WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 10)

Carmen Triumphale. BY R.S.P.L. Last eve as I sate in my room that looks o’er the church of Saint Clement, (Nota Bene: I had but of late arrived in town upon business,) I ordered my boots for a walk, my boots that polished and pointed, Bright on their surface display the beauty of Warren’s jet blacking: Now you must know that my man, in his speed to reply to my summons, Brought me my Wellington boots, but never once thought of the boothooks; So to allay my spleen by calm and ennobling reflections, Such as might wile the time disturb’d by my valet’s omission, I sate me down in a chair, and thus apostrophised Warren. “Pontiff of modern art! whose name is as noted as mine is, Noted for talent and skill, and the cardinal virtues of manhood Receive this tribute of praise from one whose applause is an honour, I am he who sang of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and Gothic enough it was, I’m told, in metre and meaning; Thalaba too was mine, that wild and wondrous effusion, Madoc and Joan of Arc, and the splendid curse of Kehama; If I then, the author of these and other miraculous volumes, And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end, And thus shall it be with the man whom S—y delighteth to honour, Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s, Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras: Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden, Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the moonlight, When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him. “Through thee in the season of spring, oh pride of the modern creation!!! Beauty sets off by night each grace of her whirligig ankle, When to the music of harps in dulcet symphonies sounding, She waltzes with twinkling twirl, and butterfly bucks hover round her; Thee she hails as a friend, while her pumps, in the pride of their polish, Illumine the ball-room floor like the slippers of famed Cinderella,— In Brighton thy name is known, and waxeth important at Cheltenham; Travels per coach to Bath, that exceedingly beautiful city; Thence crossing the channel to Wales, it stirs up attention at Swansea; Or flees with the speed of a dove o’er the mountainous ridges of Snowden, Till valley, and rock, and glen ring aloud with ‘Buy Warren’s Blacking.’ “But not unto Britain alone is thy fame, Robert Warren, confined: o’er The civilised regions of Europe, believe me, ’tis equally honoured; For when, as a proof of the fact, I rambled through Switzerland lately; And, spent with the labour of travel, put up in the vale of Chamouny, My boots by the waiter were bathed in the luminous dew of thy blacking: This, as you well may guess, astonished my nerves not a little; So, flaming with zeal, I said, ‘now tell me, oh waiter, I pray thee, Th’ extent of this tradesman’s fame in the vales of the Switzer, that straight I May note it down as a hint for some future edition of travels, Then blythe the waiter assured me that through Chamouny, the splendour Of Warren’s name beamed joy, as the snow on the summit of Jura, 180 Tinged by the occident ray, sheds glory and gladness around it, While villages bask in its smiles:—meantime I continued my Carmen,— Thrice honoured artist, who hast a minstrel like me to commend thee! Year upon year may roll, but you never will get such another; For I am the bard of time, the puffer of peer or of peasant, Whether Russ, German, or French, Whig, Radical, Ultra, or Tory, Provided my sack-butt is paid with a butt of sack for each bouncer Hence, nobles are proud to bow to my laurelled head at Saint James’s, Deeming his Majesty’s grace dispensed through me, for they well know His Majesty loves in his heart my political creed (Nota Bene—I will not swear that he does; but is it not likely, oh Europe?)” Here I concluded my stave, for my valet returned with my boot-hooks; So taking my hat in my hand a remarkably requisite practice, I sought that widening gulf where the Strand with a murmur susurrous Flows into Pall Mall East, like Thames at the Nore into ocean; Here I stood rapt awhile, commending the buildings around me, Especially Waterloo Place, with which I was highly delighted; Till hearing the clock strike eight, I returned to my Strand habitation, And heard the bell from St. Clement’s toll, toll through the silence of evening.

“Then what a happy Prince you’ll be With a Poet Laureate such as me; When duly here, to George the Regents praise, My Prince, as with an angel’s voice of song, Pours my melodious lays Upon the gales of even, And sounding strenuous like a gong, I lift his fame to th’ north-west gates of heaven, Such harmony to all my notes is given.”

Epitaph for Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate Author of “Wat Tyler, &c., &c. Dignus auribus Principis—Horat. Here lies our good Laureat, whom Byron has sent hence, Without any time for “a death-bed repentance,[77] Of his sapphics, so cruelly mangled by Canning— So safely remov’d both from sense and from scanning;[78] (For our Laureat dealt largely in sapphics seditious,[79] Before he got scent of the loaves and the fishes), Or his Botany Eclogues, from which one would swear That the Poet had learnt his morality there.[80] Poor Joan[81] ever doom’d to be burnt in our ire, Once more by all England condemn’d to the fire. Sure Southey, like Bedford, was born for thy curse, And we burn thee again, to atone for his verse. Next Thalaba came, that selfslaying destroyer, Of readers and conjurors too the annoyer; Let him murder magicians, and all their relations, But why did he murder our rhyme[82] and our patience? Then Madoc’s adventures so ably were sung, You’d think they were told in his own native tongue.[83] For the curse of Kehama one cannot help dreading it, The curse is so cursedly felt in the reading it. Then a Monarch of Spain—how strange he should blast one! For though he’s a Goth he might surely have past one, Since he is (the Belov’d not excepted) the last one.[84] But as soon as our bard got attach’d to the crown, He try’d to sing up what he used to sing down;— One day Bribery’s slave and the next its reviler, Praising Castlereagh now, and now praising Wat Tyler,[85] To constraint and corruption now bidding defiance, And now lauding the deeds of the Holy Alliance.[86] Enduring the scorn of all England most martyrly, Secure that his sores would be lick’d by the Quarterly. Then forth came that Letter, or crack “branding iron,” 181 Which the Laureat so cackles about to Lord Byron,[87] That letter so famous, in which he advances Truths such as you find in the Spanish Romances, Traduced by our Bard, who contriv’d in abridging all, To make one, for shortness, desire the original. Next like some “obscene birds” of his feather, he flew To prey on the stain of thy field, Waterloo![88] Then returned to o’ershade, with his sad gratulation,[89] An event that awak’d all the hopes of a Nation, And surely the Laureat alone could have told it, In rhymes, that had Sternhold himself out-Sternholded. Then Byron and Juan eternally lamming him, Play’d the devil with him—so he set about damning him; And if to his foes or his friends he a grudge meant, What could he do worse than his Vision of Judgment! But ’twas fit that this model of tergiversation, Who began in sedition, should end in damnation. To atone for all this, what must now be his lot? Shall he “lie” like his Works “in obstruction and rot?” No—let him be punished by quitting his urn to See all the “vile uses” they’re sure to return to. The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1823, London, 1824.

