WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 2)

‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear The song of La Palice; It surely will delight you all, Provided that it please,’

‘La Palice but little wealth To his renown could bring; And when abundance was his lot, He lacked no single thing.’

‘He was versed in all the games Played at the academy; And never was unfortunate When he won the victory.’

‘To do and dare in his career, He readily inclined; And when he stood before the king, He was not, sure, behind. Fate dealt to him a cruel blow. And stretched him on the ground; And ’tis believed that since he died, It was a mortal wound. His death was sore and terrible, Upon a stone his head; He would have died more easily Upon a feather bed.’

‘Deplored and envied by his braves, He shut his eyes to strife; And we are told his day of death Was the last of his life.’

The Right and Marvellous History of John Smith. John Smith he was a guardsman bold, A stouter never fought; He would have been a grenadier, But he was one foot short. But to a man of John Smith’s mind The love of power had charms; So when his captain ordered him, John Smith order’d his arms. An active, bustling blade was he, At drill and eke at mess, Who never thought to stand at ease When Captains called out “dress,” Attentive always to the word, It never was his wont To turn his eyes or right or left— When Captains cried “eyes front!” Though he was ever thought correct, Once, during an assault, He ne’er advanced a single foot— ’Cause he was told to halt. But still he was not coward called, Why,—we can soon detect; His foes all fell dead at his feet,— When his shots took effect. But tired of knapsack and of gun And firing in platoons, The infantry he quitted when— He entered the dragoons. His saddle now became his home, His horse and he seemed one; And he was ne’er known to dismount,— Unless he first got on. How brave and bold a man he was, From one small fact is clear; Whole regiments fled before him when,— He followed in their rear. He was a steady soldier then. And sober too, of course, And ne’er into a tap-room went,— Mounted upon his horse. In fact his conduct was so good, His Captains all confess He never got into a scrape,— Though always in a mess. Though as to what fights he’d been in Men differed,—none denied That the last battle he e’er fought Was that in which he died. The soldiers there who saw him fall, Exclaimed, as with one breath, “Unless his wound’s a mortal one, It will not cause his death.” 10 Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s Nought but the truth did tell; But this none ever stopped to read, Who had not learn’d to spell. “Stop, passenger, and weep;—one tear To him you can’t refuse, Who stood—high in his regiment, And five feet in his shoes.” The Comic Magazine, 1834.

A History. There was a man, so legends say, And he—how strange to tell!— Was born upon the very day, Whereon his birthday fell. He was a baby first. And then He was his parents’ joy; But was a man soon after, when He ceased to be a boy. And when he got to middle life, To marry was his whim; The self-same day he took a wife, Some woman wedded him. None saw him to the other side Of Styx by Charon ferried; But ’tis conjectured that he died Because he has been buried. Tom Hood, the younger.

Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign. Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug; A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray, That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread: The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: The Royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d, And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay A cap by night—a stocking all the day! Oliver Goldsmith.

Beauties of the Great Masters. The Street Artist. Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way, Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay; Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain, Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane; There on a wintry morning, clad in rags, The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags— A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks, Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks; And o’er the pavement—green, and blue, and red— In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread; Maxims of charity were there in view, And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew, Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice), And great Napoleon showed his well-known face— The morn was cold—he takes with down-cast eye The offerings of the pitying passers-by— How changed the scene, when, to his home returned, He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned— With steaks and beer his vigour is restored, And crack companions grace his festive board— He dons a coat—his rags he throws away— A swell by night—a beggar all the day. The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.

The Doomed Village. A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright. “Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,” Could thy true Poet visit earth again, How would his patriot spirit grieve to see A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee! The decent church abandoned to the owl, The ruined parsonage, the roofless school, The village of its preacher’s voice bereft, The little flock without a shepherd left, Without “the man to all the country dear,” Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer; “Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. Still in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.” Will then the State suppress the godly man, And bid him buy his dwelling if he can, That hospitable roof and open door Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor, Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid Which pious ages gifts to God had made, Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost, His faith unaided and his altar lost, To quit for distant lands his long-loved home, Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome? Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust That Royal womanhood will still be just? Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown, And let her statesmen drive them from her throne? The man of State who wants a heart to feel Wants that which most concerns the public weal; No nice distinction will he stoop to make Between the power to seize, and right to take. 11 “The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.” False allegations then a pretext yield; And Ahab takes possession of the field. Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind; No law can fix him, and no treaty bind; He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal, And bids him trust in voluntary zeal, Go beg the bread that has been all his own, Along a road untravelled and unknown, Ardent alike to pare a Church away, And lay a tax for charities to pay. Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan? Whither are Equity and Pity flown? Are all the virtues melted down in one, Of neutral colour much resembling none? A large, loose, Liberality of mind, True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind. Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known, And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne; Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right, And Policy disdained to side with spite, Not hounding on the envious pack which pant To tear away the bone they do not want, Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up, As if they all still mantled in the cup, And loved by antiquated tales to shew, How Britain always has been Erin’s foe; Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief, And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief. Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired, By many hearts revered, by all admired; In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone; Will Erin cease to claim them for her own? Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name, Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame? Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot, With the blest book he gave the Irish cot? Will it grate harshly on her altered ear, Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear? Will she no longer boast that God had given “To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?” Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been, The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen? Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart? Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart, The signs and records of an alien band, Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land? “It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim; “It was your fathers then that fouled it so,” Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.” The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl; In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife, And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life, An offering to peace, a needful feast, To stay the hunger of the savage beast. The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries, Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device, The struggles of the bleeding victim mock, And join the wolf in ravaging the flock. But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end, And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend, Raise many a champion through the land to lead A growing host for poverty to plead, The sacred voice of conscience wake within, Forbid the fatal policy of sin, Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate, Calm down the public mind, and save the State. Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war, Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky On the self-immolated quarry fly. So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand! Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand; So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep, Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep; So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride, By justice checked, within its banks subside; So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit, Revived and cherished, well its place befit, And through the time to come serenely bright Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light. Immortal Light, that can’st alone control The brutal instincts of the savage soul, ’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife The deep significance of human life, Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God, The awful sanctions of His penal code; Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read, The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.

