published anonymously in 1702. It has been ascribed to John Gay, who was born in 1688, the poem is certainly a remarkable production for a youth of twenty-one.
INDEX.
The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named wherever possible.
Albert Grant, M.P. and Leicester Square 2
Home, Sweet Home 3
Trial by Jury, in 1884, a Burlesque Law Report, from the Pall Mall Gazette 20
The Art of Parody, an Article reprinted from The Saturday Review of February 14th, 1885 103
Tracy Turnerelli and the Golden Wreath 237 238
NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE UNITED STATES.—
Orpheus C. Kerr’s report of the Prize Competition for a National Hymn, with copies of the rejected compositions ascribed to Longfellow, Everett, Whittier, Wendell Holmes, Emerson, Cullen Bryant, Morris, Willis, Aldwick, and Stoddart 22
——:o:——
Matthew Arnold.
Sonnet to George Cruikshank 236
World—Prize Parody, by V. Amcotts 237
Do. do. by Goymour Cuthbert 237
Do. Competition Parody by Nocturne 237
Do. do. do., by Caraway 237
The subject selected was “Mr. Charles Warner in Drink,” August 20, 1879.
The Forsaken Merman 237
The World—Prize Parody, by Mrs. Winsloe 238
Do. do. by Miss M. C. Kilburn 238
The subject selected was “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces, with the Golden Wreath.” September 24, 1879.
The Wreath, from The World, July, 1879 238
——:o:——
John Dryden’s Epigram on Milton.
“Three Poets, in Three Distant Ages Born” 233
Epigram on Orator Henley, Rock, and Dr. John Hill 233
” on Chatterton, Ireland, Lauder, and Macpherson 233
” by D. O’Connell on Three Colonels 233
” on Three Pens, advertisement 234
” on Hemans, Hallam, and Hogg 234
Parody Competition in Truth, March 27, 1884—
Epigrams on Brandy and Soda 234
” on Grog and Baccy 234
” on Generals Wolseley, Roberts, and Graham 234
” on Truth 234
” on Beau Nash, Beau D’Orsay, and Beau Brummel 234
” on Three Champion Batsmen 234
” on the Midge, the Gnat, and the Mosquito 234
” on the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle 234
” on Tyndall, Huxley, and Darwin 234
” on a Beau, a Dandy, and a Masher 234
” on Gladstone, Sir S. Northcote, and Randolph Churchill 234
” on the Members for Eye, Bridport, and Woodstock 235
” on Lord Salisbury, Sir S. Northcote, and Lord R. Churchill (several) 235
” on Gladstone, John Bright, and J. Chamberlain 235
” on Gambetta, Prince Bismarck, and Gladstone 235
” on the Irish Party (several) 235
” on Lord Beaconsfield, Mr. Gladstone, and Lord R. Churchill 235
” on Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories 233
” on Sir Wilfrid Lawson 235
” on Pitt, Fox, and Gladstone 236
” on Irving, Bancroft, and Toole 236
” on Toole, Sullivan, and Irving 236
” on Irving, Augustus Harris, and Wilson Barrett 236
” on Mrs. Langtry, Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Mary Anderson 236
——:o:——
Bret Harte.
Dickens in Camp 1
Parodies in print, November, 1884 1
Plain Language from Truthful James—
That Hebrew Ben D——, 1878 1
Plain Language from Truthful Robert 3
That Greenwich M.P. (on Mr. Gladstone) 244
The Heathen M.P. (on Mr. Disraeli, in 1876) 245
“Ben Diz was his name” 245
On Chang, the Chinese Giant 245
The Aged Stranger—
“I was with Grant” (Albert Grant) 1874 2
Home, sweet Home, with variations, by Bret Harte, 1881 3
His Finger, a Prose Parody 4
The Return of Belisarius—
To “Auld Willie,” September, 1884 3
“Jim”—
On Bret Harte 246
——:o:——
Thomas Hood.
The Song of the Shirt—
The Night “Comp” 4
The Song of the Dirt (Covent Garden in 1884) 4
A Song of the Follies of Fashion, 1880 5
The Overseer’s Lament in Australia, 1853, by M. P. Stoddart 255
The Song of the Dirt, 1858 256
The Song of the Student, 1854 256
The Song of Exams. (Aberdeen) 257
The Song of the Drink 257
The Song of the Wheel 258
The Song of the Sponge 258
The Song of the Streets 259
I Remember, I Remember—
A Parody of, by Phœbe Carey 4
A Parody of, by Tom Hood, junior 5
What it may come to (the House of Lords) 5
Reminiscences of a Grinder (Aberdeen, 1854) 258
Manchester Musings 259
The Dream of Eugene Aram— ii
The Wanstead Home 5
The Blue-coat Boys’ Ghost 5
A Case of Conscience 259
The Lost Child, or Russell’s Lament on the Loss of his Reform Bill, 1867 5
“Our heads have met, and if thine smarts,” 258
The Bridge of Sighs—
The Age of Sighs, 1868 259
Old Year unfortunate (1885) 259
——:o:——
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Excelsior—
Higher 6
Diogenes, 1854 6
Upwards, 1873 6
M. Duruof, 1874 7
The Excelsior Climbing Boy, 1875 7
“The Swampy State of Illinois” 8
The Dowager-Duchess at a Drawing Room 8
“’Brellas to mend” 8
On Mr. Disraeli’s first speech in Parliament 17
The Workhouse (Bob) 17
The Griffin 17
The Country Fair (Minnie Mum.) 17
What Roads! W. F. Field 18
Sloper 18
Divitior, 1858 250
Nettle-rash (from St. Bartholomew’s) 251
Young Lambs to sell 251
U-pi-dee, by F. C. Burnand 251
“Loved Arabella,” 1867 252
Ye poor Mahdi, 1884 252
“Ten thousand pounds” 253
(re Maskelyne v. Irving Bishop)
A Psalm of Life—
What the young woman said to the old maid, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 11
“Tell me not in doleful murmurs,” by Thomas Thatcher 11
“Please be cheerful,” advice to Novelists 11
A Psalm of Farming 12
A Song of St. Stephen’s, 1882 12
A Psalm of Burial (on Cremation) 12
On Reading a Life and Letters 12
An Imitation, by C. Baudelaire 24
A Christmas Psalm of Life 246
A Psalm for the Trade 246
The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper 247
The Psalm of Life as exhibited in Christmas Annuals 247
The Day Is Done—
A parody of, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 12
The Arrow and the Song 13
The Birds and the Pheasant, 1867 13
The Ex-Premier (Mr. Gladstone), 1877 13
The Arrow and the Hound, 1884 13
The Bubble and the Bullet, by William Sawyer 248
Beware!—
“I know a maiden fair to see” (Kate Vaughan) 9
“I know a masher dark to see” 9
“I know a youth who can flirt and flatter” 247
“I know a Barber who in town doth dwell” 248
“I know a maiden with a bag” 248
The Song of the Oyster Land 248
The Village Blacksmith.
Under Britannia’s spreading Oak, 1884 9
The Low Bohemian, 1878 10
The Village Schoolboy 10
“Beside a Dingy Public-house,” 10
The War Blacksmith, 1866 18
The Lord Chancellor, Finis, 1877 19
The Village Pet. R. E. Blow 21
The City Blackleg 249
“Before a Study of the Nude” 249
The Norman Baron—
The Roman Prelate, by Walter Parke 249
Voices of the Night—
Voices of our Nights, 1861 9
The Old Clock on the Stairs 23
Imitated by C. Baudelaire 24
Flowers—
Flowers of Rotten Row in 1858 250
The Bridge—
“I lay in my bed at midnight” 250
The Arsenal at Springfield—
The Soirée, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 14
Evangeline—
Dollarine; a tale of California, 1849 14
The Lost tails of Miletus, by Bret Harte 15
Mabel, the Made-up, Finis 1877 21
The Song of Hiawatha—
Marks and Remarks on the Royal Academy, 1856 15
The Great Medicine-Man, Punch, 1867 15
Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection 16
The Song of Big Ben (Truth) 16
The Song of Progress, 1884 16
Le Calumet de Paix, by C. Baudelaire 24
The Great Tichborne Demonstration 253
Pahtahquahong, by Walter Parke 253
The Song of Cetewayo, 1882 254
The Printer’s Hiawatha 254
La Belle Sauvage (Princess Pocahontas), 1870 255
——:o:——
John Milton.
