WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 13)

There is not in this wide world a fraud so complete As the vetoing power of the Lords’ corps d’élite; Oh, faint must the heart be that beats in his breast, Who in serfdom like this is contented to rest. It is not that Nature unkindly denies To his lordship a brain of the average size; Nor because he resembles the people he rules, Who, according to Carlyle, are most of them fools. ’Tis because, not content with his ill-gotten swag, He would tear from the toiler his last tattered rag, And give to the Franchise the knock on the head That he tried on the measure for giving him bread. Gilded Chamber of Horrors! you’re fated to go— There is room for your relics with Madame Tussaud; For the time has come round when Obstruction must cease, Hark! the cry of “Move off!” from the Commons’ police! H.B.

There is not, to the poet, a pleasure so sweet As to win the two guineas for which we compete. Oh, the joy I’d be feeling if you’d only “part” Would instil some new energy into my heart. Yet it is not that lately I’ve frequently seen That my name ’mongst the “highly commended” has been; ’Tis not the sweet pleasure of this that can fill; Oh, no, I want something more tangible still. ’Tis the money that’s useful in ev’ry career, And the first fruit of authorship ever most dear; And I wonder if ever my verse will improve Till, no longer rejected, I gain what I love. Good judge of our excellence, calm would I rest If I thought you’d adjudge this endeavour the best; When the guineas would come, my small store to increase, And the coins in my pocket be jingled in peace. Edward A. Horne.

There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet; Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart, Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart. Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene The easiest chairs in their leather of green; ’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill; Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still. ’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near, With stories and jokes to club gossips most dear; And who feel how the odours of baccy improve When surrounding the humorous faces we love. Sweet haunt of a smoker! here weary brains rest In thy fragrance and shade with the pipes they love best; Where the worries of life for an hour or two cease, And our meerschaums, like autumn leaves, colour in peace. J. Pratt.

The Meeting of the Emperors at Skiernievice. There is not in the wide world a town with a name Queer as that to whose bosom the Emperors came; Oh! ev’n than the treadmill the labour were worse— That town with the queer name to squeeze into verse! But not of that town or its name do we treat, But the reason would know why the Emperors meet; The quid-nuncs look wise, but—explain it who can?— What the mischief’s the mischief those Emperors plan? Are those heads, so beloved of their peoples, brought near To bring on a war ere the close of the year, Or, adopting the principle, “Lex sibi Rex,” The unoccupied parts of the globe to annex? Ah! town with the queer name, how calm should we rest Could our hearts of the comforting thought be possessed That the storms we most dread in this dark world would cease, And that meeting of Emperors really mean Peace! Moonshine, September 27, 1884.

Come, Send Round the Wine. Come, send round the wine, and leave plans of reform To patriot asses and radical tools; In the den of corruption we fatten and swarm, Then let’s keep our places and laugh at the fools. Your place may be easy, and mine may be hard; But while the cash comes from the Treasury chest, The fool who’d relinquish his honest reward, Deserves not to eat or to drink of the best. Shall I ask the old fogie, who sits by my side And plunders the hive, if our tenets agree? Shall I give up my friend, who for bribery was tried? If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the Catholic girl of my heart shall I fly To seek somewhere else for a Protestant kiss? No. Perish the placeman that ever would try To value his place by a standard like this. To us ’tis all one whether Catholic Peers Get into the House or for ever stay out; And as for the Radicals, we have no fears, Though they bawl for retrenchment and kick up a rout. Then feather your nests well, and push round the bowl Success to Taxation! that magical word Is the true source of plenty, and sheds o’er the soul Of a placeman more joy than aught else can afford. From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away. Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. * * * * * T. Moore.

Believe me if all those damn’d musty old works, Which I gaze on so sadly to-day, Were to sell by to-morrow to Heathens or Turks, And so be got out of my way, They might still be abused, as this moment they must, Let their pages be read as they will, And around their cloth binding the dirt and the dust Might entwine themselves verdantly still! It was not till old Lady Morgan had flown To my neighbours in Conduit-street dear, That the worthless, half-price of her works could be known Which so long have laid mouldering here. Oh, the books that are truly damn’d never will sell, But are truly damn’d on to the close; So their publishers wished, when their value so fell, They had fall’n on her Ladyship’s toes. The National Omnibus, April 15, 1831.

On the House of Lords Throwing out the Reform Bill. Believe me if all that demolish’d plate glass, Which I cannot observe without pain; Could be made by to-morrow one glittering mass, And fixed in your windows again. They would soon be in holes, as this moment they are, Let the panes be as thick as they will; And around thy fine mansion each mob from afar Would collect itself angrily still! Oh! it is not while windows thus smash’d are thine own, Presenting an aspect so drear, That the furious rage of a mob can be known, ’Gainst a proud Borough-mongering Peer! No, the vote of the Tory will ne’er be forgot Till the bill has passed into an act; Like your head, my dear Marquis, repair them or not, Your windows till then will be crack’d! Figaro in London, December 17, 1831.

Believe me, dear Susan, if all those Young Charms. Believe me, dear Susan, if all those young charms Which I meet on my beat ev’ry day, Were to seek for protection B. 53’s arms, Like the maiden does Brown’s in the play, I should still from your area, dear, never depart, But notice each dish on the sill; And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart, I should gull you—for you’re verdant still. It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own, Or you spill master’s cask of best beer, That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known, That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear. For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets Life’s poetry mix with its prose; For his love is as warm as the sun, when it sets On the larder which steams ’neath his nose. Diogenes, Vol. 3, p. 209, 1854.

To A Lady. Believe me, if all those voluminous charms Which thy fondness for fashion betray, And keep e’en thy nearest relations at arm’s Distance—some paces away: Were those air tubes now blown up exploded outright, And those hoops trundled off thee as well, With less ample a skirt thou would’st look less a fright, And more belle-like when less like a bell. ’Tis not by mere Swells taste in dressing is shown, And that size is not beauty ’tis clear; Nay, the shapeliest forms when balloon-like out blown, Both distorted and ugly appear. Then heed not what fashions le Follet may set, Be enslaved by no follies like those; For be sure that your dresses, the wider they get, The more narrow your mind is disclose. Punch, October 17, 1857.

John Bull to Paddy Believe me, if all those unfounded alarms, Which circulate every day, Proved true by to-morrow, and Fenian arms Were uplifted to plunder and slay, We should still hold our own, with unterrified heart, Let the outrages be what they will, And our motto (however our injuries smart) Should be “JUSTICE TO IRELAND!” still. It is not to scoundrels, whom patriots disown, And whom Erin has reason to fear, That the meaning of FREEDOM can truly be known, Nor the cause of “OLD IRELAND” be dear. No! the heart of the Patriot never forgets ’Tis not thus he should conquer his foes, And the emblem on which his reliance he sets Is the Shamrock entwined with the Rose. Echoes from the Clubs, December 25, 1867

John Bright to His Place. Believe me if all those endearing young charms That I share with such rapture to-day, Were to fade by to-morrow at Tory alarms, Collapsing both office and pay! Thou wouldst still be as dear as this moment thou art, Let Conservatives boast as they will, And round the lost Council each wish of my heart Would entwine itself Liberal still. It is not when Gladstone and Lowe are thine own, And thy Childers confiscates the pens That the ferment and fume of a Bright can be thrown, Who can roar down the biggest of Bens— Oh! the tongue of the Demagogue never can rest, But as glibly runs on to the close, For the Cabinet’s glories are brief at the best, And a mob may be useful, who knows. Will-o’-the wisp, May 15, 1869.

To an Ancient Coquette. Believe me if all those affected young charms Which I gaze on so sadly to-day, Were to change by to morrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou would’st still be abhorred as this moment thou art Mocking beauty so vainly and ill, For around such a ruin no wish of my heart Could entwine itself, or ever will. Nay, rather leave rouge and pearl powder alone, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a smear, That nature’s own beauty in age may be known, And the autumn of life calm and clear. The heart that is true to itself never frets For the tints of the lily and rose, And the sun of affection should glow when it sets, Even purer than when it arose. Anonymous.

Believe me, if all those most solemn-faced dons, Whom we’ve seen at St. Mary’s to-day, Were to get in a body, and tuck up their gowns, And down Market-place caper away; They would still be adored as this moment they are, Let their dignity fare as it will; And at them, with wondering awe from afar, The Freshmen gaze verdantly still. But while they are clothed in glossy silk gown And cap best obtainable here, Their features are scanned by the Freshmen and known, So that time only makes them less dear, For when once he’s been gated he never forgets, But steadily swears to the close At the Tutor, who bounds to his out-goings sets, Or for Chapel disturbs his repose. The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. (Cambridge.)

Believe me, if all that roast pork which with zest I devoured at dinner to-night, Were to bring indigestion and lie on my chest Like a log, putting slumber to flight, It would still be my favourite dish, as of yore, Let my sufferings be what they will, And round the crisp crackling and stuffing galore My thoughts linger lovingly still! It is not while playing a good knife and fork, When your frame’s undisturbed by a throe, That the thought of the horrors attendant on pork Will be likely to fill you with woe. No! ’tis only when several hours have flown, That pale Nemesis steals from her lair, And as on your pillow you fidget and groan, You feel that “roast pig” is a snare! F. B. Doveton. Judy, March 9, 1881.