Song. By Rogero. I. Whene’er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I’m rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- -niversity of Gottingen— -niversity of Gottingen. (Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds— II. Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!— Alas! Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U- -niversity of Gottingen! -niversity of Gottingen. At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence. III. Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew Her neat, post-waggon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish’d at the U- -niversity of Gottingen -niversity of Gottingen. IV. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U- -niversity of Gottingen! -niversity of Gottingen. V. There first, for thee my passion grew, Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu- -tor, law professor at the U- -niversity of Gottingen! -niversity of Gottingen. VI. Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in: Here doom’d to starve on water gru- -el, never shall I see the U- -niversity of Gottingen! -niversity of Gottingen.

A New Gottingen Ballad. Oxford and Cambridge, sisters two, With prejudice begotten in, Your tassell’d Commoners[90] should embue Their minds, with knowledge from the U- -niversity of Gottingen! Johnson and Milton ye can show, Or tell the graves they’re rotting in; But what are they to Kotzebue, Who studied morals at the U- -niversity of Gottingen? Hyde-Park, that aristocrats, with new Buckskins and boots, are trotting in, Boast you the philosophy true, Subliming mankind at the U- -niversity of Gottingen? Ah! no; your ring, where men in du- -els go for to be shotten in, Can boast no slaughters like the su- -icides, that happens at the U- -niversity of Gottingen! Commons and Lords, where buff and blue Now seem to be forgotten in, Ye want a thorough revolu- -tion, and the system of the U- -niversity of Gottingen! Halls of the city, that the crew Of traders are begotten in, I’d share your fatt’ning revenue With literati at the U- -niversity of Gottingen? O! people banking base, and bou- -tiquière, that are so hot in gain, O! learn the doctrine of commu- -nity of goods, and send yours to The doctors meek of Gottingen! From The Morning Herald, 1802.

Song. Whene’er with aching eyes I view The troublers of the nation, I find them one conspiring crew The Bridge Street Gang—the CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association. Slop’s venom, of high Tory blue, The Stuart royal fashion, In secret gave the poison to The daggers of the CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association. Forth from his SLOP-PAIL swift he flew, In dread of moderation, Assassin’s knives to cowards threw, And called the GANG the CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association. I, who when wild his curses flew, Gave him his appellation, Would force him into light, in du- -ty to unmask his CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -tional Association. Against me if his SLOP-PAIL brew, For that high designation, I spurn his SLOP-PAIL, spurn him too, And scorn his GANG, the CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association. Until a fouler opportu- -nity a filthier still occasion He’ll empty his dirty SLOP-PAIL gru- -el, through his sink-hole CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association. But should he shrink from public view, Or skulk with mean evasion, I’ll lash the knave with all his crew— Slop and his GANG, the CONSTITU- -TIONAL Association. -TIONAL Association.

Song.[91] Whene’er, with pitying eye I view, Each operative sot in town, I smile to think how wondrous few Get drunk who study at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town. What precious fools “The People” grew. Their alma mater not in town; The “useful classes” hardly knew Four was composed of two, and two, Until they learned it at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town. But now they’re taught by Joseph Hu- -me, by far the cleverest Scot in town, Their items and their tottles too; Each may dissect his sister Sue, From his instructions at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town. Then L——E comes, like him how few Can caper and can trot in town, In pirouette, or pas de deux— He beats the famed Monsieur Giroux, And teaches dancing at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town! -niversity we’ve Got in town. And Gilchrist,[92] see, that great Geentoo— Professor, has a lot in town Of cockney boys who fag Hindoo, And larn Jem-nastics at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town! -niversity we’ve Got in town. Sam Rogers,[93] corpse of vampire hue, Comes from its grave to rot in town; For Bays the dead bards’ crowned with yew, And chants, the Pleasures of the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town! -niversity we’ve Got in town. 184 Frank Jeffrey,[94] of the Scotch Review,— Whom Moore had nearly shot in town, Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue And yellow, damns the other two, But lauds the ever glorious U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! Great Birkbeck,[95] king of chips and glue, Who paper oft does blot in town, From the Mechanics’ Institu- -tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw, Lever and axle at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! Lord Waithman,[96] who long since withdrew From Mansion House to cot in town; Adorn’d with chair of ormulu, All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo, Lectures on Free Trade at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! Fat F——, with his cost of blue, Who speeches makes so hot in town, In rhetoric, spells his lectures through, And sounds the V for W, The vay they speaks it at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! Then H——e comes, who late at New- gate Market, sweetest spot in town! Instead of one clerk, popp’d in two, To make a place for his ne-phew, Seeking another at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! There’s Captain Ross, a traveller true, Has just presented, what in town— —’s an article of great virtu (The telescope he once peep’d through, And ’spied an Exquimaux canoe On Croker Mountains), to the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! Since Michael gives no roast nor stew, Where Whigs might eat and plot in town, And swill his port, and mischief brew— Poor Creevy sips his water gru- -el as the beadle of the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town! There’s Jerry Bentham.[97] and his crew, Names ne’er to be forgot in town, In swarms like Banquo’s long is-sue— Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew, Come trooping on to join the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town, -niversity we’ve Got in town. To crown the whole with triple queue Another such there’s not in town, Twitching his restless nose askew, Behold tremendous Harry Brough-[98] am! law professor at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town— -niversity we’ve Got in town. Grand Chorus: Huzza! huzza! for Harry Brough- am! law professor at the U- -niversity we’ve Got in town, -niversity we’ve Got in town.

THE UNIVERSAL PENNY POSTAGE. From universal suffrage some Say every blessing’s sure to come, As clear as one and one make two; But others say it’s all a hum, And there’s no blessing like the U- -niversal Penny Postage. 185 Of all the penn’orths Nature gave— A penny show, a penny shave, There’s blacking for a penny too, A penny biscuit—all must waive Their claims in favour of the U- -niversal Penny Postage. For all things now there’s some new way— To write, to seal, to fold, to pay; And you must talk in idioms new, And when you mean Post-paid must say, “Prepaid,” by order of the U- -niversal Penny Postage. If aught’s not new the wonder’s great, The tables are so turned of late, E’en useful tables, though so true: Your half-ounce makes one penny-weight, According to the school of U- -niversal Penny Postage. Who’d think our great authorities Would do a thing so (penny) wise? (Pound foolish things we know they do!) How now in history they’ll rise!— The Government that gave the U- -niversal Penny Postage. Oh, Rowland Hill, immortal man, How can we pay you for your plan! To you our thanks, our pence are due; It was the Emperor of Japan As much as they that gave the U- -niversal Penny Postage. Send up a column to the sky, Five thousand office inkstands high; Take for a basement fair to view, As many reams of “wove demy”; Write—“To the author of the U- -niversal Penny Postage.” Anonymous.

