WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 14)

There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song. T. Moore. The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.

Song. There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme, And the minister’s sitting there all the night long, In the time of my power ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng. That bench and its placemen I never forget, But oft when alone at the close of the year, I think are conservatives sitting there yet, Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring “hear!” No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave, But rich harvests they pluck’d while the sun on them shone, And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave All the profits of place when their places were gone. Thus the minister takes, from his power e’er it dies, A pension that gives him some thousands a year. So lucrative either in fall or in rise, Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere. Figaro in London, November 10, 1832.

“There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines.” There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans. 265 That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard? No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard; And thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard. Poems and Parodies, By Phœbe Carey, Boston, U. S., 1854.

One morn a Tory at the gate Of Stephen’s stood disconsolate; And as he listened to the words Of Whigs within, like poison flowing, And caught the sense of what he heard, The downfall of his party knowing, He wept to think his plundering race Should e’er have lost that glorious place * * * * * The Devil, who is always keeping The doors, beheld the Tory weeping, And as he nearer drew and listened To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eldon’s fountain, when he cries With tears which those who know him say Proceed from no where but his eyes. “Thou scion of a plundering line,” The Devil said “one hope is thine.” I think it is not yet too late The Tory may again get power, Who brings to this infernal gate Some trick or bribe to suit the hour; “Go seek it,” said he with a grin, “’Tis sweet to let the Tories in.” * * * * * Downward the Tory turns his gaze, And through excitement’s lowering haze, Beholds a noble premier stand Desponding, ’mid the people crying Reform, just falling from his hand, And his last hope to save it dying. He tried what chance he found remain, A threat of Peers, but all in vain. False flew the shaft, though pointed well Corruption lingered, freedom fell; Yet marked the Tory where it lay, And, when the rush of rage had past, As he imagined to allay The nation’s ire, he seized the last Last copy of the Bill, as read, Just ere the noble premier fled. “Be this,” he cried, as he wing’d his flight “My welcome gift in the house to night, Though poison to me is this odious bill, Fram’d by Whigs in power, to rat like this, For conservative ends so noble is, It would stain not the purest of those who still Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss. Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere A boon that the Devil holds truly dear, ’Tis the false eclat which knavery draws From a premier who falls with the people’s cause. “Sweet,” said the Devil, as he gave The gift unto his grasping hand, “Sweet is our welcome of the brave Who such a hellish trick has plann’d;” But see, alas! the golden bar Of office moves not—craftier far Than even this trick, the means must be To open the gates of place for thee. Figaro in London, 1832.

The Royal Enclosure at Ascot. A Peri at the “Royal” gate At Ascot stood disconsolate, And as she gazed upon the forms Of those who passed that jealous portal, With envy, then, her bosom warms, For she was feminine and mortal. She all but wept to think her feet Trod not that most select retreat. “How lucky!” thought she, “aye, past compare, Are the happy houris who wander there, Where the feet of real princes fall. If the Royal Enclosure’s not for me, The joys of the season cease to be; A ticket from Hardwicke exceeds them all.” * * * * * Truth. June 14, 1877.

Paradise Lost. This week a Peeress at the gate Of Ascot stood disconsolate— (The Royal Enclosure Gate is meant) And as in misery she bent, And gazed upon the lonely scene Where life a week before was teeming, She sighed for what long since had been— A past now lost beyond redeeming, And wept to think the privileged place No more was held a sacred place. 266 “How happy!” she cried, in an accent drear “We used to be who gained entrance here. How mixed with our joy, too, was pleasant spite, ’Gainst others who lacked our privileged right. Aye! it well-might upset our tried composure To first get cards for the Royal Enclosure, And nothing on earth was too great a price To pay to enter the Paradise. * * * * * Truth, June 14, 1883.

The Political Peri. One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate Of office stood disconsolate, He wept to think he’d run his race, And left for aye that glorious place. “How happy” exclaimed that child of air— And ’twas true, though he hadn’t much truth to spare— “Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there! But I’ve made a mess they’ll find hard to repair I’ve shed innocent blood in every clime, Sent thousands of men to death in their prime, Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime, Done deeds that will stink the end of time,— And I leave my country my heir!” “Woe, woe for ever! The Election’s done, The votes are cast— And I’ve not won!” Bits of Beaconsfield. (Abel Heywood & Son, Manchester.)

The Lament of the Peri. Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water, More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame! * * * * * Farewell, farewell—until Pity’s sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. T. Moore. The Fire Worshippers.

Air.—Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter. Farewell—farewell to thee desolate Erin, (Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,) No curl ever lay on Law’s visage so leering, More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee. Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing, How light was thy heart till curs’d Castlereagh came, Like the breath of a Croker o’er eloquence blowing, To hush all its music, and render it tame. But yet when to Parliament they are returning, There will still be amongst both the young and the old, Some who with disgust most indignantly burning, Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold The new made elector whene’er he advances, To vote on some Irish Electoral day, Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise, He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away. Nor shall Daniel[124] beloved of thy people forget thee, Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start. Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart. Figaro in London, February 23, 1833.