Believe me, that all these delusive alarms That the Tories so recklessly float Are but meant, like the silly cry, “Ulster to arms!” As a trap for the Liberal vote. 245 Since you gave them the sack, they imagine (good lack!) They can wriggle, by foul means or fair, In spite of consistency, just to get back Into Downing-street, Parliament-square! But you know very well, from my action of old, It’s on me you can always depend; If you lean on the Dissidents, then you’ll be sold— It’s not Joseph, but William’s your friend! All their high-sounding talk hides but envy and pride, Though their tone is so soft and so fair; ’Tis for you to decide whom you’ll have to preside At 10, Downing-street, Parliament-square. Abracadabra. The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.

“Oh, Blame not the Bard.” Ah, blame not the Bard if his frantic endeavours At compassing kudos should constantly fail, Nor blame Mr. Warden when circumstance severs The ties of his home and consigns him to jail; The Bard would be willing, and yearns to be able, To thrill the whole world to its innermost soul, And Warden would cheerfully grace his own table, But “circumstance over which we’ve no control.” Oh, blame not the British Museum for showing Its autotype Raphaels all of a row, For wert thou “originals” on them bestowing They’d hang them with pleasure I happen to know; And blame not the troops in the Soudan for straying Unlinked with their base as they press to their goal— It is, though, undaunted the front they’re displaying, A “circumstance over which they’ve no control.” * * * * * Oh, blame not the walrus that’s come to Westminster If loneliness makes him to set up a howl, How often the same has occurred to the spinster Who sits by her parrot and cat, cheek by jowl; And blame not the Frenchman with China who quarrels, Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole, But just count his strange international morals A “circumstance over which he’s no control.” Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city, Who’re sending out parties to proselytize; They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity That others should not have to suffer likewise; And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy, And move with a steadily slumberous roll, The fact that he makes all the universe dozy Is “a circumstance over which he’s no control.” Fun, November, 1883.

(Air—“Love’s young dream.”) Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright Her own hair wore, Oh, a girl was not an awful fright In days of yore. Now, eyes may leer—false teeth appear, And painted be each face; But there nothing half so beautiful As Grace—sweet Grace. Oh! those lovely girls are ne’er forgot, Mine eye once traced: No “Chignons” huge, or scanty skirts, Their forms disgraced. Now “Taste” has fled—from heel to head, All ugliness we trace, Ah! there’s nothing half so beautiful As Grace—sweet Grace. From The Girl of the Period Miscellany, May 1869.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon My Nora’s lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina. * * * * * T. Moore.

The Sloe-Black Peeper. Peggy hath a squinting eye, But no one knows at what it squinteth; Right and left her glances fly, But what they glance at, no one hinteth; Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon My Nancy’s roguish sloe-black peeper; Few its looks, but every one Strikes sly Cupid’s arrows deeper! Oh, my black-eyed Nancy, dear! My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy! I despise Peg’s squinting eyes, But sloe black peepers please my fancy. Peggy wears her dresses high, And then her stays so tight she’ll lace ’em; Not a charm can one espy, Tho’ busy fancy tries to trace ’em. Oh, my Nancy’s gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free, To rise or fall as nature pleases! Yes, my black-eyed Nancy, dear! My plump and playful black-eyed Nancy! Nature’s dress Is loveliness, And yours, like hers, just suits my fancy. Peggy’s mouth to grin’s inclin’d, But ’mongst her teeth there’s ne’er a white one; And then they look as if design’d To snap at, or perhaps, to bite one! But Nancy’s iv’ries, oh, how clean! And then her breath is sweet as roses; And lips were never redder seen, Nor aught more straight than Nancy’s nose is: Oh, my black-eyed Nancy dear! 246 My pretty, roguish black-eyed Nancy! How I prize Your sloe-black eyes, But squinting Peg’s I ne’er can fancy. From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.

Boiled Chicken. Lesbia hath a fowl to cook But, being anxious not to spoil it, Searches anxiously our book, For how to roast, and how to boil it. Sweet it is to dine upon— Quite alone, when small its size is And, when cleverly ’tis done, Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear! My boiled—not roasted—tender chicken, I can wish No other dish, With thee supplied, my tender chicken! Lesbia, take some water cold, And having on the fire placed it, And some butter, and be bold— When ’tis hot enough—taste it. Oh! the chicken meant for me Boil before the fire grows dimmer, Twenty minutes let it be, In the saucepan left to simmer, Oh! my tender chicken dear! My boil’d delicious, tender chicken! Rub the breast (To give a zest) With lemon-juice, my tender chicken, Lesbia hath with sauce combined Broccoli white, without a tarnish; ’Tis hard to tell if ’tis designed For vegetable or for garnish. Pillow’d on a butter’d dish, My chicken temptingly reposes, Making gourmands for it wish, Should the savor reach their noses. Oh, my tender pullet dear! My boiled—not roasted—tender chicken! Day or night, Thy meal is light, For supper, e’en, my tender chicken. Punch.

Crinolina. Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly, But none observes how full it streameth; Right and left the men go by, But of remarking no one dreameth. Bolder ’tis to dare put on My Lina’s skirts of extra sizes; Light she seems, but every one By unexampled bulk surprises. Oh, my Crinolina dear, My pavement-filling Crinolina, Beauty lies In mod’rate size, But Ton in your’s, my Crinolina! Lesbia’s dress keeps out the cold, Good taste, good sense, all feel, have graced it; But Ton approval must withhold, There’s not a breadth of stuff in’t wasted! Oh, my Lina’s skirt for me, That swells balloon-like on the breezes, Letting everybody see How far stuff can go, if it pleases! Yes, my Crinolina dear, My rustling bell-shaped Crinolina, Taste in dress Can’t well be less Than you display, my Crinolina! Lesbia hath a waist refined, But with such mod’rate drapery round it, Who can tell her heart’s confined, From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it. Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart Within her miles of skirt reposes, Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,— Poor Love quite lost among the rows is. Oh, my Crinolina dear, Expansive and expensive Lina, Waist less tight, Skirts less a sight, Indulge in, do, my Crinolina! Punch, November 8, 1856.

To Mark Lemon, Esq. Song. (Air: Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye.) Lemon is a little hipped, And this is Lemon’s true position; He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped, Yet wants a little fresh condition. Sweeter it is to gaze upon Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers, Than on the houses every one That form the street called Saint Anne’s Villers. Lemon hath a coat of frieze, But all so seldom Lemon wears it, That it is a prey to fleas, And every moth that’s hungry tears it. Oh! that coat’s the coat for me, That braves the railway sparks and breezes, Leaving every engine free To wear it till the owner sneezes. Then, my Lemon, sound and fat, Oh, my bright, my right, my tight ’un, Think a little what you’re at— On Tuesday next come down to Brighton. Charles Dickens, 1855. Published in London Society, October, 1875.

The Chaunt of the Cockney Swell. (Air—“This Life is all Chequer’d with Pleasures and Woes.”) This suit is all chequer’d with crosses and stripes, Which I wear as I walk by the wide winkley deep. I am one of the tourist world’s toppingest types, And I purchased these togs in Cheapside on the cheap. So closely they fit to my elegant shape, That the fall in my back every optic may see; 247 And, if you should take an Apollo and drape Him in chocolate tweed, he would look much like me. Just tottle me up! I’m all in it, dear boy, With tile ever shiny and boots ever tight; Like all Things of Beauty, for ever a joy, The envy of toffs, and the ladies’ delight. When I stroll on the sands all the girls try to count The number of pockets my garments display: There are twenty, all told,—’tis a tidy amount, Though there is’nt much in them, I’m sorry to say. There are many like me who in youth would have tasted The fountain of Pleasure that flows by the brine, But their precious small “screws” they on tipsters have wasted, And left all their pockets as empty as mine. But let’s have a liquor! ’tis jolly good fun To do the cheap toff in the Hall by the Sea! Though I may’nt sport a mag when my holiday’s done, Go it stiff while you can, is the motto for me!

Through Erin’s Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valour wander’d, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander’d. Where’er they pass A triple grass Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As softly green As Emerald’s seen Through purest crystal gleaming. Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin’s native Shamrock! T. Moore.

