WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 12)

Jon Duan’s Tale. A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL. Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle, And do daring deeds for greed and for gain, Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted turtle Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain? Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine, Where mayors ever banquet and aldermen dine; Where Emma[112] was wooed, and Abbott laid low, And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow; Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might, And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too tight? If this district you know—it is E.C. to guess, And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess, And turn to the right,—why, then, for a wager, You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major; And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell, Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell. From Jon Duan. London: Weldon and Co., 1874.

Is it where the cabbage grows so fast That it bursts with a noise like a thunder’s blast, Is it where thro’ the rich deep mellow soil The beet strikes down as if digging for oil, Is it where each irrigating sluice Is fed with water-melon juice, Where tatoes and onions are hard to beat And the cattle get fat on nothing to eat, Where everything grows to such a wondrous size That the simplest stories appear like lies, Tell me in sooth I’d like to know— Is this the land they call Colorado? “You bet! old hoss, it is!”

Parody. BY AN OLD SOLDIER. Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes, Emblems of dampness innate in the clime, Where the toad and the viper to show itself blushes, And the damp air comes heavy impregnate with crime; Where landlords in daylight like woodcocks they shoot And the voice of the mendicant never is mute. ’Tis a land of the West, fair, glorious, and free, First flower of the land, first gem of the sea; I would we poor soldiers some method could learn, To the depths of its bosom, this gem to return.

Overworked. They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size— His spectacles; a book in either hand. I saw a queer expression in his eyes, As if a sunstroke in some tropic land Had made his too colossal brain expand More than it ought; and on his face odd smiles Would come sometimes, and then he’d laughing stand, Clutching his gown, and talking loud meanwhiles. He wore a college cap, the mouldiest of tiles. Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

’Tis done—the murd’rous work complete, The turbaned hordes acclaim the feat: Had fallen to a craven shot The chiefest victim of a plot: Brave leader! all too brave to date A warning from Macnaughten’s fate. His gallant comrades round him strown, An English youth stands—stands alone.[113] His gallant comrades round him lie Dead; it remains for one to die. Forth on the foe the soldier leapt; And, as his blade a circle swept, Five traitors felt the avenging brand, Ere dropped it from the lifeless hand— A glorious tale indeed to tell— ’Neath thousand blows one hero fell. ’Tis done—the slaughtered guests are spread Under a hecatomb of dead. No need of marble pile to show Where sleep the illustrious slain below; No need of graver’s art to trace In lettered brass their resting place, Their own right arms, in death still feared, Eternal monument have reared: Where, ere they fell, these warriors stood, They wrote their epitaph in blood. These devotees of Islam’s creed Shrink not to violate at need The laws they worship; the behest Of reverence due to hallowed guest. Ah, but it were a goodly boast— A stranger murdered by his host! Yet think not, dastards, England slow To recompense so foul a blow, If payment meet could deal the sword To miscreants honoured by the cord. Where to the skies their summits push The giant Alps of Hindu Kush; Where Cabul’s river hastes to hide His shame beneath a mightier tide; Where, with a scorn of time, proclaim The records of a bygone fame The ravished fanes, whose ruins trace The march of Timour’s conquering race And, mid her oft-beleagured towers, Dark Ghuzni’s fortress sternly lowers; Where many mouthèd Helmund makes His briny home in Seistan’s lakes— Not long delayed, the cannon’s boom Shall sound the knell of Cabul’s doom. Merton. The World, October 1, 1879.

“Bring forth the horse!” the horse was brought; In truth he was a noble steed— A creature of the hackney sort, Dash’d slightly with the dray-horse breed, His sire had drawn a fly, Into which six would often cram; His mother was of lineage high, Himself was worth—well worth his dam. He plunged, he kick’d, he reared, he snorted, With ears erect and eye distorted; He switched his tail, he show’d his hoof— E’en Widdicomb had kept aloof At sight of such a noble steed, He was a precious beast indeed. They seized me fiercely by the daddle; They thrust me down into the saddle; They tied me strongly by the bridle: The horrid brute began to shy, To kick, to amble, and to sidle, And then away they let him fly; Away, away! my breath is gone; Still gallop, gallop, gallop on, Down, down the street, and up the Strand, Over the woman’s apple-stand. We pass the cabs, and here we are, Plunged at one bound through Temple Bar. The courser’s fleetness seems to mock The slowness of St. Dunstan’s Clock. Away, away, we madly whisk Along! past Waithman’s Obelisk! On, on we go, we gallop still Up Ludgate’s gently rising hill. A moment now our way seems barr’d, Oh! shall we stop at last? ’Tis the barrier at St. Paul’s Church Yard— No, no, he gallops past. I pull’d the bridle, but in vain, The horse refused my will to heed; Each motion of the useless rein But madden’d him to wilder speed. I tried my voice; but nonsense, pooh! Onwards the brute contemptuous flew: At times I thought he must have stopp’d, When ’gainst an omnibus he whopp’d; But vain my hopes! the sudden blow Served but to make him faster go. Away, away, we turn and wind, Leaving the city far behind. He tears away, hock touching hock, Swift up the hill of Haverstock: Until, with just exhausted breath, At last he reaches Hampstead Heath. The brute has only strength to bound Into the well remembered Pound; Where in the morning we were found By a policeman going his round. Punch 1844.

Bob Southey! You’re a poet—Poet-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at Last,—yours has lately been a common case; And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye.” * * * * * Byron.

Dedication. Ben Dizzy! You’re a humbug—Humbug-laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at Last, yours is still an enigmatic face. And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at With all the Rurals in and out of place? Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch— Have you resolved to double D—— the Church? You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would sing. What is the pie that you’re so busy making? A dainty dish to set before the Thing— Or aught that its digestion will be shaking?— Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring? Or will you set the good old Tories quaking, By saying that they hitherto have missed tricks, By not going in for equal polling districts? You’ll educate them, won’t you, Master Ben? And make them think that they are clever, very, Until the trick is won, and they’ll wish then, They’d taken you cum grano Salis-bury. No wonder Mr. Miall’s making merry, And rallying his Liberation men— He sees your tongue so plainly in your cheek, When in your Church’s champion rôle you speak. Go on, neat humbug, laughing in your sleeve. And winking, as you bid the Church not falter; We joy to see her aid from you receive, To guard her ’gainst the dangers that assault her; The English Church has had her last reprieve, Now you are standing boldly by her altar.— Already in the glass we see the image, Of an impending, big religious scrimmage. * * * * * Jon Duan, by the authors of The Coming K——. 1874.

DON JUAN The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,— Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung. Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.” 223 The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea: And musing there an hour alone, I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian’s grave, I could not deem myself a slave. * * * * * Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! Byron.

Meditations by a Despairing Angler. The Isle of Eels! The Isle of Eels! Where Mrs. Hopkins dined and sung; Where first (as this seared heart reveals), My passion for the Widow sprung! The pies are good, and so’s the ale— But all to me is flat and stale! Where Richmond looks on Teddington, In patient guise I threw my line; And fishing there (and catching none) I dreamt, that she might still be mine: For, dressed in Doudney’s light gambroon, I could not deem myself a spoon. Fill high the glass with ginger wine!— We will not think on this here theme; Nor for the charming Widow pine; Others may yet more charming seem. More charming? Ah, it cannot be— Her equal never made the tea! Fill high the glass with ginger wine!— On Richmond’s bridge, or Twit’nam’s shore, Oft had I held my rod and line,— But never had a bite before! There was a downright tug that day;— But ah! he tugged, and swam away! And where is he? And where art thou, My widow? At the Angler’s heart Thou gav’st one mighty tug, and now Art fled—but hast received no smart! Such loss would sure a Stoic move— My only fish! My only love! Place me on Railton’s stunted post[114] (Queer pedestal for France’s Fear); And fishing there with Nelson’s Ghost, I’m sure I’d catch as much as here! Doudney and line no more be mine— Dash down—no, don’t—that ginger wine! Punch, 1844.