The Deserted Village. Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain, Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid, And the rich summer dinner-tables laid. Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease, Seats of my youth when every card could please, How often have I done thy park so green Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene; How often have I paused the throng to tell, Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell, The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill, The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill, The moving row with spots beneath the shade For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made: How often have I blest the late-born day, When play remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village swells from dinner free, Led up the sports that fashion loves to see, While much flirtation circled in the shade, The young ones spooning as the old surveyed, And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground, And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round; And still as each repeated partner tired, Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired. The dancing man, who simply sought renown By leading all the cotillons in town, The swain mistrustful of his smutty face, While secret riddles tittered round the place, The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love, The chaperons who would those looks reprove, These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these With sweet succession taught e’en town to please, These round thy bowers their genial influence shed, These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn, Within thy doors upholsterers are seen, And water-carts alone the park keep green; Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain, 12 Of all thy people none with thee remain. No more thy babbling talk reflects the day, But in the country winds its shallow way; Along thy park a solitary guest, A sole policeman now laments the rest, Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils, Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils; Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all, And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball, And trembling, lest they last should join the band, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where working men increase and swells decay, Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade, Hardy may make them as Walpole has made, But fashionable swells, their country’s pride, Once out of town can never be supplied. The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.

London in September (Not in 1831), By Lord John Russell. (After The Traveller, by Oliver Goldsmith). “Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, A single horseman passes Rotten row; In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news. At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass; The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square. From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy, And seeks—Oh bliss—the Molly—a tempora fandi. Meantime the battered pavement is at rest, And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest, Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long, Have all left town to join the Margate throng. The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore Displays and drives his blue barouche and four, The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun, Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”

“Gentle Herdsman Tell to Me.” Gentle herdsman, tell to me, Of curtesy I thee pray— Unto the towne of Wallsingham Which is the right and ready way? “Unto the towne of Walsingham, The way is hard for to be gone, And very crooked are those pathes For you to find out all alone.” Were the miles doubled thrise And the way never so ill, It were not enough for mine offence; It is so grevous and so ill. “Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire, Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene; Time hath not given thee leave as yet For to commit so great a sinne!” Yes, herdsman, yes, soe wou’dst thou say, If thou knewest so much as I; My wits, and thoughtes, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye. I am not what I seeme to bee, My cloths and sexe doe differ fare; I am a woman, woe is mee! Born to greeffe, and irksome care. For my beloved, and well beloved, My wayward cruelty could kill; And though my teares will naught avail, Most dearely I bewail him still. He was the flower of noble wights, None ever more sincere colde bee, Of comelye mien and shape he was, And tenderlye he loved mee. When thus I sawe he loved me well, I grew so proude his paine to see, That I, who did not know myselfe, Thought scorne of such a youth as hee. And grew so coy, and nice to please, As women’s lookes are often soe, He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, Unlesse I willed him soe to doe. Thus being wearyed with delayes, To see I pityed not his greeffe, He goes him to a secret place, And there he dyed without releeffe. 13 And for his sake these weedes I weare, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I’ll beg my bread, To undergoe this pilgrimage. Thus every day I’ll fast and praye, And ever will do till I dye; And get me to some secrett place, For so did hee, and soe will I. Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more, But keep my secretts I thee pray; Unto the towne of Wallsingham Shew me the right and readye waye. “Now goe thy wayes, and God before, For he must ever guide thee still; Turn down the dale the righte hand pathe, And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”

The Hermit. “Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. “For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.” “Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, “To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. “Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still: And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will. “Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate’er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. “No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: “But from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. “Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego; All earthborn cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.” Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master’s care; The wicket, opening with a latch Received the harmless pair. And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest: And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil’d; And skill’d in legendary lore The lingering hours beguil’d. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket churrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger’s woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spy’d, With answ’ring care opprest: “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d “The sorrows of thy breast? “From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, Or unregarded love? “Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. “And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? “And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one’s jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest. “For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex” he said But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms. “And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn.” she cried; “Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. “But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray: Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. “My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine He had but only me. “To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber’d suitors came; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign’d a flame. 14 “Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d, But never talk’d of love. “In humblest, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor pow’r had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. “And when, beside me in the dale, He carol’d lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove.[11] “The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heav’n refin’d, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine. “For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart I triumph’d in his pain. “Till quite dejected with my scorn He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay: I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. “And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I’ll lay me down and die; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.” “Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wandering fair one turned to chide;— ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d. “Turn Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee. “Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev’ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life—my all that’s mine? “No never, from this hour to part We’ll live and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”

It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes. “Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see?” “And how should I know your true love From many another one?” “O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoone.”[12] “But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so faire to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d, And eyne of lovely blue.” O, lady he is dead and gone! Lady, he’s dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone. “Within these holy cloysters long He lanquisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And ’playning of her pride.” * * * * * “And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And dids’t thou dye of love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone!” “O, weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne tears bedew thy cheek.” “O, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e’er wan ladyes love. And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I’ll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye.” (Eleven stanzas here omitted.) * * * * * “O, stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away.” “Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears. Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. 15 But haply, for my year of grace[13] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.