Song. Sung by Dodge-ero (Colonel T-yl-r) in the Burlesque Play of “The Reform Rovers.” It is a most provoking do! To think that I was potting ’em— The guileless Dillwyn and his crew, When who should twig us but the hu- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham. (Weeps and pulls out a true blue Reform bill. Gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds— Sweet Measure! checks of truest blue They soon had found garotting ’em, If they had helped to pass you through, Without detection by the hu- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham. (At each repetition of this line Dodge-ero cracks his whip in cadence.) Bah! Bah! As Rarey trotted Crui- ser, I was calmly trotting ’em, When, hang it! who should enter—who? But that confounded pest—the hU- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham. The very form, in which they drew My words up, clearly spotting ’em, He offered to the House as scrU- -tineers—he did indeed, the hU- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham. My eyes! (with soda corks, it’s true, I have a way of dotting ’em At awkward times)—a rare to-do Was thus created by the hU- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham. And since they can’t escape the crU- -el sentence he’s alloting ’em, Their only chance is to abU- -se, and heap strong terms upon the hU- -morous M.P. for Nottingham— -morous M.P. for Nottingham.

The Orator’s Song. “Glory, Glory, to the Union.” My years are many—they were few (The flight of time immense is) My cap and gown were both brand new When first a member of the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. A Literal then of deepest hue (Now Time’s restored my senses) My jokes were old, my facts were few When first a speaker at the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. I’d done myself, as others do In railing at th’ expenses, Yet thought such criticism stu- pid when the Treasurer at the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. And still with pride I can review How I sternly fined offences, And rigorously enforced them too When I was President at the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. What fights from those old frescoes grew, They drove us into frenzies, Whether their charms should shine anew, Or, whitewashed, vanish from the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. 186 When first my beard and whiskers grew (A Bachelor in all senses) I’m afraid I swaggered—(so would you,) An hon’rary member of the U- -nion Oxoniensis, -nion Oxoniensis. Ah, me, perhaps those days I view Thro’ gaudy-tinted lenses, Yet, sad, I bid my last adieu To all thy well-known rooms, O, U- -nion Oxoniensis. -nion Oxoniensis. From The Shotover Papers, or Echoes from Oxford. March 1874.

The Plea of Paddington. The Board of Works, a thrifty crew, Oppose in cold, heart-sadding tone, The Park! Ah! Bumble may pooh-pooh, But “Let us have it!” is the U- -niversal prayer of Paddington. Non possumus? Nay, that won’t do! Pray drop official fadding tone! Builderdom’s selfish bosh eschew, And listen kindly to the U- -niversal cry of Paddington. Asphyxia on our Town, too true, Weighs yet in many a madding ton; Give us another “lung,” pray do, Is now the hearty, ardent U- -niversal plea of Paddington. Are Cockney souls as dull of hue As Babylon’s pervading tone? “Let’s look upon the heavenly blue From one more vantage,” is the U- -niversal wish of Paddington. Posterity, on its turf pursue- -ing pleasant sports, in gladding tone Will bless the foresight, wise and true, Which timely listened to the U- -niversal prayer of Paddington. Punch, February 11, 1882.

If “principles” are “nuts” to you, And promptly you’d be spotting ’em, Best take a turn, Sir, at the new Big lecture-rooms that grace the U- -niversity at Nottingham! There Blues orate till all is blue, (Knights and M.P.’s “big-potting” ’em) If you the social maze would view, They’ll guide you through it at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Twenty-five years since first they blew Big Guns, Lord Brougham shotting ’em, And now there’s nothing new or true But they’ll bang at you—at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! If you would dish the Landlord crew, By laws, without Boycotting ’em, The Settled Land Act’s action scru- -tinise as pictured at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! If you’d rejoice in skies of blue, With no big chimneys blotting ’em, You’ll probably learn what to do By patient listening at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! If you tight-lacing would eschew, See girls with “bags” culotte-ing ’em, Or “dual garmenture,” why few Subjects more “fetch” them at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! You’d learn how Women’s rights first grew, And how Man shirked allotting ’em, On all such questions they’ll adju- -dicate serenely at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Our Social Factors you’d review, And learn the art of “totting” ’em? Bless you! Statistics stiff are stu- -diously fed on at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Facts about drains, the Workman’s “screw,” Girls’ boots, would you be jotting ’em? They’ll stuff you with enough to ru- -minate for years on at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Would you the World of Hobbies view, Behold their riders trotting ’em, That Universe they will elu- -cidate completely at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Battle of Hastings! Pun, Sir? Pooh! Poor wags are always plotting ’em. Yet twenty-five years’ war, ’tis true, Culminates this year at the U- -niversity at Nottingham! Punch, October 7, 1882.

“Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation, “Answer, England, man by man, from sea to sea!”

The Commonweal. A Song for Unionists. 1. Men, whose fathers braved the world in arms against our isles in union, Men, whose brothers met rebellion face to face, Shew the hearts ye have, if worthy long descent and high communion, Shew the spirits, if unbroken, of your race. 2. What are these that howl and hiss across the strait of westward water, What is he who floods our ears with speech in flood; See the long tongue lick the dripping hand that smokes and reeks of slaughter! See the man of words embrace the man of blood! 3. Hear the plea whereby the tonguester mocks and charms the gazing gaper— “We are they whose works are works of love and peace; Till disunion bring forth union, what is union, Sirs, but paper? Break and rend it, then shall trust and strength increase.” 4. Who would fear to trust a double-faced but single-hearted dreamer, Pure of purpose, clean of hand, and clear of guile? “Life is well-nigh spent,” he sighs, “you call me shuffler, trickster, schemer? I am old—when young men yell at me, I smile.” 5. Many a year that priceless light of life has trembled, we remember, On the platform of extinction—unextinct; Many a month has been for him the long year’s last—life’s calm December: Can it be that he who said so, saying so, winked? 6. No: the lust of life, the thirst for work and days with work to do in, Drove and drives him down the road of splendid shame; All is well, if o’er the monument recording England’s ruin Time shall read, inscribed in triumph, Gladstone’s name. 7. Thieves and murderers, hands yet red with blood and tongues yet black with lies, Clap and clamour—“God for Gladstone and Parnell!” Truth, unscared and undeluded by their praise or blame, replies— “Is the gaol of fraud and bloodshed heaven or hell?” 8. Old men eloquent, who truckle to the traitors of the time, Love not office—power is no desire of theirs: What if yesterday their hearts recoiled from blood and fraud and crime? Conscience erred—an error which to-day repairs. 9. Conscience only now convinces them of strange though transient error: Only now they see how fair is treason’s face; See how true the falsehood, just the theft, and blameless is the terror, Which replaces just and blameless men in place. 10. Place and time decide the right and wrong of thought and word and action; Crime is black as hell, till virtue gain its vote; Then—but ah, to think or say so smacks of fraud or smells of faction:— Mercy holds the door while Murder hacks the throat. 11. Murder? Treason? Theft? Poor brothers who succumb to such temptations, Shall we lay on you or take on us the blame? Reason answers, and religion echoes round to wondering nations, “Not with Ireland, but with England rests the shame.” 12. Reason speaks through mild religion’s organ, loud and long and lusty— Profit speaks through lips of patriots pure and true— “English friends, whose trust we ask for, has not England found us trusty? Not for us we seek advancement, but for you. 13. “Far and near the world bears witness of our wisdom, courage, honour; Egypt knows if there our fame burns bright or dim. Let but England trust as Gordon trusted, soon shall come upon her Such deliverance as our daring brought on him. 14. “Far and wide the world rings record of our faith, our constant dealing, Love of country, truth to friends, contempt for foes. Sign once more the bond of trust in us that here awaits but sealing, We will give yet more than all our record shows. 15. “Perfect ruin, shame eternal, everlasting degradation, Freedom bought and sold, truth bound and treason free” Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation, Answer, England, man by man from sea to sea! Algernon Charles Swinburne. June 30, 1886. The Times, July 1, 1886.