The Smiles of Peace. The Smiles of Peace, the Smiles of Peace, By Foreign need from England wrung, Have bid the cannon’s war-shout cease, The Thanks be said, the Anthem sung: But there is that (besides our Debt) Which English hearts should not forget. It was not, surely, to amuse The gossip’s hour of Club dispute, We sat down daily to peruse Those tales from Camp, where man and brute Alike endured the sternest test That ever crushed our brave, our best. Disraeli looks on Palmerston, And Palmerston on Mr. D., And in debates that last till one They taunt each other skilfully; But there be questions far too grave To edge a mere debater’s glaive. Ten thousand men of fearless brow, On lips they loved laid parting kiss— O, titled soldiers! answer how A needless Death has claimed them his. They went, one well-remembered day— Some few brief months, and where were they? What! silent still, and silent all? O no, the damning charge is read— Even now, in Chelsea’s trophied Hall, The judges sit, the scrolls are spread, And haughty blunderers blustering come— Unknown the shame that makes men dumb. In vain, in vain accuse those Lords, All Lords are right, by right divine, No, gild anew their tarnished swords, And let bereft plebeians whine: You ask for proof of soldier’s skill— How vaunts each bungling Bobadil! You’ve Lord John Russell’s lectures yet, Where’s William Russell’s teaching gone: Of two such lessons, why forget The bolder and the manlier one? You have the letters William gave Think you he meant them for a Shave? Trust not men who lodge in banks The price of swords your System sells; Seek, in the people’s healthier ranks The fire that no disaster quells; But slang Routine, and jobbing Fraud Will break your back, however broad. Along Pall-Mall a martial line! Our Life-Guards ride with helm and blade. I see each glittering cuirass shine, But, gazing on the gay parade, I own a wish to bite my nails, To think such horses ate their tails. 224 Her lofty place would England keep In Europe’s none too loving eye, She’d make one grand and final sweep Of all her System’s pedantry.[115] But no—she bows by right divine. Dash dumb that Punch’s impious shine! Shirley Brooks, 1856.

In Vino Veritas. The wines of Greece! the wines of Greece! (T’was thus a Shambro’ merchant sung) It gives the tortured mind no peace, To think that Britons, old and young, Their Port and Sherry can forget, For Santorin, or mount Hymett. * * * * * Fill high the vat with Shambro’ wine! We will not think on themes like these Let’s call the mixture Sherry fine, Or any other name they please. Rebuke not, friends, the buyer’s voice: Who pays his cash should take his choice. Punch, October 7, 1865.

The Ills of Greece. The ills of Greece, the ills of Greece, By glowing Gladstone warmly sung! Lord B. brought honour back with peace, And Greece aside is coolly flung, For wider boundaries yearning yet, Which don’t she wish that she may get? Vague promise might awhile amuse, Make her for fight less resolute; Now help or counsel we refuse, And even sympathy is mute. We’ve urgent bothers East and West, And Greece’s claims may be—well, blest! * * * * * Fill high the bowl with Cyprus wine! Hang hopes of nationalities! The Sultan’s much more in our line, He serves some schemes of cute Lord B’s. A tyrant?—well, perhaps; but then He plays our game, my countrymen! Punch, April 26, 1879.

Musical Notes. (On the Claims of Greece.) I. The claims of Greece! the claims of Greece! Which burning Byron boldly sung, When in that land were few police And robbers every day were swung, Eternal humbug gilds you yet And all against you dead are set. II. Lo! the Dispatch, the Daily News, Charles Dilke, with many a gay recruit, Have told how Greece the Powers abuse; And even Fleet Street is not mute To sounds which echo with more zest At Rooms of Willis in the West. III. Charles Dilke, he looked at Lord Lansdowne— Lansdowne, he looked at Rosebery— And sitting there in study brown They passed the bottle rather free; Then sang o’er “dead men’s” empty graves, “Greeks never, never, shall be slaves!” * * * * * (Five verses omitted.) The Sporting Times, June 14, 1879.

The Claims of Greece! The claims of Greece! Which Dilke declared and Roseb’ry sung, Which Dizzy in his Berlin Peace, To the Greek Kalends coolly flung. Eternal Moonshine gilds them yet, And moonshine’s all they’ll ever get!

The Aisles of Rome. I. The aisles of Rome! the aisles of Rome! Where burning censers oft are swung, Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome, Where banners sway and mass is sung— In Papal Sees these aisles have place, But English churches they disgrace. II. The vestments, many-hued and quaint, The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope, The prayers to Virgin and to saint— These are for them who serve the Pope: Shame! that such mummeries besmirch The ritual of the English Church! III. I took the train to Farringdon, From Farringdon I walked due E.; And musing there an hour alone, I scarce could think such things could be. At Smithfield—scene of martyrs slain— I could not deem they died in vain. IV. And is it so? and can it be, My country? Is what we deplore Aught but a phase of idiocy? Is England Protestant no more? Is she led captive by a man— The dotard of the Vatican? 225 V. Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush?—our fathers bled. Earth, render back from out thy breast A remnant of our martyred dead! Of all the hundreds grant but three To fight anew Mackonochie.

“The isles decrease, the isles decrease, The last fog-signal now has rung,”

The Claims of Greece. The Claims of Greece! The Claims of Greece! No doubt Miss Sappho loved and sung, But how can Europe keep the peace, The wily Greek and Turk among: Eternal summer may be there, But noise of war is in the air. The nations look on Marathon, And wonder sometimes will there be A fight like that which erst went on Between the mountains and the sea: Where Turk and Greek may find a grave, If neither party will behave. A Bismarck sat with furrowed brow, And scanned the Treaty of Berlin, Quoth he, “There’ll be a fearful row, My interference must begin. We’ll arbitrate.” He spoke, when lo! Both Greece and Turkey answered “No!” “Trust not for freedom to the Franks,” Was Byron’s sage remark to Greece He bids the Hellenes close their ranks, Their only hope for full release. They’ve ta’en his counsel it would seem; Yet surely ’tis an idle dream? “Fill the high bowl with Samian wine,” Whatever Samian wine may be; And still let Grecian temples shine, Be Greece inviolate and free: But ne’er shall European peace Be broken for the claims of Greece! Punch, January 29, 1881.

Nice in May 1874. “The town of Nice! the town of Nice! Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung And never gave man any peace, The whole year round, when he was young! Eternal winter chills it yet; It’s always cold, and mostly wet. Lord Brougham sat on the rocky brow Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis; But wouldn’t like to sit there now, Unless ’twere warmer than it is. I went to Cannes the other day, But found it much too damp to stay. The mountains look on Monaco, And Monaco looks on the sea And, playing their some hours ago, I meant to win enormously; But, though my need of coin was bad I lost the little that I had. Ye have the Southern charges yet Where is the Southern climate gone Of two such blessings, why forget The cheaper and the better one? My weekly bill my wrath inspires; Think ye I meant to pay for fires? Why should I stay? no worse art thou, My country! On the genial shore The local east winds whistle now, The local fogs spread more and more; But in the sunny South the weather Beats all you know of put together. I cannot eat—I cannot sleep— The waves are not so blue as I; Indeed, the waters of the deep Are dirty brown, and so’s the sky. I get dyspepsia when I dine— Oh, dash that pint of country wine!”