The Hermit. A Prophetic Ballad. “Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where some shanty cheers the vale With hospitable ray. “For as, forlorn and lost, I tread This weary waste, and slow, My skirts immeasurably spread Impede me as I go.” “Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries, “My roof shall give thee shade; I call thee girl, although mine eyes Behold no tender maid. “But, exiled from the world, I find— However old she be— That any one of womankind Is as a girl to me. “A kiss I beg, just one! what no? Is kissing then so wrong? Man wants a little here below Though not perhaps, for long. “Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare My modesty invade!” Fury inspired the conscious fair, And fury her betrayed. That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast, Those thewy, threatening arms! The lonely stranger stands confest— A man in all his charms. “And, ah! excuse a stranger rude, A hunted wretch,” he cried; “Indeed I hope I don’t intrude Where you in peace reside. “But pity a poor trader who Has mixed in public fray, And learned what politics can do In leading men astray, “My chief the Land League party led In Parliament and out, And by his side I fought and bled With constancy devout. “Pretenders to the Chiefship came To win me from his band; But still I loved but Parnell’s name And bow’d to his command. “And length to ’scape arrest, one morn He deemed it best to hide; And sought some solitude forlorn In secret, where he died. “Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught In feminine array And seek the solitude he sought To stretch me where he lay. “There, my identity thus hid I’ll lay me down and die For Ireland so my Parnell did And so for him will I.” “Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped him to his breast The wondering stranger turn’d to chide ’Twas Parnell’s self that prest! “Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear! My comrade turn to see Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here, True to the League and thee!” The St. James’s Gazette, February 28, 1881.

Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes, We’ll serve up ourselves for the rest of the dishes. Our L—v—rp—l’s beef at the top let us find, Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind: Let C—strl—gh’s turtle at bottom be placed, Restoring the system and pleasing the taste: And Gr—nv—lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on, The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton, Our C—nn—ng is salt; for his talents are such That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch, While B—rd—tt resembles the onion that throws A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes. 16 With a chicken well boiled, gentle S—dm—th will treat us, And Cr—k—r shall serve for our Irish potatoes: Brown stout shall be Wh—tbr—d, the dregs of the cup, And Shr—d—n, spruce, not sufficiently up. Push about, Mr. Speaker—I’ll sit, if I’m able, Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table; And while they are lying unconscious before us, We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us. Now L—v—rp—l’s Earl lies along at our feet, Who was eloquent often, and always discreet. If failings he had, he has left us in doubt, Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out, But Scandal has said, he had more admiration For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation. Here sleeps the bold Wh—tbr—d, whose temper was such That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much: Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind, And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind: Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote: Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far That his passion for peace kept him always at war: Though equal to most things, for all things unfit; Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit: Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent, And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:— So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season, Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason. Here C—tl—r—gh lies, with a mind like the mint, Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t. His well-bred demeanour still bore him along Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng, Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend, He softened the means, but to strengthen the end. Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone? His country will tell you—for all was her own. Here slumbers poor Sh—rry, whose fate I must sigh at! Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet. What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle! Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle! Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall, Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick, But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here S—dm—th reposes, whose virtues and parts Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts: A friend of religion, who made it his care To live as men ought to be, not as they are. Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line, And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine. To a coming millenium has fashioned his views, Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews. Say, where has his genius this malady caught, Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault? Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind To estimate coolly the mass of mankind, Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf, At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself? Here B—rd—tt retires, from his rows to relax, The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks. O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade; Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid! When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town, I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own; But wanting the aid of this giant detractor, The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture; The lightnings of G—rr—w may slumber at length, And the thunder-toned justice of Ell—nb’r—gh’s strength; The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition, No leader remaining to spur their ambition; Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark, And C—bb—tt meet W—thm—n, and wail in the dark! Here sleeps my Lord Gr—nv—lle, describe him who can, A compression of all that was solid in man. For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine: For head, if not first, in the very first line, Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition, He was duped by his own over-weening ambition; Like Satan of old from authority fell, And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell. In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder: ’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder: For, straining too far to secure the command, He cut off all hope from himself and his band, Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in, Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win. He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack— But found not the secret to whistle them back, He loved popularity, swallow’d what came, And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame; Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone, And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan. Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews, He paid for their praises by sending them news. Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave! What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How aptly, on both sides, the eulogy fitted, When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted; But peace to his errors, whatever his fate, For his former deserts had been many and great: The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill, Shall plead his apology, happen what will; His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve, And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above. Here Cr—k—r reclines, a most smart, clever creature, And ev’n opposition allow him good nature. He was true to his country, his friends, and his king: Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing, Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit? Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit. Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat? I do not intend to impeach him of that. Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day, And so became careless and indolent? Nay, Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it— He was—could he help it?—by nature a poet! Here C—nn—ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a brighter or better behind: His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand, His character cordial, attaching, and bland: Still born to improve us in every part, His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart. The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits, He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits; When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore, He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!—