The Splendid Shilling, in imitation of Milton, by John Philips, 1700 217
The Crooked Sixpence, by Bramston 219
Wine, a Poem, 1709 219
A Panegyric on Oxford Ale, 1822 221
The Suet Dumpling 222
The Copper Farthing, by Miss Pennington 222
The School boy, by the Rev. Mr. Maurice 224
The Opening of Parliament, (Prize Parody) by John Foote, 1880 225
Another version, by H. Hamilton, 1880 226
Prae-Existence, a poem in imitation of John Milton, by J. B., 1714 226
Dr. Bentley’s alterations of Milton 226
L’Allegro, and Il Penseroso—
Whitsuntide, by the Rev. George Huddersford, 1793 227
Christmas do. do. 227
The Garrulous Man, 1776 227
L’Allegro; or Fun, a Parody 227
The Hare Hunter, by Mundy, 1824 229
Fashion, a Paraphrase of L’Allegro, 1814 229
Ode on the Centennial Birthday of Burns, by Samuel Lover, 1859 231
Football, by the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink,” 1883 231
A Reading Man, 1824 233
A Seaside Sonnet, after Milton-Oysters 233
Milton’s Epitaph on Shakespeare 232 iii
Two Parodies on the same, from Punch, dated 1856 & 1863 232
——:o:——
Edgar Allan Poe.
Sketch of his Career 25
The Philosophy of Composition 26
The Raven 27
A Gentle Puff, 1845 28
The Gazelle, by C. C. Cooke, 1845 28
The Whippoorwill, 1845 29
The Vulture, by Robert B. Brough, 1853 30
The Tankard, by Edmund H. Yates, 1855 31
The Parrot, by R. B. Brough, 1856 32
The Cat-Fiend (in prose), 1868 32
The Craven (Napoleon III), 1867 33
The Tailor, by A. Merion, 1872 34
The Shavin’, John F. Mill 35
Chateaux d’Espagne, by H. S. Leigh 35
A Ravin’. The Figaro, 1873 36
Dunraven. Punch, 1881, 1884 36 57
The Dove, a Sentimental Parody. J. W. Scott 37
Lines on the Death of Poe. Sarah J. Bolton 38
My Christmas Pudding 39
On a Fragment of a Five-dollar Bill 40
Nothing More 40
Her Pa’s Dog 40
The Phantom Cat, by F. Field, 1868 41
The Croaker, 1875 42
The Stoker (on Dr. Kenealy), 1875. J. Verey 43
The Raven, from the Liverpool Porcupine, 1875 44
A Black Bird that could sing, but wouldn’t sing, 1876 45
Cowgate Philanthrophy, 1876 46
Lines to the Speaker of the House of Commons, from Truth, 1877 47
The Baby, from Finis, 1877 48
The Maiden, D. J. M., 1879 49
The Promissory Note, Bayard Taylor 50
The “Ager,” by J. P. Stelle 50
The Chancellor and the Surplus, 1579 51
The Raven, dedicated to the Duke of Somerset 52
The Gold Digger, 1880 53
Quart Pot Creek, by J. Brunton Stephens 54
A Sequel, The Spirits, W. T. Ross 55
The Drama Despondent, 1882 56
A Voice 57
The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle 58
A Cat-as-Trophy, in prose, 1866 58
The End of “The Raven,” 1884 59
Sequel to the Raven, by R. A. Lavender (a Spirit poem) 59
A Vigil Vision, by H. Bickford 60
Isadore, by Alfred Pike, 1843 61
Plutonian Shore, by J. E. Tuel, 1849 70
The Goblin Goose. Punch, 1881 71
The College Craven. P. G. S., 1884 71
The (C)raven Student 72
Le Corbeau, by S. Mallarmé, 1875 72
Vox Corvi, 1694 73
Poe-tical Forgeries 73
The Fire Fiend, September, 1864, by Charles D. Gardette 73
Golgotha, by Charles D. Gardette 75
The Raven, in Dublin 92
The Raven, said to have been translated by Poe from a Persian Poem 92
Sequel to the Raven, a Spiritual Poem by R. A. Lavender 93
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten, 1872 94
Farewell to Earth, by Lizzie Doten 95
The Vulture, by Somers Bellamy, 1885 136
Spiritual Poems, in imitation of Poe, by Mrs. Lydia Tenney 93
The Raven, by R. Allston Lavender 93
A Grand Poem, by Lizzie Doten 94
The Kingdom, ” ” 94
Farewell to Earth ” ” 95
Improvisations from the Spirit, by Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, 1857 95
Pot-Pourri, reprinted from the scarce New York Edition of 1875—
The Ruined Palace. (The Haunted Palace) 96
Dream-Mere. (Dreamland) 96
Israfiddlestrings. (Israfel) 97
The Ghouls in the Belfry. (The Bells) 98
Hullaloo. (Ulalume) 99
To Any. (For Annie) 100
Hannibal Leigh. (Annabel Lee) 101
Raving. (The Raven) 102
The Monster Maggot. (The Conqueror Worm) 102
Poetic Fragments 103
Under-Lines 103
The Bells 75
The Swells, by R. B. Brough, 1857 76
The Ball-Room Belles. Fun. 1865 77
Pills, by Damer Cape, 1866 77
The Hells. The Tomahawk, 1867 78
Christmas Fancies. Fun, 1867 79
The Bells 79
The Bills, by Thomas Hood, the younger, 1870 80
The Flute 81
The Chimes done in Rhymes, an American parody, 1871 81
The Bills, from the Light Green, 1872 82
The Bells, by an overworked Waiter, 1875 82
The Girls 83
The Bills, by a Mercantile Poet, 1875 83
The Belles, Benjamin D——, 1876 83
The Bills. The Corkscrew Papers, 1876 84
The Swells. Worthy a Crown? 85
The Bells. Fiz, 1878 85
The Bills. Funny Folks, 1879 86
The Hose. Puck, 1879 87
The Bills. Punch, 1879 87
Bills. Truth, 1880 88
The Bells, Mr. Irving in, 1883 89
The Voice of the Bells, by W. A. Eaton 89
The Bills. Detroit Free Press 89
“O! The Hammers,” by William Allan, 1883 90
Reminiscences of Summer, 1883 90
That Amateur Flute, an American Parody 90
The Office Boy’s Mother in America 91
Israfel—
Bisakel, by J. E. Dalton, 1880 91
The Steed of Fire ” ” 91
Annabel Lee 61
Samuel Brown, by Phœbe Carey, 1854 61
The Cannibal Flea, by Tom Hood, the younger 62
The L. C. D. and the L. S. D. by Joseph Verey 62
St. Rose of Lima, by Walter Parke, 1882 63
Beautiful B—— (Wilson Barrett), J. W. G. W. 63
Annabel Lee, from “Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke,” by Stanley Huntley 64
Ulalume 64
Paralune. Punch, 1881 64
The Willows, by Bret Harte 65
What is in a Name, by Thomas Hood, junior 65
You’ll Resume. Punch, 1882 66
Hope; An Allegory, by John H. Ingram 66
Covent Garden. Fun, 1867 68
The Kingdom, a Spirit poem, by Lizzie Doten 94
Lenore iv
The Supper of the Four, by A. Merion, 1872 67
For Annie 68
Tristan and Isolde, by J. W. G. W. 68
Ligiea—
Hygiea. Punch, 1880 69
The Demon of the Doldrums 69
——:o:——
William Shakespeare.