The Old Cause. A Counterblast. 1. Men, whose fathers did most grievous wrong in ignorance and blindness, Men whose brothers wrought our Commonweal’s disgrace, Show the hearts ye have, if holding honour high and human kindness, Show the courage, conscience-guided, of your race. 2. What are these that shriek and shout against the resolute wrong-righter? What is he that sets their wrath to tuneful chimes? See the lyric tongue swift tripping aid the furious party fighter! See the men of wrath embrace the man of rhymes! 3. Hear the plea whereby the poet helps the swaggering patriot-aper— “We are they whose fathers never failed in fight.” And the clamour of the Club-room and the prating of the Paper Hail the vain and vapid vaunting with delight. 4. Who will care to hear the poet when he turns a parrot screamer? At the party Yahoo’s yelling men may smile, But the fieriest Muse must sigh when the fine and fluent dreamer Stoops like rancorous Lord Randolph to revile. 188 5. What, you echo the coarse railings of the rude and rabid rabble, Who cackle, and calumniate, and curse? You drape their silly slander and their base insulting babble With the brave, dishonoured vesture of your verse? 6. Many a year your Muse has fulminated fiercely, we remember, Against tyrants. Is that righteous rage extinct? How you smote the scourge of Italy, the false Man of December! Can it be that he who did so, doing so, winked? 7. No: the lust of right, the thirst for noble freedom, Sir, live in you, Splendid brighteners of the splendour of your fame. All is well with that; but wherefore should the scurril chorus win you To cast dust upon another noble name? 8. It is stale and slanderous fustian, all this talk of “blood” and “lies,” Clap-trap clamour that ’tis poor of you to swell. Leave carrion to the crows, Sir, and putrescence to the flies, Our goal is one—what need to rage and yell? 9. Old men eloquent may err, and are poets safe from error? All hearts recoil from blood, and fraud, and crime; But to say that we to traitors mean to truckle, and from terror, Is plain falsehood, whether put in prose or rhyme. 10. When tyranny makes traitors then the tyrant’s plea is “treason!” We through love would make men loyal to just law, Our means may be ill-chosen, but our aim is right and reason, An Union without gyves but without flaw. 11. The Commonweal? Go to, Sir! We all love it, in our fashion, He most whom you mistakenly malign; Not with fiery patriot vauntings or with wild hysteric passion, But with justice, which we deem yet more divine. 12. If we differ—let us differ, but like gentlemen and brothers, And fight the fight out fairly to the end, These Isles shall bear our children, as they bare our sires and mothers; Where lives the traitor-fool who’s not their friend? 13. Not in our shapes, Sir Singer, nor in his whom you bespatter With too stale slime, but whom we love and trust. He traitor, trickster, coward? Well, let time decide the matter; Our hearts are hot, but history’s cool and just. 14. O “man of words”—and wild ones—“men of blood,” by sorrow maddened, Have made the task we toil at sorely hard; Yet must we toil unhalting, though unaided and ungladdened By the Song of England’s tyrant-scourging bard. 15. Such causes long are championed amidst slander, shame, and sorrow, But ever to one issue. Well know we, Heard by our ears to-day or by other ears to-morrow, Our England’s “Aye!” shall ring from sea to sea! The Daily News, July 2, 1886.

The Common Squeal. A Song for Shriekers. I. Men, whose fathers lied, and tricked, and bribed to bring about the Union, Men, whose brothers at the Music Hall grimace, I will show you that the Poet with your spirits own communion, I will show you that the Bard is of your race. II. What are those that shriek and squeal against the Isle across the water. What is he that crams our ears with patriot cant? See the lyrist lick the party hack at breathing fire and slaughter? See the man of rhymes embrace the man of rant? III. Here the plea whereby the Poet apes, and charms, the Penny Paper— “We are they whose works sensationally shine, I was ever good at curses, Victor Hugo I’ll out-vapour, And if there is a scurril tongue ’tis mine.” IV. Who would fear to back the Poet as a double-barrelled screamer, Pure of morals, clean of language, free from bile? Do you want old Gladstone scarified, the sanguinary schemer? I will show you how to slander and revile. (Does so in nine violent verses, savage and scathing, but scarcely suited for publication.) * * * * * XIV. There! That cuts every record in the way of party squealing, That’s the style to pelt and pulverise your foes. You thought Lord Randolph rabid, but this comes as a revealing, And there’s lots more where it comes from—verse or prose. XV. Perfect rancour, wrath eternal, everlasting objurgation, Freedom? Yes, I’ve always praised it, and may be It may do for France or Italy. But that curst Irish nation?— Rather slay them man by man from sea to sea! Punch, July 10, 1886.

The Weekly Dispatch Parody Competition. Prize Poem. Men, whose fathers went to battle hounded on by bards and singers, Deafened by loud cymbals and the sounding drum, Show your spirit now, if any trace of courage in you lingers; Something worse than all these evils now has come. Who is this most dreary driveller, rowdy ranter, prating poet? Whence comes all this filthy flood of nasty rhyme? See the tongue that talked of truth so steeped in lies that none may know it; See the man of poesy besmeared with slime. Quarrelling cats upon your housetop, cocks and hens in your back garden. Dogs that in the silent midnight bay the moon, Next-door neighbour’s cracked piano, wild excursionists to Hawarden, Are a sweet relief compared with this man’s tune. Perfect nonsense, utter rubbish, everlasting shameless drivel, Still to some it sounds like truth. To you and me There’s still time to kill the slander, put to shame the lying devil; Spitting venom o’er our land from sea to sea. A. Whalley.