The Song of the Sultan Farewell—farewell to thee, Arabi darling! (Thus murmured the Sultan beneath his moustache.) No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling; Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash. Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing, Our joint little game till the Britisher came, Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame! But long upon Arabi’s Orient guile and Astuteness shall Abdul sit brooding in gloom. To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island! Would, would it were swept by the blasting Simoom! And now by Old Nilus Sir Garnet is burning, And calls to his standard the young and the old. E’en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning, In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold. I’ve played fast and loose, but the Giaour’s successes My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way; I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses The nice little game I must trust thee to play. Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee— Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart, But if thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she’d set thee Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell!—be it mine still to squat on this pillow, And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep; But those sons of burnt fathers who’ve come o’er the billow Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep. I’ve ground my poor teeth till I’ve shivered the amber, My bloated pipe-bearer I’ve kicked till he wept. (He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber, Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e’er stept.) I’ll dive where Intrigue’s deepest plots still lie darkling But this Proclamation must hurl at thy head. Thy prospects on Egypt’s hot sands scarce look sparkling. They gather, the Giaours, the Nile’s in his bed. 267 Farewell—farewell! ’Tis a pity—but counting The chances, at present, by Nilus’s wave, Thy star, my dear Arabi, scarcely seems mounting. And so—go to blazes, recalcitrant slave! [Signs reluctantly. Punch, September 16, 1882.

Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali! (Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak’s brow.) No cursèd Hindu, timid servant of Kali, Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou. O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came, Like the frost of the north on the flow’r of the morning, And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul’s green highlands, Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,[125] Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb. Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding, And summons to combat the bold and the strong, Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding, Ever call on thy name as he rushes along. So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee, As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart; Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee, And curse thee from out of her innermost heart. Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness, With ev’ry revenge that a victor may deal; Each sign of submission, each token of weakness, Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel. We’ll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying, And lose in the battle the thought of thy name; We’ll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying, And gather new laurels to cover thy shame. Begone, begone, until life is departed, And still are the hearts of the true and the brave! We’ll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted; We’ll curse at the coward who sued like a slave. Toffer.

Away, away with the Ameer unlucky! (Thus murmured the Viceroy o’er India’s plain;) No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky, Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign. O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping, How fair was thy promise till treachery came! Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame. But long by Cabul’s rapid glacier-fed fountains Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate. And when the cold winter and snows are returning, They’ll tell the old tale how the infidels fell; As they huddle together around the logs burning They’ll bitterly think of our vengeance as well. The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing His wares, will remember brave Roberts’ return Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing He carelessly leaves all the kabobs to burn. Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him, Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame; High up on the roll of her heroes she’ll set him Inscribed, that her children may honour his name. Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion With everything innocent, harmless and bright Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion, And candy to sweeten the wearisome night. My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes, My doctor shall ease thee whene’er thou’rt in pain; I’ll willingly grant thee whate’er thy heart wishes, But ne’er shalt thou see Afghanistan again. Quantox.

The Fire-Worshippers. Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov’d a tree or flower, But ’twas the first to fade away. I never nurs’d a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die. * * * * * T. Moore.

The Cutler’s Lament. I never wrote up “Skates to Sell,” Trusting to fickle Nature’s law, But—when I’d advertised them well, And puffed them—it was sure to thaw, Yes, it was ever thus—the Fates Seem adverse to the trade in skates If a large stock I chanced to buy, Thinking ’twas likely still to freeze, Up the thermometer would fly— All in a day—some ten degrees. Their presence in my window-pane Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain. Punch, February, 1848.

’Twas Ever Thus. I never loved a dear gazelle, In fact, I never knew one; And though I’ve loved a sweet mam’zelle I’ve ne’er had pluck to woo one. ’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus From boyhood’s early prime, sirs, It’s been my fate to be too late— I never was in time, sirs! I never went to dance or ball, But there I made a blunder; My partners always had a fall, And I was always under. A martinet I’ve got to wife Oh, quite an acid tartar: She has all the sweets of life, While I’m a bilious martyr. ’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus; I thought her parents wealthy; I’ve found them poor—they live next door, And are so beastly healthy. I speculated all my cash In her relations’ ventures; Of course the comp’nies went to smash— And I’d to pay debentures! ’Twas ever thus, ’twas ever thus: My life is far from sweet, sirs, My cash is gone, I’ve nought to pawn So I must beat retreat, sirs. I’ll take a trip across the seas To-day for other nations; For I shall never be at ease, With wife, or wife’s relations. ’Twas never thus, ’twas never thus, I’d ne’er in view such blisses; In ecstasy I’d fly to thee, Sweet freedom, joy, and kisses— Oh, wretched dog, I now must jog, For here comes dreadful missus. Anonymous.

’Twas Ever Thus. I never rear’d a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried;) But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle. I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say, The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have wither’d it away. I’ve dearly loved my uncle John, From childhood till the present hour, And yet he will go living on— I would he were a tree or flower!

A Few Muddled Metaphors by a Moore-ose Melodist. Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes recede! I never loved a tree or flow’r That did’nt trump its partner’s lead. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its dappled hide, But when it came to know me well, It fell upon the buttered side. I never taught a cockatoo To whistle comic songs profound. But, first when “Jolly Dogs” it knew It failed for ninepence in the pound I never reared a walrus-cub In my aquarium to plunge, But, when it learnt to love its tub It placidly threw up the sponge! I never strove a metaphor To every bosom home to bring But—just as it had reached the door It went and cut a pigeon’s wing! Tom Hood, the younger.

“I never had a piece of toast, Particularly long and wide, But fell upon the sanded floor, And always on the buttered side.”

Wus, Ever Wus. Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s My most exciting hopes are dashed; I never wore my spotless ducks But madly—wildly! they were splashed. I never roved by Cynthia’s beam, To gaze upon the starry sky; But some old stiff-backed beetle came, And charged into my pensive eye: And oh! I never did the swell In Regent street, amongst the beaux, But smuts the most prodigious fell, And always settled on my Nose!