A Prologue, in imitation of Othello’s address to the Senate 144
Correspondence in The Daily News, 1883, concerning the Gaiety burlesques of The Tempest, and Hamlet, including letters from Mr. Moy Thomas, Mr. W. Kennedy, Mr. John Hollingshead, and Mr. F. C. Burnand 144
The Daily News on Shakespearian Burlesques, October 25, 1884 205
Dreary Song for Dreary Summer, by Shirley Brooks, 1860 205
Shakespoke’s Epigram, by J. G. Dalton 205
The Shakespeare Monument Committee, 1823 205
The “New Shakspere Society,” and Mr. F. J. Furnivall 162
THE TEMPEST—
The Tempest; or, the Enchanted Isle, by Sir W. Davenant and John Dryden 146
The Enchanted Isle; or, Raising the Wind, by R. B. and W. Brough, produced at the Adelphi Theatre, 1848, with the cast 203
Ariel, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, October, 1883, with the cast 204
Where the Bee Sucks 204
Who would be Great Grand Lord High? By J. R. Planché 204
“Our Revels now are ended” 204
“Those Golden pallaces,” by Lord Stirling 204
“Our Parodies are ended” 204
MEASURE FOR MEASURE—
“Take, O, Take Those Lips Away” 188
Take, O, take that bill away 188
Take, O, take the haunch away, by W. H. Ireland, 1803 188
Take, O, take that wreath away (to Mr. Tracy Turnerelli) 189
I bought thee late a golden wreath (after Ben Jonson) 189
Take, O, take Parnell away, 1882 189
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where 244
Ay, but to love, and not be loved again 244
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where, by Phœbe Carey 169
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING—
“Sigh no more, Ladies” 202
Rail no more, Tories, 1823 202
Sigh no more, Dealers, 1867 203
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM—
Act I. A Midsummer Nightmare, 1885 197
Act II. The Casting of the Cabinet, 1885 197
“That very time I saw,” by Phœbe Carey 169
I Know a Bank 198
I know a Bank (a monody on Money), 1879 198
I know a Bank (at Paddington), 1883 198
I am that merry wanderer of the night (Lord R. Churchill) 199
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE—
Shylock; or, the Merchant of Venice Preserved; by F. Talfourd. Produced at the Olympic Theatre, 1853 179
“What find I here? Fair Portia’s counterfeit” 180
Tell me, where is Fancy bred? 180
Tell me, what is Fancy Bread? 180
A Parody by J. R. Planché, 1843 204
The Quality of Mercy is not strained—
The Jollity of Nursey is not feigned, 1883 180
This Quality of Jelly must be strained, 1880 180
The Quality of Flirting is not strained 204
AS YOU LIKE IT—
The Seven Ages of Man 169
“All the Town’s a Slide,” 1850 172
“All the World’s a Stable” 174 242
“All the World’s away” (for the holidays) 241
“All Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241
“All the Night’s a Stage” (on noises) 242
“All the Day’s a Plague” (on street noises) 242
“All the World’s a Newspaper,” 1824 195
The Stage Coach Company, 1803 170
The Patriot’s Progress, 1814 170
The Seven Ages of Woman 170 174
The Seven Ages of Æstheticism 171
The Seven Ages of Intemperance, 1834 171
The Poetry of the Steam Engine, 1846 172
The Seven Ages of the French Republic, 1848 172
The Seven Ages of a Public Man, 1855 172
The Catalogue of the British Museum 173
The Seven Ages in Mincing Lane, 1868 173
The Politician’s Seven Ages, 1868 173
The Seven Ages of Acting, 1884 174
The Seven Ages of Love, 1881 174
The Seven Carriages of Man, 1885 174
The Seven Drinks of Man, 1885 175
The Seven Courses at Dinner 241 242
The Seven Ages of Cricket 242
The Seven Ages of a Clergyman 243
The Seven Ages of a Politician 243
The Seven Forms of Insanity 243
The Seven Ages of a Sailor 243
The Seven Ages of Fashion 244
“Dinner is a Stage,” by F. B. Doveton 240
“Parliament’s a Stage” (Political) 241
Bud, Blossom, and Decay, by T. F. D. Croker 195
Jaques in Capel Court, 1845 (Gambling on the Stock Exchange) 171
A Paraphrase, by E. L Blanchard, 1866 196
Oxford is a Stage, 1868 196
A Shakespearian after-dinner Recitation, by F. Upton, 196
A Fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the Forest 194
The same, with a cold in the head (at Combe) 194
A Dude—a dude! I met a dude 195
Blow, blow thou Winter Wind, a parody on 176
Lines on Mrs. Langtry as Rosalind, 1882 176
Lines on Miss Mary Anderson as Rosalind, at Stratford-on-Avon, August, 1885 244
Under the Greenwood Tree 196 v
Under the Greenwood Shed, by Shirley Brooks, 1866 197
A WINTER’S TALE—
Perdita, or the Royal Milkmaid, by William Brough. Produced at the Lyceum Theatre, 1856, with the cast 200
Zapolya, a Christmas Tale by S. T. Coleridge, 1817 200
KING JOHN—
King John Burlesque, by G. A. A’Beckett. Produced at the St. James’s Theatre in 1837 199
Cast of Characters in the burlesque, and extracts from it 199
KING HENRY V.—
Prologue Act IV. 201
Lord Mayor’s Day, 1827 201
RICHARD THE THIRD—
“Now is the Winter of our discontent” 189
“The World” Parody, Competition. The return of Lord Chelmsford from Zululand 190
Cetewayo’s Soliloquy 190
King Richard ye Third, by Charles Selby, at the Strand Theatre in 1844 190
The Rise and Fall of Richard III., or a new Front to an old Dicky, by F. C. Burnand, at the Royalty Theatre in 1868, with the Cast 191
Richard III, Travestie, by William By, 1816 191
Richard III. Burlesque, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844 191
KING HENRY VIII.—
Cardinal Wolsey’s Farewell 191
Henry Irving’s Farewell, 1875 191
Mr. Gladstone’s Farewell to his Old China, 1875 191
A Parody in College Rhymes 192
ROMEO AND JULIET—
I do remember an old Bachelor, 1832 176
I do remember a Cook’s shop 176
I do remember a young pleader, by G. Wentworth, 1824 176
I do remember a strange man, a herald, by R. Surtees 177
Ha! I remember a low sort of shop, by J. R. Planché 204
The Shakespeare of the Period, 1869—
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. W. Robertson 177
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. Maddison Morton 178
Romeo and Juliet as arranged by H. J. Byron 178
Do. Do. as arranged by Dion Boucicault 178
Romeo and Juliet Travestie, by Andrew Halliday. Produced at the Strand Theatre, 1859 179
Romeo and Juliet; or, the Shaming of the True. Performed at Oxford during Commemoration, 1868 179
JULIUS CÆSAR.
The Speech of Brutus over the Body of Cæsar 192
The Poacher’s Apology 192
Marc Antony’s Speech 192
Parody Competition in The Weekly Dispatch, June 28, 1885. 193
A Speech by Sir W. Harcourt, by T. A. Wilson 193
A Speech by John Bright, by H. L. Brickel 193
On Mr. Gladstone leaving Office, by George Mallinson 193
MACBETH.
Macbeth, in a Song from Rejected Addresses 181
The Incantation on Penenden Plain, 1828 181
Is this a Sovereign which I feel behind me? 1852 182
Macbeth Travestie, in Accepted Addresses 182
Macbeth Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1847. Performed at Henley; at the Strand Theatre in 1848; and at the Olympic Theatre in 1853 182
Making the Pudding; a Christmas Incantation 183
The Modern Macbeth. H. Savile Clarke, 1885 183
Shakespeare’s Recipe for cooking a Beef Steak 184
M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor (on the Incantation Scene) 239
Macbeth’s Soliloquy parodied, 1830 240
Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse August, 1885 240
HAMLET.
To be, or not to be (from the 1623 folio edition) 146
Oh, say! To be, or not to be? As a song, from George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 146
To Be, or not to Be? By T. Thatcher 146
To Be, or not to Be? On London’s Municipal Reform, 1884 147
To Be, or not to Be? By Mark Twain 147
To Be, or not to Be? As supposed to be amended by Mr. F. J. Furnivall 163
To Act, or not to Act? (on Speculation) 147
To Affiliate, or not to Affiliate? 148
To Bake, or not to Bake? Advertisement 148
To Bathe, or not to Bathe? 148
To Bee, or not to Bee? (Spelling Bee) 148
To Be, or not to Be? (Gladstone’s Soliloquy) Prize Parody by Jessie H. Wheeler 149
To Box, or not to Box? 149
Burgh, or No-Burgh? From the Ardrossan Herald 146
Canal, or no Canal? By F. B. Cottier (on the Suez Canal) 150
To Cheat, or not to Cheat? By an Attorney 150
Clôture or no Clôture? Punch, 1882 151
To Come, or not to Come? For a Bashful Reciter, by Henry J. Finn 151
Compromise, or no Compromise? 1884 151
To Dance, or not to Dance? Judy, 1871 151
To Drink, or not to Drink? American Paper 152
Ditto ditto Punch, 1841 152
Ditto ditto From Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 152
To Dun, or not to Dun? The Mirror, 1823 152 vi
To Dye, or not to Dye? The Tomahawk, 1869 153
To Dig, or not to Dig? J. M. Dron (Another proposed Suez Canal) 150
Etre, ou ne pas être! A French version 162
A Flea, or not a Flea? by James Robinson 153
To Fight, or not to Fight? 1823 202
To Go, or not to Go? Ophelia’s Version. 153
To Have it out, or not? A Dental Soliloquy 153
To Hiss, or not to Hiss? The Puppet Show 154
To Hunt, or not to Hunt? The Mirror, 1823 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? The Debtor’s Soliloquy, by F. J. Overton, 1881 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? (on the Suez Canal). by Leonard Harding 150
To be, or not to be Polite? Gossip, 1885 155
To Print, or not to Print? Rev. R. Jago 155
To Yield, or not to Yield? (To the Tories) 149
To Rat, or not to Rat? Once a Week, 1868 155
To Smoke, or not to Smoke? 244
To Sleep, or not to Sleep? O. P. Q. P. Smiff 162
To Shave, or not to Shave? Diogenes, 1854 155
Ditto ditto by T. F. Dillon-Croker 156
To Starve, or not to Starve? W. H. Ireland 156
To Sniggle, or to Dibble? by F. C. Burnand 202
To Stick to Hoy, or not? The Argus, 1831 157
To Stitch, or not to Stitch? The Mirror 157
To Strike, or not to Strike? by a Cabman, 1867, 157
To Stand, or not to Stand, 1808 161
Trousers, or no Trousers? (The Bloomer Question) The Month, 1851 158
Tubby, or not Tubby? by F. C. Burnand 161
To Urn, or not to Urn? by William Sawyer 161
To Vaccinate, or not? 1881 158
To Wash, or not to Wash? by J. P. Roberdeau, 1803 158
To Write, or not to Write? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 160
On the Marriage Question.