The Scarecrows. O’er Erin’s Isle, in rule awhile, What British knaves have blundered! Their state misused, and power abused— And prisoned, packed, and plundered. But soon or late, they met the fate, That evil in despair knows; We tore in rags, their tinsel tags, And set them up as scarecrows. Oh, the scarecrows, No wind that foul or fair blows, But shakes awhile The tatters vile Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows. First Forster came, and linked his name With certain ammunition, His burly nod sent folks to quod, Of high and low condition; Yet came the day when far away, We saw the Yorkshire bear go And take his place in dire disgrace A grim and gruffy scarecrow! Oh, the scarecrow No village bantam dare crow, Till Buckshot fell In Failure’s Hell From which ne’er rose a scarecrow! Came Cowper next with tidy text (To gospel-writ a stranger), Deep under ground to drive where found All discontent and danger; But if he did, the seeds he hid The morrow saw in air grow, While prospects marred he mounted guard, A most disgusted scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow Can annals anywhere show A weaker fool Sent, men to rule Than this poor ragged scarecrow. Trevelyan tried, sneered, whined and lied, To please his precious master, But “Indian meal” nor “even keel” Could save him from disaster. Alas, poor Pinch! we inch by inch, Brought you to wreck and care low, It seems to me, of all the three, You made the meanest scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow, We’d honour give to fair foe, But scorn and hate Must ever wait The memory of this scarecrow. Not last nor least, the great Arch Priest, Of red and raw repression, Whom Fame shall yoke with deeds unspoke, And devil-wrought transgression; Ah, Foxy Jack, your British pack, Shall shortly in the rear go, Of him who fled in gloom and dread, A failed and beaten scarecrow. Oh, the scarecrow Our boys from Howth to Clare know, To hear the joints Of Johnny Poyntz Groan dry like any scarecrow. So friends shall fall the strangers all, Who seek to crush our nation; Nor rope nor “soap” can hope to cope With grim determination; And while our tree of liberty, More branching green and fair grows, Our museum shall filled become With sick and sorry scarecrows. Oh, the scarecrows! No wind that foul or fair blows, But shakes awhile The tatters vile Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows. Drailin. From United Ireland October 10, 1885.

Song for a Thin-Thatched Dandy. (Air—“One Bumper at Parting.”) One more try at parting! Not many Locks circle my head, I regret; But a few, the most hardy of any, Are left on the crown of it yet. ’Tis a ticklish task to divide them, In well-balanced head-central fringe; These patches cost labour to hide them, Give vanity many a twinge. 248 But come—every sproutling I treasure— Thine aid O Macassar! I beg; Though I own—who can face it with pleasure?— I’m getting as bald as an egg! As older we grow, how unpleasant To pause and reflect with distaste That the few scattered spikes seen at present, Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste! But Time, a most pitiless master, Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop, Ah! never does Time travel faster Than when one desires him to stop. No, Age cannot trip to Youth’s measure, With paunch and a spindle shanked leg, And I own—though it is not with pleasure— I’m getting as bald as an egg! Punch’s Almanac, 1883.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow worm’s lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna’s grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love. * * * * * T. Moore.

The Irishman’s Serenade. The full new moon is old, my love, You’ve got plenty of money, I’m told, my love, So your knocker I’ll ring, And my love I will sing, Though I’ve get a most shocking bad cold, my love, Then awake, for my love is so hot, my dear, That without you I’ll soon go to pot, my dear; For my shirt, at your clack, Would stick close to my back,— But the devil a shirt have I got, my dear. Like a cat my watch I’m keeping, love, For no bed have I got to sleep in, love; So honey look down, And smile me a frown, From your eye so beautiful peeping, love. Old Time, like the gutter does run, my dear, So pry thee mock modesty shun, my dear; Have me, I’ll have you, And though still we’ll be two, All Kilkenny will take us for one, my dear. Anonymous.

The Bladder of Whiskey. The Cats on the tiles are squalling, love And the watchmen past twelve are bawling, love, So step down this ladder, For I’ve, in a bladder, Some whisky, that “drink me” is calling, love. I’ve had nothing to-day but porter love, With some glasses of gin and water, love, So if you come down, I’ll lay you a crown That this bladder we quickly will slaughter, love. I’ve some onions, and bread, and cheese, my love, And some Scotch snuff to make you sneeze, my love, So since I’m so pressing, Pray don’t wait for dressing, But come down as quick as you please, my love. Anonymous.

The Cat’s Serenade. The lamps are faintly gleaming, love, The thief on his walk is scheming, love! And its sweet to crawl O’er the dead wall, While the tabbies are gently screaming, love. Then put out one paw so white, my dear, The housetops are covered with light, my dear, Through the day, at our ease, We’ll sleep when we please, And we’ll ramble abroad through the night, my dear. Now all the world is sleeping, love! But the bobby his night-watch keeping, love! And I who wait, On this cold, cold slate, While you’re at the mouse-hole peeping, love! Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear, And we’ll have a rare old time, my dear; But if you look shy, Faith it’s all in my eye, For away with another I’ll run, my dear.

The Old March Moon. The old March moon is beaming, love; The quarter-day dawn is gleaming, love, ’Tis meet to move From the floor above, When the landlord below is dreaming, love. Wide awake! for the peeler’s light is near, And I yesterday made him “all right” my dear. And the best of all ways Upon quarter-rent days, Is to make him wink at our flight, my dear, Now the landlord, I’ve said, is sleeping, love, And his watch the peeler is keeping, love, And you and I are To be off and afar Ere he at our actions be peeping, love. So, awake! let it quickly be done, my dear; For if he tired become, my dear, He may turn on his light, As on thieves in flight, And take us two for one, my dear. Diogenes, March 1854.

Song of the Signalman. The rain through the night is streaming, love, The signal lamps are gleaming, love, I must keep on the move, Or this somnolent cove Would soon be asleep and a-dreaming, love! So awake!—the Express is in sight, my dear, 249 I’ve been at it since dawn of light, my dear, For one of the ways By which Railwaydom pays, Is to keep us at work day and night, my dear! You, and most people, now are sleeping, love, But my watch, in my box, I am keeping, love, For the red or green star I must note from afar, Though the sleep ’neath my eyelids is creeping, love. I’ve been working since rise of sun, my dear. Fourteen hours, and I’m not yet done, my dear. Oh, to watch day and night For the signal light Is—Directors think—capital fun my dear! Punch, October 10, 1885.

Defeated Manœuvres. “The Marquis is not to be won, Mamma; My advances he seems to shun, Mamma! I appeal to you What am I to do? Oh, tell me what’s next to be done, Mamma.” “Have you sat by his lordship’s side, my child? And every blandishment tried, my child? Have you heaved deep sighs And looked in his eyes? And adroitly flattered his pride my child?” “O yes, and I’ve done even more, Mamma: Things I never have done before, Mamma; For I fainted quite, In his arms last night, As we stood on the sea-girt shore, Mamma!” “If the man is proof against that, my child, Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child; Between you and me, The better ’twill be. For you see he’s not such a flat, my child!” Anonymous.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him: His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.— “Land of song” said the warrior-bard, “Though all the world betrays thee, “One sword, at least thy rights shall guard, “One faithful harp shall praise thee!” * * * * * T. Moore.

On the Catholic Emancipation Meeting at Penenden Heath. Mister Sheil into Kent has gone, On Penenden Heath you’ll find him; Nor think you that he came alone, There’s Doctor Doyle behind him. “Men of Kent” said this little man, “If you hate Emancipation, You’re a set of fools,” he then began A “cut and dry” oration. He strove to speak, but the men of Kent Began a grievous shouting, When out of his waggon the little man went, And put a stop to his spouting. “What though these heretics heard me not,” Quoth he to his friends Canonical; “My speech is safe in the Times I wot, And eke in the Morning Chronicle.” W. M. Thackeray.

The Sailor Boy. The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone— In an Oxford crib you’ll find him His boxing gloves on his fives are drawn, And care is cast behind him. “Alic Reid,” said the bouncing cove, Are you the man to fight me? A turn-up let us have for love, And to floor you will delight me. But the Sailor Hero soon found out That for once he had made a blunder, For the Snob contriv’d to tap his snout, And poor Harry Jones knock’d under. “Ah!” he exclaim’d, to repine is vain, Why to fight did I feel so eager? I’ll never set to with the Snob again, When my head is confus’d with Seager.[122] From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.

The “Fancy” Parody. The leary cove to the mill is gone, In the P.C. ring you’ll find him, His blue bird’s eye he has girded on, And has left his flame behind him. Fancy sport, cried the leary cove, Though every Beak betrays thee, One soul at least thy sprees shall love, One faithful chaunt shall praise thee. The cove was floor’d, but he show’d high game, Nor like a cur knocked under. His chaunt will ne’er be clear again, For his nose was split asunder. Leary cove, said his flame in a pet, Thou pink of love and bravery, Since thou art floor’d, I’ll a service get, And spend my days in slavery. From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832.

The Minstrel Boy. The fiddlers boy to the fair is gone, In a rattling booth you’ll find him, With his master’s fiddle (for his own’s in pawn) In a green bag slung behind him. 250 ‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard, Though all the world despise thee, One fiddler is left and will spend his last, If its only to patronize thee. The fiddler drank till it got quite late, And the table he fell under, His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight And the cat-gut tore asunder. Says he ‘No one shall ever know, Thy sounds of jolly bravery,’ So he smacked across his knee the bow And he went to sleep quite savoury. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster, Dublin.