Disaster. ’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour! My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty The Peartree that I climbed at twelve I see still blossoming, at twenty. 269 I never nursed a dear gazelle; But I was given a parroquet— (How I did nurse him if unwell!) He’s imbecile, but lingers yet. He’s green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye He’d look inimitable stuff’d And knows it—but he will not die! I had a kitten—I was rich In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten, And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d One day beside her untouch’d plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful. And then I bought a dog—a queen Ah Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen And scarce can crawl across the rug, I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert Bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don’t mind; ’Twere lunacy to love her now. I used to think, should e’er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But Ah! disasters have their use; And life might e’en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny. From Fly Leaves by C. S. Calverley. (George Bell and Sons, London, 1878.)

Oh, ever thus, since Childhood’s hour We’ve seen our fondest hopes decay, We never raised a Calf or Cow or Hen that laid an Egg a day, But it was marked and stol’n away, We never raised a sucking pig To glad us with its sunny eye But when ’twas grown up fat and big And fit to roast, or boil, or fry We could not find it in the stye.

By Our Butcher. I never loved a dear gazelle, Nor would I care for one if cheap All my affections centres on Such things as bullocks, pigs and sheep; Yet often, when a little lamb, Whose price was low, has caught my eye, I’ve purchased it; but, sad to say, Next morning it was sure to die;

I never bought a young gazelle. To glad me with its soft black eye, But, when it came to know me well, ’Twas sure to butt me on the sly. I never drilled a cockatoo, To speak with almost human lip, But, when a pretty phrase it knew, ’Twas sure to give some friend a nip. I never trained a collie hound To be affectionate and mild, But, when I thought a prize I’d found, ’Twas sure to bite my youngest child I never kept a tabby kit To cheer my leisure with its tricks, But, when we all grew fond of it, ’Twas sure to catch the neighbour’s chicks, I never reared a turtle-dove, To coo all day with gentle breath, But, when its life seemed one of love, ’Twas sure to peck its mate to death. I never—well, I never yet— And I have spent no end of pelt— Invested money in a pet That didn’t misconduct itself. Funny Folks Annual, 1886.

The Young Gazelle. A Moore-ish Tale. In early youth, as you may guess, I revelled in poetic lore, And while my schoolmates studied less, I resolutely studied Moore. Those touching lines from “Lalla Rookh”— “Ah! ever thus”—you know them well, Such root within my bosom took, I wished I had a young Gazelle. Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle, “To charm me with its soft black eye,” So soft, so liquid, that a spell Seems in that gem-like orb to lie. Years, childhood passed, youth fled away, My vain desire I’d learnt to quell, Till came that most auspicious day When some one gave me a Gazelle. With care, and trouble, and expense, ’Twas brought from Afric’s northern cape; It seemed of great intelligence, And oh! so beautiful a shape. The little creature grew so tame, He “learned to know (the neighbours) well,” And, then the ladies, when they came, Oh! how they “nursed that dear Gazelle,” But woe is me! on earthly ground Some ill with every blessing dwells; And soon to my dismay I found That this applies to young Gazelles. When free allowed to roam in doors, The mischief that he did was great; The walls, the furniture, the floors, He made in a terrific state. He nibbled at the table cloth, And trod the carpet into holes, And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kicked over scuttles full of coals. * * * * * 270 In short the mischief was immense That from his gamesome pranks befel, And truly, in a double sense He proved a very “dear gazelle.” At length I sighed—“Ah! ever thus Doth disappointment mock each hope; But ’tis in vain to make a fuss You’ll have to go, my antelope.” I said “This antler’d desert child In Turkish Palaces may roam But he’s much too free and wild To keep in any English home.” Yes, though I gave him up with tears Experience had broke the spell, And if I live a thousand years, I’ll never have a young gazelle!

There’s not in old Ireland an islet more sweet Than the Isle where the penitents annually meet: Oh! the last spark of faith from the land must depart Ere pilgrims forbear on that journey to start. It is not for Nature they go to the scene, However romantic, sublime, or serene; ’Tis not just for pleasure or holiday’s sake, They pay sixpence each to be row’d o’er the lake. ’Tis that Patrick the Great made a station for pray’r With chapels and cells purgatorial there, ’Twas his own blessed crozier that hallowed the cave, The heathen to vanquish, the faithful to save. Sweet Isle of Lough Dearg! by thy devotees blest, If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest; Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase, And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector, Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.” If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre, How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell! Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter, And may she grow ever more lovely and gay, Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her, Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away.

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day We linger in pleasures that never are gone Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o’er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium on Earth, It is this, it is this. * * * * * T. Moore.

The House of Commons. Come hither, come hither: by night and by day, We list to the members that never are gone— Like the moan of the east wind, as one dies away, Another as dull and as prosing comes on. And the speech that is o’er, in expiring gives birth, To a new one as wretched as barren of nous, And oh! if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house! Here Tories are raving—their voices are high, As the bray of a jack-ass, or yelp of a hound, And dirty their spleen as that rain from the sky, Which turns into mud as it falls on the ground. Oh! think what the conscience or mind must be worth, When the speech and the satire are weak as a louse, Then own if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house! Here prosper the Whigs that with lucre’s vile love, Have come down from their own vaunted honesty’s sphere Who put power all former professions above, And forgot pledges past in the places they’ve here. And bless’d with the money our pockets give forth, What placemen the sweets of his office would douse, For oh! if there be an Inferno on earth, It’s the house! it’s the house! * * * * * There’s a pest beyond all that the minstrel has told When the Whigs that are bound in one powerful tie, With principles changing and hearts ever cold, Drain the country of wealth and drain on till ’tis dry. One hour of so hateful a ministry’s worse, Than whole ages of harm done by Tory or rat, And oh! if there be an Inferno—or curse, It is that! it is that!! Figaro in London, September 1, 1832.