To Wed, or not to Wed? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 158
To Woo, or not to Woo? Posthumous Parodies, 1814 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? by W. A. Clouston 159
Marry, or not to Marry? Political Note Book, 1824 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? Echoes from the Clubs, 1868 159
Ditto ditto, Anonymous 161
To Be, or not to Be (married)? by W. H. Edmunds 160
To Pop, or not to Pop the fatal question? 160
When a man becomes tired of his life (Song founded on the Soliloquy) 162
The Soliloquy in Hebrew, 1880 202
Hamlet in Prose, 1848 202
The Ghost Scene parodied 203
Hamlet Travestie, by John Poole, 1810 161
Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks, by the Author of “The Light Green” 1882 160
Very Little Hamlet, by W. Yardley, at the Gaiety Theatre, 1884 164
Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 164
Three Children sliding on the Ice 162
Furnivallos Furioso and the Newest Shakespeare Society, 1876 163
The advice of Polonius to Laertes, a Parody of, by H. J. Byron 164
Hamlet’s instructions to the Players, Parody of, by W. S. Gilbert, in The Pretty Druidess, 1869 165
See what an incubus sits on our City, 1882 165
Look here upon this picture, and on this 165
A Parody Cigarette Advertisement 165
Parody of the scene between Polonius and Ophelia, by F. Talfourd 165
The Barrow Diggers, an Antiquarian conversation in imitation of the Grave Diggers Scene, 1839 167
An Irish Play bill, 1793 169
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Fiz, 1879 169
Hamlet from a new point of view 164
OTHELLO—
Othello’s Speech to the Senate 184
The Strolling Player’s Apology 184
Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate, 1875 184
“Good name, in Man and Woman” 185
A Parody in the Ingoldsby Legends 185
Farewell, the tranquil mind! 185
A Parody, by George Colman 185
The Undertaker’s Farewell, 1849 185
Farewell the quiet chop! (at Evans’s) 1879 185
Shakespeare’s Farewell 185
Address by J. P. Kemble. (O.P. Riots, 1810) 186
William IV. and Reform, 1832, Parody of a scene from Othello 186
Punch and Lord John Russell, 1848 187
Henry Irving as Othello 187
Othello Travestie, an Operatic Burlesque Burletta, by Maurice G. Dowling, produced at Liverpool in 1834, and at the Strand Theatre 188
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA—
An Extravaganza, founded on Antony and Cleopatra, by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Haymarket Theatre, 1866 201
CYMBELINE—
Fear no more the heat o’ the Sun 193
Fear no more the voice of the don, 1872 194
“Our Parodies are ended” 204
——:o:——
King Queer, and his Daughters Three, at the Strand Theatre, 1855 205
A Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, produced in Liverpool, 1846 205
——:o:——
Miss Ann Taylor.
My Mother 106
A History of the poem “My Mother” 106
My Mary, by William Cowper 107
My Mother, by an Outcast 107
” ” by F. Talfourd 167
My Mother-in-Law 108
Mothers. The Humourist 143
My Baedeker, from Tracts in Norway 143
My Banker. Punch 1855 111
” ” Judy 1879 142
My Barrett (Mr. Wilson Barrett), 1884 111
My Bismarck. Judy 1867 112
My Broker. Punch 1875 111
My Brother 142 vii
” ” The Boys Own Paper, 1884 109
My Father 134
My Mother 134
My Brother 134
My Sister 135
My Boot-Hooks. The Man in the Moon 113
My Bicycle. J. G. Dalton 113
My Bishop. Thomas Moore 123
My Chignon. Girl of the Period 113
My Client. Punch, 1875 111 112
My Dentist. R. E. Egerton-Warburton 113
My Father. Truth, 1877 127
My Godwin. J. and H. Smith 121
My Hairs. Thomas Hood 114
My Hookah 114
My Jenny (on Jenny Lind) 114
My Landlady. Figaro Album 115
My Lodger. Judy, 1869 115
My Little-go. College Rhymes, 1865 115
My Member. Punch, 1852 116
My Murray. Punch, 1857 116
My Miguel. Thomas Moore 122
My Nose. John Jones 116
My Punch 117
My Relations. Funny Folks, 1879 108
My Stockings 117
My Tutor. Paulopostprandials, 1883 143
My Tailor, by a Man of Fashion 117
My Ticker. Punch, 1842 118
My Uncle (ascribed to Louis Napoleon) 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1845 118
My Uncle. John Taylor 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1871 119
My Valentine. Judy, 1880 119
My Whalley. The Tomahawk, 1867 119
My Whiskers. The Belle Assemblée, 1833 120
My Yot. Punch, 1880 120
A Lay of Real Life 109
Audi Alteram Partem 110
Harry’s Complaint 110
A Sister’s Complaint 110
“Another,” by J. W. G. W. 135
Avitor, by Bret Harte 132
“Baby” at the Strand Theatre, Fun, 1879 128
Blucher, Cambridge Odes 123
Cattle Show Queries 132
Free Trade v. Protection, Punch, 1849 124
Her Mother, Finis 109
Her Mother, Funny Folks 132
King Clicquot, Punch, 1855 125
Lines by a Girl of the Future, 1869 126
L. S. D. (Money), Figaro, 1874 127
Nobody 132
Nursy-Pursy, The Tomahawk, 1869 108
Our Bishops, Jon Duan, 1874 127
Our Sunday down East, Punch, 1880 129
Our Marquis, Truth, 1884 130
The Turncock, Punch, 1843 124
The Ramoneur, Punch, 1843 124
The Baker. Punch, 1853 124
The Poet, C. Rae Brown, 1855 125
The Baby Show, Cuthbert Bede, 1856 126 108
The Russians, Benjamin D——, 1876 127
The “Doctor,” Funny Folks, 1877 128
The Weather, Truth, 1879 128
The Weather, Punch, 1881 129
The Egyptian Baby (Tewfik) 130
The Fog, Judy, 1882 130
The Mahdi, The Referee, 1884 130
The Lords. H. E. Harker 131
The “Comp.” 131
The Newspaper, 1823 122
The Proctor, The Gownsman, 1831 123
The Slug, Judy, 1873 141
The Fog, Judy, 1876 141
The Nervous, The Argosy, 1866 142
The Bible 133
The Orange 133
The People’s William, Ipswich Journal, 1885 131
Tight Lacing, Truth, 1879 128
Your Friend, Countess of Blessington 120
Another Friend (a Stick) 121
Woman, L. O. Shaw 1815 121
Velluti, 1828 122
Valentine (the Curate) 142
What the Seasons bring 130
Who? Ah, who? The Figaro, 1874 110
Who’s who in 1851. Punch, 1851 112
——:o:——
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Mariana—
Mariana on the Second Floor, 1851 260
Mary Anne; or the Law of Divorce, 1858 260
The Owl’d Yarn, by R. F. Hind 261
Oriana—
Yule Tide (Oh, my Gracious!) 261
The Ballad of Hoary Anna 261
Idadæca, from Kottabos, 1881 262
Randy-Pandy, by George Cotterell, 1885 203
Lady Clara Vere de Vere—
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, by Gilbert Abbot à Beckett, 1845 263
The Merman—
The Mer(ry)man, by George Cotterell 264
The May Queen—
“You must save me from the Jingoes,” by J. Arthur Elliott 139
Hodge’s Emancipation, by John H. Gibson 140
Outside the Lyceum, April, 1885 140
The Lord Mayor 264
The May Queen with a cold 264
Russia to England 265
At the Play 265
The Lotus Eaters—
The Onion Eaters 140
A Dream of Fair Women—
A Vision of Great Men 265
A Dream of Fair Drinking 265
A Dream of Unfair Trade 265
Ulysses—
The Czar of Russia 265
Locksley Hall—
Lay of Boxing Night, 1847 266
Lincoln’s Inn, by Albert Smith, 1851 266
St. Stephen’s Revisited, by G. Cotterell 267
The Grinder, March, 1885 267
Digwell’s Lament, 1865 267
Godiva—
Whittington, 1858 268
The Eagle, and a Parody 268
Break, Break, Break— viii
“Block, block, block,” by G. Cotterell 263
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” by F. Field 209
The Lost Joke 269
“Talk, talk, talk!” (to Mr. Parnell) 269
“Wake, wake, wake!” by R. H. W. Yeabsley 269
“Thirst, thirst, thirst!” 269
“Broke, broke, broke!” 269
Who breaks pays 269
Gladstone hath us in his net 270
The Brook—
The Song of the Flirt 270
The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 270
The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 271
The River, a Steamboat version 271
The Song of the Steam Launch 272
The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad 272
A Lay of Lawn Tennis 272
Home they brought her Warrior dead—
Home they brought her “Worrier” dead 273
“Let me lie here,” by John Cotton 273
Give me no more 140
“The Slander falls in different halls” 273
Tears, Idle Tears—
Tears, maudlin Tears 141
The Charge of the Light Brigade—
The Light (Blue) Brigade—The University Boat Race 273
The Gas Stoker’s Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 274
Clapham Junction, by J. Verey 274
The Charge of the “Light” Brigade, by C. T. Druery 274
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin 275
The Charge of the Fire Brigade 275
A Welcome to Alexandra—
Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 275
A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks 136
In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 276
A Parody of Tennyson’s Prefatory Sonnet for “The Nineteenth Century” 276
Wages, Judy 140
Idylls of the King—
A Parody of the Dedication (on John Brown) 276
A little rift within the lute 277
“Too soon, too soon” 277
“Little Miss Muffet” as an Arthurian Idyll 277
Despair, 1881—
Never say die 278
Hands all round, by John Phelan 278
The Fleet (April, 1885), The Times 137
The Bard (on his reported imbecility) 137 138
A Laurel. J. Fox Turner 137
“We, we.” E. S. Watson 137
Tennyson (on his reported lunacy) 137
Tennyson Tackled. Punch 137
Our Fleet. Moonshine 138
Parody Competition Poems on The Fleet.—
Prize Parody, by Mrs. Emily Lawrence 138
A Conservative (on his leader’s reported inefficiency). Henry L. Brickell 138
The Government. John Carter 139
The Laureate. Exe 135
The Corporation. Thomas H. Knight 139
To the Jingo. George Mallinson 139
To the Jingo. Edward Scott 139
Gladstone’s Rebuke. Jesse H. Wheeler 139
The Unfitness of the Meat, by F. B. Doveton 279
Lines to Princess Beatrice on her Marriage 279
Two Suns of Love make day of human life 279
Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife 279
Two sums of cash will fill a German purse 279
Two tones of love make woe of married life 279
Two things, no doubt, make day of married life 280