A String of Poetic Pearls, Apropos of the Great Diamond in the Exhibition of 1851. The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone, Neglected now you’ll find it, With scarcely any one looking on, But a constable set to mind it. How oft some silly wight, When prejudice has bound him, Gapes o’er the Mount of Light, With pickpockets around him! All eyes and ears, the gem he nears; Away the crowd has started; While he looked on his purse is gone, And all but he departed. Punch, August 9, 1851.

The Cordon Bleu. (On the departure of M. Alexis Soyer for the Crimea, July 1855.) The Cordon Bleu to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him: His snow white apron is girded on, And his magic Stove’s behind him. “Army beef” said the Cordon Bleu, “Though a stupid bungler slays thee, One skilful hand thy steaks shall stew, One artist’s pan shall braise thee.” The cook went forth, and the foe in vain On his pets and pans did thunder, He thicked thin gravy, he sauced the plain, And he sliced coarse lumps asunder, And he cried “a cook can defy, you see, A Commissariat’s knavery; The soldier who saves a nation free, Should have a ration savoury.” Punch. July 28, 1855.

The Draper’s man to the war is gone In the foremost ranks you’ll find him, His knapsack he has buckled on, His tape yard left behind him. “Hands so strong,” cried the warrior, fired, “No woman’s work were made for; “Such sinew now for war’s required, “And more—will be well paid for!” Punch. October 17, 1857.

The Errand Boy to the Beershop’s gone. The errand boy to the beershop’s gone, In front of the bar you’ll find him; His hat he has’nt stopp’d to put on, Nor to shut the door behind him. “Another pint?” says the barmaid there; “Yes, when you’ve paid for the first one! Of all the young rascals who come here, You really are the worst one!” The youngster fell!—He had paid the cash, He’d got it for a wonder— When over the step he tumbled—smash! His jug was broken asunder. He picked himself up:—Hurt? not he; He looked down at the running liquor: “Well, if I’d taken it home,” quoth he, “We could’nt have swallow’d it quicker.” Judy, November 17, 1869.

The Beardless Boy. The Beardless Boy to the Race has gone, In the Betting Ring you’ll find him; His father’s till he has drawn upon, And his race-glass slung behind him. “‘Land’ I must, or it will go hard Should all my luck forsake me,” Remarked the youth, as he bought a Card, “And Policeman X may take me.” * * * * * He lost his bets, and his watch and chain, At which you’ll scarcely wonder; And as he rushed to catch a train, He tore his coat asunder; And said, “No one shall bully me, I’ll not submit to slavery! I won’t go home, but I’ll wander free, And take to a life of knavery!” Punch, June 5, 1875.

The Minstrel Boy. The Minstrel Boy in the train has gone, In the third class you will find him, His concertina he plays upon, Or the fiddle that hangs behind him; “Child of Song,” cries the railway-guard, “Though bobbies oft betray thee, The Underground will thee reward, These foolish folk will pay thee.” The Minstrel entered the railway train, But a rival knocked him under, Causing the Child of Song much pain, And his fiddle broke asunder, 251 And said “Go back to your own countree, Thou dupe of Italian knavery; Music was made for the brave and free; And not to be used for slavery.” Funny Folks.

Republicans, Come in your Thousands. Bradlaugh to protest is gone; In Hyde-park you will find him, Royal trips to speak upon: Now who will stand beside him? “Sons of toil,” says the Radical bold, “Though all the Whigs betray ye, “One voice at least shall cry ‘Withhold!’ “One faithful heart shall serve ye.” The grant is made! and once again The public purse they plunder; But if they try it on again, We’ll speak in tones of thunder:— Milton wrote, Cromwell fought, Hampden died for freedom; Can heirs of liberty be taught To suffer slavish serfdom? S. J. Miott, 1875.

On the Duke of Cambridge. The warrior duke to the review had gone, Amid the volunteers they find him; His hat and plume he had fastened on, And his gingham slung behind him. “Sangster’s best,” sang the warrior duke, “Though all the world does mock thee, “One eye at least shall on thee look, “To see no chaff shall shock thee.” The rain came down, but the warrior duke Could not get his gingham under; The gingham he loved, by some awful fluke, Had its ribs all broken asunder. He wailed “The rain will fall on me, “The chief of England’s army; “My brand new clothes will spoil’d be; “Oh, take me home and dry me!”

Song for a Civic Banquet, 1880. The alderman from Guildhall has gone In the coffee tavern you’ll find him, The temperance badge he has girded on, And his old port chucked behind him. “Cold water pure!” sang the civic knight, “Though tipplers all deride thee, No other drink will I touch to-night, Though the teapot stands beside thee!” The alderman fell! ’twas not champagne, But turtle, that brought him under The festive board, for the glass again He never touched, for a wonder! “Cold water is the drink for me,” Sang he in his Templar bravery; “A total abstainer I will be And shun King Alcohol’s slavery!” Judy, December 1, 1880.

The Girton Girl. The Girton girl to Exam. has gone, In the Tripos list you’ll find her; In mathematics she always shone, And had left her mates behind her. “Woman’s rights,” said the learned fair, Though all the world may scold ye, One brain at least for you shall dare, One practised pen uphold ye!” The men they failed!—since the papers set Very quickly knock’d them under; But no Examiner could get Anyhow that girl to blunder. She cried, “You Dons shan’t bully me, For fame I’m now an angler!” And fame rewarded her ways so free, As she came out Senior Wrangler! Funny Folks, March 12, 1881.

The Grand Old Boy to the wars will go, In the Jingoes’ ranks you’ll find him; With Dizzy’s sword he will strike a blow, And his own harp sling behind him. “Land of the Sphinx,” this warrior Bard Sings out, “Though tricks they play thee, One Grand Old Boy thy rights shall guard; By Jove, he won’t betray thee!” So the Grand Old Boy takest rain from town— With his harp the seat tucked under; And the Prince pays twenty guineas down To be out of it—and no wonder! But the closing day a song shall hear (May be noisier, may be quieter), With an encore verse, that the heart will cheer Of a Music Hall Proprietor! Punch, August 5, 1882.

The Economical Peer. The noble lord to the stores is gone, ’Mid the groceries you’ll find him; His biscuit-box he has girded on, And his jam-pot’s slung behind him. His parcels of goods he can scarce convey, All the brushes and soap he’s dropping; And he staggers about in a senseless way ’Neath the weight of his various shopping. “Here economy reigns,” said the noble bard, “And it gladdens my heart to view it; A flea I’d skin for the worth of its lard, And here is the place to do it. 252 What care I for scoffs? They may jeer who please, I despise their paltry scandals! I shall twopence save on ten pounds of cheese, And three-halfpence on my candles!” Judy, February 1, 1882.

The North-west Boy. Sir D. V. gay to the poll is gone, In the Tory ranks you’ll find him; A roll of pigtail he has girded on, And a grey goose slung behind him. “Blarney-lane,” said the feathery knight. “Though all the world betrays thee, Sweet spot where first I saw the light, One faithful heart shall praise thee! But the knight he fell—’twas Hooper’s gain— And it brought his small soul under; For the North-west Ward he’ll ne’er speak again; Nor her true burgesses sunder. “Alas!” said he, “my civic knell Was rung the day I left Parnell, For my country’s foes and bent the knee, To Buckshot and Castle slavery.” Mary Shandon. From United Ireland, December 8, 1883.

A Dirge! (To be said, or sung, by the Electors of Northampton.) Our Bradlaugh boy to the House is gone, In the Lobby there you’ll find him; Erskine his sword has girded on, And Denning is close behind him. “You can’t go in!” cried this trusty guard; “The Commons so decide it; The House perhaps acts rather hard, But you must stay outside it!” The Members fell to; but ’twas in vain To try “Denning to get under;” “Braddy” was floored again and again, And his top coat torn asunder; His hat was knocked right o’er his head, His corns and his bunions stampt on, And down he went more live than dead, To where he came from—Northampton!

The Wail of a Disturbed Soul. The ’prentice boy to the street has gone, Among his chums you’ll find him; And he has ta’en his mel-o-de-on, His favourite tunes to grind ’em. “Balm of Gilead” loud they sing, As if they’d been hob-nobbin’; And then the midnight echoes ring To the wail of “Poor Cock Robin.” “There now it’s “Over the Garden Wall”— Shut up, you noisy crew, you! But list, the liquid rise and fall Of “Glory Hallelujah!” Will no one from a window take An aim, and damp their ardour? Alike for peaceful slumber’s sake, And for the tunes they murder! I wonder will they knock off soon Great Handel! what a hobby! Ah, now they carol “Bonny Doon.” Confound it! Where’s the bobby? With their last notion I agree, And back that move to “carry” The bloomin’ lot to “Tennessee,” Or better, to “Old Harry”! Oh, wandering minstrels of the night, A victim I would pray you, If you must put sweet dreams to flight, Rehearse “Far, far away,” do! A. B.

“The Grand Young Man”; or the Misleading Boy. (A prophecy about Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.) 1885. “The Grand Young Man” to the front has come, At the head of the Rads you’ll find him: The mild Whig leaders are under his thumb, The G.O.M.’s far behind him. “Land for the mob” cries Brummagem Joe, “Let any one dare deny me; One class alone has the right to crow— Capitalists such as I be!” 1895. The “Young One” fell; but no sense of shame Could bring his proud soul under, Though his wretched party earned the name Of “‘rifle, rob and plunder.’” Cried he “the blame don’t rest with me, Not in the knave’s the knavery, But in the fools who ought to see Yet sell themselves to slavery.” Moonshine, October 10, 1885.