The Common Squeal: a Song for the Sleepless. What are these that scream and squeal upon the roof of this, my dwelling? Who are they who flood my ears with nightly squall? See the tabby join the horrid band that sets the neighbours yelling— See Grimalkin lord it grimly over all! Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel “Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace. Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable? When I use it—then shall hope of sleep increase!” Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby, Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw? “Night is well-nigh spent,” I cry; “you vote me cruel, tricksy, shabby? I am riled and will not give you any law!” Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember, On my housetops and my neighbour’s in the town; Many a time I’ve blazed at him—the fell band’s grey and grizzled member— But, unluckily, I’ve never brought him down! F. B. Doveton. From The Weekly Dispatch, July 18, 1886.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance; Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love! I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love! Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move. Arcadia displays but a region of dreams: What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; Some portion of paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past, For years fleet away with the wings of the dove, The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. Byron.

The Maiden I Love. Away with fictitious and flimsy expanse Of those tresses of falsehood which folly has wove; Give me the real hair, and unmedicalled glance The beauties that dwell in the maiden I love. Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow Whose passions are put on and off like a glove; I’m blessed if your long studied acting can show, With the natural charms of the maiden I love. If Rachel should e’er her assistance refuse Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your ruses And copy the forms of the maiden I love. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art, All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove I court the emotions that spring from the heart The unpractised charms of the maiden I love. Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses Perhaps may amuse, but never can move; The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love? Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth From Eve until now, has with coming age strove, Some portion of nature still is on earth In the delicate blush of the maiden I love. When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed, And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove; Why caricature you, still to the last The natural bloom of the maiden I love. P. F. T.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband’s blest—and ’twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass—Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break, But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kissed it for its mother’s sake. I kissed it—and repressed my sighs, Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother’s eyes, And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I’ll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. 191 I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride Had quenched at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,—save hope,—the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime— We met, and not a nerve was shook. Byron.

To Mary. Well! thou art happy, and I say That I should thus be happy too; For still I hate to go away As badly as I used to do. Thy husband’s blest,—and ’twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass,—O, how my heart Would hate him, if he clothed thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought, like Dutchmen, “I’d go dead,” But when I saw its breakfast piled, I thought how much ’t would take for bread. I saw it, and repressed my groans, Its father in its face to see, Because I knew my scanty funds Were scarce enough for you and me. Mary, adieu! I must away; While thou art blest, to grieve were sin; But near thee I can never stay, Because I’d get in love again. I deemed that time, I deemed that pride, My boyish feeling had subdued, Nor knew, till seated by thy side, I’d try to get you if I could. Yet was I calm: I recollect, My hand had once sought yours again, But now your husband might object, And so I kept it on my cane. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff; One only feeling couldst thou trace, A disposition to be off. Away! away! my early dream, Remembrance never must awake; O, where is Mississippi’s stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break! From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Zoe mou sas agapo.[99] By those tresses unconfined, Woo’d by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge By those wild eyes like the roe, Zoe mou sas agapo. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love’s alternate joy and woe Zoe mou sas agapo. Maid of Athens! I am gone. Think of me, sweet! when alone, Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Zoe mou sas agapo.

Ballad. Addressed “to her I dearly love.” By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur’d survey, Which, sparkling Content, the mind’s image pourtray, While sweet Affability tempers their ray, I conjure thee to love me Sophia! By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile, Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil, Dispensing delight when bedeck’d with a smile, I conjure thee to love me Sophia! By thy tongue, which I ne’er have heard prattle amiss, By thy teeth, snow-drop white, thy lips, teeming with bliss, By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss, I conjure thee to love me Sophia! By thy temper as gentle as Spring’s mildest shower, By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power, By the form my eyes doat on, the mind I adore, I conjure thee to love me Sophia! By thy wish to alleviate Misery’s smart, By the genial solace that wish does impart, By the fond heart you’ve won, and your own little heart, I conjure thee to love me Sophia! By those vows at the altar our souls did approve, By that union so sacred recorded above, A compact divine, which demands love for love! I conjure thee still love me Sophia! Benedict.

Darling Polka! ere we part, Hear th’ outpourings of my heart! Since the season now is o’er, 192 Wretched, I can Polk no more. Hear my vow before I go Polka mou sas agapo! By those steps so unconfined, By that neat kick-up behind, Coulon’s hop, and Michau’s slide, Backward, forward, or aside, By the alternate heel and toe Polka mou sas agapo. By the waltz’s giddy round, By the galop’s maddening bound, By the obsolete quadrille, Polka mine! “I love thee still.” Compared with thee each dance is slow Polka mou sas agapo. Happy season! thou art gone, I, alas! must Polk alone! Though the country now I roll to, Almacks holds my heart and soul too. Can I cease to love thee? No! Polka mou sas agapo. Punch, August, 1844.

Pay, Oh! Pay us what you Owe. Song for the London Tradesmen. Higher classes, ere we part, For the country ere you start, Let your tradespeople distress’d Trouble you with one request: Just a word before you go— Pay, oh! pay us what you owe. By those orders unconfined, Which for goods of every kind You so readily did give, Think, oh! think that we must live— Just a word before you go— Pay, oh! pay us what you owe. By those dresses of the best, Silken robe and satin vest, In whose splendour, by our aid, You so gaily were arrayed: Hear us cry before you go— Pay, oh! pay us what you owe. By the Opera and the Rout, Recollect who rigged you out; By the drawing-room and ball, Bear in mind who furnished all: Just a word before you go— Pay, oh! pay us what you owe. By the fête and the soirée, And the costly déjeuner, By your plate and ormulu, Let your tradesmen get their due: Just a word before you go— Pay, oh! pay us what you owe. Punch, July 31, 1847.

Am I Right for Colney Hatch? I. Man of Mammon, e’er we part Read the words upon my heart; Or, if that has left my breast, Go to Rome and read the rest. By my vesper-breathing watch Am I right for Colney Hatch? II. By mine alb and stole and cope, By my tonsured head and Pope, By my banners’ silken flow, By my chalice veil of snow, By the laces that attach, Am I right for Colney Hatch? III. By the chancel dossals hung, By the incense burnt and swung, By the candles lit at noon, By the Sacramental spoon, By my napkins, cutters, such, Am I right for Colney Hatch? IV. By my chasuble and stool, By Loyola’s holy rule, By the font’s baptismal jugs, By my maniples and mugs, By my altar-cloths to match, Am I right for Colney Hatch? V. By the acolytes that file In procession down the aisle, By the silken flags they bear, By the holy Cross that’s there, By my vigil, fast, and watch, Am I right for Colney Hatch? VI. By my piping treble tones, By my loved Gregorian groans, By the priest’s Confessional, By man’s faults transgressional; Ah! that whispered word I catch— Yes, I’m right for Colney Hatch. Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner. 1876.