Sweet borough of Tamworth, when first I go in To the dear House of Commons in which I was hurl’d, I found it a place of such pelf and such sin, And for humbug the funniest place in the world. For the Minister’s lips to their destiny true, Seem’d to know I was born to be sold as anothers; And to put me in mind of what I ought to do, They whispered rich places for me and my brothers. And then he was darting from eye-lids so sly, Half squinting, half winking such gold beaming light; 271 Let them say what they will, I could read in his eye, “Here’s a bait for you, Peel, if you know how to bite.” So on Treasury benches I mingled my feet, I felt a pulsation I cannot tell whether Of joy shame or guilt—’twas bitter yet sweet; But my heart and my face got as tough as cow’s leather. At length when arrived in my office I sat, And I heard of its tricks, with a slight twinge of pain, But Castlereagh whispered, if once you should rat, Dear Peel, you can never get office again. Oh Liverpool, Castlereagh, never were any Statesmen more pious, to place-men more true, Of snug roguish places, you both had so many, That my conscience was drill’d like a sieve through and through. But Bexley would preach, and Eldon so grieved, That a suckling like me should be lost in a jiffey— And Cumberland swore they could not be deceived If they sent me to humbug the folks on the Liffey. Professions, manœuvres, smiles, bowing, I used, Oh the orange sword waved without shame or relenting; And the Papists were crushed, and their church I abused, Whilst I swore that their sighs were but signs of consenting. How the Catholic claims I scorned and denied, Till I found my reward in a better place here; When the Duke, rest his soul, his old principles shied, Saying “Rat with me, Peel, or your places forbear.” In vain did I whisper, there’s no danger nigh, Bags, Bexley, and Sellis’s Duke did implore, He promised a title, a sinecure sly; I acknowledged them both, and I asked for no more. Was I right?—oh, I cannot believe I was wrong, Though Whigs, King and People may shout their disdain; In cursed schedule B. thou shalt not be kept long, Sweet Tamworth, I’ll rat for thee over again. By heaven! Rotten Boroughs I’d rather forswear— The Reform Bill, I’d hug to my plausible breast— Than lose thee, sweet Tamworth, thy Peel will yet share Place, power and title—you know all the rest.

When in death I shall calm recline, More dozy I can’t be than I have been here; No power could rouse me by smiles or wine, Silly Billy, at Cambridge they called me, dear. I never could feel either joy or sorrow, My heart is so spongy, my liver so white; But very large sums from the taxes I borrow, And humbug the people, by family right. * * * * * Curse the Whigs, they are overthrowing Our lazy, vicious, and well-paid rest; My moon-calf uncle’s debt that’s owing, Makes all people his name detest. When fools, and tyrants, and peers are over, England’s glad cup will flow over its brim; John Bull our impudent rights will uncover, Repaying the woes we’ve inflicted on him.

The Sweet Briar. I thought t’other day while attempting to thin A Briar which over my palings had curled, As La Pompadour said, “If this were but a sin It might be the jolliest job in the world.” For its dear little thorns to their destiny true Seemed to know they were made to be scratchers and stingers, And to show me what I was attempting to do Kept eternally gripping and pricking my fingers. And whenever we mingled our shoots, and our feet, I muttered “d * * * n” and cannot tell whether Through your fault or mine—but, O! Briar called sweet, I think that we fell and we suffered together. And at last I found out you belonged to my neighbour, And when I had brought you exceedingly low I discovered that I had been spending my labour On a plant he was very desirous should grow. In vain did I mutter “There’s nobody nigh,” In vain curse the taste of my neighbour next door, Your response was a scratch on the lid of my eye, And I left it at that, and I asked for no more. Was I right? I can hardly believe I was wrong, Though the Briar has grown through the paling again, And the devil may guide it uninjured along E’er I put myself twice to such horrible pain. By Heavens! I would rather forever forswear The pleasure that lies in a garden that’s neat Than disturb for a moment the thorns that are there, Or banish the Briar which people call sweet! C. S. K.

One more Irish Melody. I O weep for the hour When to Peers’ tranquil bower The Premier of England with Church Bill came; The Primate made light Of the crisis that night, But loudly Lord Derby declared ’twas a shame. The Peers caved in soon, Like the famous “gone ’coon,” And the Commons protested they’d bear all the blame; But none will see the day When the mischief clears away Which that dark hour left on the Parliament fame. II Strange arguments lay On the crooked pathway Where the Premier of England slipp’d off from the right; And many a deep print On his policy’s tint Showed the track of his veering towards Lowe and towards Bright. To-morrow’s new men May undo all again Every trace in our laws where the false chief came: But the babes yet unborn Shall record it with scorn, That blot on the scutcheon of England’s fair fame! Will-o’-the Wisp, July 24, 1869.