The Smiles of Peace. The smiles of Peace, the smiles of Peace, Which Gladstone in Midlothian sung! A song we hope may never cease Though Jingoes yell, with blatant tongue, To fight—not for themselves, you bet! And howl for blood, and—“Heavy Wet!” We look up to the Grand Old Man, And he looks out upon the sea Of stormy politics, which can Be still’d by none so well as he! For standing at the Nation’s helm, He safely guides the British Realm. Fill high the bowl with Gladstone wine— The sunny purple wine he gave— Let fame and Bacchus round him twine The wreaths that crown the good and brave! His solid worth the nation rules, Though worried by bombastic fools. Trust not to Tories for a peace— They have a chief who longs for war, Let tax and income tax increase. Pay! ’tis what we’re created for, Better to fight, and glory win, Than hoard a pile of useless “tin.” 226 Keep firm on Ministerial height He who nor man nor nation fears— He who seeks peace, yet fears not fight— Whose strength and knowledge come with years— Who knows that peace on earth’s divine! Here’s Gladstone’s health in Gladstone wine! Funny Folks May 23, 1885.

Renounce The Paper Union Creed. The Liberal seats! the Liberal seats! That we in ’eighty proudly won! Whence—while we suffered few defeats— We saw the Stupid Party run! Again we fight these borough’s, yet Nothing, except disgrace, we get! The Unionist and Tory crews, Led on, alas! by honest Bright, Have gained the day; and men refuse To vote the Grand Old Chieftain right, Save in the Island of the West, Where scarce a Tory dares contest. The Liberals look to Chamberlain, And Chamberlain looks sour and glum; Yet, seeing what he had to gain, We’d hoped that Joseph round would come. For, gazing back upon his past, We could not think his—spleen?—would last. The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where He’d nobly worked for fifty years; He saw the Liberals crowded there, And heard with joy their hearty cheers. He looked at them one winter’s day— And in the summer—where were they? And where are they? And where art thou, O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age The heroic task comes harder now; Soon must thou quit “the ungrateful stage.” And must thy part, praised in all lands, Degenerate into pigmy hands? ’Tis something, in this shameful hour, When beaten, with the fettered race, To know at least that those in power This question cannot choose but face. And they may yield to craven fear, However brave they now appear. Why should we moan o’er times more blest? Why should we wail? Our fathers worked! The Tory must not peaceful rest, The Irish Bill must not be burked! ’Tis but delayed, and time shall see Another Ireland, glad and free! Coercion now? Repression still? Ah, no!—that sort of thing is dead! You may reject our Home Rule Bill, But tell us, what have you instead? The eighty-six recruited come,— Say, can coercion make them dumb? In vain, in vain! Strike other chords! Renounce your Paper Union Creed! In spite of thirty thousand swords, The Irish nation will be freed! See! rising at their country’s call, Who fronts you in St. Stephen’s Hall! You have the Liberal leader yet; Where is the Liberal phalanx gone? You have two courses. Why regret To take the nobler, manlier one? You have the path that Justice shows— And you’ve a nation to oppose! Renounce the Paper Union creed! You cannot govern men with this Your Irish brethren you may need When foreign foes around you hiss, Renounce it, and the Irish then Will prove themselves your countrymen. The peasant of the sister Isle has with our best and bravest bled, That peasant now is all that’s vile— Or—is your sense of justice dead? Do right, and you perhaps will find Him generous still, and brave, and kind. No more these idle fictions whine! On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as your English mothers bore. And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The British blood might proudly own. Trust not the Tories and their pranks, Despite the tales their leader tells; In Irish hearts and Irish ranks The old, strong love of justice dwells! But Tory force and Tory fraud Would crimson swift Rebellion’s sword! Renounce the Paper Union Creed! Our party, though now in the shade, Shall still, with glorious Gladstone, lead! Repulsed we are; not yet dismayed. No isle whose shore the Atlantic laves Can ever be the land of slaves. Place what you will before the House, There nothing, save an Irish bill, Will pass. Meanwhile, let Liberals rouse— Prove Liberal England’s Liberal still! The Irish claim we must concede, And have no Paper Union Creed. G.W. Pall Mall Gazette. July 13, 1886.

The Childe’s Pilgrimage. 1. Whileome in Limehouse docks there dwelt a youth, Childe Higgins hight, the childe of curst ennui, Despair, shame, sin, with aye assailing tooth, Had worn his beauty to the bone.—Ah me! A lone unloving libertine was he; For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles, And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea, He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles, Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles. 227 2. He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil Of counting house turned but to small account, Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil, Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount Of kindly feelings; he aspired to mount To intellectual fame, for when the brain Is dulled by thoughts, aye fearful to surmount, When youth, hope, love, essay their charms in vain, The rake-hell turns a blue as doth his sky again. 3. Thus turned the Childe, when in the Morning Post, The Herald, Chronicle, and eke the Times, He read with tasteful glee a daily host Of the Strand bard’s self eulogistic rhymes; He read, and fired with zeal, resolv’d betimes A pilgrim to that minstrel’s shrine to move, As Allah’s votaries in Arabian climes To far Medina’s hallowed altar rove, There low to bend before the idol of their love. 4. He left his home, his wife without a sigh, And trod with pilgrim-pace the Limehouse Road; The morn beamed laughing in the dark blue sky, And warm the sun on post and pavement glowed: Each varied mile new charms and churches showed, But sceptic Higgins jeered the sacred band; For his full tide of thought with scorn o’erflowed, Or deep immersed in objects grave and grand, Dwelt on the Warren’s fame at number Thirty, Strand. * * * * * 11. Th’ Exchange is past, the Mansion House appears, Surpris’d the Childe surveys its portly site, Dim dreams assail him of convivial years, And keener waxes his blunt appetite, Luxurious visions whelm his fancy quite, Of calipash and ekecalipee, While sylphs of twenty stone steal o’er his sight, Smiting their thighs with blythe Apician glee, And licking each his lips right beautiful to see. 12. ’Twas here they tucked, these unctuous city sprites, ’Twas here like geese they fattened and they died. Here turtle reared for them her keen delights, And forests yielded their cornuted pride.— But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed; Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe; Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side, And dropsy seconded his deadly blow, ’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below. * * * * * 15. Something too much of this; but now ’tis past, And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below: Lo! proud ambitious gutters hurry past, To rival Thames in full continuous flow; The inner temple claims attention now, That Golgotha of thick and thread-bare skulls, Where modest merit pines in chambers low, And impudence his oar in triumph pulls Along the stream of wealth, and snares its rich sea-gulls. * * * * * 19. Thus mused the Childe as thoughtful he drew near The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand, And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere Like stars on moony nights—a sacred band Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand Each letter shone beneath the eye of day, And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned, Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way, As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay. * * * * * 21. But I forgot—my pilgrim’s shrine is won And he himself—the lone unloving Childe His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon, And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled: His dull despairing thoughts alone—once mild As love—now dark as fable’s darkest hell, Are stern realities; but o’er the wild Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall. 22. Farewell—a word that must be and hath been Ye dolphin dames who turn from blue to grey Ye dandy drones who charm each festive scene With brainless buzz, and frolic in your May, Ye ball-room bards who live your little day, And ye who flushed in purse parade the town, Booted or shod—to you my muse would say, “Buy Warren’s Blacking” as ye hope to crown Your senseless souls or soulless senses with renown.