Mr. Gladstone and the “Daily Telegraph.” (The hour of midnight strikes.) Mr. Gladstone (at his casement.) This is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say; I wish that I could do the same. All day 193 I’ve worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo; Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.

People’s William, do not start, Nor reply in accents tart; See thy “Telly” kneel in pain, Vowing thee to serve again; See, and say before I go— Is it all made up or no? True it is I turned on thee; Fate for this has punished me. For, despite my subtle art, Joseph M. is not a Bart. Pity, then, thou’lt surely show!— Is it all made up or no? Should’st thou come again to pow’r, William, recollect this hour! That thy “Telly” on the stones Knelt and prayed in piteous tones, That thou should’st not be its foe— Is it all made up or no? Ere thou seek’st thy night’s repose, Tell me, are we friends or foes? Wilt thou in our interests work, If I drop the wicked Turk? Tell me quickly ere I go, Is it all made up or no?

Duo.—Willie and his Telly. Willie: Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you’ve said, Telly: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I’ve sped, Willie: Telly, Telly, quite Pall-Mally, have you been in all you wrote, Telly: Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I’ll dote. Willie: You I’ll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don’t your word forget. Telly: Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet, If right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you? Willie: You will see, T., how ’twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in what I do!

Solo.—Telly. Fare thee well, and if for ever, Thou can’st say I’ve not been clever; But remember, please, this hour, When thou com’st again to pow’r.

[Exit Telly, dancing, and Mr. Gladstone retires to rest.] —Truth. October, 1877.

Maid of Athens. John Bull loquitur.— Maid of Athens, ere we start, Take my arm—I’ll take your part. Be my partner. All the rest Have paired off as suits them best. Hear me swear, before we go, Zoe mou sas agapo. Bismarck’s bland, but over-kind; Gortschakoff would Argus blind; Coy Andrassy’s coldly cute. No: such partners will not suit. You are small, but safe, I trow. Zoe mou sas agapo. Hobson’s Choice? Oh, not at all! I’ve my business at the ball: What it is I need not tell; Attic nous should guess right well. Come! together let us go! Zoe mou sas agapo. Maid of Athens! though alone, Think not, dear, that I’ll be “done.” They’ve an eye to Istambol, Fain would leave me in the hole— Do I mean to let them? No! Zoe mou sas agapo. Punch, March 23, 1878.

The Maid of Clapham. Maid of Clapham! ere I part, Tell me if thou hast a heart! For, so padded is thy breast, I begin to doubt the rest! Tell me now before I go— Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ? Are those tresses thickly twined, Only hair-pinned on behind! Is thy blush which roses mocks, Bought at three-and-six per box? Tell me, for I ask in woe— Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ? And those lips I seem to taste, Are they pink with cherry-paste? Gladly I’d the notion, scout, But do those white teeth take out? Answer me, it is not so— Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ? Maid of Clapham! come, no larks! For thy shoulders leave white marks— Tell me! quickly tell to me What is really real in thee? Tell me, or at once I go— Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ? Jon Duan.

Made of Something. Made of Something! ere we part, Tell me, truly, what thou art! For, it needs must be confessed, There is mystery at best Lurking in thine amber glow— Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ! 194 Tell me, doth the glucose shine In this chalky foam of thine? Is it malt of barley true, Mingled in thy cheery brew? Hops, not drugs, thy tincture? O Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ! Howsoe’er it be, I fear, Made of Something, you are queer! For you make my head to ache, And my stomach cause to quake, After twenty Drinks or so— Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ! Free Press Flashes, 1882.

Made of something, ere we part, Tell me, tell me what thou art? If the truth must be confest, With a nip thou goest best. With liqueur, one little “go,” Ζώη-δῶν σάς ἀγαπῶ. Punch, September 18, 1880.

Calf’s Heart. Maid of all work as a part Of my dinner, cook a heart; Or, since such a dish is best, Give me that, and leave the rest, Take my orders, ere I go; Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so. Buy, to price you’re not confined— Such a heart as suits your mind; Buy some suet—and enough Of the herbs required to stuff, Buy some lemon—peel—and, oh! Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so. Buy some onions—just a taste— Buy enough, but not to waste; Buy two eggs of slender shell, Mix, and stir the mixture well; Crumbs of bread among it throw; Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so. Maid of all work, when ’tis done, Serve it up to me alone: Rich brown gravy round it roll, Marred by no intruding coal; Currant jelly add—and lo! Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so. Punch, January 1852.

“Beautiful for Ever.”[100] Madam Rachel, ere we smash, Give, oh, give me back my cash; Or, since that has left my chest, Let me have a little rest. Hear my vow before I go,— Upon my life, I’ll sue you! By these powdered tresses fine, Falling from a brow divine; By the beautiful gamboge; By these soft cheeks’ blooming rouge; By these eyes, so like the roe,— It is—it is no go! By this lip he longed to taste; By this zone-encircled waist; By “dear William’s” quenched love, Which I never more can move; Give me—solace in my woe— All the cash, and let me go! Madam Rachel, I’ll be gone: Think of me sweet, when alone. I will fly to Mr. Knox; Every nerve this system shocks, Can I cease to sue thee? No! Madam Rachel, oh dear, no! Judy, June 24. 1868.

Maid of All-Work. (To her Mistress.) Unkind Missis, e’er the day Speed my willing feet away, Let my injured spirit speak, Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek, Hear my words before I go: If I’m bad, you’ve made me so. By my weary hours confined To work and dirt and heat combined; By my ever-lengthening day, By my ever-shortening pay: By these grievances you know— If I’m bad, you’ve made me so. By the joints I ne’er might taste, By the rows about the waste; By your harsh, discordant voice Scolding with expletives choice! By my lot of work, and woe,— If I’m bad, you’ve made me so. Cruel Missis! never more Shall midnight find my toil scarce o’er— Never more! And Missis, yet, My parting words you’ll ne’er forget, As changing slaveys come—and go: If they’re bad, you’ve made them so! From Grins and Groans, Social and Political.

Maid of Ganges. By a Heart-broken Hindoo. Maid of Ganges! thou that art Maharanee of my heart, Thou that fairest art in all Rajpootana or Nepaul: It were happiness to be Syce or Ayah unto thee;— Then one glance of pity fling To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh. Had I mines of gems and gold, All Golconda’s wealth untold; Myriads of precious stones, Begum’s crowns and Nizam’s thrones; Lakhs of annas, pies, rupees,— These I’d bring and more than these. I have them not: and so I bring Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh. Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast On all the dainties of the east; Curry will I bring to thee, Chutnee, rice, and cadgeree, All that can delight the sense— Thy lover will not spare expense. He will buy thee anything, Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh. Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear A Tuggaree twined in thy hair. And about thy head shall play A sportive punkah all the day; While the bulbul’s song by night Shall fill thee with supreme delight, And to the tomtom’s plaintive string Shall Koot Nerbudda Chundra sing. Maid of Ganges! dost thou love To watch the smoke-rings curl above? Dost thou smoke? Then so do I, So lay thy proud demeanour by And sit beneath yon banyan tree And share a narghili with me, Or hubble-bubble murmuring With Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh. Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave Thy houri form in Jumna’s wave; Thou dost waste thy sunny smiles On the sacred crocodiles, As beneath thine eyes they bask They have what I vainly ask. Then one glance of kindness fling To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh. The Etonian, February 15, 1884.