Air—Eveleen’s Bower. Oh! weep for the hour When to Brougham’s bower, The Lord of the Treas’ry with large bribes came, The Lib’rals held their light From the House that night, And staid to weep at home for their old chum’s shame. The clouds have pass’d From the Liberals at last, And freedom smiles again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day, When the clouds will pass away, Which taking office cast upon Brougham’s fame. The road to place lay Through a crooked path-way, When Brougham cross’d over the House’s floor, And many a deep hint, Which I’ve seen in print, Show’d the reason of his walk to the Treasury door. But freedom’s ray Will soon melt away, Every trace of the ministry with which he came; But there’s no light I fear, Which ever can clear The stain upon the brightness of Brougham’s fame. Figaro in London, June 22, 1833.

Young Love. Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed, Where pigs were feeding And, nowise heeding What cause the god had thither led, While wash they swilled, and were well fed, They thrived and flourished, For Stickem nourished Their hog-ships with good new-made grains; And pigs, though grubby, must be fed, For even they feel Hunger’s pains. Alas! that mankind’s greedy eye Should e’er go thither, Their loves to wither, But pigs must know they’re born to die And should not squeal when the knife draws nigh. Stickem came that morning, While love was yawning, And seized him, with intent to slay; “Oh, oh!” says Love, “this is all my eye!” So he kicked him over, and flew away.

The Bencher; or, Whitewashing Day. Air—“Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we’ll forget them.” Though num’rous our debts are, yet soon we forget them, When free from a bailiff’s or turnkey’s rude powers; For never were hearts, if the nabmen would let them, More formed to be jovial and light than ours. But though without cash We oft cut a dash, And credit besprinkles our path with flowers, Yet the day will come When we’re found at home! Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But though ’twere the last little spark on our souls, Let us light it up now—for ’tis whitewashing day! The devil take tradesmen, who say we’re ungrateful; Though we fly from grabs, to our friends we are true! If we can’t pay, we can’t! then what is more hateful Than taking one’s body for sums over-due? Vile creditors blight Our prospects outright; And when they have nailed us, cry “Pay me, sir, pay!” So unless we give bail, We’re lugg’d off to jail; But since I’m now up, were I summon’d next minute, I’d laugh, drink, and sing, look cheerful and gay, And shew what the head of a Bencher has in it, Who has passed the ordeal of Whitewashing Day! We no longer are green, and our sprees are recorded By men who have suffer’d too much to forget; With hope they were gull’d, and with promise rewarded, While our quarterly pilgrimage spong’d out the debt. Their hearts may be broke, Yet we laugh at the joke, For nothing can make an old Bencher pay; He’s up and he’s down To the tricks of the Town; He lives by his wits, and plays a bold part With an impudent air that ne’er will decay; Though his poverty’s great, still greater’s his art, For he clears off all scores by Whitewashing Day, From The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1825.

“Jam te juvaverit Viros relinquere, Doctæque conjugis Sinu quiescere.” Sir T. More.

I. O Why should our dull retrospective addresses Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire? Away with blue devils, away with distresses, And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire! II. Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, The richest to me is when woman is there; The question of houses I leave to the jury; The fairest to me is the house of the fair. III. When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders, And gilds while it carves, her dear form on the heart, What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders? With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art? 274 (IV. Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle, is Verdant antique, like Ninon de l’Enclos, I’d ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules, Give me but Rosa wherever I go.) IV. How well would our actors attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit! V. The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge By woman were pluck’d, and she still wears the prize, To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college— I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes. (VI. Attun’d to the scene, when the pale yellow moon is on Tower and tree they’d look sober and sage, And when they all wink’d their dear peepers in unison, Night, pitchy night, would envelop the stage. VII. Ah! could I some girl from yon box for her youth pick, I’d love her as long as she blossomed in youth; Oh! white is the ivory case of her tooth pick, But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth.) VI. There too is the lash which, all statues controlling, Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling, Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair. VII. Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile! And flourish, ye pillars,[127] as green as the rushes That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle! VIII. For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean, Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, Whose sons, unaccustom’d to rebel commotion, Tho’ joyous are sober—tho’ peaceful, are brave. IX. The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel, Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows; Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel, Which flourishes rapidly over their brows. X. O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles Which each panting bosom indignantly names, Until not one goose at the capital cackles Against the grand question of Catholic claims. XI. And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, Hold the helm of the State, and dispense in a jiffy More fishes than ever he caught when a boy. XII. And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows, In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock, When bred to our bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock. XIII. For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune, As Dian excels each encircling star; And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

A Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-punch. Heap on more coal there, And keep the glass moving, The frost nips my nose, Though my heart glows with loving. Here’s the dear creature, No skylights—a bumper; He who leaves heel taps I vote him a mumper. With hey cow rumble O, Whack! populorum, Merrily, merry men, Push round the jorum. What are Heaven’s pleasures That so very sweet are? Singing from psalters, In long or short metre. Planked on a wet cloud Without any breeches, Just like the Celtic, Met to make speeches. With hey cow rumble &c. Wide is the difference, My own boozing bullies, Here the round punch-bowl, Heap’d to the full is. Then if some wise one Thinks that up “yonder” Is pleasant as we are, Why—he’s in a blunder. With hey cow rumble, &c.