The Grand Young Man. The “Grand Young Man” on the “stump” has gone, In the Rads’ front rank you’ll find him, The spoilers’ axe he has girded on, And his Programme slung behind him. “Working Men,” said the “people’s Joe,” “Though Tories all neglect thee, One trump, at least thy “rights” shall blow, One faithful arm protect thee.” The “party” fell, but the Tories reign Could not bring the bold boy under; The “tongue” he loved was loosed again, In threats of “blood and thunder,” And said “no man shall bully me, The soul of truth and bravery; My voice shall sound till the land is free, And never be gagged by knavery.” F. B. Doveton. Society, October 24, 1885.

The Grand Old Man to the North has gone, ’Neath a “Primrose” roof you’ll find him, His “four point” poster he has girded on, And his family travel behind him. “Liberals all,” said the canny chief “Let not disunion rend ye; “Though by my deeds ye have come to grief “In Speech I’ll aye defend ye!” “Unite, Unite;” he pleads in vain, Too late he sees his blunder, The “Party” is split, for the Caucus strain Has forced its links asunder Hope in him dies, yet still he cries, Though his spell of power has vanished, “The Rads may come in, what care I if they win So the Tories from office be banished!”

The Grand Old Man. The Grand Old Man to the war has come, Confronting the foe you’ll find him; We’ll beat the charge on the Liberal drum, And close our ranks behind him. Grand old warrior, stout and bold, Though faithless friends betrayed him, We’ll place the helm in his honest hold, And with hearts and voices aid him. His battle-cry on the foe shall fall Like the roll of distant thunder, ’Twill pale their cheeks and their souls appal, And their blustering turn to wonder. For the grand old man, with heart of gold, Has burst our bonds of slavery; And freed the land from its burden old Of Tory craft and knavery. From Songs for Liberal Electors.

Song of the Paunchy Tennis-Player. (Air—“The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing.”) The time I’ve lost in “screwing,” In watching and pursuing The ball that flies, On fall or rise, Has been my trade’s undoing. Though Business hath besought me, I’ve shirked the truths she taught me, I left my books To partner Snooks, And ruin’s what he’s brought me. By Tennis still enchanted, Of late I’ve puffed and panted, I once was light, And slim and slight, Ere Anti-fat I wanted. But now young Beauties shun me, For stoutness grows upon me: When asked to play, They turn away, Old Blobbs can now outrun me! And is my good time going? And is my figure growing So huge in size That sparkling eyes Brim o’er to see me “blowing?” Yes—vain alas! th’ endeavour, To charm with back-play clever, Love nevermore— Save in the score— Shall bless me—never! never! Punch’s Almanac, 1883.

Song for a High Art Hostess. Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear Æsthete, Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat; These, these the contours that art yearns to create, A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight. Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame? I know not, I ask not if ease they impart, I but know they are true to the canons of Art. Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss Of the angular style in a seat such as this. In furnishing, firmly High-Art I’ll pursue, And I’ll crouch on my gridiron couch till all’s blue. Punch. April 16, 1881.

Air (“I saw from the Beach.”) To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining, The jug round the table moved jovially on; I staid till the moon the next morn was declining; The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone And such are the joys that your brandy will promise, (And often these joys at the finish I’ve known) Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us, And leaves us next day with a head ache alone! Ne’er tell me of puns, or of laughter adorning, Our revels, that last till the close of the night; Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning, For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light. Oh, who’s there who welcomes that moment’s returning, When daylight must throw a new light on his frame, When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning— His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame! William Maginn.

I saw up the steps, when the morning was shining, The undergrads crowding so hopefully on; I came when the sun o’er those steps was declining, There the Senate-House was, but the students had gone. Oh! what was the fate of the morning’s fair promise, How ended the hopes that we students had known? Each question we longed for kept cruelly from us, And those that we knew not set for us alone. 254 Ne’er tell of surmises but coldly adorning The close of Exams at the coming of night. Give me back, give me back the fond hopes of the morning; Its alarms and its fears in the evening seem light. Ah! who would not welcome that moment’s returning, When bravely he up to the Senate-House came, Nor deem’d that ’ere long from that building returning, In the “list” he would look out in vain for his name. The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. (Cambridge).

I saw from my window, when morning was smiling. A “Girl of the Period” come tripping along, When, sudden, the wild blast like fury came howling— The girl was still there—but her “chignon” was gone! Ah! such is the fate of the wigs we put on us! So fleeting the false hair of which we’re so proud: Our darling excrescence the rough wind blows from us, And leaves us exposed to the jeers of the crowd. From The Girl of the Period Miscellany, June, 1869.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark— Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. * * * * * T. Moore.

Song for a Dweller in a Quiet Street. Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer, Rum-tum-ti-tiddy-iddy-tum! You’ve thumped and twangled all the summer, You tootle still now winter’s come. The notes you thrum out seem to say, “Though out of time and tune we be, Less flat we are, less false than they Whose clang shall rack thy wife and thee.” Scale on, scale on—through endless time— Through morn, noon, evening—stop no more! To slaughter you were scarce a crime, Oh, plaguy and persistent bore! Were there indeed some quiet street Where ne’er piano maddened men, Where never “Scales” this ear should greet, Then might I rest,—but not till then. Punch’s Almanac, 1883.

The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking, The night’s long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown’d, And smiles are near that once enchanted, Unreach’d by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee. * * * * * T. Moore.

The dawn of the morn, the daylight’s sinking, Five’s cosy hour shall find me drinking Of Tea, Tea, only Tea! When friends are met, and cups go round, And scandals fresh have all enchanted, When buttered toast is bravely browned, My soul, like Stiggins’s, is haunted By Tea, Tea, only Tea! When crisply curls the breakfast bacon, Coffee by me shall be forsaken For Tea, Tea, only Tea! Like Ocean, which by light or dark Gulps down the rivers, resting never, The cup that cheers when cares do cark I sip or sing of, doting ever On Tea, Tea, only Tea! I have no joy but of its bringing, And “nerves” themselves seem nice when springing From Tea, Tea, only Tea! Tea’s spell there’s nought on earth can break (Though tea-cups can, alas! be broken); Bohea the toper’s scorn may wake, By me for aye the praise be spoken Of Tea, Tea, only Tea! Punch, June 7, 1884.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame Whose shrine must be of gold; And passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o’er all he sees, Awhile as warm, will set as soon— Then, call it none of these. * * * * * T. Moore.

Justice For Ireland. Oh, try, good sirs, some better game, Coercion is too old, And Charity is statecraft’s shame, That gilds a wrong with gold; And Pity, like some plaintive tune Which, hackneyed, fails to please, Awhile as sweet, will pall as soon— Oh! trust to none of these. 255 Imagine measure surer far, More free from lust of sway, Than pity, alms, coercion are, Yet nobler still than they; And if your skill for need like this No mortal plan can frame, Go, ask God’s Justice what it is, And try that better game! B. Saunders.

Oh! Try Some Worthier, Better Game. Oh, try some worthier, better game, Coercion’s knell is tolled, And force would fan the slumbering flame That burnt so fierce of old; And Home Rule’s but a jangling tune, A signal on the breeze For Orange hounds to bay the moon— Oh! pray try none of these. But when some plan that’s simpler far Evolves to glad the day, Home Rule shall with Coercion far Betake themselves away; And if thou’lt end such strife as this, Not vain the strength that’s spent; Go, ask—the answer comes, it is But Local Government. D. Evans.

Oh! call it by some better name, Land Purchase is too cold, And Separation is a scheme Too venturesome and bold; And Home Rule, like a tropic sun That burns o’er all it sees, Might scorch us when its aims were won— Oh! call it none of these. Imagine something safer far, As potent and as free As those Utopian measures are With which we can’t agree; And if thy lip for Rule like this No mortal word can frame, Go ask the “Old Man” what it is And call it by that name. J. Fitzpatrick.

Oh! call it by some fitter name, For Justice is too cold. And Peace is a decrepit dame, Who limps on crutch of gold; And Pity, like a melting moon That sways the tidal seas, Awhile as fond, will set as soon— Oh! call it none of these. Imagine something freer far From stain of Saxon sway Than Justice, Peace, or Pity are— Abstractions dim and gray! And if thy lips it overtax A fitting phrase to frame, Go, ask of Erin what she lacks, And call it by that name. Gossamer.

The Irish Landlord. Oh! call him by some stronger name, For Landlord is too cold; A plundering Wolf his acts might shame, When worrying the fold. A Tyrant, like an Egypt sun, May burn up all he sees, But soon his frantic course is run— Call him no names like these. Imagine something more unkind, More free from mercy’s sway, Than Landlord, Tyrant, Wolf combined, More cruel ev’n than they. And if no name for work like this Your Saxon tongues can frame, Ask the “Ould Divil” what it is, And call him by that name! Robert Puttick.