After the Examination. I. Without one lingering look he leaves The spot of all his troubles past, With thoughtful heart; for he believes The dons have made this chance his last. Those hated schools, brain-addling place, That seems to haunt his mind for ever, And sight of which before his face, Makes all his limbs with horror shiver— Shiver as though had fallen smack A douche of water on his back And arms and neck and head and face, So hated was that awful place; But it must come, and all must go Where, sitting sternly in a row Examiners, with looks that chill, Pluck those that do their papers ill. II. And he has gone to his lonely room To sit alone by the fireside; He stirs the fire with the broom, And does eccentric things beside. For flurried by the exam, he seems, And while his hissing kettle steams, He mutters deep within his breast, “What causes this delay? If with Testamur I am blest, It can’t be far away.” And then the toasting-fork he takes, And with it in the cinders rakes, 228 And makes it in a fearful mess, And then he walks in restlessness About his room, while minutes creep More slowly than in prison keep. III. He plucked his toothpick in his pocket, But sheathed it ere the point was bare; He rolled his eye within its socket, And passed his fat hand through his hair; Nay more—he took his meerschaum then, And gazed upon it with a look Of absent wonder, then he took And put it in its case again; And mopped his brow all cold and damp, And blew his nose, and lit his lamp, Then in his arm chair sat and numbered The weary minutes till he slumbered. From Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon. London. Chapman and Hall, 1874.

Don Juan Unread (1819.) By Dr. W. Maginn, Trin. Coll., Dublin. Of Corinth Castle we have read, Th’ amazing scene unravell’d; Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour. And with Childe Harold travell’d. And so we followed Cloven-foot, And faithfully as any, Until he cried, “Come, turn aside And read of Don Giovanni. “Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House, Who have been lying, prating, Read Don Giovanni, ’tis their own, A child of their creating. On jests profane they love to feed, And there they are—and many, But we, who link not with the crew, Regard not Don Giovanni. “There’s Goodwin’s daughter, Shelley’s wife A’writing fearful stories; There’s Hazlitt, who with Hunt and Keats, Brays forth in Cockney chorus. There’s pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad Who sings of Rose and Fanny; Why throw away, their wits so gay To take up Don Giovanni. “What’s Juan but a shameless tale That bursts all rules asunder? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn His lordship looked not canny; And took a pinch of snuff, to think I flouted Don Giovanni! “O, rich,” said I, “are Juan’s rhymes, And warm the verse is flowing Fair crops of blasphemy it bears, But we will leave them growing. In Pindar’s strain, in prose of Paine, And many another Zany As gross we read, so where’s the need To wade through Don Giovanni? “Let Colburns’ town-bred cattle snuff The sweets of Lady Morgan; Let Maturin to amorous themes Attune his barrel organ. We will not read them, will not hear The Parson or the granny, And, I dare say, as bad as they, Or worse, is Don Giovanni. “Be Juan, then, unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it. We may have virtue of our own, Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured faith of days long past We still would prize o’er any, And grieve to hear the ribald jeer Of scamps like Don Giovanni. “When Whigs with freezing rule shall come And piety seems folly, When Cam and Isis, curbed by Brougham, Shall wander melancholy; When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt, And all the swinish many, Shall rough shod ride o’er Church and State, Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay; And from Love’s shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither’d, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? Thomas Moore.

The First Rose of Summer. ’Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves, with pride from its throne, ’Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone. O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom? Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring. Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon; Was’t the lark of the morning that ’woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet flow’ret; for soon from the sky The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie. O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne’er would’st decay, But, alas! soon thou’lt perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair, Yet I’ll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there. Robert Gilfillan. 1831.

The First Rose of Summer. ’Tis the first rose of summer That blushing steals forth, Still doubtful, and fearing The blight of the north; Her sister buds cower, Beneath on the stem, While yon lone one is smiling In fragrance o’er them. I’ll not pluck thee young rose bud, Nor mar thy fresh bloom; Soon yon dark cloud may wrap thee In coldness and gloom: Then bask while thou may’st, In the bright sun’s lov’d smile And dream of light dewdrops, And blue skies the while. So in life’s sunny morning Spreads forth hope’s fair flow’r, How soon to be blighted In sorrow’s drear hour; Still, while friendship smiles o’er it, And joy brightens round, May no demon’s dark malice, To blight it be found. From Wiseheart’s Fashionable Songster or Gems of Melody. Dublin.

Epsom Races. ’Tis the last man in London Left lounging alone, All his bottle companions To Epsom are gone: No friend of the Regent Or Bond do I see, To kill on this pavement His cursed ennui. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine in this street, Since Verey has jellies, We’ll stroll in and eat. Thus at Epsom they’re crowded, In London we’re cramm’d, And whilst we are jellied, They’re probably jamm’d. The National Omnibus, May 27, 1831.

The Old Maid. I’m the last Rose of summer, And wither alone; All my lovely companions Are wedded and gone. No soul of my kindred, No maiden is nigh, To reflect back my wrinkles, And heave sigh for sigh. Yet peaceful I rest me Upon my lone bed, No tyrant molests me, I mourn no Babe dead. Thus cheerful I scatter Regrets to the air, And rejoice in my freedom From discord and care. Alone must I perish, Alone I decay: No daughter to cherish, No son for a stay. I sink to the slumber, Of Death’s calm repose, Till the Bridegroom, rejoicing, Shall claim his last Rose. From The Maids’, Wives’, and Widows’ Penny Magazine, December 29, 1832.

The Last Summer Bonnet. ’Tis the last summer bonnet, The worse for the wear; The feathers upon it Are dimm’d by sea air: Gay places it went to, But lingers at last, A faded momento Of sunny days past. The prejudice still is For poets to moan, When roses and lillies Are going and gone: But fashion her sonnet Would rather compose On summer’s last bonnet, Than summer’s last rose! Though dreary November Has darken’d the sky, You still must remember That day in July, When, after much roaming, To Carson’s we went For something becoming To take into Kent. You, long undecided What bonnet to choose, At length chose, as I did, The sweetest of blues; Yours now serves to show, dear, How fairest things fade; And I long ago, dear, Gave mine to my maid. Oh! pause for a minute, Ere yours is resign’d: Philosophy in it A moral may find: To past scenes I’m hurried,— That relic revives The beaux that we worried Half out of their lives. ’Twas worn at all places Of public resort: At Hogsnorton races, So famous for sport; That day, when the Captain Would after us jog, And thought us entrapt in His basket of prog! He gave me a sandwich, And not being check’d He offered a hand—which I chose to reject! And then you were teased with The gentleman’s heart, Because you seemed pleased with His gooseberry tart! ’Twas worn at the ladies Toxopholite fête. (That sharpshooting trade is A thing that I hate; Their market they mar, who Attempt, for a prize, To shoot with an arrow Instead of their eyes.) And don’t that excursion By water forget; Sure summer diversion Was never so wet! To sit there and shiver And hear the wind blow, The rain and the river, Above, and below! But hang the last bonnet What is it to us, That we should muse on it, And moralize thus? A truce to reflecting: To Carson’s we’ll go, Intent on selecting A winter chapeau. Then let Betty take it, For Betty likes blue; And Betty can make it Look better than new: In taste Betty’s fellow Was never yet seen; She’ll line it with yellow, And trim it with green! Thomas Haynes Bayly, in The New Monthly Magazine, 1833.