The Hermit of Vauxhall.[15] (A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith.) Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall, And let me know the way In which, within that cavern small, You pass your time away. There’s nothing but a little lamp, A pitcher and a cat! The place must be extremely damp— Why don’t you wear a hat? No chaff, my son, the hermit cries, But walk your chalks along; Your path to the rotunda lies— They’re going to sing a song. Father, I care not for the strain Of that young girl in blue, But, if you please, I will remain, And have a chat with you. My son, you surely wish to hear The music of the band; But if you stop—a drop of beer I think you ought to stand. Father, to grant what you require, I’ll not a moment fail; Here, waiter, bring the holy friar A pint of Burton ale. The waiter brought the welcome draught, I took a little sup; The liquor then the hermit quaff’d, He fairly mopped it up. Father, I cried, now if you please, Philosophy we’ll talk— As the wind murmurs through the trees, Skirting the long dark walk. My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage, Nor on me make a call— My life is but a pilgrimage From Lambeth to Vauxhall. At eve when shops their shutters shut, And tolls the curfew bell, I quit my room in the New Cut, To sit within this cell. A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese My landlady provides, Save, what to give the public please, I’ve nothing, son, besides. Father, your salary, of course, You must receive, I said; Your sitting here is not by force: How do you get your bread? The sage replied, Alas, my son, I light the lamps by day— The hermit’s work, at evening done, Brings me no extra pay. And get you cheese alone to eat, I asked the good old man. Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat From baked potato can. The luxury sometimes I bring With butter—a small lump, With water from the crystal spring That rises ’neath our pump. Father, I cried, your tale is long, You tire my patience quite; I’m off to hear the comic song, Lull-li-e-tee, good night, Gilbert A. a’Beckett. From George Cruikshank’s Table Book, 1845.

Home, Sweet Home. (As it might have been constructed in 1744. Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.) Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise: Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies! ’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father’s breast. There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest: Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heav’n upon our dark below. When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature’s law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share, His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer. From Scribner’s Monthly, May, 1881.

A Brand-New Song, (After Goldsmith.) (On the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch at the Folly Theatre.) When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly, And finds with tickers roughs make way, What charm can soothe his melancholy— Can Laughing gas his loss repay? The only way to hide vexation, To shield himself from pungent chaff, Save dignity of House and nation, And keep his temper, is—to laugh. Punch, May 5, 1877.

On Mr. Warton, M.P. When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff, He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,

Innovation. Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town, Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown, I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid, When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d: Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze, Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please; How often happier than a king or queen, While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene. How often have I paused on ev’ry charm, The speaking silence, the expression warm, The never-failing start, the gushing tear, The broken accents trembling on the ear; The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade, Impervious scene for love or murder made; How often have I blessed the parting day, When, tea removed, I hurried to the play; And both the galleries, from labour free, Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee; While many a first appearance has been made, The young contending as the old survey’d, And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground, While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round; And still as each repeated effort tir’d, The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d. The rival Romeos that sought renown, By holding out, to tire each other down; The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face; While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place; The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love, The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these, With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please. These round the theatre alternate shed Laughter and tears—but all these charms are fled. Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town, Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down. ’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen, And critic fury tears away the green; Monopoly now grasps the whole domain, And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain. No wit or humour marks the lively play, But puns and quibbles make their saucy way; Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest, Dull Declamation snores herself to rest. The place of elegance a stare supplies, And affectation that nor laughs nor cries. Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all, For he acts best who can the loudest bawl; Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage, To fright astonish’d reason from the stage. Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey, Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay; Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade, A puff can make them, as a puff has made, But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied. * * * * * Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close, Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose; There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow, In Hamlet—looked unutterable woe! Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved, Barry grew agonised in—“not much mov’d.” There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court, Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport. There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn. Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn. There the apt tune in timely moment play’d, To fill each pause the exeunt had made. But now simplicity’s soft accents fail, And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail. No friends to Nature on the boards now tread, But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled! * * * * * Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet, Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street, There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool, Good Master Shuter first was put to school. Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low, “Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.” Well did the tittering audience love to trace The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face; Well would the busy whisper circle round, When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d; Yet he was kind—but if absurd in aught, The love he bore to blackguards was in fault. The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew, ’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too. While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound, Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around: And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew, That one droll head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame—the Rose and Crown, Where he so oft got tipsy—is burnt down. Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high, Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye; Dull is that dressing-room—by Quin inspir’d, Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d; When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound, And apt quotations—meant for wit—went round; Imagination fondly stoops to trace, The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place; The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor, 19 The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door: The clothes—their different duties made to pay, To deck the stage by night, the street by day; The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan, Garrick i’ the lanthorn—Quin in the sedan; The toilet stocked to decorate the play, Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay; While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show, Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row. Vain transitory splendours could not all Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall. Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name, For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame; To paltry players, no more shall he impart An hour’s delight to the convivial heart: Thither no more shall witty lords repair, To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care! No more the anecdote, the luscious tale, The mirth-inspiring good-thing shall prevail; No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer, Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear; Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found, Careful to see the chuckling fun go round; Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried, Shall blush to speak a smutty speech aside.