(The Woodpecker.) I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here!” It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. * * * * * T. Moore.

The Taxgatherer’s Knocking. I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d Above a high cape, that the Regent was there, And I said, if there’s ton to be found in the world, The Dandy of fashion will look for it here— Half the shops were shut up, and I heard not a sound, But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round! * * * * * On pretence of Necessity, frequent large dips In my now emptied pockets have made me repine; In vain does Retrenchment rise up to my lips, The Regent must live, though starvation be mine— Though my shop be deserted, and heard not a sound, But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round! William Hone.

The Comforts of an Inn. I knew by the post that so gaily display’d The sign of a Bear, that a tavern was near; And said, if a cask of good ale e’er was made, The man that was thirsty might wish for it here. It was noon, and in mud puddles scatter’d around, In silence repos’d the voluptuous hog— Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound, Save the innkeeper flogging a mischievous dog. And here in this little lone spot, I exclaim’d With a pipe in my mouth, and a drop in my eye; 256 With a cask of good liquor, old rye coffee named, How blest could I live, and how calm could I lie By the side of yon oak, where an old toper sips His glass of gin toddy, how sweet to recline, And to know that the liquor I rais’d to my lips, Had never been tasted by any but mine. From The Mirror, 1823.

An Editor’s Troubles. We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near, And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world, ’Tis not in a Magazine-Editor’s sphere! All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound, But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through; And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound, We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe! And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed, How many a manuscript fair to the eye, (But of which the poor author would soon be ashamed, Did we print it,) the flame of our grate will supply! All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound, But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through, And as slowly together the “Copy” we bound, The clock in the kitchen (a cuckoo), sang two! The New Monthly Belle Assemblée. April, 1836.

The Good-Pecker. I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near; And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world, ’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.” Every table was spread, and I heard underground, The landlady tapping a cask of old ale. And here, in a snug little inn of its sort, With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute, A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port, If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute. Every table, &c. By the tinge of the parson’s red nose, that he dips, With a smile of contentment, so oft in his wine, How glorious to bask, and not open my lips, Save to tell to the world how divinely I dine. Every table, &c. Diogenes, vol. 3, p. 200. 1854.

Clubs not Trumps. I knew by the smoke that so heavily curled From the roof of each club-house the Carlton was near; And I said if there’s fog to be found in the world, The lungs that love asthma may look for it here. Punch, December 1880.

To Dizzy. (By a Country Squire.) When time hath bereft thee Of votes now divine; When the boroughs have left thee, Nor counties be thine. When the faces shall vanish, That circle thee now; And the groans thou wouldst banish, Shall grow to a row. In the hour of thy sadness, Then think upon me. And that thought shall be madness, Deceiver to thee. When Bright, who could turn thee, From virtue and fame, Shall spurn thee and leave thee, To sorrow and shame. When by Gladstone requited, Thy brain shall be stung; When thy name shall be blighted, And linked with “unhung.” In the depth of thy sadness, Then think upon me. And that thought shall be madness, Deceiver to thee. The Tomahawk, August 24, 1867.

A River Melody. By the Thames, to the right, lies the flat shore of Erith, For Gents by the Gem and the Topaz conveyed; But you, when the steamer that landing-place neareth, Say “No, I’m for Rosherville”—sensible blade. By the Red House—that stands like a murder-stained dwelling, Where pigeons (called blue rocks) lie sleeping in gore— By the tide at Cremorne, which so seldom, high swelling, Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door. We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead; Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted, And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread. No, Erith,—though snobbish the Gravesend refection, Though the “Whittington” shop boys call polks in the hall, Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion, Your fare, fêtes, and fun, are more dreary than all. From The Man in the Moon, Volume 2.

Just of Age. Had I a shilling left to spare, I should not pay it you; For, though arrest you did not dare, You’ve dunned me like a Jew. Nor hope to prove my friends more kind To thy complaining tongue; For, misers in the old you’ll find, And beggars in the young! Know that of age I soon shall be, And of the ready flush; All bowing then you’ll come to me, And for this rudeness blush; So, with my custom, lest you learn Another I have blest, Let now a civil tongue return And saucy dunnings rest. Bertie Vyse. The Comic Magazine, 1832.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past. * * * * * T. Moore.

The Cabinet’s Boat Song. June 1878. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. What though the Whigs and their friends look blue? We’ll sing and we’ll chaunt, to each other true, Pull, brothers, Pull! the stream runs fast, The Congress is near, and the danger’s past. Why should we yet our hand display? There is not a card that Russia can play, But when it’s played—be it ace or king— We still can trump it,—and still can sing— Pull, brothers, pull! the game goes fast, But the Congress is near, and the danger’s past. Muscovy’s bluster and Gladstone’s tongue But steady our boat the surges among, God of our fathers! guide our hand For justice, freedom, and fatherland. So shall we thankfully sing at last, “Peace is secured and all danger past.” They are Five by W. E. G. (D. Bogue. London. 1880.)

Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime Our fears we’ll keep quiet and vote in time. Soon as the polling hours begin, We’ll vote our St. Gladstone “items” in. Poll, brothers, poll! events run fast, Defeat may be near, and our day be past. Why should we “union” flags unfurl? We’ll not spend a breath their blue folds to curl, But when its last link leaves our shore, We’ll rest ’neath the old umbrella once more. Poll, brothers, poll, &c. Politics’ tide, this July moon Shall see us float proudly, or sink full soon; King of the green isle hear our prayers, Oh, grant in this crisis thy favouring airs. Poll; brothers, poll, &c. Roggee Shurt. Truth. Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.

An Anacreontic. Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from Old Brompton’s bowers— Or (if sweeter that abode) From the King’s well-odour’d Road, Where each little nursery bud Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud! Hither come, and gaily twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who rule us. Those who rule and (some say) fool us— Flora, sure, will love to please England’s Household Deities! First you must then, willy-nilly, Fetch me many an Orange lily— Orange of the darkest dye Irish Gifford can supply! Choose me out the longest sprig, And stick it in old Eldon’s wig! Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy, Garland gaudy, dull and cool, For the head of Liverpool! ’Twill console his brilliant brows For that loss of laurel boughs Which they suffered (what a pity) On the road to Paris city.

Hither, Flora of the street! Haste from Bumble on his beat— Or (if there thou chance to dwell) From “The Garden,” odoured well, Where the citizens of Lud Sniff the stench of putrid mud! Hither come, with what of bloom Dares defy our brumal gloom; Bring the flowers as you find ’em Round our rulers’ brows to bind ’em. First, since near to Piccadilly Flames not now the Orange lily, And ’tis only some such dye Irish G—bs—n can supply, Stick a yellow Primrose sprig Into A—hb—e’s brand-new wig. Failing of a Poppy posy For Lord I—dd—h, dear and dozy, Could there fitter emblem be Than the everlasting Pea? Then on C—c—l’s black brows set Spotted Dog’s-tooth Violet, Or—which would beseem them well— Rue and Spurge and Asphodel.[123] Next, C—rn—n’s brows to crown, Bring me here from Dublin town Shamrock that has served its turn, Withered leaf and broken fern. But for Ch—ch—ll we must find Blossoms of a gaudier kind: Stitch the garland through and through With flimsy threads of every hue; And as Goddess—entre nous— His lordship loves (though least of men) The grandiose—like poor old Ben— 258 Twine amid his close-cropped locks Artificial Hollyhocks! Cr—b—k, M—nn—s, Sm—h, and B—ch, Spriggs of Cypress pluck for each. C—ss may smile a sickly smile ’Neath a crown of Camomile; But time presses—let the rest Wear whatever likes them best! T. A. Wilson.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Hence from Covent Garden’s bowers, Where each blighted country bud Droops in vegetable mud; Haste, if such a haunt be thine, Choicest herbs and flowers to twine Into wreaths for those who’d rule us, Those who’d not the wit to fool us— Flora, sure, will love to please Her own Tory votaries! First, then, it is my behest That a Cowslip be thy quest; With it to the Commons hie— Need I state the reason why?— And stick it in Sir Michael’s crest. Gather next a bunch of Rue, To his speech a fitting cue— Garland grim and strange to see, For the head of Salisbury. It will suit his bitter brows, Now they’ve lost their laurel boughs— (Smith, too, lost his—what a pity!— On the road to Dublin city). Next for Churchill bring a few Flowers of any shade or hue; Leaves of evanescent sheen; Mellow almost while they’re green; Add a little Indian Cress— Warlike spoil it doth express. That’s enough—away, away!— Had I leisure I could say, Naught for Bartlett’s brains of fret Like the Russian Violet; How Lord Iddesleigh’s brow supine Would ’neath modest Primrose shine; But time presses—for, I wot, Men like these are soon forgot. Aramis.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste from Bedford’s ducal bowers— Covent Garden’s sweet domain, Grimy Eden of Cockayne; Where each vendor of the spud Breathes the dust and treads the mud! Hither come, and daily twine Brightest herbs and flowers of thine Into wreaths for those who would Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could. Flora, sure, will love to please England’s Tory Deities! First bring London Pride and Rue, These for S—l—sb—y will do— Place the wreath with gesture gladsome Where his hair was when he had some. Cockscomb, next, of brightest red, Find for Ch—rch—lls’s modest head; And, fair Goddess, if thy search Leads thee by the classic Birch. Pluck a tribute switch to grace R—nd—lph in another place! Shamrock, then, we fain would see— Four-leaved shamrock let it be, And with this botanic myth Deck the brows of Mr. Sm—th. Let “Old Woman”—homely plant— Crown C—rn—rv—n’s ringlets scant; And Thistle, loved of asses ever, Were not amiss for Cr—ss the clever! That’s enough—away, away!— Had I leisure, I could say H—cks B—ch would seem Adonis still Wreathed in transient Daffodil; But time presses—to thy taste I leave the rest, so prithee haste! Thistle.