’Tis the last Bit of Candle. ’Tis the last bit of candle, With flickering light, All its pound of companions, Have finished their night; 232 While here we sit toping, And waking the sun, To shine on the revel, As merely begun. Thou sink’st in the socket, The grease of thy wick, Is failing and failing, As smiles of the sick; The lips most bewitching, The eyes most divine, Are scarcely less fleeting, In ceasing to shine. O, My last bit of candle, Thou’lt not be alone, Go stink in the grease pot, Thy brethren are gone: Though moon ne’er should light us, Though gone be thy spark, We can all find our glasses, And mouths in the dark. From Wisehearts Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Last Lamp of Grafton’s Alley—Cork. The last lamp of the Alley, Is burning alone! All its brilliant companions Are shiver’d and gone. No lamp of her kindred, No burner is nigh To rival her glimmer, Or light to supply. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To vanish in smoke; As the bright ones are shatter’d Thou, too, shalt be broke. Thus kindly I scatter Thy globe o’er the street Where the watch in his rambles Thy fragments shall meet. Then home will I stagger As well as I may, By the light of my nose sure I’ll find out the way. When thy blaze is extinguished, Thy brilliancy gone, Oh! my beak shall illumine The Alley alone. William Maginn.

The Last Cigar. ’Tis a last choice Havana I hold here alone; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar-case I close with a sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine; but the stem I’ll bite off and light thee To waft thee to them. And gently I’ll scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead. A pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay From the weed’s glowing circle, The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar-case I sit all alone.

The Straw Hat of Summer. ’Tis the straw hat of summer All tattered and torn; All the brim has departed, Its crown is well worn. But no hat is there like it So dear to my heart; It has kept off the sunshine In meadow and mart. There it hangs o’er the window; Its glory is shorn, For my foolish affection Don’t laugh me to scorn; It is grimy and greasy, And ragged ’tis true, But its value in mem’ry Is more than when new. Though a horse would not eat it In such a sad state, It is worthy of meeting A far better fate. It is hardly sufficient To kindle a fire But I’ll make of its fragments A funeral pyre. Oh! companion of summer, Go with thee my joy, Thou hast served me with ardour That knew no alloy. So then peace to thy ashes Thy loss grieves me sore, I shed o’er thee tear drops Of friendship of yore.

The Last of the Fancy. A Lament for the Anticipated Extinction of the Prize Ring. ’Tis the last of the Fancy, Left pining alone, All his “nobby” companions Are mizzled and gone! No “pal” of his kindred No bruiser is nigh, To exchange broken noses Or give a black eye! “I’ll not leave thee, thou game one, To pine in the ring; Since the strong ones have mizzled, Go—do the same thing. 233 Thus, kindly I gather The ropes from the ground, Where thy pals of the Fancy Have fought the last round!” The Art none will follow When prizes decay, And from patrons and backers The “tin” drops away; When all, e’en a novice, To mill with have flown, Ah! who, then, would flourish His “mauleys” alone? Judy, July 10, 1867.

An Oxford Parody. On Smoking. ’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s Left lying alone; All his dark brown Regalias Are vanished and gone. No cigar of its colour, No “Lopez” is mine, To delight with its perfume And fragrance divine. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one I’ll ring for a light; Thy companions are ashes, I’ll smoke thee to-night. Thy halo and incense Shall rise o’er my head, As I sigh for the beauties All scentless and dead. And soon may I follow Those loved ones’ decay; Since from each tempting bundle They’ve faded away. When Regalias are smoked out, And “Lopez” are blown, Oh! who would still linger, Cigarless, alone? J. R. G. From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford. (J. Vincent, Oxford.)

’Tis the last little tizzy My pocket what’s in, O, its pale-faced companions I’ve changed ’em for gin! There’s not a brass farden To rub ’gainst his ribs, For ah! in my pocket There’s never no dibs! I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one, Here moping with me, With thy friends in the gin-shop Go tizzy, and spree; So down on the counter That sixpence I vacks, And has ’stead of him, Sir, Four glasses of max! But they vont give no credit, So I has no more, I’ll go and pick pockets By Drury-Lane door; About the Theaturs There’s lots to be had And ven I gets flush, vy I’ll guzzle like mad.

An Autumn Session. ’Tis the last of the members Left spouting alone; Half the Whigs and the Tories Are grouse shooting gone. Not the creatures of Althorp,— No hireling is nigh To defend all his blunders And give lie for lie. Will they force you, ye lone ones, To sit till Septem- Ber? No; others are sporting, Go sport ye with them. Then fain would I scatter. This ghost of a house, Where their mates of St. Stephen’s Are bagging the grouse. So soon may you rise when Debates do decay, And from all the divisions Each side keeps away. For when Whigs are all vanished, And Tories are flown, Oh, who would attend at The Bleak house alone. Figaro in London, August 17, 1833.

’Tis the Last Fly of Summer. ’Tis the last fly of summer, Left buzzing alone, All its black-legged companions Are dried up or gone: Not one of its kindred, No bluebottles nigh, To sport ’mid the sugars, Or in the milk die. I’ll not doom thee, thou lone one, A victim to be, Since the rest are all vanish’d, Come dine thou with me. Thus kindly I scatter Some crumbs of my bread, Where thy mates on the table Lie withered and dead. 234 But soon you will perish I’m sadly afraid, For the glass is at sixty Just now in the shade. When wasps have all vanish’d And bluebottles flown, No fly can inhabit This bleak world alone. Punch’s Pocket Book, 1848.

The Last “Viva Voce.” He’s the last “Vivâ Voce” Left sitting alone; All his lucky companions Have finished and gone: Not a man from his College, No friend is there nigh To get his “Testamur,” And walk down the “High.” “I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one, To pine in these ‘quads,’— Since your papers are ‘satis’— We’ll let you through ‘mods.’ Thus kindly I give thee Our leave to go down, Where thy mates of the College Await thee in town.” “So soon may I follow, When friends will not stay, And the ‘Common Room’ circle Has melted away. When rooms are all empty, And their tenants are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This slow place alone? From College Rhymes, 1868.

The Last Belle of Summer. ’Tis the last belle of summer, Left blooming alone, For her lovely companions All seaward have gone. No dame of her kindred, No chaperon’s nigh— I will see if see if she blushes, Or gives sigh for sigh, I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine in the square, While thy sisters are breathing The ozoned sea air. Though thy flowers in the garden Lie scentless and dead, I will bring thee a bouquet From Johnson’s instead. Say, love, may I follow When thou goest away To the family circle Beside the salt spray? For when “swells” have all vanished, And “belles” have all flown, I could not inhabit Belgravia alone. Funny Folks.

The Last Pipe. ’Tis the last pipe this winter, Left squirting alone; All its leaden companions Are frozen and gone, No turncock was handy, No plumber was nigh; And each cistern kept running Until it was dry. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, While icicles gem Thy tap, or else, bursting, Thou wilt be like them; But gaily I’ll scatter Some straw o’er thy bed, And the crack I discover Will stop with white-lead. I thus shall get water, Though turncocks delay Round the plug’s shining circle Fixed over the way. While lead pipes have frozen, And iron ones flown, I see thee with gladness Still squirting alone. Funny Folks. February 1, 1879.

The Last Jar of Pickles. ’Tis the last jar of pickles, Left standing alone, All its other companions Are eaten and gone! No one of its kindred, No pickle is nigh, To tickle my stomach, And draw forth a sigh, I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, Tho’ I’ve just finished three, And the others are eaten, I’ll likewise eat thee; Thus kindly I’ll swallow Thee down, like the rest, Go! find your companions, They’re under my vest: So soon may I follow When pickles are scarce, And from friendship’s circle Withdraw my bluff face. When walnuts, and cabbage, And onions are gone, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? Anonymous.

He’s the last of his party Left sitting alone; 235 All his brilliant companions Have left him and gone. No Gorst of his kidney— No Balfour is nigh, To reflect his bright flashes Or applaud him sky high! They have left him, the lone one, To speak all alone; His audience are sleeping, They cough and they groan. Yet pertly he’ll patter (Though he should be abed), For his tongue’s ever ready, Though senseless his head! So soon may he follow His “party’s” decay; From whose brilliant circle Those three dropped away, With Gorst, Wolff, and Balfour Seceded and flown, He can’t long inhabit That bleak bench alone! R. H. Lawrence.