Love and the Flimsies. Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating, Above a green vale where a paper mill played; And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made. The air was all filled with the scent of the roses, Round the Miller’s veranda that clustered and twined; And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses, This spot of the earth would be most to his mind. And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity, Rigid of limb and complacent of face, And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,” And picking his pocket with infinite grace. And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,” His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air, Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity, Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates there. But sudden a tumult arose from a distance, And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone. And ere the scared miller could call for assistance, The mill to a million of atoms was blown. Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle, When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where; And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle, Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air. Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter, Pursuing the fragments that floated on high, As light as the fly that is christened from butter, Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky. “Oh, mother,” he cried, as he showed them to Venus, What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One? If you think them worth having, we’ll share them between us, Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John!” “My darling,” says Venus, “away from you throw them, They’re a sort of fool’s gold among mortals ’tis true; But we want them not here, though I think you might know them, Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.” Thomas Love Peacock. (From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial panic, in the winter 1825-26.)

The Bard of Erin’s Lament. Oh! weep for the hours when the little blind boy Wove around me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind; Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening’s close. * * * * * But weep for the hour! Life’s summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead—and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life’s lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tête-à-tête with a friend.

Old Sherry. (A Parody on the Anacreontic Song.) To old Sheridan once as he sat in full glee, A few duns for hard money sent a petition; And prayed that his cash or bank notes they might see, But this answer received from the sturdy old Grecian:— “My friends, I declare I have no cash to spare, And for all your distresses one damn I dont care, But then I’ll instruct you like me how to dine, And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine.” By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared, And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing, But their time and their talking they well might have spared, For old Sherry’s grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing. “My good friends,” says he, “The thing cannot be, For my purse can’t produce to you one mar’vedie; But if to discount some more bills you incline, You all shall partake of my banquet and wine.” The duns with amazement on each other gazed, Then threatened attornies, arrests, executions, But old Sheridan smiled, and was mightily pleased At their impotent threats, and their vain resolutions. “Goods and chattels,” says he, “You can’t get from me, And from all your arrests, I’m by privilege free; Disappointed and vex’d, let my creditors whine, I’ll still make them pay for my banquets and wine. “Dame Justice, that hobbling old Beldam I’ve found, With brisk Generosity ne’er can keep pacing; All my debts I would pay if the cash could be found, But my wants my finances are always outracing. Then submit with good grace, For while I’m out of place All payment of debt is quite out of the case; But if once I get in, ’tis my serious design, That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine.” The duns one and all from his presence withdrew, In sullen despair of e’er touching the rhino. And they’d never come there if old Sherry they knew But one half so truly as you or I know. In passing this quiz, So flushed was his phiz, That the nose of old Bardolph were ice matched to his; He returned to his friends, who’d just helped him to dine, And laughed at the dupes who found banquet and wine. From The Spirit of the Age Newspaper for 1828.

The Shy Bo-Peep. (A sea-side fact.) The shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone, In a bathing frock you’ll find her; A swimming belt she has girded on, And a life buoy slung behind her. “Bathe, I wont!” said this maiden shy, “Tho’ disappointment rankles, “In such a garb some man might spy My pettitoes and ankles!” Her friends protest, but the task is vain To make Bo-peep knock under, The frock was never worn again, For she tore its seams asunder; And said, “No more embarrass me “Thou cumbersome monstrosity! “I’ll bathe ‘au naturel’ and free In despite of curiosity!” A.H.S.

Observe when mother earth is dry, She drinks the droppings of the sky; And then the dewy cordial gives To every thirsty plant that lives. The vapours, which at evening weep, Are beverage to the swelling deep; And when the rosy sun appears, He drinks the ocean’s misty tears. The moon too quaffs her paly stream Of lustre from the solar beam. Then, hence with all your sober thinking Since Nature’s holy law is drinking; I’ll make the laws of Nature mine, And pledge the universe in wine. T. Moore.

“La terre, les eaux va boivant. L’arbre la boit par sa racine. La mer salée boit le vent, Et le soleil boit la marine. Le soleil est beu de la lune, Tout boit soit en haut ou en bas. Suivant ceste règle commune Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas?”

While life was mine, the little hour In drinking still unvaried flew; I drank as earth imbibes the shower, Or as the rainbow drinks the dew; As ocean quaffs the rivers up, Or flushing sun inhales the sea: Silenus trembled at my cup, And Bacchus was outdone by me!

“I’ll example you with thievery. The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears.”

The heavens carouse each day a cup, No wonder Atlas holds them up! The trees suck up the earth and ground, And in their brown bowls drink around; The sea, too, whom the salt makes dry, His greedy thirst to satisfy, Ten thousand rivers drink, and then Gets drunk, and brings them up again. The sun, and who as right as he? Sits up all night to drink the sea; The moon quaffs up the sun, her brother, And wishes she could tope another; If all things fuddle; why should I, Of all things, be the one that’s dry? Well, I’ll be content to thirst, But too much drink shall make me first. Lord Rochester (Died 1680).

The Thirsty Earth. (Freely translated from Anacreon.) Abraham Cowley (Died 1667.) The thirsty earth drinks up the rain And thirsts, and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup. The busy sun (and one would guess By’s drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done, The moon and stars drink up the sun, They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in nature’s sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses here; for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Little’s Poems. “Your mother says, my little Venus, There’s something not correct between us, And you’re in fault as well as I; Now on my soul, my little Venus, I think ’twould not be right between us, To let your mother tell a lie.”

“The lying world says naughty words Of you and I, my dearest love; You know, my dear, the world’s the Lord’s Let ’em no longer liars prove.”

“Why let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o’er the pedant fool, Like vapour on a stagnant pool.” Lloyd

“Must thou whose judgment dull and cool Is muddy as the stagnant pool.”

“Here is one leaf reserved for me From all thy sweet memorials free, And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus within thy mind One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet has been, Oh, it should be my sweetest care To write my name for ever there.”