The Deserted School. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go, And onward where one hears that dismal yell Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,” Or where that dear old School forsaken lies A weary waste expanding to the skies. Where’er I roam whatever realms to see, My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee; My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain, “Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again. * * * * * And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall To see humanity of man so small; To turn us all away from that dear School, And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool. But my worn soul now deems it for the best At Kensington to see my fellows blest. James E. Thompson. From Pauline, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School, in the City of London, October, 1885.

Jupiter and Mercury, a Fable, Here, Hermes says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay—I will make an odd fellow: Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some dross: Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking, Turn’d to learning and gaminq, religion and raking. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail; For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it, This Scholar, Rake, Christian, Dupe, Gamester, and Poet; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals—be Goldsmith his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You—Hermes—shall fetch him—to make us sport here.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.” “And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the Glen, My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride! Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?” Outspoke the hardy Highland wight “I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready:— It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heav’n each face Grew dark as they were speaking, But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. “Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies: But not an angry father.” The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather’d o’er her. And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was chang’d to wailing. For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade His child he did discover:— One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover. “Come back, come back!” he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!—Oh my daughter!” ’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing:— The waters wild went o’er his child— And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell.

Sir Robert’s Bill.[16] Sir Robert, to the Commons bound, Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry, And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round, If now my bill you’ll carry!” “And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’ My own peculiar treasure?” “Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel, That does just what’s my pleasure. And fast before the farmers’ friends, I’ve fled in your direction— And, should they gain their private ends, My bill would meet rejection!” “George Bentinck follows fast along, From him great harm I feel, Sir, And, should he prove so very strong, Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?” Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then— “I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready— It is not for yourself, ye ken, But for the League so seedy! “And, by my word, the Cotton Lords In danger shall not tarry— And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords, Your measure I will carry!” “Then haste ye, haste, and no more words, Nor wait till it be calmer— I’ll meet the raging of the Lords, But not an angry farmer!” The stormy Council Peel has left, A stormy House before him— And see, the Tories, all a drift, Have soon begun to bore him. Yet still he waged the wordy war, With foemen justly railing— Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,” From wrath he turned to wailing. 22 For on that night in dismal plight, Sir Peel he saw to sob then— One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright, And one was round his Cobden! “Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief, Across the stormy lobby, “We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief, Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!” ’Twas true—the turn-coats vainly rave, Protection’s friends preventing, The Tories brave kick’d out the knave, And he was left repenting. From Protectionist Parodies, by “A Tory.” Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.

John Thompson’s Daughter. A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry, And I’ll give thee a silver dime To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I am this young lady’s beau, And she, John Thompson’s daughter. “We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite With great precipitation, And should he find us here to-night, I’d lose my reputation. “They’ve missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me, And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?” Out spoke the boatman then in time, “You shall not fail, don’t fear it; I’ll go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit. “And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing, But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer. “O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “It’s anything but funny; I’ll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my Father’s money!” And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing place, His wrath was turned to swearing. For by the lightning’s angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover! “Come back, come back,” he cried in woe. Across the stormy water, “But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, Oh! my daughter!” Twas vain, they reached the other shore, (Such dooms the Fates assign us), The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there, minus. From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.

Lambeth Ferry. A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town Cried “Boatman do not tarry: I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown To row me over with Mary.” “Now who be he vould cross the Thames Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?” “Vy Billy Downey is my name, And this is Black Joe’s Daughter. “Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys! An hour we’ve run away, man! Should they catch us they’d make a noise, And my poor back vould pay, man.” Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull; Jump in my boat, be jolly; It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull, But for your charming Polly. “And so help me tater, the darlen creetur, Though in danger you have brought her, But if it should rain both cats and dogs, I’ll row you o’er the vater.” And then the vind it howled apace, The rain vas fast a pattering. They stared in each other’s face As they stood there a chattering. And still as the rain made more noise, And as the vind blow’d hoarser, They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys As if they vos coming closer. “Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said, “Though the veather be ever so cold, man, I’d rather meet a vatery bed Than meet my angry old man.” The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore, They pulled away, ahoy! sir, Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand, They run against a buoy, sir. My eyes! how the wild waves did roar, Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying, Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore, Ven he begun a-crying. For ven towards the wreck he look’d His child he did discover. Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d Tother vos round her lover. “Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,” “Come back, vot are you arter, And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey, My daughter! oh, my daughter.” But a wave came vot upset the boat In the vater they vos drivelling. Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat, And he began a snivelling! Anonymous.

The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter. A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry; And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.” The boatman did not even smile, But looked across the water; He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter. “Oh, haste thee!—haste!” the lady cried, “This youth and I, eloping, Would cross at once to t’other side, So aid us in our sloping!” The boatman budged no inch, and then The clue Lord U. discovers; And down the glen ride armed men, And catch the brace of lovers. “Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief, “If I were free I’d show ye”— “We’d rather dee on Loch Maree Than on the Sawbath row ye!” Funny Folks, July 13, 1878.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array’d, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash’d the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens, on ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre! Thomas Campbell.

“And every sod beneath their feet Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.”