’Tis the last baked potato Left swelt’ring alone; All her mealy companions Are parted and gone, No floury kidney— No ash leaf is nigh, To share her seclusion And rest eye to eye. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To shrivel apart; Since the mealy digest well, Come—sleep near my heart. Thus kindly I scatter Thy peel at my feet, Where the whelk and the orange Perfume the dull street. Soon, too, will I follow Thy chariot away, As the glimmering gas lights Fade into the day. When winkles lie soulless, And ’taties are strown, Oh, who then would wander, The pavement alone? W. W. Dixon.

The Policeman’s Lay. ’Tis a prime leg of mutton, Cut near to the bone; All the greens and potatoes Are surely not gone! No haughty inspector— No sergeant is nigh, To reflect on what he’d do If hungry and dry. I’ll not leave that nice bone—one May see ’tis a gem; Since the folks are all sleeping, It’s nothing to them, Thus gaily I’m feasting— For freely I’m fed— While my mates on their night beat Are famished instead. Some strong beer I’ll swallow, Then forth I must stray, And from kitchen and “cooky” Steal gently away. When prog is demolished, And liquor is gone, Oh, who would be a p’liceman This bleak night alone? Lizzie Griffin.

’Tis the last rose of Windsor[117] Left blooming alone; All the other Princesses To Hymen have gone, No kindred as suitors At present are nigh, But “Monty,” ’tis whisper’d,[118] Receives sigh for sigh. And will he be grafted On royalty’s stem? And will he be happy When quite one of them? What more borrow’d honours Must o’er him be shed, From the name of the living, The fame of the dead? The bay and the laurel May soon fade away; His brow has a circle Which cannot decay, And if he can marry So near to the throne, Why should he inhabit This bleak world alone? Fred. Rawkins.

’Tis the Last Blows of a Drummer. By a Poor and Unmusical Civilian. ’Tis the last blow of a drummer, Who stands all alone, And calls the battalions With monotonous moan No hour ever passes, No day e’er goes by, But this sound my ear crushes Though from it I fly. I lived near the barracks, Till well nigh insane, And now, when I’m sleeping I hear that refrain. Thus blindly I flatter The thing I most dread, Since my thoughts don’t discard it When even in bed. So soon as the morrow Succeeds to to-day May that drum and its drummer Be wafted away; 236 For if they continued their rub-a-drum call, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world at all? From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.

Home Rule. ’Tis the last ruse of someone Left blooming alone; All his lovely companions, Are faded and gone; No flower of his kidney Save Rosebery’s nigh, To reflect back his gushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou “old hand,” To skulk in thy den, Till the landlords are settled, We’ve Home Rule again; Thus kindly I flourish My rod o’er thy head, While the mates of thy Council Lie senseless and dead. How soon may I follow Should friendship decay. And from eighty-five “mimbers” The funds fall away; If Home Rule lies withered, And Parli’mint’s flown, Oh! who would inhabit Bleak Erin alone? E.L. The Globe (London), April 12, 1886.

Let Erin remember each craze of old, Now her foremost foes invade her, America send the dollar of gold In the sacred task to aid her; To aid her to see all her banners are furled— Let who will not look out for danger;— Turn the emerald gem to a brick to be hurled At the helpless head of the Stranger. When far from the revels the Home-Ruler strays, Whiskey hot, whiskey cold, declining, He’ll dream of the glories of other days, And scorn the low joys of dining! Thus shall Saxons be taught by a pose sublime That their pride and their prestige are over, And the Prince and the Princess will know next time What thick heads a few caubeens do cover! Punch, March 21, 1885.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind. Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign’d? * * * * * T. Moore.

To A Bottle of old Port. When he who adores thee has left but the dregs Of such famous old stingo behind; Oh! say, will he bluster or weep,—no—’ifegs! He’ll seek for some more of the kind. He’ll laugh, and though doctors perhaps may condemn, Thy tide shall efface the decree, For many can witness, though subject to phlegm, He has always been faithful to thee! With thee were the dreams of his earliest love, Every rap in his pocket was thine, And his very last prayer, ev’ry morning, by Jove, Was to finish the evening in wine. How blest are the tipplers whose heads can outlive The effects of four bottles of thee; But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give, Is to stagger home muzzy from thee! W. Maginn.

To Jolly. When he who adjures thee has left but the shame Of his pamphlets and postcards behind, Oh! say—wilt thou weep when they darken the fame Of a seat that by me was resigned? Yes weep! but, although in your heart you condemn, Remember ’twas only through me You attained to the right to put after your name The coveted letters “J.P.” Through thee were the dreams of her earliest love— The news that she wished to be mine— By Greenwich conveyed. Therefore since I must move, My seat unto thee I resign. Oh! Happy Joe Arch, should he chance to receive The post now vacated by me, While one thought serves my last parting pang to relieve, I’ve resigned—not been kicked out by thee. From They are Five, by W. E. G. (D. Bogue, London, 1880.)

The harp that once through Tara’s halls[119] The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er. 237 And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. * * * * * T. Moore.

Colburn’s Puff. (Supposed to be chanted over the grave of that eminent publisher, by MISS L. E. LANDON) The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls The soul of humbug shed, Now lies as mute ’neath Colburn’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the praise of many books, Whose sale, alas! is o’er, And men who once were gull’d thereby, Will now be gull’d no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The Puff of Colburn swells, For those who con Court Journal now, Heed not the tales it tells, And people who read paragraphs, In Courier or in Post, Think no more of them than old maids Of tea and butter’d toast. The National Omnibus. April 29, 1831.

The Belt which once the Champion Brac’d. The Belt which once the Champion brac’d When boxing honour reigned, In modern times has been disgraced, And all its glory stain’d; For he, whose pugilistic fame Each Fancy Bard should sing, Now hides his head in conscious shame, And banish’d from the Ring. Tom Cribb, thy manly form no more, In fight we shall behold; But matchless were thy deeds of yore, As generous as bold. Base acts your gallant spirit spurned, And manfully you dealt, And honestly, though hardly, earn’d The English Champion’s Belt. Thy praise shall long resound afar, The Champion long wert thou, And honor was thy leading star, And triumph deck’d thy brow: But glory now is on the wane, The Fancy in despair, When shall we see thy like again, The Champion’s Belt to wear? From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.

Poetical Advertisements. The harp that once in Warren’s Mart The soul of music shed, Now mutely lies in Warren’s cart, Or under Warren’s bed. So sleeps the source of Moses’ lays, So Rowland’s puffs are o’er; And heads once wreathed in poets’ bays Are thumped for rhymes no more. No more by stanzas, songs, and odes, Warren his blacking sells; The van alone the carman loads, The name of Warren tells. Thus Moses’ muse so seldom wakes; The only sign she gives Is when some silly rhymes she makes, To show that still she lives. Punch, December, 1853.

Sarah’s Halls. The broom that once through Sarah’s halls In hole and corner sped, Now useless leans gainst Sarah’s walls And gathers dust instead. So sweeps the slavey now-a-days So work is shifted o’er, And maids that once gained honest praise Now earn that praise no more! No more the cobweb from its height The broom of Sarah fells; The fly alone unlucky wight Invades the spider’s cells. Thus energy so seldom wakes, All sign that Sarah gives Is when some dish, or platter breaks, To show that still she lives. Judy, March, 1869.

The Wallflower. The girl that oft in lighted halls Enchantment round her shed, Now sits neglected by the walls Her bloom and temper fled. So fades the belle of garrisons Till she becomes a bore, And hearts that once beat high for her Now feel that pulse no more. From The Girl of the Period Miscellany, June, 1869.