Two tricks of trade make bearable my life 280
Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train 280
Two bridal loves make laugh of “You, you’s” song 280
Tennyson on General Gordon 141
——:o:——
Isaac Watts, D.D.
How doth the little busy Bee 206
How doth the little busy Flea 206 208
How doth the ever busy Wasp 207
How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 207
How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 207
How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 207
How doth the little busy Wheeze 207
How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 208
How doth the little Crocodile 208
How doth the little Mosquito 208
How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 208
How doth the little coal-hole top 208
How doth the very Bizzy Bee (Bismarck) 209
How doth the gorging, greedy Bee 209
How doth the wobbling, wily wops 209
Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee 209
A Prose Version 207
Let Dogs delight to bark and bite 210
Let Canine Animals, 1847 210
Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 210
Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 210
Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 210
Let Rads delight to bark and bite 211
Let Bigots write with sneers of spite 211
Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight 211
Let Cads delight with fists to fight 212
Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite 215
Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 210
Birds in their little nests agree 211
Oh, Marcus! You should never let 211
On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 211
To a Policeman 212
When Bishops, who in wealth abound 216
’Tis the voice of the Sluggard 212
’Tis the moan of old Louis (of France), 1823 212
’Tis the voice of the lobster 212
’Tis the voice of the Czar, 1879 213
’Tis the voice of the Rinker 213
’Tis the voice of Britannia 213
’Tis the voice of the glutton 213
’Tis the voice of the oyster 213
’Twas the voice of the “Special” 213
A Parody from Funny Folks 212
The Wise one and the Foolish 213
Whene’er I take my walks abroad 214
Do. do. in London Streets 214
The Irish Landlord’s Song 214
I cannot take my walks abroad 214
Another Version, by Shirley Brooks 215
Whene’er abroad we take our walks (in Covent Garden) 215
Abroad in the Boroughs 215
How sweet a thing it is to dwell 216
Why should I relieve my neighbour 216
A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts’ Distich on the Study of Languages, 1792 216
1
Bret Harte.
Dickens in Camp. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of “Little Nell.” Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader Was youngest of them all,— But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken As by some spell divine— Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell?— Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,— This spray of Western pine! Bret Harte. July, 1870.
Parodies in Print. Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting, The writer’s spirits low; The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting But melodies of woe. The older authors, with rude humour, painted The glowing fun of health Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted In sterner race for wealth; Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure Of hundred volumes drew, A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure And bid it flow anew; And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster, Than ever one could tell, All mimicking some mighty poet Master, In many a sprightly “Sell.” Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,—that the reader Should leave the weeklies all, Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader, And let Police News pall; While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows, Listening to bygone play, As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!” (As Browning p’raps would say). See Tennyson, in mighty verse—o’ertaken, Mimicked in tripping line— When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken Like gush in penny-a-line. To find in rush of their poetic fire, A comic theme told well, While stately verse, and song, and culture higher, Are used some joke to tell. Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story Tell in the rhyme that thrills Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory Of sun o’er ancient hills. If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly Should ape a bard sublime, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— To jest is not a crime. J. W. G. W. November, 1884.
That Hebrew Ben D—— House of Lords, January, 1878. Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar, Which the same I would like to explain. I have mentioned his name, And I shall not deny, In regard to the same He is wary and sly; And his smile it is mocking and ice-like And there isn’t no green in his eye. Now, some rumours had spread, Which Ben D—— could not burke, And every one said He’d been at his old work. (It was strange, you must know, how he doated Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”) It was Gran-Vil who rose, And quite soft was his style; But you must not suppose That he hasn’t no guile; Yet D—— played it that day upon Gran Vil In a way that made most of them smile. Which some questions he’d brought, And Ben rose—as ’twas planned— To reply. What was sought He did well understand;2 But he smiled, as he stood at the table, With a smile that was artfully bland. How he trifled with sense, You would scarcely believe; And with cunning intense, Fancy statements did weave: Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen, And the same, with intent to deceive. Yes, the tricks that were play’d By that Hebrew, Ben D——, And the points that he made Were quite shocking to me; Till at last he sat down amid laughter, And chuckling himself, I could see. Then up sprang Ar-Gyle, With his hair flowing free, And he gave a wild snort, And said, “Shall this be? We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries, And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D——. Which the war-dance he had Was exciting to watch, Though I feared, lest too mad, His job he might botch, For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;— You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch. Still, the scene that ensued Was uncommonly grand, For the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the facts that Ben D—— had been hiding, The facts “He did well understand.” For his head, which is long, Contained facts by the score; Which, with effort so strong, Ar-Gyle out of it tore; Till Ben D——, if he has any feelings, Must have, morally, felt very sore. Which expressions is strong, Yet but feebly imply What I think of the wrong— Not to call it a lie— As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil, Which he can’t go for it to deny. Which is why I remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And tricks that are vain, The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar, Which the same I am bold to maintain. Truth, January 31, 1878.
The Aged Stranger. (An Incident of the War). “I was with Grant—” the stranger said, Said the farmer, “Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore.” “I was with Grant—” the stranger said; Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,— I prithee sit at my frugal board. And eat of my humble store. “How fares my boy,—my soldier boy, Of the Old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle’s roar!” “I know him not,” said the aged man, “And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant—” “Nay, nay, I know,” Said the farmer, “Say no more; “He fell in battle,—I see alas! Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,— Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom’s core. “How fell he,—with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore? O, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore!” “I cannot tell,” said the aged man, “And should have remarked, before, That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,— Some three years before the war.” Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. Bret Harte.
The following parody appeared in Jon Duan, one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes:—
“I was with Grant.” “I was with Grant——” the stranger said; Said McDougal, “Say no more, But come you in—I have much to ask— And please to shut the door.” “I was with Grant——” the stranger said; Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,— You have seen him sit at the Emma Board? Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store. “What said my Albert—my Baron brave, Of the great financing corps? I warrant he bore him scurvily ’Midst the interruption’s roar!” “No doubt he did,” said the stranger then; “But, as I remarked before, I was with Grant——” “Nay, nay, I know,” Said McDougal; “but tell me more.” “He’s presented another square!—I see, You’d smooth the tidings o’er— Or started, perchance, more Water-works On the Mediterranean shore? “Or made the Credit Foncier pay, Or floated a mine with ore? Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away From his home in Kensington Gore!” 3 “I cannot tell,” said the unknown man, “And should have remarked before, That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean— In the great American war.” Then McDougal spake him never a word, But beat, with his fist, full sore The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant, In the great American war. Jon Duan, 1874.