BANNOCKBURN. (An imitation of Hohenlinden.) Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave The rising sun its radiance gave, Upon the armour of the brave That burned for battle brilliantly. And Scotland by that soaring sun Beheld her brightest day begun— Her greenest wreath of glory won By deeds of dauntless bravery. On Bannockburn’s camp covered field The men of war were met to wield, With hostile hand, the sword and shield, For conquest or for liberty! How gaily glanced that field before Began the battle’s rage and roar! That reddened with the reeking gore As raved the dreadful revelry. The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high, St. George! for Edward was the cry, And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky, St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty! Then closed the conflict deep and dread! Then strained the bow and struck the blade, Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed, As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry! What feelings fired each hero’s heart, For conquest or a country’s part, As from each eye the flash did dart, That spoke the spirits enmity: But fast the Southrons fell and fled Where Bruce—brave Bruce! his patriots led, And Scotland’s lion rampant—red Pranced proudly on to victory! And may each land, as Scotland, scorn The tyrant’s threat—his thraldom spurn With such success as Bannockburn Of dear and deathless memory! Archie Aliquis. From The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties. Printed by Edward Lacey, 1825.

On Granta, when the sun was low, No symptoms lower’d of fearless row, But all was silent as the flow Of Camus rolling tardily. But Granta saw another sight, When Radicals presumed at night, With Carter’s[17] mutton-wicks to light Their Caroline’s base treachery. Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d, Each Gownsman rush’d the cause to aid, And fast about him each one laid, With blows that told most terribly. Then rushing forth the Snobs among, Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung, And loud and clear the market rung, With shouts of dreadless liberty. But redder yet shall be each cheek, And louder yet each tongue shall speak, And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak His vengeance most undauntedly. ’Tis rushlight all—but what can shew The Gownsman from the Gownsman’s foe, As shouting in thick files they go To battle all so merrily? No banners there were waving high, To cheer the brave to victory, No pennon floating to the sky, With rare device wrought curiously. No plumes of crested pride were seen, But tassels black of silken sheen, With gold and silver mix’d between, Emblems of unanimity! No sound was heard of martial drum, No bugle blast, but one wild hum Floated o’er all: “The Snobs! they come, On! on! and meet them cheerily.” And then was shout, and noise, and din, As rallying forwards poured in, Hundreds and hundreds to begin The work of fame so gloriously. Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight, The tall—the low—the strong—the light; And, oh! it was a glorious sight, That strife of Town and Gown to see. As fist to fist, rais’d high in air, And face to face opposed were, As shone the conflict in the glare Of lights that told of Bergami. Then rushed to fight the hardy Soph, Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff, As one by one they sallied forth To war in ambush warily. Then rush’d the Freshman to essay His maiden valour in the fray, And who that valour shall gainsay, And wrong not such effrontery? Then with one cry so loud and shrill, It echoed to the Castle Hill, They charged the Snobs against their will, And shouted clear and lustily. Then all distinctions were forgot— Then, silk and velvet had one lot With tatter’d stuffs, upon that spot Which sacred was to bravery. No signs of fear, no signs of dread, Of bloody nose or broken head, Of wretch by Proctors homeward led For “acting contumaciously.” No thoughts were there, but such as grace The memory of that crowded place, The memory of that gallant race Who took and gave so heartily. The combat deepens; on, ye brave, Who rush to conquest, or to save; Wave all your stuffs and poplins wave! And charge with all your chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet, Dull soon shall be each crowded street, Responsive, now, to thousand feet Pursuing on to Victory. From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs, John Hearne, London, 1824.

Jenny-Linden. A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn. On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low, And bootless was the wild-beast show, The lessee counted for a flow Of rhino to the treasury. But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight Saw Drury in a proper light, Refused, for any sum per night, To sing at the Menagerie. With rage and ire in vain displayed Each super drew his wooden blade, In fury half and half afraid, For his prospective salary. Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew, And speedily the goosequill drew With which he is accustomed to Pen such a deal of poetry. He wrote the maiden, to remind Her of a compact she had signed, To Drury Lane’s condition blind, And threaten’d law accordingly. Fair as in face in nature, she Implored the man to set her free, Assuring him that he should be Remunerated handsomely. Two thousand pounds she offered, so That he would only let her go: Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No! With dogged pertinacity. And now his action let him bring, And try how much the law will wring From her to do the handsome thing, Who had proposed so readily! The Swedish Nightingale to cage He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage, And left him to digest his rage, And seek his legal remedy. 25 Then shook the House with plaudits riven, When Jenny’s opening note was given, The sweetest songstress under heaven Forth bursting into melody, But fainter the applause shall grow, At waning Drury’s wild-beast show, And feebler still shall be the flow Of rhino to the treasury. The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave, Thy bacon thou shalt more than save; Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave, And cheer with all thy chivalry. ’Tis night, and still yon star doth run; But all in vain for treasurer Dunn, And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn, And quadrupeds, and company. For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet, Their fellowship had been unmeet, The sawdust underneath whose feet Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre. Punch, May 15, 1847.

The Bal Masqué at Crockford’s. On Thursday, ere the time was come For supper’s joys—the guests were glum, And deep as thunder was the hum Of thousands polking sullenly. But Crockford’s saw another sight, When rang the bell at dead of night, Commanding streams of gas to light Her supper-room’s gay scenery. In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent, Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent, And eagerly the cash was spent, To join the coming revelry. Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven, Then rang the room, with laughter riven, And loudly were the orders given For Champagne popping merrily. But louder yet the noise shall grow, Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go, And faster yet the wine shall flow, From bottles emptied rapidly. ’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand, While Jullien waves his wearied hand, And leads the final galopade. The pace now quickens. On, ye slow! Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go. Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow, And make the walls re-echo thee! Few, few, remain that sound to greet, The dancers rest their burning feet; And each cab in St. James’s-street Bears home some worn-out reveller. The Man in the Moon, Vol. 1.

Row-in-London. Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in 1848. In London, when the funds were low, And business was uncommon slow, The Quadrant only on the go, And that kept moving sluggishly. But London saw another sight When National Guards arrived at night, And Lumber troopers took to flight, Across the pavement slippery. In shirt and stockings fast arrayed, The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid, And with the Aldermen essayed To join the flying Cavalry. To cut and run they’d stoutly striven, But back to battle they were driven, And then the foremost rank was given The Bunhill Row Artillery. But bolder yet that troop must grow, Or, London conquered by the foe, The Gallic cock will proudly crow On Temple Bar right merrily. ’Tis morn—but Specials in a swoon, Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon, Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18] Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry. The combat deepens—on ye brave, Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave; Save, Magog! oh, the city save, And charge with all the Livery. Few French shall tread where freemen meet Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat; But hung on high, with dangling feet, Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s! The Puppet Show, September 30, 1848.

The Battle of the Boulevard. On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay “Comique” made goodly show, Habitués crowding every row To hear Limnandier’s opera. But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack chasseurs of Africa. 26 By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry. Then shook small Thiers with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized, bold Lamoricière. But louder rose the voice of woe, When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan’s red artillery. More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave, No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery. ’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son, (Perchance her spouse’s too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably. Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet! And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor.

Hohen-London. The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence. In London, when folks’ taste was low, They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show; But now ’tis voted very slow— A dull affair, decidedly. But London showed another sight, When the Queen came on Wednesday night, Escorted, through a blaze of light To join the City revelry. At every window smart array’d, Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade; And all the populace hoorayed To see the Royal pageantry. Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven; Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven; And still more stunning cheers were given By noisy British loyalty. But noisier yet the crowd will grow, Through King Street, as the Queen shall go To Guildhall, there—on gouty toe— To see her hosts dance heavily. The concourse thickens! Heroes brave, Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave, Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave, And charge them with the cavalry. The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun! As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done! Except her suite, there’s room for none To dance before her Majesty. Few, few can polk where many meet, And have no space to kick their feet; The Hop a failure was complete; The Supper went off decently. Punch, July 19, 1851.

Swindon. At Swindon when the night drew nigh, Few were the trains that went thereby, And very dreary was the sigh, Of damsels waiting dolefully. But Swindon saw another sight, When the train came at dead of night, Commanding oil and gas to light Much stale confectionery. By soups and coffee fast allured, Each passenger his choice secured, Excepting those lock’d in, immured By sly policeman’s treachery. Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven; Then vanished buns, in pieces riven; And louder than the orders given, Fast popped the beer artillery. But farther yet the train shall go, And deeper yet shall be their woe, And greater horrors shall they know, Who bolt their food so speedily. Time’s up; but scarce each sated one Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun, Where curious tart and heavy bun Lie in dyspeptic sympathy. The combat thickens. On, ye brave! Who scald your throats, in hope to save Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave Will charge for all he ladles ye! Few, few, digest where many eat, The nightmare shall wind up their feat, Each carpet bag beneath their seat Shall seem a yawning sepulchre. Anonymous.

Hotel Swindling. In Dover, when my purse was low, One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow, At an hotel most travellers know, Did I, Sir, slumber cosily. But Dover shock’d at morn my sight With such a bill for that brief night, Such whacking sums for wax to light The darkness of its hostelry! My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d, That a rogue drew the bill betray’d, And furious overcharges made, The whole a dreadful robbery. Then shrank my purse, to plunder given: Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven; And at these scamps, on cheating thriven, Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery. But fiercer yet did those eyes glow, When reft of means “express” to go, From Dover, in the third-class low, Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly. 27 ’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun” As I,—excuse the horrid pun— In that infernal hostelry. The subject sickens. On, thou knave! And dig base Imposition’s grave; Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave, And overcharge in rivalry! Few, few return, where many meet, Or press again the snow-white sheet; The Times, ye hosts, who foully cheat, Will be your swindling’s sepulcre. Diogenes, November, 1853.

The Battle of Bull-Run. At Bull-run, when the sun was low, Each Southern face was pale as snow; And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow Of Yankees boasting rabidly! But Bull-Run saw another sight, When in the deepening shades of night Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight Of Yankees running rapidly! Then shook the corps, with terror riven Then rushed the steeds, from battle driven; The men of “Battery number seven” Forsook their red artillery. Now from McDonald’s furthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf; Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff” Contend for death or victory. The panic thickens; Off ye Brave! Throw down your arms; your bacon save! Waive Washington, each scruple waive, And fly with all your chivalry.

Sic Vos, Non Vobis, Versificatis Ave. At Seacliff, when the time passed slow, And summer’s sun refused to show, Relentless was the steady flow Of raindrops pattering drearily. But Seacliff saw another sight, The band struck up at ten at night, And Volunteers in leggings tight, Awoke the dance right cheerily. By willing steward’s friendly aid The warrior sought the smiling maid, And charged, as each musician played, Adown the hall, hung tastily. Then shook the floor to twinkling feet, While some did dance and some did eat, Or strove to stay the increasing heat By swallowing ices hastily. But shorter yet these lights shall burn, And faster yet the waltzers turn, Before the chaperones discern That day is surely slipping in. ’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair Of Seacliff beauties linger there, Full loath to seek the outer air And leave the hall they’re tripping in. The ball is over. Read ye now Who read for honours,—or a plough, May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow Of him who works most steadily. Too soon we part; but when we meet In bonds of recollections sweet, We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat That welcomed us so readily. L. E. S. From College Rhymes. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861.

Belton.[19] (August 12, 1863.) At Belton, ere the twilight grew, Untrodden was the avenue, Save by Papas and Mas a few With their sight-seeing progeny. But Belton saw another sight, When the mob came at nine at night, And with a thousand flambeaux light Illumined all her scenery. With od’rous torch and British cheer, To Brownlow’s home they drew them near, His Lordship’s honour—not his beer— The motive of their revelry. Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its Peculiar virtues, O ye cits, ’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits, Though Bass be its auxiliary. And hours that amber stream shall flow, And men shall come and scorn to go, The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow, Though quarts it empties rapidly. ’Tis midnight. For one “level son,” A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,” And as the barrels run and run, Shout in their beery jollity. The beer grows thicker: now they go— They could not drink for aye, you know— Grantham thy banners (calico) Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?). Few, few can stand, though all have feet, They need no counterpane or sheet, When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet Destroys a perpendicular.

Bills. At Oxford when my funds were low, And I was ploughed for “Little-go,” How fast and furious was the flow Of Bills that came in rapidly! But Oxford saw another sight, When my rich aunt went off one night, For then I’d gold, and cheques could write, And shopkeepers came fawningly: “Our stupid clerks the error made, We never were the least afraid About our small bills being paid;” And so they went on lyingly. 28 “We hope,” they said with glistening eye, “You’ll still allow us to supply All articles you want; we’ll try To please you, sir, in every way.” Oh! rare and comic was the fun To see each humbly cringing dun, The oily and the sugary one, All full of meek apology. I paid their bills upon the spot, And the receipts from each I got, And then I looked at all the lot, As they stood bowing smilingly. “Get out each fawning drivelling knave,” I shouted out with features grave; My hand towards the door I wave, And clench it simultaneously. I heard the sound of hurrying feet Haste down the stairs and up the street, And then in fits of laughter sweet, I went off unrestrainedly. From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.

Ho! in Prince’s. At Prince’s when the sun is low, See all the fashion skating go, And bright and brilliant is the flow, Of ladies rinking rapidly. Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight, From break of day till fall of night, For all combine to render bright, The dull surrounding scenery. In gorgeous dresses see arrayed, The haughty dame, the tender maid, Who join, with not a thought dismayed, The fascinating revelry. From morn till eve a throng is found, Of rapid rinkers rolling round, Amid the light and joyous sound Of music’s varied melody. Then on, ye fair ones, one by one, Who rink for fashion, or for fun, From early morn till setting sun You’ll always meet with chivalry. And if, perchance at fearful pace, You charge another face to face, Then cry, when in that close embrace, “’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,” Few will forget the hours sweet, They spent with skates upon their feet, Nor friends that they were wont to meet At Prince’s, rinking rapidly. From Idyls of the Rink. London: Judd & Co., 1876.

The Tay Bridge Disaster. That fatal eve, as darkness died, It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride, And far beneath it rolled the tide Of Tay, lamenting sullenly. But later met that bridge its doom, When fiery showers pierced the gloom, To light to their tempestuous tomb, A wild despairing company. Struck midway by the raging blast, The girders crash’d and crumbled fast, And down that living freight was cast Into a sea of agony. Lost was the falling metals roar Amid the elemental war, And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er The chasm’s dense obscurity. But soon those sparks are lost to sight, Quenched in the river’s rayless night, And still rejoicing in his might, Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly. ’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make Her way where seething billows break, And still the winds and waters shake The heavens in their rivalry. Though darker yet the airy dome, Speed, gallant ship, across the foam! On! on! Dundee! and gather home Those wrecks of frail humanity! But none shall wake where many sleep, Their bier shall be the trackless deep; And ever shall the surges sweep Above their lonely sepulchre. From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.

Erin-Lieder. In Erin where the Praties grow When rents were high and prices low Ejected Paddies had to go, Across the ocean rapidly. But Erin saw another sight, When tenants struck for tenant right, And gallant Parnell led the fight, Against a Landlord tyranny. By torch-light leaders were conveyed To platforms, furious speeches made, And every tenant farmer bade, To “hold the harvest” steadily, Few, few the rents that any got, And if an Agent was not shot, He had to undergo Boycott- Ing, by a furious peasantry. J. M. Lowry, 1884.

Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, ’Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. “Stay—stay with us!—rest, thou art weary and worn!” (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! Thomas Campbell.

The Soldier’s Dream. (After T. Camp-Bell, by A. Camp-Beau.) We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured, And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry; And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered, The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh. While dozing that night in my camp bed so small, With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain— After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all— I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again. Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array, I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack; ’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back. I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung, I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft, And heard the shrill notes Weippert’s orchestra flung. She was there—I would “pop”—and a guardsman no more, From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part, When sudden I saw—just conceive what a bore— A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart! “Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne— To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away— When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day. Punch, July 9, 1853.