To a Slavey. Maid-of-all-work we must part, You are not a pleasing tart, Smashing things with such a zest, You must surely need a rest. Anyway, one thing I know: Holy Moses! out you go! [Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon and hands her out like a sack of coals.] The Topical Times, March, 1886.

Joe, my Joseph, ere we part, Ere you break an old man’s heart, You that hold the Rads in check, Ere the Cabinet you wreck, Pause, nor let Trevelyan go: Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ Leave, oh leave us not alone; Hartington and James are gone; Forster, Goschen, stand aside; Bright (they say) to you’s allied; But the world I fain would show, Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ Even those I reckon true: Harcourt, heavy—Morley new— Childers, blundering—Granville, old— Some afraid, some rashly bold; Wanting all, too much to know: Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ If with us you’ll only stay, In aught else we’ll all give way; Each shall have (if you’ll show how) His three acres and a cow; “Ransom” shall be all the “go:” Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ St. James’s Gazette, March 22, 1886.

I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain’s craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar; I ask but this—again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. * * * * * I loved—but those I loved are gone; Had friends—my early friends are fled; How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o’er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart—the heart—is lonely still. How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. 196 Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist’rous joy is but a name. * * * * * Lord Byron.

The Old Fogey’s Lament. I would I were a careless child, Still knowing not how to behave, With dirty face and hair all wild And not a bit of need to shave. The cumbrous ways of manhood’s day Accord not with my boyish soul; Again in dreams I “rounders” play, The top I spin, the ball I roll. Fortune, take back my house and lands, For nuisances I them have found; I want a tipcat in my hands, I want to make the football bound. Give me again the “rock” I loved (Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!) Which, in my trousers’ pocket shoved, With fluff and marbles used to mix. I loved—but what I loved is gone. Where are those soldiers made of lead They could not leave my kite alone, It now has altogether fled. Let those who will seek Fortune’s track, And to Ambition’s projects cling! I only want my jew’s-harp back, My hoop, my silkworms, and my string. How dull to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the present hour. Give me again my faithful “chums,” Who ate my cake and jam at school; Who let me copy off their sums, Then thrashed me ’cause I was a fool. Oh, would my boyhood could return, With all its appetite and joys! Now doughy cake I’m bound to spurn, And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys. Life is a weariness, in fact; And could I rid me of its pain, With Fate I’d make a willing pact, And gladly be a boy again. Funny Folks.

From the French. Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name— She abandons me now—but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame. I have warr’d with a world which vanquished me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, The last single Captive to millions in war. Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth— But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won— Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted Had still soar’d with eyes fixed on victory’s sun. Farewell to thee France!—but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then— The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again— Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice— There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice! Lord Byron.

The Bohemian’s Farewell. Farewell to the Strand, and my uppermost story, Which bore on the door in rude letters my name; Whose shelter I’ve courted with countenance gory, When street rows had soiled both my linen and fame! I’ve warred with the landlord, who conquered me only When liquor and love had allured me too far, And the lodger made love to his fair daughter lonely, While she giggled softly, and murmured “Ask ma!” Farewell to the Strand! While the money had crown’d me, Of coin for sprees I ne’er yet felt the dearth; But Poverty says, I must leave as I found thee, Decayed in my garments, and sunk in my worth! Oh! for the numberless sov’reigns I’ve wasted In strife with the p’lice ere my orgies were done! Oh! for the numberless liquors I’ve tasted, With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun. Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies, And calls me once more to thy regions, why then, As the old well-known footstep recrosses thine alleys, Welcome me back to Bohemia again! E’en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me, E’en yet may thy street be aroused by my voice; And when for a spree you have gathered around me, Then turn, and call on the chief of your choice! John J. Bosworth. Worthy a Crown? 1876.

The Spell is Broken. The spell is broken when we own The girl who made us feel love’s fever; We madly smile, and wish we’d known Her temper, ere too late to leave her. Each curtain lecture brings the thought Of all the woes of wedding’s charter; And he who had an angel sought But lives to find he’s caught a tartar. Judy, December 29, 1880,

197 The War Song of the Radical Philhellene. (After Lord Byron’s translation of a famous Greek War Song.) Sons of the Greeks, our eyes Are on your little State; We view with pained surprise The move you meditate. Chorus. Sons of the Greeks! to go In arms against the foe Would be just now, you know, Inopportune indeed. Your glorious uprising, Are you aware, my friends? Is gravely jeopardizing Your patrons private ends. With Philhellenic fervour He burns, and so do I, As any close observer May, if he can, descry. Gladly would he, I take it, Extend support to you, If he could only make it Convenient so to do. But asking him to father Your game, with his to play, Sons of the Greeks, is rather A strongish order, eh? Chorus. Sons of the Greeks, etc. Yet, O ye patriots banded! Sons of the Greeks, I own There has been, to be candid, A certain change of tone. I’ve not forgot full surely, Nor shall I all my life, How somewhat prematurely I woke the Spartan fife. I made a bold diversion, Leonidas-like; but he— He went in for coercion, And left me up a tree. And so amid back numbers, From which I do not quote, Now, hushed for ever, slumbers That hasty battle-note. Chorus. Sons of the Greeks, etc. Well, to correct my blunder, The least that I can do Is just to preach knock-under Perpetually to you. And, after all, there’s reason In a filibustering raid, For which ’tis not the season, To seek our Gladstone’s aid. He’s not at leisure, is he? To cut up other Powers, Just now when he’s so busy Carving this realm of ours. Though loath then, I assure you, To stay the lifted cup, I solemnly adjure you, Sons of the Greeks, dry up! Chorus. Sons of the Greeks, etc. The Saturday Review, April. 1886.

’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. ’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, ’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. Without the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. ’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear, ’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear, But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower— Oh! breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour. Lord Byron.

A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew. I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there. The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi, Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh. But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel, I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel; Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas! But often I’m found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome. Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art; Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear, Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark, Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark. I’m never in ’Ealth—have with Fysic no power; I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!