The Voice That Once. The voice that once thro’ senate halls Would set the echoes free, Is silent now when Randy calls, And mute to Ashmead B. So sleeps the speech of former days, So hearing’s thrill is o’er, And Tories famed for teasing ways Now earn reproof no more. No more, supreme in wordy fight, The voice of Gladstone swells; The cough alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells, Thus Eloquence no longer seeks To conquer near and far— How can it, when each wheeze bespeaks Laryngeal catarrh? Funny Folks. March, 1884.

Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s Walls. (By an Ex-Warder H.M. Prison, Newgate.) Luke Sharp who once in Newgate’s walls The tear of penance shed, And listened to the warders’ calls And wished those warders dead, Now feeds no more on prison fare Loosed are the chains he bore The cell that once confined him there Can find him there no more. No more he weeps in durance vile Or mourns o’er man’s decline, He wanders far from Britain’s isle And Binns[120]—the hangman’s-line. Fond memory holds his shadow dear Old Newgate loves him yet, And though he is no longer there He ought to be, you bet. Hal Berte, in Detroit Free Press, March 21, 1885.

Fly Not to Wine. Fly not to wine—’tis just the hour The House divides—the lobbies scour, And Bellamy’s—for once be bright, The Whigs are strong—we’re beat to-night, If friends won’t muster soon. That Tory Members might be paid, Were boroughs, taxes, titles made; Fly—tell our friends the loaves are going, The fishes fast away are flowing. Oh! pray!—oh! pray. The Whigs ne’er wove so strong a chain, To bind our wrists, our places gain, If we don’t break it soon. Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade, Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade; Through all our souls his precepts ran, Since we, like imps and fiends, began The people’s hearts to tear. If Members game at White’s or Brookes And will not vote to-night, odd zooks— Office we shall ne’er return in, Hell their recreant souls shall burn in. Oh, pray! oh, pray! Oh, let not Tory spirits quake— The people rouse—they’re quite awake— We’re beat to-night—oh, dear! From The Blue Bag; or, Toryana. (Effingham Wilson, London, 1832.)

Fly not yet! ’tis just the hour When murder, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And bhoys who love the moon. ’Twas but to guard these hours of shade That the Coercion Bill was made; Let not its penal clauses glowing Set all mine honest friends agoing. Oh! stay,—oh! stay,— Law so seldom weaves a chain Like this, so tight, that oh! ’tis plain You shun its links so soon. Fly not yet. The pluck displayed In times of old in ambuscade, Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, with blackened face, began To shoot when night was near; And thus the leaguer’s heart and looks, Though smooth at noon as winter brooks, Should kindle when the night returning Brings their usual hour for burning. Oh! stay,—oh! stay! Alas! ’tis now too late to take Revenge on rogues so wide awake As these embarking here! From The St. James’s Gazette, March 5, 1881.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. * * * * * T. Moore.

“Rich and rare were the gems she wore.” (Apropos of the late Alderman Wood and Queen Caroline.) Rich and furred was the robe he wore, And a bright gold chain on his breast he bore, But ah! his speaking was far beyond Waithman himself with his snow-white wand. “Humpty, dost thou not fear to stray With the lady so far from the king’s highway? Are Britain’s sons so dull or so cold As still to be cheated with tinsel for gold?” “Mistress Dumpty, I feel not the least alarm, No placeman ever dare do me harm; For though they vote her and me a bore, They love their own heads and places more.” “On he went—in her coach to ride, While he cozened the lady who sat by his side; And lost for ever was she who was led By Humpty’s honour and Dumpty’s head.” Theodore Hook. The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824.

Ragged and Rough. Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore, And a bottle and glass in her hands she bore; But, oh! her red nose shone far beyond The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand. “Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray, Before the morn, on the king’s highway, When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold, And may run away with the bottle you hold?” “Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm, I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm; Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store, Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!” On she went to the famed Turnstile, And, tired enough, she sat down awhile; Till, non se ipse, all care she defied, For she drank so much, that she hiccupped and died.

Erin’s Chivalry. Rich and rare were the arms she bore: A brace of Colts at her waist she wore; And, oh! her beauty was hidden with fear, As on she fled like a hunted deer. Lady, why dost thou fear to stray, Alone and unarmed, in the ancient way? If Erin’s sons were not blameless or cold, They used to spare women in days of old! “In days of old” she answered, “Sir Knight, Honor and virtue were Erin’s delight; But this cursed League”—Ere more was said She ducked, and a brick-bat missed her head. On, like the hunted deer she went— Her only crime that she’d paid her rent; And the stranger said, “Sure, we’ll change the song Of “Erin-go-bragh” into “Erin gone wrong.” Funny Folks.

Rough and Red. Rough and red was the cloak she wore, And a cup of potheen in her hand she bore; But, oh! from her short black pipe the smoke, Was more fragrant by far than her rough red cloak. ’Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, So lonely and laden o’er this bleak way? Are Erin’s sons in virtue so ripe As not to be tempted by potheen and pipe? “Och misther! I fear not a boy in the place, For I’m the girl that can batther a face; And though they love potheen and pipes d’ye see, The devil a drop will they get from me!” On she went with her cup in her hand, In safety all over that lonely land; And barefoot and saucy was she who relied On that fist of her own, that swung by her side.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. * * * * * T. Moore.

Paternoster Row. There is not in this city an alley so sweet As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet; Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell, E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell. Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen, On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green ’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill. Oh no, it was something more readable still, ’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear; ’Twas that Hurst, Duncan, Kelly, all published away, With Sherwood and Gilbert, and the Piper to pay! Sweet Row Paternoster, I’d like very well, To see you and your Publishers marching to hell; There the devils might rub them behind and before And they’d never be troubled with the Cholera more. The National Omnibus. July 8, 1831.

There is not in the palace a wide room so sweet As the room on whose table the dinner things meet; Oh the last gout for good things from life must depart Ere the love of that table shall fade from my heart. Yet it wasn’t that turtle had shed o’er the dish Its richest of gravy (that notable fish!) ’Twas not the soft magic of guzzle and fill— Oh no, it was something more drinkable still. ’Twas that wines, the beloved of my palate, were there That made every dear slice of the turkey more dear, And which taught me to feel that my looks were not hurt, When, I saw them reflected in bottles of port. Sweet room of the dinner, how calm could I rest Near thy table and chair, with the wine I love best, When the ladies should leave us, restraint to release And, damme, we’d drink off a dozen a piece! The National Omnibus, December 30, 1831.

There’s not in Saint Stephen’s so pleasant a seat, As that Bench where each evening the Ministers meet: Oh, the last Tory yearning for place must depart, Ere that Bench’s remembrance will fade from my heart. 240 ’Twas not that the upholsterer had covered each form, With the greenest of baizes, so genial and warm; ’Twas not the soft cushions well padded with skill— Oh no, it was something more exquisite still:— ’Twas that place, the beloved of the Tories was near, Making every dear seat on those Benches more dear; And which taught how the strongest of scruples will move, When we find them assaulted with pay that we love. Sweet Treasury Benches, how calm could I rest, On thy surface of green, with the friends I love best; When the radical howl for Reform shall quite cease, And the Bill, like my speeches, be buried in peace. Figaro in London, 1833.

Punch Office. There is not in all London an endroit so sweet As the office of Punch, in famed Wellington Street, Oh, the last ray of feeling and life will depart, Ere the love of that office shall fade from my heart. It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green; ’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till— Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still. ’Tis that Punch, the beloved of my bosom is near, Making every dear inch of the office more dear; And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve, When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love. Sweet office of Punch! oh, how calm could I rest In thy little back room though for space rather press’d; When publishing time should be over and cease, And my frame, like that Artist’s, shall slumber in peace. Punch, Volume 2, 1842.