The Legacy. “When in death I shall calmly recline.” “When in gaol I shall calm recline, Bear my best coat to some pawnbroker near, Show him how stylish the gilt buttons shine, And ask him a price that’s not too dear. Bid him not search for bank notes in the pocket, For they were lugged out to pay an old debt, And all he’ll find will be an old locket Of Sal’s, she gave me when last we met.”

When in Death I shall Quiet be Found. When in death I shall quiet be found, Pray bear my clothes to some pawnbroker near, Tell him to lend you a couple of pound, And mind he don’t charge for the ticket too dear. Bid him not search too close for gamboge In the breeches, nor nicely examine the coat, But tell him that he may send if he choose, All he can spare ’bove a two-pound note. Then with the money pray buy me a coffin, And bury me safe ’neath a table of chance; Haply e’en there my memory may soften The pangs of ill-luck and the want of finance. But should some cruel and opulent Greek Revile at my state as he stamps o’er my grave, Oh! let some thought of its master bespeak, Your favour for him who was gambling’s slave. Take, then, these cards, which now are neglected, And bury them with me when I am at rest; Never! oh, never! in cheating detected, Though seldom by hands that were pure were they prest. But should some fortunate gambling rover Come here to seek them in frolic and fun, Oh, then around my genius shall hover, And teach him to spend the cash he has won. Anonymous.

A Farewell [Sung by Mr. Cross to the Ratepayers of London.) Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour When the Pekoe is fragrant in boudoir and bower, Then think of your Cross who had made the dear brew At the ratepayer’s cost even dearer to you! * * * * * You may boil, you may filter, the stuff as you will But the scent of the Sewage will hang round it still! Punch May 1, 1880.

To Tory Hearts. To Tory hearts a round, boys, You can’t refuse, you can’t refuse, When Lib’rals so abound, boys, ’Tis time to choose, ’tis time to choose, For thick as stars that lighten, Our London stage, our London stage Are Whigs that fain would brighten The present age, the present age. To Tories fill, where’er boys, Your choice may fall, your choice may fa Be sure you’ll find truth there, boys, So drink them all, so drink them all. * * * * * Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828.

Devilled Biscuit (“A Temple to Friendship.”) “A nice Devill’d Biscuit” said Jenkins enchanted, “I’ll have after dinner—the thought is divine!” The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted— To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine. He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it, And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it, And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent. “Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think o grilling, When common the pepper? the whole will be flat. But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing, I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.” So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation To Jenkins, who gave him a terrible look: “Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station, Was the answer that Jenkins sent down to the Cook. Punch.

Apple Pie. (“All that’s bright must fade.”) All new dishes fade— The newest oft the fleetest Of all the pies now made, The Apple’s still the sweetest; Cut and come again, The syrup upward springing! While my life and taste remain, To thee my heart is clinging. Other dainties fade— The newest oft the fleetest; But of all the pies now made, The Apple’s still the sweetest. Who absurdly buys Fruit not worth the baking? Who wastes crust on pies That do not pay for making? Better far to be An Apple Tartlet buying, Than to make one at home, and see On it there’s no relying: That all must be weigh’d, When thyself thou treatest Still a pie home-made Is, after all, the sweetest. Who a pie would make, First his apple slices; Then he ought to take Some cloves—the best of spices: Grate some lemon rind, Butter add discreetly; Then some sugar mix—but mind The pie’s not made too sweetly, Every pie that’s made With sugar, is completest; But moderation should pervade Too sweet is not the sweetest. Who would tone impart, Must—if my word is trusted— Add to his pie or tart A glass of port—old crusted If a man of taste, He, complete to make it In the very finest paste Will inclose and bake it. Pies have each their grade; But, when this thou eatest Of all that e’er were made. You’ll say ’tis best and sweetest. Punch.

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are pass’d away; And many a heart, that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so t’will be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! T. Moore.

These Christmas Bills. (A commercial melody 1826). These Christmas bills, these Christmas bills How many a thought their number kills, 260 Of notes and cash, and that sweet time When oft I heard my sovereigns chime. Those golden days are past away, And many a bill I used to pay Sticks on the file, and empty tills Contain no cash for Christmas bills. And so ’twill be—though these are paid, More Christmas bills will still be made, And other men will fear these ills, And curse the name of Christmas bills. From Hone’s Every Day Book.

On Revisiting College. That chapel bell-that chapel bell! Ah, once I knew its music well— It tells of youth—of wasted time— Of folly, happiness, and crime. But now those joyous days are gone, Yet still its peal is ringing on— While others wish its tongue in hell, And daily curse that chapel bell! The Gownsman, (Cambridge), February 18, 1830.

My white moustache, my white moustache, You speak the truth, however harsh, Of Barnes and Kew, and of the time When I rode past with air sublime. The curs’d excrescence does away With every lie that Q—— may say; And oh, its ghastly whiteness tells The truth to the insulted belles. And so they knew when I had gone The moustache that my lips had on. “No other pair so whitely swells We know them,” say the Chiswick belles. Figaro in London, October 6, 1832.

“A Master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun.” The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, Galloping, dreary Duke; The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass, With his charger prancing, Grim eye glancing, Chin, like a Mufti, Grizzled and tufty, Galloping, dreary Duke. Ye misses, beware of the neighbourhood Of this galloping, dreary Duke; Avoid him, all, who see no good In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood. For, surely, no nymph is Fond of a grim phiz, And of the married, Whole crowds have miscarried At sight of this dreary Duke.

Fly Not Yet. Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour, When place—like a black midnight flower, Which scorns the rude and vulgar light, Begins to woo us sons of night, And scamps who covet cash. ’Twas but to bless us sons of shade, That place and pay were ever made. ’Tis then their rich attractions glowing, From the public purse are flowing. Oh stay! oh stay. The Whigs are at a discount now, And while they are, indeed I vow For you to leave is rash. Grand Chorus. The Whigs are at a discount now, And while they are, indeed I vow For you to leave is rash. Figaro in London, September 28, 1833.

Those London belles, those London belles, Ah! what a tale their beauty tells, Of suff’ring beaux and wounded hearts, The dire effect of Cupid’s darts. Perhaps that maid, with eyes of blue, Has often made a sad to do; And many a heart with anguish swells, While thinking of the London belles. Ah! yes, how sweet it is to me. To take a social cup of tea, And while the heart in comfort dwells, To hear the chat of London belles. For then they scan their dress,—the play, Though woe to those who are away, For Scandal often leaves her cells, To join the chat of London belles. Ev’n Jove peeps down, with looks of love, And Juno, jealous, frowns above, To see young Beauty gladly dwells, To deck the charms of London belles. 261 And so ’twill be in other times, Fond hearts will sing in softer rhymes, And cloud the praise this ditty swells While ages grace the London belles. Miss Bryant.

Those Ball-Room Belles. Those ball-room belles! those ball-room belles! How many a tale their memory tells Of polka, waltz and galopade, Of D’Albert, Linter, and Musard. “The season” now has pass’d away, And many “a man” that then was gay Now climbs the alps or Scotia’s fells, And whirls no more those ball-room belies. And so ’twill be when next they meet, In Belgrave-square and Berkeley-street; The waltz shall rouse embroider’d “swells” To deux-temps with those ball-room belles. Diogenes, August, 1853.

Those Scotch Hotels. Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels Each tourist of their robberies tells: My pocket to its bottom thrills, When I reflect upon their bills. Some pleasant hours soon pass’d away, But when I learned what was to pay, I wish’d the devil had those swells— The landlords of the Scotch hotels. And so ’twill be when I am gone, The greedy race will still rob on; And other tourists through these dells Shall rail upon the Scotch Hotels. Diogenes, September, 1853.

Those Gresham Chimes. Those Gresham chimes, those Gresham chimes! They take us back to Tudor times, When Merchant Princes felt no shame To bear a civic magnate’s name. That name has sunk below disdain, No Gresham dons the civic chain, A Merchant Prince as soon would wear The garb of Beadle as of Mayor. But Mayors, and such, will soon be gone, A new régime is coming on; We’ll hope to hear, in better times, Some Gresham hailed by Gresham chimes. Punch, December, 1853.