Plain Language from Truthful Robert. (With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”) Do I sleep? Do I dream? (I’m sarcastic, no doubt.) Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle and truncheon played out? Which expressions is strong; Yet I beg to declare That the constable throng Have a grievance to air While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen upon terms which are far, far from fair. Charley Peaces abound In the subbubs to-day; And they’re apt, when they’re found, To go blazing away At a constable all unpertected, which the same has the worst of the fray. Can you tap a cove’s head If you’re progress is checked By the neat bit o’ lead That a Colt does eject? And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you tootle with proper effect? That you can’t, I submit, And the truth must be faced That the Force will get hit, And the town be disgraced, Till each Bobby with Billy—that’s Sikes, sir—on a more equal footing is placed. Are these shootings a dream? (I’m sarcastic, no doubt.) Are things what they seem? Or is visions about? Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle and truncheon played out? Funny Folks, August 2, 1884.
Scribners’ Monthly for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:—
Home, Sweet Home
as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt—
Brown, o’ San Juan, Stranger, I’m Brown. Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco— Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down. Ben a-knockin’ around, Fer a man from San Juan, Putty considable frequent— Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn! Right thar lies my home— Right thar in the red— I could slop over, stranger, in po’try Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead. Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche. Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side. Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock; Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’ Fer the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality. Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction. Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens— I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty— Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort. Yer parding, young man— But this landscape a kind Er flickers—I ’low ’twuz the po’try— I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind. * * * * * Take that pop from my belt! Hi, thar—gimme yer han’— Or I’ll kill myself—Lizzie! she’s left me— Gone off with a purtier man! Thar, I’ll quit—the ole gal An’ the kids! run away! I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard— The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.
To “Auld Willie.” (After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”) So again you’ve been at it, old fellow, The old game of four years ago; You’ve given the Tories a drubbing; You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go. By Jove! and you were down upon them, Denouncing, and all that, you know; But what about Egypt, old fellow, And those vows of yours four years ago? Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow, To think it is four years ago, And scarcely a measure effected, Attempted, and all that, you know! 4 You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour; But for all your palaver, I trow, Matters are about much of a muchness To-day, they were four years ago! Avonicus. The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).
Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”
Thomas Hood.
(Continued from Part 12 )
The Night “Comp.” With fingers weary and worn, Eyelids heavy and red, A “comp.” stood at his frame all night, Picking up “stamps” for bread. Full-point, comma, and rule, Colon, and quad, and space, “Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line, Dozing awhile at his “case.” “Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.” “Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that; Matter all solid, never a “break;” Oh! for a trifle of “fat!” Moon peeping in through the pane; Gas, with its dull yellow glare; Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,” And the Editor’s foot on the stair. One o’clock! two o’clock chimed! “Proofs,” coming up again, “read;” Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here; Trudge away homeward to bed. Anonymous.
The Song of the Dirt. (Covent Garden Market, August, 1884) With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, A Londoner trudged on a market day With a footfall’s dreary thud— Splash, splash, splash! While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch He sang “The Song of the Dirt.” Splash, splash, splash! From morn to even-time, Splash, splash, splash! Through garbage, filth and grime. Stenches strong in the street, Streets with stenches strong, As over the flags I gingerly creep, I wonder to whom they belong. Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the man far away in the rear, But I’m forced to hold my nose, For I must with such odours near. Oh! but for one short hour An appetite good to feel! I formerly used my dinner to want, But a walk now costs a meal. With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, A Londoner trudged on a market-day With a footfall’s dreary thud. Splash, splash, splash! While garbage may spatter and spirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch— Would that its cry could reach the rich— He sang “The Song of the Dirt.” Punch, August 23, 1884.
I Remember, I Remember. I remember, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led; She didn’t come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away! I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,— They cost an awful sight! The “corner lot” on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day,— That man is single yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport:— My spirit flew in feathers then, 5 No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate,— I’m not so anxious now! I remember, I remember, My dear one’s smile and sigh; I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when she wasn’t got! Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.
The first number of Truth, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood, the Editor of Fun, and son of the author of the original “I Remember.”
I remember, I remember, The house—’twas Clunn’s Hotel, The friends who knocked me up at eight, I recollect as well; They never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, For liquor flowed from when they came Till when they went away. I remember, remember, The “brandies”—large and small— The Chablis and the Veuve Clicquot, The sodas split by all; The caraffe at my bedside set, With cognac well filled up— And what a time it took to mix The primal champagne cup. (Here five verses are omitted). I remember, I remember,— Last and fresh this memory comes,— They brought hot pickle sandwiches, Which filled my bed with crumbs; It was a heated taste I own; But brandy’s apt to cloy, Unless you pick your palate up With devilled eggs and soy. Thomas Hood.
What it May Come to. I remember, I remember, The House where I was bred; The Woolsack, whence the Chancellor That annual Message read. He never came till after four, And rarely stayed till five; For, if their dinners were delayed, Could Senators survive? I remember, I remember, The Marquises and Earls, The peerless rows of Peeresses, Those flowers decked in pearls. The cross-bench, where the Princes sat; And where the Prelates shone In piety and lawn arrayed— The Bishops now are gone! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to spout, And thought the papers must be mad To leave my speeches out. My eloquence was practised then, That now is left to rust; And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced Before my boyish thrust! I remember, I remember, The Commons trooping in; I used to think that in a fight The Peers must always win. It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m kicked out of the House I sat in when a boy! Punch, September 6, 1884.
An imitation of Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram was published in Truth, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go into service:—
’Tis in the prime of summer-time, A sunny morn in May, And scores of merry maidens cease A moment from their play; For from their Happy Wanstead Home, A girl is going that day.
* * * * *
A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original, appeared in Truth, July 19, 1877. This was entitled The Blue-coat Boy’s Ghost, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder boys.
“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in Truth, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s Song of the Shirt, in fourteen verses.
“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody of Hood’s Lost Child, appeared in Punch, February 16, 1867.
6
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(Continued from Part 12)
n page 101, Part VII., of Parodies there is a poem called The Settler’s version of Excelsior. It was taken from a MS. copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is an American attempt to translate Excelsior into plain English:—
Higher. The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift, And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift, As thro’ a village a youth did go, A carryin’ a flag with this motto,— Higher! O’er a forehead high curled copious hair, His nose a Roman, complexion fair, O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash, And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache, Higher! He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper A number of families sittin’ at supper, But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen, And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’— Higher! “Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop! It’s blowin’ gales up there on top— You’ll tumble off on t’other side!” But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied, Higher! “Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night. Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright. On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, But still he remarked, as he upward clomb, Higher! “Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree! Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!” Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed, And the singular voice replied overhead, Higher! About quarter-past six the next afternoon, A man accidentally goin’ up soon Heard spoken above him as often as twice, The very same word in a very weak voice, Higher! And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven— He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven— Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow, Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto— Higher! Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt, The lamp of his life being decidedly out, On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’! And there was no more use for him to be sayin’ Higher!
Diogenes! The carriages were filling fast, When o’er a railway platform pass’d A youth who bore, with tread precise, A paper with this bold device, Diogenes! His arm a parcel held beneath; He drew a number from its sheath, And shouted, with well-practised lung, Accents that through the station rung, Diogenes! In happy hours he saw the light,— The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright; Resolved to make its lustre known, His lips soon gave the welcome tone, Diogenes! “One hither pass,” an old man said, (Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;) He oped his mouth with laughter wide, While still the clamorous vendor cried, Diogenes! “Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest Around her were as much impress’d; Each looking forth with eager eye, Urging the vendor to supply! Diogenes! Beware! the train moves from the branch; The sheets fly like an avalanche! The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine, While voices shout far up the line, Diogenes! Far on the way, with breaks down hard, Two trains each other rush toward; And midst the wreck so fearful there, Voices are heard still loud and clear, Diogenes! A traveller on a rugged mound Was in a hundred pieces found; His hand still grasping like a vice That paper with its bold device, Diogenes! There, as he cold and lifeless lay, Smiles seem’d around his lips to play! Still in the air his accents are, And echo through each passing car, Diogenes! From Diogenes, February 4, 1854.
Diogenes was a comic paper, somewhat resembling Punch in its general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in reference to the Crimean War.