“With what strange raptures would my soul be blest, Were but her book an emblem of her breast, As I from that all former marks efface, And, uncontroll’d, put new ones in their place, So might I chase all others from her heart, And my own image in the stead impart; But ah! how short the bliss would prove if he Who seized it next might do the same by me.”

“Oh, shall we not say thou art Love’s duodecimo; Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know, Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms, Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms.” Wit restored. In several select poems. 1658. “A woman is a book, and often found To prove far better in the sheets than bound; No marvail, then, why men take such delight Above all things to study in the night,”

“If Mahomet would but receive me, And Paradise be as he paints, I’m greatly afraid (God forgive me) I’d worship the eyes of his saints.”

Dryden. Epilogue to “Constantine the Great.” “Th’ original Trimmer, though a friend to no man, Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman, He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer, And, which was more than mortal man e’er tasted, One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lasted, To burn for this may surely be forgiven, Who’d not be circumcised for such a heaven?”

“Weep on, and as thy sorrows flow I’ll taste the luxury of woe.”

Langhorne. Precepts of Conjugal Happiness “For once this pain, this frantic pain forego, And feel at least the luxury of woe.”

“When the sunshine of the bowl Thaws the ice about the soul.”

Cawthorne. “However, when the sprightly bowl Had thaw’d the ice about the soul,”

“And when he said, Heaven rest her soul Round the lake-like music stole, And her ghost was seen to glide Smiling o’er the fatal tide.”

Kirke White. Gondoline. “The maid was seen no more; but oft Her ghost is known to glide At midnight’s silent, solemn hour Along the ocean’s tide.”

“Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest In the bosom of shade with the friends I love best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

Sir John Suckling. Aglaura, act iv. “Alas! we two Have mingled souls more than two meeting brooks.” Dryden. All for Love, act iii., sc. 3. “We were so closed within each other’s breasts, The rivets were not found that join’d us first, 278 That does not reach us yet,—we were so mixt As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost.” Wilson. City of the Plague, act iii. sc. 3. “We shall die Like two glad waves, that, meeting on the shore In moonlight and in music melt away Quietly mid the quiet wilderness.”

“My only book Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me.” John Heywood. Of a most noble Ladye. “The vertue of her looks Excels the precious stone, Ye need none other books To read or look upon.”

“No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go tell our invaders, the Danes, That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine Than to sleep but a moment in chains.” Addison. Cato, act ii. sc. 1. “A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.”

“Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d, Like the vase in which roses have once been distill’d; You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” Sir John Suckling. Brennoralt, act v. “Thou motion’st well, nor have I taken leave. It keeps a sweetness yet, [Kisses her]. As stills from roses when the flowers are gone.” Philip Massinger. Roman Actor, act iv. sc. 2. “But that thou, whom oft I’ve seen To personate a gentleman, noble, wise, Faithful and gainsome, and what virtues else The poet pleases to adorn you with; But that (as vessels still partake the odour Of the sweet precious liquors they contain’d) Thou must be really in some degree The thing thou dost present.”

“As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.” James Mervyn. On Shirley’s Plays. “They might, like waters in the sunshine set, Retain his image, not impart his heat.”

“The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this.” Sir William Jones.

“Though dark are our sorrows to-day, we’ll forget them, And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in showers.” Sir E. Brydges. Restituta, vol. ii. p. 337. “Golden storms Fell from their eyes, as when the sun appears; And yet it rains, so shew’d their eyes their tears.”

“I flew to her chamber, ’twas lonely, As if the loved tenant lay dead; Ah, would it were death and death only! But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss; While the hand that had waked it so often, Now throbb’d to a proud rival’s kiss.”

“Nic. Master, here’s her lute flung in a corner! Frank. Her lute! Oh, God! upon this instrument Her fingers have ran quick division, Swifter than that which now divides our hearts. * * * Oh, Master Cranwell! Oft hath she made this melancholy wood (Now mute and dumb, for her disastrous change) Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain, To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung, What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!”

A Riddle. I was fashion’d by nature, and formed in the sun, And I’ve followed him since in the race he has run; 279 Not a country he warms but I’ve wandered it through, From Kerguelens land to the verge of Peru; Not a soul has been born, not a creature on earth, But I have been there in the hour of birth; I was present each minute in life as it pass’d, And I mix’d with the dust it return’d to at last. In the cup of the lily I love to repose, And I guard, like a spirit, the bud of the rose. In the feverish thoughts, and the doubt of a dream, In the murmur that wakes from the bed of the stream; In the struggle we hear when the tempest is high, In the thunder that breaks ere we dream it is nigh; In the fortune of war, in the plume of the brave, In the surge, as it chafes on the crest of the wave, I have ever been present, and ever must be, Though the Universe had its beginning with me; Though my fate is entwined with futurity too, Yet I cannot last long, for I finish in you. U.

Tobacco. Sublime Tobacco! which from East to West Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest; Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand; Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress, More dazzlingly when daring in full dress, Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties—Give me a cigar! The Island.

The Potato. “Sublime potatoes! that, from Antrim’s shore To famous Kerry, form the poor man’s store; Agreeing well with every place and state— The peasant’s noggin, or the rich man’s plate. Much prized when smoking from the teeming pot, Or in turf-embers roasted crisp and hot. Welcome, although you be our only dish; Welcome, companion to flesh, fowl, or fish; But to the real gourmands, the learned few, Most welcome, steaming in an Irish stew.” T. Crofton Croker.