An Oxford Parody. On Hunting. There is not in the wide world a country so sweet, As the valley renown’d where “the Heythrop” pack meet; Oh! the last dreams of hunting and hounds shall depart, Ere the runs I’ve there witness’d shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature had here laid the scene, ’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green; ’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill, Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still. ’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near, Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear; And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve, When riding with friends and to hounds that we love. Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease, And our brandies-and-waters be mingled in peace. J. R. G. From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford. (J. Vincent, Oxford.)

Metropolitan Melodies. There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet Than the stench that’s exhaled where the Thames’ waters meet! Oh, the last sense of smelling my nostrils must close, Ere the stench of those waters offends not my nose! Vile scent of Thamesis, howe’er can I rest, And know you, perchance, may engender a pest Till the law, bidding shameful monopolies cease, Let’s us wash in, or drink, our pure water in peace? Punch, June, 1850.

“A Song of the Season” O, there’s not in the West-End a valet so sweet As our Jeames when with drawing-room bouquet complete; With the light “œil de poudré” on his side-curls so smart, And where his back-hairs so symmetrically part! ’Tis not that he shows his six feet all serene, In the reddest of red and the greenest of green: ’Tis not his grand airs—gazing nursemaids that kill— O no, it is something more wonderful still! ’Tis the thought how amazing a product is bred From the finest of shapes and the emptiest head, When in folly’s first flight launched to dazzle the eye, Clad in all that’s most foolish of fashions gone by! Most fragrant of valets, sought Folly a nest, The sweetest she’d find in thy Glenfield-starched breast! Potten Row shall be riderless, Kensington dark, Ere the calves of that valet are driven from the Park! Punch, April 20, 1872.

There’s not in all London a tavern so gay, As that where the knowing ones meet of a day; So long as a farthing remains to my share, I’ll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere! Yet it is not that comforts there only combine, Nor because it produces good brandy and wine; ’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar, Oh! no—’tis a something more cozie by far! ’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh, Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry, And teach you to feel how existence may please, When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these. Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well! When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest, And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest! From Pickwick Abroad, by George W. M. Reynolds.

“There is not in the wide world a mansion so sweet As the Hall where ‘my Lord’ and ‘my Lady’ I meet: Their kind invitations such pleasure impart, That house can be never erased from my heart. “It is not that well-polished tables so fine Within its apartments resplendently shine; It is not the green trees that round it I see: Oh no! there is something more pleasing to me! “’Tis because ‘Noble Stewart the Patriot’ is there, With his Lady so lovely, so charming, and fair; And who make all their tables in beauty improve When they spread them with dishes that dearly I love. “Hail, sweetest of mansions! how should I be blest, If I e’er might dwell there with the food I love best; Then the pangs I now draw from my crack’d harp should end, And in stuffing and cramming my days would I spend.

The Irish Welcome. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As the vale where the beef and the white cabbage meet; With potatoes galore, and strong beer at one end, In one corner yourself, in the other your friend. But it was not that Nature had shed o’er those scenes The head of white cabbage, instead of bad greens; But, when that was all over we had potheen in store, With a welcome I’d give it, which makes it much more, Then no more of your valleys, with your mountains so high, Where there’s nought to be had but a bleak wind and sky! But come to the cottage, where plenty you’ll see, With a “Keith mille falthee,” you’re welcome to me. Anonymous.

The Trifle. There’s not in the wide world so tempting a sweet As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet; Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart, Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart. Yet it is not the sugar that’s thrown in between, Nor the peel of the lemon so candid and green; ’Tis not the rich cream that’s whipp’d up by a mill, Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still. ’Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid, Of which a delicious foundation is made; And you’ll find how the last will in flavor improve, When soak’d with the wine that you pour in above. Sweet plateau of Trifle! how great is my zest For thee, when spread o’er with the jam I love best, When the cream white of eggs—to be over thee thrown, With the whisk kept on purpose—is mingled in one! Punch, March 20, 1852.

The Bitter Cry of Outcast London. Prize parody in The Weekly Dispatch, November 25, 1883. There is not in the wide world a fester so foul As the slums where the outcasts of Babylon prowl, Oh, the last trace of pity and ruth must depart Ere the gloom of those alleys shall pass from my heart. Yet it was not that squalor had shed o’er the spot The stench of her stews and the reek of her rot; ’Twas not the grim presence of Death and Disease— Oh, no! it was something more shocking than these. ’Twas that fiends—the familiars of Mammon—were here, Who made every dear scene of extortion more dear, And who felt no remorse, while they left unimproved, The dens whence they drew the rack-rents that they loved. Sad outcasts of Babylon! How shall ye rest While the vampires are sucking the blood from your breast? Or how shall the storms that beat over you cease, While your hearts, like your quarters, are strangers to peace? T. A. Wilson.

There is not in the wide world a city so great As the Babylon mistress of Britain’s proud State, Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the mem’ries of London shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that wealth had made radiant the scene With splendour of pomp and with glory of sheen! ’Twas not the bright magic of palace or hall— Oh, no! it was something more wondrous than all. ’Twas that Poverty’s sin-stricken children were there, Darkly gathered, and pent in foul homes of despair; And I felt as I gazed on their black haunts of shame, That, though evil defiled them, mankind’s was the blame. Dark city of London! Within thy deep breast There are poor without hope, and forlorn without rest. And, ah! when shall the woes of thy wretched ones cease, And a wise-taught humanity kindly give peace? Aramis.

The Meteing of the Waters. There is not, in the Session, a joke so complete As the sight when the Tories and Turtlemen meet In conflict direct about water-supply, And when Randy to Fowler gives “one in the eye.” That double-chinn’d joker, great Harcourt, must shake As Coope the Conservative benches doth rake With his verbal stern-chasers; acidulous Firth Must be moved to a Mephistophelian mirth. Oh, it must be some sly compensation, if slight, For delay of their Measure, to witness the fight ’Twixt the old Corporation, their long-threatened foe, And those bad Water Companies, equally so. 242 The Municipal Bill may be under a cloud, But to hear cheeky Churchill demanding aloud What’s the use of an Alderman, verily, this Must mitigate bile by one moment of bliss. The meteing of waters may be a small point, When they hold the whole City is quite out of joint; But this pleasant reflection must comfort their breast, “When rogues tumble out,”—well, the world knows the rest! Punch, March, 1884.

The Thames. There is not in broad England so doubtful a treat As a trip on the Thames ’twixt Blackwall and Purfleet. Oh, the slumbers of Death on my eyelids must close Ere the bare recollection shall fade from my nose. Yet ’twas not that the banks were more grimy than green, Nor rough were the waters that glided between; ’Twas neither sea-sickness nor fear made me ill; Oh, no, it was something more horrible still. ’Twas that London had poured all its filth and its stink In the river, which flowed with the blackness of ink; And I smelt—O ye gods! can no measure improve This river of sewage that Londoners love? Sweet valley of Thames—(here I speak of the west, Where Richmond and Kew smile on waters more blest); Oh, when shall this plague spot polluting thee cease, And thy waters to ocean flow purely in peace?

There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat. Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart. Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace; ’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet; Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street. ’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there, Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair; And which gives me the courage to smile when I see Her blue nose at the window reflected on me, Sweet maiden, so wealthy, how happy I’d rest Quaffing “fizz” on thy gold with the chums I love best; Then the tortures I feel in borrowing would cease, And my duns, like old friends, be all smiling in peace. Aramis.