A pesky night was coming down, As a young man pass’d through a rustic town; And in his hand he clutch’d a flag, And this is what was on the rag— Upards! As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see 7 Three several families taking tea; He smelt the cakes, but never swerved, But as he drop’t a tear, observed— Upards! A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay! And I will marry you right away;” While tears all down his cheeks did flow, “Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go— Upards!" Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care, There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there; Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,” The young man only wink’d and said— Upards! Next morning at the break of day, A Shaker chanced to pass that way, And thought he heard the voice of a coon, A-singing to a service toon— Upards! His dog then sniff’d and smelt about, And soon discover’d what, without doubt, Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow, What carried the flag with the rum motto— Upards! All cover’d in snow the young man lay, In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way; And though as dead as any nail, A voice was heard borne on the gale— Upards! A. Z. The Tonbridgian, April 1873.
M. Duruof. The shades of night were falling fast, As from the table d’hôte there pass’d A pair who cried that they would rise, Obedient to the people’s cries, Excelsior! Their hearts were brave—with reckless breath, They swore they both could face the Death! And, answering to the mob’s fell clang, Foolhardy were the boasts that rang, Excelsior! In Calais’ streets they saw the light Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright, Yet from their lips escaped no groan, As onward flew the mad balloon, Excelsior! “Try not the air,” their friends had said, “Dark storms are raging overhead; The seas are tossing far beneath, And you will meet with certain death, Excelsior!” “Come, let us go!” his wife had cried; “We will not stay, for all beside Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;” He answer’d, “You are right, my dear, Excelsior!” “Beware the Tempest’s awful blast! ’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!” This was the Frenchman’s last good-night. Cried some one, now far out of sight, “Excelsior!” Next morn some sailors out at sea With nets were toiling wearily; When loud resounded through the air A cry that made them wondering stare, Excelsior! Two travellers at the dismal sound, Half-buried in the waves were found, Grasping with eager clutch the ropes, On which depended all their hopes, Excelsior! There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray, Wretched and shivering they lay; The freed balloon then, with its car, Shot upward like a rising star, Excelsior! The Tonbridgian, September, 1874.
The Excelsior Climbing Boy. (Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post Longum— seu potiùs, meritò dicatur,— Excelsiorem Socium). Some few, whose days are closing fast, Remember, in their time long past, How youth, in toil of little price, Might yet have borne, for their device, Excelsior! These youngsters, in that distant time, Swept chimneys, which they had to climb, They could have cried as they clomb higher, Like one who skywards did aspire, Excelsior! Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called, Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled, As they ascended up the flue Were not instructed to halloo Excelsior! By reek and close air overcome, The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb, And stifled soon, unless got out— Of course he then no more could shout Excelsior! His knees were worn by rough ascent Bare to the very ligament; Flayed were his fingers and his toes; Because he grazed them as he rose, Excelsior! When, jammed in, on his upward way He stuck fast, oft, some used to say, His master, in the grate below, Would light a fire, to make him go Excelsior! These horrors having been at last Dragged into day, an Act was passed Declaring it, henceforth, a crime To make a child a chimney climb Excelsior! Still certain Bumbles, it appears, Against the law, these many years, Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept By means of little boys who crept Excelsior! May a new law, more strictly framed, All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed, Concerned in making children sweep Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep Excelsior! Long brush, worked deftly by machine, 8 All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean, Law must on cruel masters fall, Who take to driving urchins small Excelsior! Punch, June 26, 1875.
Excelsior. The swampy state of Illinois Contained a greenish sort of boy, Who read with idiotic joy— Excelsior! He tarried not to eat or drink, But got a flag of lightish pink, And traced on it, in violet ink— Excelsior! Though what he meant by that absurd, Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word, Has not been placed upon record— Excelsior! The characters were very plain, In German text, yet he was fain, With greater clearness to explain— Excelsior! And so he ran, this stupid wight, And hollered out with, all his might, (As to a person out of sight)— Excelsior! And everybody thought the lad Within an ace of being mad, Who cried in accents stern and sad— Excelsior! “Come to my arms,” the maiden cried: The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed, And then appropriately replied— Excelsior! The evening sun is in the sky, But still the creature mounts on high, And shouts (nor gives a reason why)— Excelsior! But ere he gains the topmost crag His feeble legs begin to lag; Unsteadily he holds the flag— Excelsior! * * * * * Now P. C. Nab is on his track! He puts him in an empty sack, And brings him home upon his back— Excelsior! Nab takes him to a lumber store, They toss him in and lock the door, Which only makes him bawl the more— Excelsior! Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By Eric. (John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).
The Dowager-Duchess at the Drawing Room.
(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur.”—Weekly Paper, February, 1880).
The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace, And duly presented the Honourable Alice; And now we will show in what sort of condition Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission. The shades of night were falling fast, As up a Mayfair street there passed A carriage with this strange device As crest:—A rampant cockatrice And enfant or. Within was seen an agèd dame, Whose breath in gasps most frequent came; Her face was white as Death’s own hue, Her Roman nose was red; with blue Her lips spread o’er. The fair young maiden by her side, By briskly rubbing, bravely tried Her grandma’s blood to make reflow— It seem’d a hopeless object, though, She labour’d for! “Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she Observed they’d stopped at forty-three; “We are at home, dear Grandma, come! Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb— E’en as before. And when she would have left her seat, She all but tumbled in the street; Her state, in fact, the house alarms, When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms, She gains her door. “Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!” The Honourable Miss Alice said: “Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d Without delay be in it clapp’d, And bottles hot! “Beware no window open be, And blankets bring at once to me!” Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown— Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan: “Hot ginger, dear!” And ere of minutes ten had fled, The chilled old Duchess was in bed; Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound, She promised shortly to come round To health once more. Then in the firelight, thin and gray, And cold, but not so cold, she lay, Whilst from her lips, no longer blue, A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true, And somewhat sore. * * * * * Truth, February 26, 1880.
After Longfellow. (A Long Way). The western sun was sinking fast, As through the quiet street there passed A tinker with a blackened eye, Who ever and anon did cry— “’Brellas to mend.” His brow was dark with smoke and soot, His raiment, rags from head to foot; And like a penny trumpet rung The beery accents of his tongue— “’Brellas to mend.” 9 He lingered at the corner “pub,” He drew his last coin from his fob; He quaffed his glass of half-and-half, And only answered to their chaff— “’Brellas to mend.” “Go not again,” the landlord said, “Wild blows the tempest overhead, Your rags will lash you unto death.” Our friend replied with bated breath— “’Brellas to mend.” “Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast; Why should’st thou from our presence fly?” This was the tinker’s sad reply— “’Brellas to mend.” “Beware the stern blue-coated man— Beware the falling chimney-can;” Such was the landlord’s parting word, And this was the reply they heard— “’Brellas to mend.” In Duke Street, at the break of day, Within a court the tinker lay; In falling he his leg had broke, When gently raised, these words he spoke— “’Brellas to mend.” He died; his body calmly rests; His ghost the lonely streets infests; And often at the midnight hour A voice cries, with sepulchral power— “’Brellas to mend.” Teddy May and other Poems, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.
Voices of Our Nights. (Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow). I heard the feline footsteps in the night Pad through the Court and Hall! I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light Climb Mrs. Coxe’s Wall! I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!) Step o’er me just above; With shrill pathetic mewings through the night, As of a cat in love. I heard the sounds of passion and of fight, The caterwauling chimes, That fill each attic chamber in the night, Where some starved poet rhymes. My night-capped head in the cool midnight air Sought vainly some repose; The echo of perpetual squalls rose there, From the new cistern rose. Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend, you green-eyed fright! I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear, The cat-infested night! Punch, May 4, 1861.
Picked Up at the Stall Entrance to the Novelty Theatre. I know a maiden fair to see— K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!) She dances most bewitchingly— K. V.! K. V.! Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat, Her pirouettes, her glances sweet, Will make your heart more quickly beat— K. V.! K. V.! When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”— K. V.! K. V.! O keep your eyes upon the book— K. V.! K. V.! Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace Will “mash” you in a moment’s space; Then yours will be a hopeless case— K. V.! K. V.! Truth, May 22, 1884.
(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s poem).
Picked up at the stage entrance to the Novelty Theatre:— I know a masher dark to see, J. D., J. D. He mashes most bewitchingly, J. D., J. D. His varnished feet, his collars neat, His buttonhole (gardenia sweet), Must make her heart more quickly beat, J. D., J. D. When you are seeing Lalla Rookh, J. D., J. D. Pray keep your eyes upon the book, J. D., J. D. For Kate’s fair face and lower lace Have made you change your mind apace; Ah, yours must be a dreadful case! J. D., J. D. The Topical Times, May 24, 1884.