The Defeat of Crack-a-Rib. Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold, And his bellows was good, and his nobbers all told: And the shout of his backers was like the hurrah Of the Black Diamond’s friends, when he queer’d Quashee’s jaw. Like sheep in the pens, in that business so green, All sporting their flimsies, the kiddies were seen; Like those sheep, when the shearer has thought them full grown, And fleeced them, those kiddies stood chilly and lone. For the genius of Milling came down on the blast, And bung’d up the eyes of the Jew pretty fast; And the glims of the green ones with gloom ’gan to fill, When they saw how the gilding was gone from their pill. And there lay the cove with his mouth open wide But through it there came not the sounds that defied; And those who have made him are wild on the turf, That the swell they had raised should prove nothing but surf. And the pugilist’s fancy is loud in her wail, For fear that her man should be clapt into jail; And the queer’d ones of Israel no blunt can afford, To flash in the ring, since their swell has been floor’d.

The Auction. Three women went sailing out into the street To the brown stone front where the red flag hung They jostled the crowd all day on their feet, While “going and going and gone” was sung. For women must go where bargains are had, And buy old trash, if ever so bad, And husbands must never be groaning. Three husbands all hungry went homeward to dine, But when they arrived there was nothing to eat, Three women, all crazy, and looking so fine, Were gabbling of bargains along on the street, For women must talk of bargains they buy, And homes must suffer, and babies must cry, And husbands must ever be groaning. Three women were showing their husbands with glee Their bargains at prices that never were beat: Three husbands all starving and mad as could be, Were tossing the bargains out into the street. For men don’t know when bargains are cheap, And women, poor creatures, do nothing but weep, And husbands must ever be groaning.

Three Little Fishers. Three little fishers trudged over the hill, Over the hill in the sun’s broad glare, With rods and crook’d pins, to the brook by the mill, While three fond mothers sought them everywhere. For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny; Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly To come safely back in the gloaming. Three mothers waited outside of the gate; Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt and worn, Came into sight as the evening grew late: Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn, For “boys will be boys”—have a keen eye for fun, While mothers fret, fume, scold, and—succumb, And welcome them home in the gloaming. Three little fishers were called to explain— Each stood condemned, with a thumb in his eye, They promised never to do so again, And were hung up in the pantry to dry. 280 Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief, An end had been put to their magnified grief, When the boys came home in the gloaming. Frank H. Stauffer. Detroit Free Press, July 10, 1886.

Three Cows. Three cows were seized for the tithe rent in the West, For the parson’s tithe in old Ruthin’s town, And the Taffies flocked, with a lively zest, To the farm to see the crummies knocked down For parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay, Though crops may fail, and quarter-day, And bankruptcy they be reaching. Three bailiffs ran after the cows in the park, After the cows amid laughter and groan, Policeman and people enjoying the lark; And the cattle weren’t caught when the bailies were blown. But parsons want tithes, and farmers must pay, Or their kine will be sold and be harried away, To provide for the Church and the preaching. Three constables guarded the auctioneer, And three milch beauties fetched twenty pounds; The tithe was paid with expenses clear, And the knight of the hammer was hissed off the ground For parsons want money, and tithes must be paid; But the sooner they’re done with the better ’tis said, Or good-bye to the Church and its teaching.

Three Fishers. Three fishers went fishing out into the sea With bottles well filled with the regular bait: They burned in the sun and told stories with glee And caught one sea-robin, a crab and a skate; But, as they were told, on the previous day, More fishes were caught than were carried away, And then were these fishers a-groaning. Three fishers all blistered crawled homeward intent With cussing their luck and without any bait, And also without the small fortune they’d spent For one old sea-robin, a crab and a skate, But then—if the wind or the tide had been right, Or different bait, or fishes would bite, These fishers would not be a-groaning. Three fishers went telling some terrible lies Of how they returned with a ton or so weight; The fish, they kept growing in numbers and size As fast as the fishers could swallow more “bait.” For spinning of yarns is the only delight Of fishers who fish without getting a bite And who, when alone, are a-groaning. H. C. Dodge. Detroit Free Press, August 21, 1886.

A Parody of Rogero’s Song in The Anti-Jacobin. Snobs of Cambridge, you must all Have a piece of garden ground, Well enclosed with a wall, Or with a fence well guarded round. Get of plants that none e’er saw A beautiful variety; Then be a member of the Hor- -Ticultural Society! Work and toil both night and day, Rearing flowers choice and rare; And then—if you like you may With them to the show repair. But since a Snob, expect a flaw, In spite of your anxiety; ’Tis never heeded by the Hor- -Ticultural Society. Humble plants in order stand, And sensitives in order too: Shrinking from the Floral wand Of Mister Touch-me-not and Co. Such humble plants you never saw, Waiting for their moiety Awarded to them by the Hor- -Ticultural Society. Cocks-combs leave their native seat, Cocks-combs dwarf and cocks-combs tall, Other cocks-combs here to meet, And whisper, “Snobs, we’ve done you all.” Oh! what are those great baskets for— Those looks of such anxiety? Why! for the Sweepstakes of the Hor- -Ticultural Society! Grow a Pine that’s worth a guinea, And they’ll award you just a crown; Quere?—who is such a ninney? Some there are—their names are down; But the pine’s his own!—O, no, ’tis for One Mister Sec-Satiety: Wot drives the members of the Hor- -Ticultural Society!! The Gownsman (Cambridge), November 26, 1830.