The Letter H’s Petition. Whereas, I have by you been driven From house, from home, from hope, from heaven, And placed by your most learned society In exile, anguish, and anxiety, 198 And used, without one just pretence, With arrogance and insolence; I here demand full restitution, And beg you’ll mend your elocution. Answer. Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate, From handcuff, horror, and from hate, From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter, And consecrated you in altar; And placed you where you ne’er should be, In honour, and in honesty;—— We deem your prayer a rude intrusion, And will not mend our elocution.

The Humble Petition of the Letter W to the Inhabitants of London. Whereas by you I have been hurled From the first station in the world, Condemned in vice to find a place, And with the vulgar show my face; I humbly ask to be restored, In all that’s proper, to a word. But what I most complain of now, Is that the women cut me so; When any girl becomes a wife, I’m turned away for all her life— And even in her widowhood I mayn’t return to her abode. Therefore with reason I complain, Oh! let me not be heard in vain; And born within the sound of Bow, I trust I’m not your care below: Answer. Your prayer is graciously received, But you can never be believed; With v’s you often spell your name— Then is it just your dupes to blame? As long as you act parts so double, We cannot deem you worth our trouble; But rest assured that nought will hurt you, So long as you remain in virtue.

Address. Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday, October 10th, 1812. In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign. Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d, Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome, Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home, As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall; Say—shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspere—worthy him and you? Yes—it shall be—the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she has been: This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell— Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art O’erwhelmed the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu; But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odours o’er the tomb. Such Drury claim’d and claims—nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander’s head![101] Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names emblazoned on our line, Pause—ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them! Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 199 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject; If e’er frivolity has led to fame, And made us blush that you forbore to blame, If e’er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, All past reproach may present scenes refute, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers, And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours. This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed, The Drama’s homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises—may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please—long, long may you preside.

(Ascribed to Lord Byron.) I. Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[102] Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, The restless soul is driven to ramble home; Sated with both, beneath new Drury’s dome The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine. 200 II. Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way To gaze on puppets in a painted dome, Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray, Like falling stars in life’s eternal gloom, What seek ye here? Joy’s evanescent bloom? Woe’s me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb. Man’s heart, the mournful urn o’er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave. III. Has life so little store of real woes, That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief? Or is it that from truth such anguish flows, Ye court the lying drama for relief? Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief: Or if one tolerable page appears In folly’s volume, ’tis the actor’s leaf, Who dries his own by drawing others’ tears, And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years. IV. Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee! Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam, He liveth only in man’s present e’e; His life a flash, his memory a dream, Oblivious down he drops in Lethe’s stream. Yet what are they, the learned and the great? Awhile of longer wonderment the theme! Who shall presume to prophesy their date, Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate? V. This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt’s toil, Perchance than Holland’s edifice[103] more fleet, Again red Lemnos’ artisan may spoil; The fire alarm and midnight drum may beat, And all bestrewed ysmoking at your feet! Start ye? perchance Death’s angel may be sent, Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat; And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent, May find, in pleasure’s fane, your grave and monument. VI. Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear! The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste; The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear. Who can arrest your prodigal career? Who can keep down the levity of youth? What sound can startle age’s stubborn ear? Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth Men true to falsehood’s voice, false to the voice of truth. VII. To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!— Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy, Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy; While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104] Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth. VIII. For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage, “fair is foul!” To him whose soul is with fruition fraught, The song of Braham is an Irish howl, Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought. IX. Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above, Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black; Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove, But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack; What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song, 201 X. So fares the follower in the Muses’ train! He toils to starve, and only lives in death! We slight him, till our patronage is vain, Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, And o’er his bones an empty requiem breathe— Oh! with what tragic horror would he start, (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) To find the stage again a Thespian cart, And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare’s art. XI. Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules! Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface; Back, sister Muses, to your native schools; Here booted grooms usurp Apollo’s place, Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace, The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit, Man yields the drama to the Hou’yn’m race, His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit, The stage a stable-yard,[105] a jockey-club the pit. XII. Is it for these ye rear this proud abode? Is it for these your superstition seeks To build a temple worthy of a god, To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks! Then be the stage to recompense your freaks, A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks, Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks, And Wisdom weeps and Folly plays his pranks, And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks. From The Rejected Addresses.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! Lord Byron.

The Destruction of the Aldermen. A Mansion House Melody. Apoplexia came down on the Alderman fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold, And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord Mayor’s feast. Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there, Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care, Hypochondria, and Gout, grinning ghastly with pain, And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train. * * * * * Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast, And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d; And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill, And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still! And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor— Each cheek changed to purple—so crimson before! Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale, And extremities cold as a live fish’s tale! And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn, With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn; And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown, And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown. And Cripplegate windows are loud in their wail, And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale! For the Alderman glory has melted away, As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day. Punch, November 13, 1841.

A New Sennacherib. Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, And his backers felt savage, and sorry, and sold; But the Premier of votes had a majority, Amounting, in all, to about ninety-three. As sheep follow the wether, submissive and mean, That host at the heels of their leader were seen; As sheep scatter wide when you leave them alone, That host, says the Times, are now broke and o’erthrown. For the Iron Duke set his fate on the cast, And nailed, for the Corn-laws, his flag to the mast; And the Cabinet’s hopes felt a sensible chill, When they thought of the Duke, and his potent “I will.” 202 And there sat the Premier, his head on one side; His arguments pooh-poohed, his statements denied; And tho’ he tried hard, he had need of his nerve, A decent composure of face to preserve. And there sat grim Grahame, so nervous and pale, With his hat on his head, and his mouth to his nail; And their measures were done for, their plans overthrown, And Peel had to leave his own trumpet unblown. And Conservative gentry are loud in their wail, That the country is ruined if Peel should turn tail; And repeal of the Corn-laws, we soon shall record, Has been won, not by Peel, but a certain small lord. Punch, on Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington in the struggle for the repeal of the Corn-laws in 1846.

The Destruction of Nicholas. The Russian came down like a thief in the night, And his legions were arm’d with all weapons, save Right; And the sheen of their spears to the Turks seem’d afar Like the passion that burn’d in the heart of the Czar. Like the loaves of the baker, when breakfast is laid, That host in their armour of “plate” were array’d; Like the loaves of the baker, ere tea time next day, That host lay all “cut up,” and crumbled away! For the warcry of England is borne on the air, And France sends her brave in the conflict to share; And link’d with the Moslem, they shout as they go, And all Europe is thrill’d with the groans of the foe. And there lay the sea, but no more on its tide His vessels shall float in their strength and their pride; And the foam of its billows shall dash o’er the graves Of the serfs, who had come to make other men slaves. And there lay the Czar, all dejected and pale, With a frown on his brow, and his teeth at his nail; His palace all silent, deserted, alone; He trembled to think on his tottering throne! And the widows of Russia are loud in their cries, Though idle the tears that may flow from their eyes; And the might of the tyrant, down-struck by the gun, Hath melted, like butter when placed in the sun. Diogenes. October, 1853.