Suggested by “The Village Blacksmith.” (With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.) Under Britannia’s spreading oak The Grand Old Woodman stands; A presentation axe he wields With large and sinewy hands; But the onslaught of his cruel arms As yet the tree withstands. His hair is white and dank and long His collars none can span; His brow is wet with honest sweat— He chops down all he can; He won’t look Duty in the face, But he’ll talk with any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his speeches flow; You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue, Dreary and loud and slow, As the sexton’s song on the village bell, When the evening sun is low. 10 The children of his Rebel School Crowd round his open door; They love to watch his swelling gorge, And hear his blatant roar, And catch the myriad words that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach— He hears his own loved voice, Reading the daily lessons, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like an angel’s voice Singing in Paradise! Which reminds him he will talk no more When in the grave he lies, And with his collar end he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Talking—orating—promising, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun, Long years don’t see it close; Too much attempted, nothing done, How can he seek repose? Experience by thee, my friend, Thy country has been taught; Hadst though been doomed to silent life, As reckless talkers ought, Then had thy native land escaped Much evil thou hast wrought. Sphinx. The Globe, September 10, 1884.
The Low Bohemian. Before the Cheshire Cheese’s bar The low Bohemian stands; A sallow, seedy man is he, With dirty nails, and hands; And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice He “four of Cork” demands. His nose is large and very red, His mouth ’twere hard to span; His daily work he likes to shirk, He borrows when he can, And he scans new comers anxiously, For he owes to many a man. Week in, week out, from morn to night, He loiters bars before; He knows the barmaids’ Christian names (A fact they much deplore;) Now here, now there, he, with a leer, Slinks in at the swinging door! He glories in the Referee, And reads the Weekly Times, In Reynolds’ finds congenial stuff, And sends it jokes and rhymes; For he’s a writer for the press, When liquor duly primes. Loafing—and loitering—liquoring— Down to his grave he goes; Each morning finds him “coppery,” He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close; Something attempted—some one “done,” Whilst liquor always flows. He dies at length, and round his grave His boon companions tread, Then go and drink at various bars Till maudlin tears are shed— Whilst their dead friend has left a wife And children lacking bread! But his lost life and early death, Do they no sermon preach? His doom, self-sought, has it no power A lesson strong to teach? No; his friends’ brains too sodden are, The message them to reach. Truth, Christmas Number, 1878.
The Village Schoolboy. Under the garden apple-tree The village schoolboy stands; The boy, a nasty boy is he, With muddy, filthy hands; And the mussel-shells he’s playing with Are pick’d from dirty sands. His hair is short, and red, and straight, His face is like the tar; He cries and bawls when mother calls, You hear him near and far, And when he gets a chance he steals The sugar from the jar. Week in, week out, from morn till night, He bellows and he cries, And in the village there’s not one So good at telling lies; Big stones he throws at other boys, And hits them in the eyes. He goes on Sunday to the church, And every one annoys; He pinches all the kids he’s near, And asks them for their toys; And when they sing up in the choir He shouts out, “Hold your noise!” His father smacks him in the face, He pulls him by the nose, The village schoolboy only cries, And crying—off he goes; His parents go to bed at night, And THERE, they’ve no repose. W. C. L. The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884.
The Village Blacksmith. Beside a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands, The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well might suit, His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute. His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob; But to drink up another’s drink he’s always on the job! Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low. You seldom hear his hammer’s beat, his step is dull and slow; Communications from his mouth are seldom “yes” or “no.” And children coming home from school run frightened past his door, 11 They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar, They’d only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door. He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys, He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter’s voice, Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice, Reminding him of her mother’s voice—that wasn’t over nice. And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies, He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise, Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes. No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close. Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose. The Topical Times, September 13, 1884.
The parody of “A Psalm of Life,” entitled “The Maiden’s Dream of Life,” which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phœbe Carey, entitled “Poems and Parodies.” The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey’s parody, which is decidedly the better of the two:—
A Psalm of Life. (What the Heart of the Young Woman said to the Old Maid). Tell me not, in idle jingle, Marriage is an empty dream, For the girl is dead that’s single, And things are not what they seem. Married life is real, earnest, Single blessedness a fib; Taken from man, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Nearer brings the wedding day. Life is long, and youth is fleeting, And our hearts, if there we search, Still like steady drums are beating Anxious marches to the Church. In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a woman, be a wife! Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act—act in the living Present. Heart within, and Man ahead! Lives of married folks remind us We can live our lives as well, And, departing, leave behind us Such examples as will tell;— Such examples, that another, Sailing far from Hymen’s port, A forlorn, unmarried brother, Seeing, shall take heart, and court. Let us then be up and doing, With the heart and head begin; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour, and to win! Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, 1854.
The following is an amusing specimen of advertisement parodies. It was written by Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol:—
Tell me not in doleful murmurs Ink is but a mouldy stream! And the pen it rusts, and murders Writing paper by the ream! Thatcher’s Ink is Ink in earnest! And to rust is not its goal; Mud thou art, to mould returnest, Was not spoken as its dole. With enjoyment and not sorrow Welcome thee in loudest lay: Ink to write, that each to-morrow Finds it blacker than to-day. Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting! Penman, be no more a slave! Let all other inks go beating Funeral marches to their grave! In the world’s wide field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Write not like dumb driven cattle! Use this Ink and end thy strife! Lines of this Ink all remind us We may write with ease sublime, And departing, leave behind us Words to live as long as time! Pen marks, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck’d brother, Reading, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, Seize this Ink before too late, Thatcher’s now at once securing, Neither hesitate nor wait! Shortfellow.
Please be Cheerful. (Advice to Modern Novelists.) Tell us not, in mournful numbers, Life is all a ghastly dream! Such as those we have in slumbers, When the nightmare makes us scream. Life is dark enough in earnest, Without bringing in the gaol; Only readers of the sternest Like their heroines out on bail. 12 Not to swindle, or to borrow, Is the reputable way; Not to marry, and to-morrow Kill your bride, and run away. Arson’s wrong, and poisoning dreary, And our hearts, though pretty brave, Now and then get rather weary Of the gallows and the grave. In the great domestic battle, In the matrimonial strife, Be not like those Mormon “cattle,” Give your hero but one wife. Wives and daughters should remind you There are women without crime; Draw them, and you’ll leave behind you Fictions that may weather time;— Fictions free from that Inspector Who is sent by Richard Mayne, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane. Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with Wills; Leave the poisons in the phials— And the money in the tills. Punch, December 1, 1866.
A PSALM OF FARMING. Bell’s Messenger, December 9th, 1878. What the Heart of the Young Farmer Said to the Old ’Un. (After Wrongedfellar). Tell me not in cheerful numbers You have known when times was wuss, Kip on sowin’ wutts and barley, And things will come right for us. Rents are too much, labour’s heavy, And our fair share’s not the goal, Landlords take all they can gather, Cow and calf, both mare and foal. Not enjoyment and not profit Seems our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us poorer than to-day. The world is big and steam is quick, But our hearts, though stout and brave, Do not like to leave the “dear” land, ’Cause our wives do look so grave! With the world’s broad field for farming, With the chance of a free life, Be not like dumb, driven donkeys, With such prospects have no strife. Trust no landlord, howe’er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, Heart within and God o’erhead. Happy Colonists do teach us We can go and be the same, And, departing, leave behind us Wiser landlords, much more tame. Landlords, that perhaps another Year or so might make so wise, Might then know that ’tis quite certain Rents must fall as well as rise. Let us, then, be up and going, With a heart for any fate, Then succeeding, more persuading That ’tis good to emigrate.
Reproduced in “Farming,” by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879.
(A small pamphlet on Free Trade versus Protection).
A Song of St. Stephen’s. Tell me not in mocking numbers We shall have to come to town, And resume our wonted slumbers, When the leaves are sere and brown. * * * * * Lives of patriots all remind us We can show uncommon nous, And, departing, leave behind us Relays that shall “keep a House.” Relays that perchance our Leaders O’er that legislative main May observe, while we are pleaders, Autumn leisure to attain. Punch, July 1, 1882.
A Psalm of Burial. Tell me not with words inflated Bodies were not meant to burn; For the moo-cow when cremated Doth to “frosted silver” turn. Not the grave-yard, not interment Is the cheapest, healthiest way; But to rob the worm preferment Finds with cultured men to-day. Lights of learning all have told us We can shunt the gloomy pall, And, when churchyards will not hold us, Roast our flesh for funeral. Let us, then, keep time with culture: “Earth to earth” is out of date— Leave no carrion for the vulture, Spurn the sexton, and cremate. Moonshine, May 17, 1884.
On Reading a Life and Letters. “Lives” of great men all remind us Friends may after our last breath Publish what we leave behind us, Adding thus new fears to death. Wives of rich men oft remind us, We may make our wives sublime; But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet Knocks a cheque-book out of time.
“The Day is Done.” The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather, is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost. 13 I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That I cannot well resist. A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick. Come, get for me some supper— A good and regular meal— That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel. Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn’t give a farthing For all that they can make. For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best. Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice. Such things through days of labour, And nights devoid of ease. For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies. They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the “finally, brethren,” That follows a long discourse. Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook. And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook. And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run. Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.