Those Tramway Bells. Those tramway bells, those tramway bells, How many a joy their discord quells; My temper, thoughts, and this sweet rhyme They knock completely out of time. Those fearful sounds ne’er pass away, But mar with discord night and day; And tin-tin-nabulation swells To horror in those tramway bells. The railway bell has bulk of tone, The muffin—sweetness of its own; But frenzy in this tinkling dwells— Like Mr. Irving’s in “The Bells.” Not thus ’twill be when steam has come, For then this clangour will be dumb; Whilst other force the car propels, We’ll hear no more those tramway bells. Funny Folks.

Those Evening Bells. Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells, How many a tale their music tells. Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime. And letters only just in time!— The Muffin-boy has pass’d away, The Postman gone—and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells, And does not hear those Evening Bells. And so ’twill be when she is gone, The tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells. Tom Hood.

London Bells. Those London Bells, those London Bells, How plain a tale that nuisance tells, Of fees and beer, that buy the time Of those who raise that senseless chime Those foolish times are passed away When people liked the belfry’s bray, With Lord Mayor’s Shows and Thames’s smells We class those pestering London Bells, Were wringers’ swipes and swindle gone, That vulgar noise would not go on. The fact from every steeple knells That Pewter Pots are London Bells. Shirley Brooks. November 1855.

Those Pretty Girls. Those pretty girls, those pretty girls, How many a glance their bright eye whirls, Of love, and hope, and that fond ray That lures us on from day to day. 262 How many a spirit that was bright, When first he looked on beauty’s light, Walks sorrowing where the cascade purls, And sees no more those pretty girls. Thus, too, when silence quells my lyre, Will beauty’s eyes still flash with fire, And other poets twine your curls, And sing your praises, pretty girls. J. W. W.

Those Vatted Rums. Those Vatted Rums, those Vatted Rums! How very cheap a quartern comes, When of that liquor pure and prime, You take two gallons at a time. The fumes will quickly pass away, And many an evening will be gay— While nothing like a headache comes, Through drinking these delicious Rums. And so ’twill be, when I am gone; Those Vatted Rums will still sell on, And other fingers, pens, and thumbs Will sing your praise—ye Vatted Rums. Punch. August 25, 1855.

Those Evening Belles. Those evening belles, those evening belles How much of faded youth it tells That red red rouge thick painted on, Of waning charms, of beauties gone. Soon e’en red rouge will pass away, And sunken cheek and mind’s decay Will dull those eyes where sparkle dwells, Leave old and grim those evening belles. Yet then, as now, when they are gone Some red rouged belles will still laugh on, And yawning o’er them other “swells,” Discourse their charms, rouged evening belles. From Pan, the Pilgrim. (Weldon & Co., London).

That Muffin Bell. That Muffin-Bell! That Muffin-Bell! How many a tale its tinklings tell. Of youth, and hope, and that glad time When my digestion yet was prime! The bilious discs I then could eat, The bell’s wild whangling down the street Was one of boyhood’s special joys: I never, never thought it noise. How joyously at even rang The tintinnabulary clang! The gawping jaw, the raucous yell, I loved them, loved them passing well Those happy hours are passed away. Age must not with its peptics play. Strange qualms within me darkly dwell Whene’er I hear the Muffin-Bell. And yet soft memories of old times Linger about the jangling chimes, And, like De Rutzen, I’d be tender To the too noisy Muffin Vendor. But oh! methinks when I am gone That tuneless peal will not ring on; For Man, with street-law ordered well, Will hear no more the Muffin-Bell! Punch, December 18, 1880.

The Parcel Post. The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post! To Fawcett pledge the joyous toast— May no ill fortune e’er restrain This glorious bantling of his brain. Deliv’ry companies no more Delay and “cheek”—their day is o’er; What now has laid the Carrier’s ghost?— The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post! When Christmas comes with jovial fare, Of turkeys, geese, and viands rare, What then shall be my hope and boast?— The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post! The postman, staggering ’neath the weight Of welcome presents, opes my gate; ’Tis then I prize and honour most The Parcel Post, the Parcel Post! Judy, August 3. 1883.

Evening Belles. Those evening belles, those evening belles, How many a tale their costume tells Of Fashion, in its latest show, Reviving modes of long ago. Our grandmothers have passed away, Yet in their habits girls look gay, As in last century gowns the swells To dinner take the evening belles. And so ’twill be when we are gone, Fashion’s caprices will go on; A century hence, what now repels Will serve to deck the evening belles. Moonshine, July 31, 1886.

Oft, in the stilly Night, Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me. * * * * * T. Moore.

Song by the Marquis of Londonderry. Oft o’er my tea and toast, When I a speech have sported, I take the Morning Post, To see how its reported. The frequent “hears,” “Continued cheers,” The witty things ne’er spoken, The “oh’s” left out, And nought about The coughs with which t’was broken. When I behold it all in columns neat and taper, Precisely made to fall By Brougham’s in the paper— I feel like one, Who’s really done A thing too bright to sully, And dream with head As thick as lead, That I’m the modern Tully. Figaro in London, March 31, 1832.

Oft in His Present Plight. Oft in his present plight, Now bolts and bars have bound him Calls Mitchell, with affright, The late events around him; His bragging talk of sharp pitchfork, And words of pikes, too, spoken— The boys who cheered, now disappeared, The heads at Limerick broken. When he remembers all The facts thus linked together, He feels uncommon small, And aught but in full feather; If all’s confessed, he feareth lest, By Jurors ill supported, Their maws to stay, he perchance may Be, after all, transported. The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.

The Poet and The Stomach. (The Stomach complaineth that his Master writes love ballads when he should be sleeping.) Oft in the chilly night, When slumber should have bound him, Pale Phosphor gives its light, His dressing-gown around him. He rushes then For ink and pen, To write some lines in measure, The while poor I Can only sigh, Nor glow with Poet’s pleasure. Thus, in the chilly night, When slumber should have bound him; Sad Phosphor gives its light, His dressing-gown around him. When I remember all The many hours wasted; Those dainties turned to gal Which I had lately tasted. I must lament The time misspent, The hours snatched from slumber The Stomach’s curse Is midnight verse, Without regard to number! Thus, in the chilly night, When slumbers should have bound him; Sad Phosphor pales its light, His dressing-gown around him.

The Silly Season. [By a Used-up Journalist.] Oft, on a “silly” night, When lack of news has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: Physicians’ fees, The Channel seas, Words “out of Season” spoken; Ill-treated Clerks, The Public Parks, And nerves by railways broken. Oft on a silly plight, When printers’ devils hound me, Kind memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The themes, so mix’d together, Which regularly call, Like duns in autumn weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some prison mill deserted: Each topic dead, Each interest fled, And all but me departed. Thus, when a “silly” night Completely “stumped” has found me, Kind Memory flings the light Of brighter days around me. Funny Folks. October 5, 1878.

Oft in Election’s fight, Ere “Home Rule’s” chains had bound me, Mem’ry brings before my sight Companions then around me; The rows, the sneers, The poll-booth jeers, The slanging words then spoken; The eyes that shone How blacked! and bone How smashed! and heads how broken! Thus in election’s fight, &c. 264 When I remember all The friends, then linked together, Sloping off, to wait my fall, Like crows in rainy weather, I feel like one Who breasts alone A tide of vile coercion; With justice fled, And honour dead, And on all sides aversion. Thus in election’s fight, &c. Caniculus Truth. Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.

Here’s the bower she lov’d so much, And the tree she planted; Here’s the harp she used to touch— Oh, how that touch enchanted! * * * * * T. Moore.

Here’s the box that held the snuff, And the bean so famous; Here’s the pipe he used to puff,— Oh! how that puff o’er came us! Strasburgh, Tonquin,—both are dry,— Where’s the hand to soak them? Pipes around extinguished lie,— Where’s the lip to smoke them? Gin may fall, but he who loved It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness; Porter pots may be improved,— Lost on him their deepness. Quarts were pints where’er he stayed,— Pints were to quarterns nearer; Whiff ne’er warmed a jollier blade, Nor drinking killed a dearer. Anonymous.

Here’s the bottle she loved so much, And here’s the glass she drank from, Here’s the max her lips oft touched, The stuff they never shrank from.

Quaint and queer were the gems she wore, A golden “pig” in each ear she bore She’d flies and beetles and snake-shaped bands, And the rummiest rings on her snow-white hands, (Three more verses.)

The plate that once through Fashion’s halls Æsthetic rapture shed, Now hangs upon the kitchen walls Its ancient glories fled. So pass the fads of former days. So fashion’s whim is o’er. Old China that was once the craze Now “fetches” fools no more. (One more verse.)

When he who now bores thee has left but the fame Of his one little weakness behind, Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name, Thou, to boredom so sweetly resigned. Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn Thy tears shall efface their decree; For though I have often been shut up by them I have always found patience in thee. To buttonhole thee was my constant delight, Every cock and bull story was thine, Each mare’s nest I found I exposed to thy sight, To my twaddle thine ear thoud’st incline. Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee. The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live, Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee!