WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 3)

The Boat Race, “Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis.” We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired; Our starter intent on his watch set his eye; On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired, The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try. The last gun was fired, we are off and away, With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track; ’Twas pumping—my knees, too, got in my way, And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back. The flush of exertion broke out on my face, And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain, And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race, And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again. Put it on—well-rowed all—now you’re gaining—full oft I heard on the bank from many a tongue, And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung. Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more, Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart, Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore, To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart. Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn! I was glad, for my back had begun to give way. Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne, And our boat became head of the river that day. From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.

The Tory Premier’s Dream. Our leaders sang truce—for the session had lowered, And a cloud had come o’er the political sky; And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered, The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry. After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again. Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack. ’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say. “We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!” I flew to the policy traversed so oft, The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung; My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft, And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung. Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore From our spirited policy never to part; The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er, And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart. Stay, stay with us—rest till an Empire is born; And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay; But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn, And all my majority melted away. Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.

The Fatal Gallopade. A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc. ’Twas night—a damp—dark—misty—murky night, Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light, When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name, A crowd of carriages and chariots came, Stopping in turns, successively before A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door; And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,— Anon a halt—and then a sudden jam Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven, And shrieks of “Coachman!—Thomas! John!—oh Heaven!” At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room, Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume, Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20] Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres From the high roof where gold and azure blended, In hues designed to typify the sky, Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended In colours each of too resplendent dye For human art with one of them to vie. Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight— Too grandly gay—too beautifully bright! And now the music and the dance began,— The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan; And oft between the pauses of each dance, To lull the listener to a dreamy trance, Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed, To which a voice responsive accents breathed, Filling with such sweet harmony the air, It seemed an angel had been wafted there! But who is he of foreign garb and air, That roams about with sentimental stare? No common personage; his star-lit breast Bespeaks him noble—little boots the rest; Russian he is, a rich ambassador. And oh!—propitious fact! a batchelor! A faded heiress looks on him intent; But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,— And such another! who her charms can paint? Description waxes in the effort faint; Pure as an infant in its first repose— Mild as a summer evening at its close— Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,— Meek as the lily—tender as the vine— Chaste as the Vestal,—modest as the ray, Which the sun leaves for night to scare away! These, and a thousand other charms, to boot Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute! Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began, And partners briskly to their stations ran; Now thought the amorous Ambassador, Now let me dance—yes, now, or never more! With this he rushed to where his loved one stood, Asked her to dance—sweet girl!—she said she would; Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed, And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;— Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk, Arrests not them too fond to look below, Till down they suddenly together go! Smile not, ye fools!—the fair one’s head is broke! They raised her up, but never more she spoke! Ah! well with anguish may her partner start, For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart! The Comic Magazine, 1834.

The Wizard— Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight: They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? ’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate, Asteed comes at morning; no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave! Lochiel— Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. The Wizard— Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed—for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? ’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements height, Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.

John Bull——Old Year. John Bull— Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away! For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight, From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight. Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain, Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain! Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast, 31 Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest! Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever, And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells. Old Year— Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer; Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead, And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped; And no brighter pages can valour display. John Bull— Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day— From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night; Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm; Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm; While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain. With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed, With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed, With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress, While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low— Old Year— False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go: All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed; I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed; If want and Disaster have marched by my hand, They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land; And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine. Ziegelstein. (Goymour Cuthbert).

Wizard (of the North)——Chieftain B. Wizard— Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year! Of distress and disaster a history drear: For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight; And grim Isandula, that massacre fight. They fought and they perished by field and by flood; But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood. Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale! Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale! Chief— Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer! If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear, Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe. Wizard— Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side? Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride. Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies! And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies. Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood, And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood. Chief— Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan; Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man, With our endless resources, no foeman we fear, So woe to king Theebaw— Wizard— Yet weep for the year. Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant; And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent. Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met— And look how the country has got into debt! They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House; The Session was lost, just because they’d no nous, And where are those bothering Irishmen—where? Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear! Yet, no! for departure from office is near; Peace, retrenchment, reform— Chief— You be—! Well, I don’t fear. For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes, Still England, while life in each British breast glows, Shall, queen among nations in ages to come, Exult in libertas— Wizard— But not imperium. Rad

Old women! old women! prepare for the day When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway; For a dream of the future behold we to-night, While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight. They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen— Accursed be the puppets that trespass between! Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain, And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain. For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words— What voice of the people defies the great Lords? ’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State, A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there, But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair. Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend; Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end. For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand, The Lords—whose foundations fast sink in the sand.

O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array; When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might, And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight, Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,” Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down, Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain, While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain. But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar, 32 What falchion gleams like a meteor star? ’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await The time when thy summons is heard at their gate. Already its prelude resounds in the air, And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair. Oh! Albion, long in captivity led, Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped, And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave! James Robinson.

O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day When the people shall meet thee in hostile array! For what can it end in excepting thy flight? Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight, It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown, And woe to the lords who would trample them down! Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain, And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain. And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare, What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air? ’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores, The people in anger will surge at your doors. Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair, Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair; Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late, And you and your lords meet a merited fate! Albert Otley.

Gladstone’s Warning. (Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning.) O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day When my legions shall meet you in battle array! For the state of the poll in a vision I trace, With a name at the top, and a name at the base; Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!” And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down. Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor, That he works for them now—though he did not before. But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air, Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair? ’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late, The country has snubbed him, and—shown him the gate! Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain, O weep!—can ye hope to deceive them again? They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart, That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart! The Judge, November 28, 1885.

A Naval Ode. Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas: Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle, and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!— For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave. Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,— As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Thomas Campbell.

Ye Kite-Flyers of Scotland. Ye kite-flyers of Scotland, Who live from home at ease; Who raise the wind, from year to year, In a long and strong trade breeze: Your paper-kites let loose again 33 On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout Lay the English ragmen low; Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold, And the English ragmen low. The spirits of your fathers Shall peep from every leaf; For the midnight was their noon of fame, And their prize was living beef. Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell, Your paper kites shall show, That a way to convey Better far than their’s you know, When you launch your kites upon the wind And raise the wind to blow. Caledonia needs no bullion, No coin in iron case; Her treasure is a bunch of rags And the brass upon her face; With pellets from her paper mills She makes the Southrons trow, That to pay her sole way Is by promising to owe, By making promises to pay When she only means to owe. The meteor rag of Scotland Shall float aloft like scum, Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack, And the day of reckoning come: Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers, Your hone-a-rie must flow, While you drink your own ink With your old friend Nick below, While you burn your bills and singe your quills In his bonny fire below. Thomas Love Peacock.

Chorus of Northumbrians. (On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England.) March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale, Whether ye promise to bearer or order; March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail, All the Scotch flimsies must over the border: Vanity you snarl anent New Act of Parliament, Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder” Dogs you have had your day, Down tail and slink away; You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border. Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle; Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law; Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle, Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.” * * * * *

Comic Songs for Young Ladies. Young gentlemen of England, That only mind your ease, Ah, little do you think how hard Young ladies try to please! Give ear unto the Milliners, And they will plainly show How the waist must be laced, By the Fashion-books to go. She who’d attract attention Must laugh at common sense, For when one goes to choose a dress, One mustn’t mind expense; Nor think how Pa will scold one, Whene’er he comes to know How he’s let into debt, By the Fashion-books to go. What terrible privations Young ladies must endure, A lovely face and form of grace From damage to secure! Their appetites they must control, Lest they too stout should grow, And in vain strive and strain By the Fashion-books to go. In days of bitter weather, Which winter doth enforce, One cannot think of such a thing As good thick boots, of course; With instep undefended, In rain, and hail, and snow, All so bold one gets cold, By the Fashion-books to go. Punch, December 14, 1844.

Ye Peasantry of England.[21] (Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk.) Ye Peasantry of England, Who till our fertile leas, How little do ye think a man May live on, if he please? Your weekly wages, it is plain, As far again would go, And keep you so cheap, (For Norfolk’s Duke says so) If, when hunger rages fierce and strong, To curry you would go, This powder, hungry fathers, From all expense will save; For if your children eat thereof, No other food they’ll crave; And any time that wages fall, (As oft they fall, you know,) ’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep In water—a pint or so; And when hunger rages fierce and strong, To your curry powder go. 34 Our labourers need no dainties, But something strong and cheap; No steak from off the rump they crave, No chop from off the sheep: With curry powder thrice a week, Warm into bed they’ll stow, Nor ever roar out for more— Their place so well they know; But when hunger rages fierce and strong, To the curry powder go. The ’tato crops of England May all to gangrene turn, While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot His wise head shall concern. Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers, Your song of thanks should flow To the fame of his name Who the powder made you know: Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong, Will set you in glow. Punch, January, 1845.

Ode to the “Specials.” Ye Constables of London, That guard our Cockney plain, Whose staves have braved for several hours The Chartists and the rain, To Clerkenwell come forth once more To meet your ancient foe, And go then at the men Who never struck a blow At the men who spout so loud and long, But never strike a blow! Our London needs no barriers, No forts along the street; Her faith is in her Specials’ staves, Her trust is in their feats! With their truncheons of old oak They fright the Chartists so, That they roar all the more, But they never strike a blow! Yes, although they spout so loud and long, They never strike a blow. The maniac mob of England Shall yet some reason learn, Till humbug’s dreary night depart, And the star of sense return! Then, then, ye cockney warriors, Our half and half shall flow To the fame of your name, And every one shall know Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob Who never struck a blow. The Puppet Show, June 10, 1848.

Ye Ship Builders of England. Ye Ship builders of England, That load our native seas With craft not fit to brave a year The battle or the breeze: Such rubbish do not launch again, Top heavy, dull, and slow As they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow. The spirits of retrenchment Shall start from every wave, For in the sea economy Through you has found a grave. Thousands and thousands you have sunk In ships that will not go; For they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow. The costly ships of England For fire-wood yet may burn, Till to the models of the past Her shipwrights shall return. Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders, Our song no more will throw All the blame on your name, Which now merits every blow. Punch, December, 1849.

“Ye Subalterns in England.” From Tuff, of the Fusiliers in the Crimea, to Muff, of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s. Ye subalterns in England, Who live a life of ease, How little do ye think upon Our sufferings o’er the seas. To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again, Upon fried pork we go, And three-deep, we’ve to sleep, In the trenches all a-row, With the batteries roaring loud and long, Four hundred guns or so! The ghosts of clothing colonels Would shudder in their graves; For no two of us are rigged the same, And scarce a fellow shaves. Light cavalry and heavy swell Black as coal-heavers show; You can keep clean so cheap, But here a tub’s no go; For water you’ve to shell out strong, And then it’s salt, you know. Out here we need no boot-jacks, For in our boots we sleep, One never sees a dressing-case, And hair brushes are cheap. Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke; Short pipes we’re glad to blow; And we draw rum from store, As we can’t have Bordeaux— The point is, something short and strong, Although it may be low. But round the flag of England We’ll our last cartridge burn, Till we have made the Russians smart, And victors home return. Then, when, as veteran warriors, At fête and ball we show, With the fame of our name, The ladies’ hearts will glow, And while you swells are voted bores, The pace, oh, shan’t we go! Punch, November 18, 1854.

A Ballad by a Bishop. (With Brass Accompaniment.) Ye clergymen of England, Who livings hold at ease, How little do you think upon The troubles of the Sees! Give ear unto my plaintive lay, And I’ll engage to show That a bishop’s poor and needy—whom for being rich and greedy, Up the stormy Times doth blow—oh! oh! oh! oh! Chorus expressive of Woe. ’Tis a law of human nature, As you all of you must grant, That of worldly things, the more man has The more he’s sure to want, Then wonder not that we, on whom Such fatness men bestow, Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more Than you who sit below—oh! oh! oh! oh! That bishops who have been brought up Regardless of expense, In luxury must dine and sup, Seems merely common sense: And neither few nor far between Can be their wants, you know, When in health and at ease their appetites increase For the good things here below—O! O! O! O! Then think ye not a bishop’s less To be envied than be pitied, Rememb’ring that to meet distress So little he is fitted. Nor wonder he for pension wants Six thousand pounds or so— Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer, On the parish he would go—o—o—o—Oh! (Refrain) On the Parish he would go! Punch. October 11, 1856.

Crinoline’s Raging Fury; Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings. You rustic maids of England, Who dress yourselves with ease, Ah, little do you think how hard It is French taste to please. Give ear unto the milliners, And they will plainly show, With what care, tight with air, They our Crinolines do blow. * * * * * (Five verses omitted.) The husband, and the lover, May simple gowns prefer, That fit the form, and, in a storm, With safety let one stir, Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce, Against our taste they throw, Which we poor things endure, Whilst our Crinolines we blow. We put on costly merchandise Of most enormous price, So much we need of drapery, To follow this device; We spend so much in drapery, Of such a size to show, And with toil our shape spoil, When our Crinolines we blow. Punch, January 31, 1857.

Ye Commoners of England. Ye Commoners of England, Who cannot sit at ease In the house designed by Barry Four hundred odd to squeeze, Your straitened bounds enlarge again To hold two hundred more, Who now creep, in a heap, Through the narrow lobby door, When division bells ring loud and long, To the over-crowded floor. The sluggard and late comer Their right to seats must waive, But a card stuck on the bench at prayers Will disappointment save. For architects will fail again Where Barry failed before, And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep, Through another crowded door, While uttering curses loud and deep, To the over-crowded floor. In the present House of Commons But few attempt to speak, For some have not the gift of tongue, And some not that of cheek. But in the new Reformed House There be at least ten score Who, like Bright, every night, Forth their eloquence will pour, And speeches make, both loud and long, As ne’er were heard before. To meet your wants in future, And find you room in turn. Gives Headlam, Thomson Hankey, And Bazley great concern: O’er plans and elevations Right patiently they pore, For they know ’tis no go To find space for any more, When debates are waxing loud and long, And the Speaker’s heard to snore. Echoes from the Clubs, November 27, 1867.

The Scream of the American Eagle; or, The Crow of Yankee-Doodle. You sneaking skunks of England, Who stay at home at ease, Who think because you never fight You’re rulers of the seas: Another pirate launch again 36 To match a New York foe, For the fame of your name Which has had so sad a blow, While we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The shattered “Alabama” Lies deep beneath the wave, Your finest guns and gunners Their vessel couldn’t save, When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,” Her shot and shell did throw, To the bottom in an hour Did the “Alabama” go, And we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The flag of old Columbia Shall ne’er again be furled Till, having scourged the Southern States, We whip the whole wide world; With real lightning from our guns Our thunderbolts we’ll throw, Till not a single Britisher Upon the seas doth show, Then won’t we bluster loud and long And over England crow. Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers, Our song and feast shall flow When we sink your Island, Queen and all, Old ocean’s depths below, And masters of the ’varsal airth We’ll liquor to and fro, Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves And trumpets loudly blow To the fame of our name, And o’er the whole world crow. From Lyrics and Lays, by Pips (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867).

The Fenians’ Raging Fury: Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings. Ye gentlemen of Ireland Who live abroad at ease, A mighty little wonder ’tis That you are absentees. Give heed unto the newspapers, And they will daily show All the crimes—see the Times— When the crimson drops do flow. All we that would live landlords Must bear arrears of rent, And little though we should be paid Or none, must be content; Or else, a tenant’s bullet Will quickly lay us low; With a ball he pays all, Whilst the crimson drops do flow. * * * * * Not Irish landlords only, Thus live in care and dread; Their stewards and their agents too May look to be shot dead. Whoever makes an enemy Is very soon let know, What is what, by a shot, When the crimson drops do flow. * * * * * If all conciliation Is wasted, nought remains But to renew an iron rule, Stern penalties and pain, At least empower our magistrates To cage each public foe, With the speed which we need When the crimson drops do flow. Punch, March 12, 1870.

Ye Scavengers of England. Ye Scavengers of England! Whose cart one seldom sees Without unpleasant consciousness There’s something in the breeze! Leave other garbage to its fate, And here your prowess show! And sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow; Where the struggle rages all day long, From King Street up to Bow! The Duke may wish you farther, The question try to waive; But, bear in mind, that filthy slush Might prove his Grace’s grave! And should he, by some chance, go down Himself, he’d swear you’re slow, As ye sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow! We boast we need no bulwarks Our social rights to keep; Yet, if we wish to purchase plums, We do it—ankle deep! And though we often, through the Times, Our indignation show, The while we roar, the loads still pour From King Street and from Bow; And the struggle lasts the whole day long, From King Street down to Bow! The dirty flags of Mudford At last shall have their turn! No more for rotting refuse prove A putrid public churn! So up, ye British Scavengers, A decent garden show, Where Duchesses henceforth may—leap! From King Street up to Bow! And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep From King Street up to Bow! Punch, October 16, 1880.

To Milliners and Millionares. A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade. Ye milliners of England, Who clothe so many shes, Whose stuffs have never found their peers, Oh, listen if you please. 37 Your standard prices pray keep down, To hold the trade in tow, For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep Of customers a flow; Though you make toilettes loud and long Now trains have ceased to grow. The spirits of your tailors Shall start with every fold, For Paris ’twas from whence they came, And their reward was gold; Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell There is a better show, Where they do reap and do keep Of customers a flow, And say you haven’t the “haut ton,” And are most sadly slow. Britannia needs no bustles, No heels of slender height, Her walk should e’er be straight and sure, Her dresses not too tight. With simple taste do loop them up And trim them down below: Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way O’er other firms to crow!” Well, then—(despairingly)—make your toilettes loud and long, We will not say you “No!” (Sarcastically—) May the ladies fair of England Ever live and learn To be extra grateful for your deeds And give you some return! We sing to you, fair modistes, To Messrs. Worth and Co., To the fame of your name, And may fools of fashion flow, While you make dresses more and more, And bows and buttons grow. From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)

Torpedo Terrors. Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New System of Naval Warfare). Ye mariners of England, Be vigilant to seize The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze; And if your ships be launched again To meet a foreign foe, Ere ye sweep through thöe deep Send your divers down below, For that dread explosive swift and strong, The sneaking Tor-pe-dö. When your heroic fathers Their foes a thrashing gave, On the deck above they sought for fame, Not underneath the wave. When Blake and mighty Nelson fought They dealt no dastard blow, But now we sweep o’er the deep, Both cautiously and slow, Fearing the din and the secret fire Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö. Britannia needs new bulwarks, New towers along the steep, If far below the mountain wave These hidden reptiles creep; No thunders from our broadsides now May quell the floods below, If when the proud ships float along The swift steam launches throw Beneath the keels of ironclads strong The coward Tor-pe-dö. Though soon beneath our vessels They may terrific burn, With ships of steel and hearts of oak We trust their power to spurn; That still our ocean warriors To sea may safely go, And win new fame for England’s name With an open-handed blow, While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high With their own vile Tor-pe-dö. Funny Folks.

Ye Infantry of England. A Military Ode. Imitated from Campbell. “Fas est et ab hoste doceri.” Ye Infantry of England, Supposed to guard our shores, Who made a precious mess of it In trying to pot the Boers, Your ready rifles take again, And try another style; Nor fool by old rule While the foreign critics smile, Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long, And our foreign critics smile. Britannia needs instructors To teach her boys to shoot, Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill Have borne but bitter fruit. Our blunders are a standing joke, The scandal of our Isle, And the Boer loud doth roar, Whilst our foreign critics smile. Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long, And our foreign critics smile. The cartridges of England In waste terrific burn; In sighting and in snap-shots, we From foes have much to learn. Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry, And go to school awhile, Till the fame of your aim Shall no more make foemen smile; Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more, And your foes have ceased to smile. Punch.

The Perils of Parliament. Ye Gentlemen of England, Who stay at home at ease, Ye little think upon the ills That threaten our M.P.’s! 38 Now that throughout the House again The flood of talk will flow, And will roar O’er the floor While the storms of party blow, While discussion rages loud and long, And the storms of party blow! The Spirit of Obstruction Will start from every side; New coalitions will be formed, Old combinations tried; The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!” Lord Randolph talk more stuff, Whilst a roar O’er the floor Will proclaim his new rebuff, And noises weird and varied tell That Warton’s taking snuff. His meteor pocket-handkerchief, Shall oft terrific burn, Whilst weary legislators long, But vainly, to adjourn; Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes Tempt Ministers to weep, Or some bore On the floor Talks the faithful few to sleep; Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips” Their endless vigil keep. Yes, Gentlemen of England, Do picture, if you please, The fate that probably awaits Your sorely-tried M.P.’s. Think of those frequent dinners Of which they’ll get no bite When the bell Sounds their knell, And compels them to the fight; Till the lobbies echo with the groan Of outraged appetite! Think of the miles of walking Divisions will impose, On those who, spite their gouty pains, Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.” Think of the cramps they must endure When furtive naps they take, With what racks In their backs They will suddenly awake; When they have slumbered in their seats For their constitution’s sake. “Britannia needs no bulwark”— Or so her poets claim— But he who makes Britannia’s laws Should have an iron frame. Yes, he does need a bulwark ’Gainst all the session woes, ’Gainst the roar Of the bore, And the battle’s stress and blows! If his digestion be not sound, He scarce will see its close. For dark is the horizon, And on the rising breeze, Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,” The weather-prophet sees; And fears that even pheasants The Sportsman shall lay low Ere the last Of the blast Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go; Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Truth, February 7, 1884.

Ye mariners of England, That trust in Joseph C., Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears, Receive the truth from me. He champions you for selfish ends, Does philanthropic Joe, And you’re “had” by the Rad, When the stormy winds do blow. Our sailors need no Bill-wark To guard them on the deep; Shipowners all are worthy folk, And calumny is cheap. Their vessels stand the tempests’ test, And never go below, So no more on that score, When the stormy winds do blow. Obstruction’s flag in Parliament Shall yet terrific burn, Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart, And the Tory clan return. Then, then, ye ocean simpletons, Brum tactics we shall “stow,” None will back Merchant Jack, When the stormy winds do blow. Funny Folks, June 21, 1884.

Ruling the Waves. (Freely adapted from Campbell.) Ye Mariners of England! Who’d guard our native seas, What think ye, lads, every few years Of this confounded breeze? They tell us we must launch more ships Ere we may match the foe, And weep O’er the deep, Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow, While the squabble rages loud and long, And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow. The spirits of your fathers Would look extremely grave At doubts thus thrown upon the fact That Britain rules the wave. 39 Officials on each other fall; One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!” And sweep O’er the deep, Of big figures in a row, Tabled Statistics stiff and long, And figures in a row. Britannia needs a Navy Her world-wide watch to keep, To ward her isle-encircling waves, And to patrol the deep. That’s truth, and far beyond all joke, Plain facts from them we’d know, Who roar And deplore, That our Navy’s running low, That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong, Whilst our Navy’s running low. The money-bags of England The balance yet can turn. We’re quite prepared to freely “part,” Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn. Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors, Are what we fain would know! For the fame Of your name Every British heart will glow, When Party fights are heard no more And the Windbags cease to “blow.” Punch, October 4, 1884.

Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem. (A Song for the next Election.) Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, With all your Caucuses, Whose noise has rung a year or two Just on a passing breeze, Your voice shall ne’er be raised again To deafen another foe; You shall fall, spouters all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short, I say, When our party strikes the blow! The demagogues and stumpers No more shall rant and rave, The platform was their field of fame, Th’ election is their grave. Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke, Now silence you shall know, For you fall, stumpers all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short indeed When our party strikes the blow. Britannia’ll have no rebels Her soil in blood to steep; Her strength can crush the blustering knave— Her wit the sly and deep; And class with class she reconciles And fuses high and low— They unite for the fight And together strike the blow, And they make the battle short, I say, When, allied, they strike the blow. Conservatives of England; A light enlightening burn To help the poor and guide the rich Right Members to return. Then, then, you ranting Radicals, Our song and feast shall flow, As we tell how you fell When the nation struck the blow, How the battle was uncommon short When the nation struck the blow. A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor, London, 1884.

Parodies by a Premier. (Addressed to the L——s of the A——y.) “Ye Mariners of England,” (I’ll term you if you please), Whose brag has raised, a hundred times, A Parliament’ry “breeze!” Your gallant features blanch again Beneath another blow. As ye creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below. “The spirits of your fathers” Won’t “start from every wave”— For the deck “it was their field of fame,” And Kensal Green “their grave,” “Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell” You’ll have no chance to go, Nor to creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below. “Britannia needs” her “bulwarks” And “towers along the steep;” Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,” Her navy’s “on the cheap,” With blunders from her naval L—ds She riles the tars below, And they swear—you’re aware— “When the stormy winds do blow,” ’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong, “When the stormy winds do blow.” “The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn”— They say—when Liberal L—ds depart, And Tory ones return. Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs! Their song and jest shall flow, To make game of your name When you’ve ceased to go below; When my fiery flights are heard no more, And you’ve ceased to go below. The Globe, June 18, 1885.

Song at Scarborough. During the Match Gentlemen of England v. Players of England, September 3, 1885. Ye Gentlemen of England, Who smite for twos and threes, One bat has swiped for twenty years, That bat is W. G.’s. 40 That wondrous willow waves again To match the old, old foe, And spanks through their ranks Whilst the bowlers puff and blow, Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight, And the “field” do all they know. Britannia need not tremble Whilst he his “block” can keep, And slog for sixes and for fours, Though the field stand close or deep There’s “powder” yet in every stroke, His “drives” like lightning go, And men roar as the score Swells at every swashing blow, Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail, And Peate his best doth show! The Cricket fame of England Shall yet in brightness burn, And we can wait without blue funk That Cornstalk Team’s return, Whilst W. G. can show such form After twenty years or so; The fame of his name Sounds wherever Britons go, And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore Should bring him “one cheer mo’!” Punch, September 12, 1885.

On conceding the Saturday in Christmas Week, 1884. Ye Shopkeepers of London, Who live in lavish ease; We beg of you for once to hear Your poor employés pleas. There is no need for us to say How hard their daily task; Then give the one short Saturday Which they this Christmas ask! * * * * * Ye Merchants, too, of London, Who Christmas will enjoy, Until a glut of luxuries Your appetites will cloy; Come, think of those whose tired hands shake, As at your books they toil; And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake, Their taste of Yule-tide spoil! * * * * * Truth, December 18, 1884.

“You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve; Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear, That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.”

The Bench of Bishops. Never working, ever wooing, Loving fat things, wealth pursuing; Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing, O ye favoured few? All your lives obstruction brewing. Cease, or else be true! Measures banished, wrongs not righted. See your Church, how disunited! See the scores of bills you’ve blighted In the House of Peers! Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted, ’Midst your country’s tears. Yet you deem yourselves a blessing— Sleek and fat, and self-caressing, Time is short, and needs are pressing; Soon you’ll have to go. Dull and useless, always messing; Dotard’s all, and slow. James Turner.

Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford. Never fighting, ever cooing, Still a fruitless course pursuing; Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek’s pale hue? All my lifelong hopes eschewing— Fight, or cease to coo! Gordon murdered, pledges slighted, Still our ways are disunited. When the goal is well-nigh sighted Feeble funk appears; Vacillation so benighted. Is for Lib’ral fears. Office—once your dearest blessing; Place—we both would be possessing! Hopes—a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless our caressing— Yours with age, mine woe. Henry L. Brickel.

Britannia’s Remonstrance. Never peaceful, ever doing, Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing, And askance the straight path viewing— All for pow’r and place! Future storms for me you’re brewing; Cease, or veil my face! 41 Where is now the troth we plighted? Both our hearts are disunited; Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted, Now ’tis quenched with tears. Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted, Roused are all our fears. Once you earned my richest blessing, Thrilled my soul with your caressing Each a mutual love confessing, Soon its sweets you’ll miss, For your love’s not worth possessing While War’s lips you kiss. J. Arthur Elliott.

Staffy’s Remonstrance. Never winning, ever wooing, Still the sweets of place pursuing, And the cause of my undoing, Randolph—it is you! All your life seems spent in brewing Mischief ever new, Rivals bullied and indicted, Still our ranks are disunited; When your glowworm lamp is lighted Mine half-quenched appears; I must wander on benighted ’Mid’st the groans and cheers. Would you but bestow your blessing, How I’d purr at your caressing! But your pranks are so distressing Soon you’ll make me trow Place itself’s not worth possessing If you plague me so! Gossamer.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger, “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22] * * * * * Thomas Campbell.

Joy, joy for ever! the task is done, The city’s free and Evans has won.

Air.—Erin go bragh. There came to the hustings an exile from office, The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill, For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill. But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion, As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion, And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion, They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.” “Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman, “Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee, But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man, A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me. Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket, Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it), My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it, Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh. Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store, But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken, And sigh for the votes that support me no more. And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me, In a post where electors no longer can chase me; Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me, Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore. Where now is the Westminster rump that supported Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall, And where is the junta, that influence sported, And where is De Vear too the dearest of all? Alas what an ass I have been for declining My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning My office! but now there is no use in whining, It cannot my seat or my office recal. But yet all my bitter reflections repressing, There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, De Vear, thy old protegé gives thee his blessing, Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh. Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion) I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion, You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.” Figaro in London, May 18, 1833.

The Exile of Erin; Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill; He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,” As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill. He looked towards the north with an air of devotion, And thought of the very green isle of the ocean, Which once he had put in such awful commotion By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger, “My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee, But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here; Repose or tobacco exist not for me; Ne’er again in the snug little bar Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar. Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh! The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.

The Visit to Erin. There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin, If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill. From his country he came in the hope of repairing Some errors whose memory clings to him still. Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean, His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion The day when, to show to the priests his devotion, He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh? O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger, O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee. The day still I rue when we parted in anger, For a place and a party remain not in me. Then grant me once more for a day or an hour The pleasures of office, the semblance of power. O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower, And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh. O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand; But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken, Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band. O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me, With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me, I’d seem like their leader, though they might command. Where is my great University measure? Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall? O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure, Which gave to you Trinity College and all? O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing! O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing? Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing, My power and my party they cannot recall. O that, all sad recollections suppressing, From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw, I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing, Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh! Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion, Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean, And murmur, in token of grateful devotion, Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh! From “They are Five,” by W. E. G., 1877.

Ireland’s Distress. I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin; Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form; For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing, Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm. Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean, Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion; Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion, Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh. ‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger; ‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone; For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger, To new homes and new countries my children have flown, Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story, Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory, Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh. Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken, In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore; Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken Some pity to love, and some aid to restore? O happy land, only thou can’st replace me In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me, Never again shall my children disgrace me, Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart. Now is the cabin-door open and shattered, Father and mother are weeping within; Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered, Their children with famine are wasted and thin. Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow, Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow, How can I dare any comfort to borrow From dreams which the future may blast and destroy? Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing, One only fond wish my sad heart can desire— That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing, As faction shall languish and discord expire! Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean; Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion, And my children shall sing with new love and devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’ Kommitop (Captain Walford).

There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain, And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion. Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane; For the food of the famishing people was rotten, And the hate that is often of hunger begotten Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten, And the singers of Erin were silent again. 43 O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell, The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause? Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell, If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws? For small is the gain and the glory ensuing From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing, And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing, From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause. ‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant; ‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree, And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant, But no roof and no food for my children and me. O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction! When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection, We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee. Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken, We wander half-starved over mountain and shore, And search for a remnant of hope, or a token That life may be glad to our spirits once more; Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken, To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken, And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh! Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying, That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground, Could he know that the land upon which he was lying Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound; And the trials and straights of despair and starvation Through which he was fighting should end in salvation To happier sons of a new generation, Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’ Hypophosphate (Miss E. Chamberlayne.)

The Tay Bridge Disaster. On Balgay when the sun was low, Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow, And dark and muddy was the flow Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly. But Balgay saw another sight, When rose the wind at fall of night, And distant gleams of splendour light The darkness of her scenery. Mid light and darkness fast arrayed The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid, And every furious blast essayed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven, Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven, And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven, Out flashed the train lights ruddily. But brighter still that light shall gleam, With one last flash o’er land and stream, And then shall vanish like a dream At daylight passing wearily. The coming sun shall light no more Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore, And dark Dundee bereft shall cower Beneath her smoky canopy. The horror deepens. Who can save Those rushing to a watery grave? Wave dashes wildly over wave, And leaps in dreadful rivalry. None, none shall part where many meet; The sand shall be their winding sheet; No churchyard turf shall veil their feet In their untimely sepulchre. Chevy Chase (J. F. Baird.)

On Tay the summer sun sinks low, Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow; A thread athwart yon ruddy glow, The wondrous bridge winds airily. But halcyon days have taken flight, Wild howls the storm this winter’s night, And ’gainst that daring fabric light The tempest rages furiously. Homeward they wend from town and glade, Husband and wife, and youth and maid, For that dread race of death arrayed, An all-unconscious company. Forth speeds the train to ruin driven— Is there no help, O pitying Heaven? No warning voice in mercy given Of the impending destiny? The signal beckons—on they go; Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow, Where, in the shuddering depth below, The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily. With straining eyes the watchers run, Longing to mark the passage done. In vain: the blast his prey has won, And on it swoops relentlessly. That fiery flash the signal gave; Down crashing through the maddened wave, Both bridge and freight have found a grave, Whelmed in one dire catastrophe. With questioning eyes the mourners meet, Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat; The wild wave rolling at their feet Mocks at their helpless misery. Courthope (L. Beck.)

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown. 44 And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on! * * * * * But the might of England flush’d To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush’d O’er the deadly space between. “Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceas’d—and all is wail, As they strike the shatter’d sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. * * * * * Thomas Campbell.

“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter, Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”

Battle of the Balls. Of Alma and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When the students all stood forth ’Gainst the minions of the town. And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew I can’t tell how or why, But each Student took a shy, And floored were passers by Not a few! Like ravens to the row, Came Pond and his Police, (For breaking heads, we know, Is their way of keeping peace,) It was two post meridiem by the bell: Up the Bridges as they dashed, The boldest looked abashed, For they knew they would be hashed Very well! Out the youth of Alma poured To anticipate the scene— And the balls the faster showered O’er the deadly space between: “We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.” So around his band he looks, “Now go, B20, Snooks, And summon Bailie Crooks With the Act.” The Act was read in vain— And the havoc did not slack, Till Crooks had fled again To the Council chambers back, And that there was a riot he would vouch: Then came the soldiers all, With their captains stout and tall, And sixty rounds of ball In their pouch. Out spake the Major then, And he trembled as he spoke— “We are brothers—we are men— By the Lord, my nose is broke! Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed; Our patience you will tire Peace is all we require, Then yield, or we shall fire!” “You be d——d!” Then the Provost forth he came, For he saw it was no go: Said he “It is a shame To treat the Students so,— If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw, No longer at the gate The Policemen shall await, And the vengeance I’ll abate Of the law.” “That will do,” the Students cried, And each band departed straight. And one by one they hied Through the lofty College gate. But they knew not how severely they were watched; 45 For Pond and all his rout Raised a horrid shout, And as every man came out He was cotched. Brave hearts! who fought so well Once so faithful and so true, In your dungeon’s gloomy cell Our eyes shall weep for you. We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond! And when you all are freed, I think we are agreed On one article of creed, Down with Pond!!!

Stanzas on a Late Battle. Of the combat in the North, Sing the glorious days’ renown, When the Charlies’ fierce came forth, To defend the trembling town, While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan. Each student took his stand, Till the College gates were mann’d, And shillellahs in each hand, Proudly shone. Intent upon a row, Rose their clamour wild and loud, And in showers the snowballs flew, At the ragamuffin crowd. It was just two o’clock by the time; When the medicals came out, As each waved his cudgel stout, Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout Is no crime.” So down the stairs they dashed, Spreading terror far and wide; Right and left the crabsticks smash’d; Yells were heard on every side. “Hit ’em hard,” was the cry—when each man With an adamantine whack, Made their empty noddles crack, Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!! If ye can!!! Again, again, again, And the havoc did not slack, Till to cut their sticks, they deign, And within the gates fly back. Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom; And the Charlies’ bruised and pale, With the mob behind their tail, Our environs to assail, Did presume. With joy ye students shout, At the tidings of your might, How ye made the claret spout! How the scoundrels mauled took flight! Until midst their howling and uproar, The Lobsters in were led, And the Riot Act was read, While the Provost popp’d his head Through the door. Brave hearts! turn out’s the word; Though you’ve leathered the police, Yet a baton’s not a sword, So leave the field in peace. And our bards shall sing the glory of the day, How many a skull and hat, To the tune of “Tit for Tat,” Was bash’d and batter’d flat, In the fray. Kilspendie.

Of the “Wizard of the North Sing the Tuesday’s night renown, When he let the gas break forth And burn the play-house down. And illuminated London brightly shown, While a masquerading band, Almost too drunk to stand, But all holding hand in hand, Revelled on. Detesting every note, (They’d been playing there from nine), The orchestra scarce kept From kicking up a shine. It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime, And as each fiddler saith, Tobacco choked his breath, And he played, fatigued to death, Out of time. Any decent folks had blushed To assist at such a scene— But, sudden, firemen rushed Where before they should have been, And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun Stopped upon pallid lips, For the ceiling and the slips Glowed like a mountain’s tips In the sun. The Main! the Main! the Main! But beams came tumbling whack, And a shower of fiery rain Falls on the frightened pack, And each hurries from the menaced doom, And gents with terror pale Pay no heed to woman’s wail, And the flames at once prevail And consume. 46 Down went Covent Garden then, Vain was the engine’s wave, Vainly the gallant men Struggled the wealth to save— The clock twice saved away indeed they bring, But the Muse’s ancient seat Is a ruin most complete; Ashes, where song’s élite Used to sing. And London’s blame was chief For the stupid heads of those Who have doubtless come to grief Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows. A play-house is intended for a play; If you let it for a night To a Quack, you but invite A fate that serves you right, You may say. Now joy old opera raise For the tidings of the night, Once more thy gas shall blaze, Once more thy songs delight, And though losing our fine house is a bore, Let us think of those who weep Their tools—by no means cheap— A charred and melted heap On its floor. Shirley Brooks.

Four million souls without a Fly! Shall we then realise Our lack of common comforts, born From lack of enterprise? I saw a vision in my sleep That caused me from my bed to leap, And skip around the room; I saw the Final Growler go Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow, To its appointed doom! The gas-lamps had a sickly glare, And not a heart did bleed As passed that bony hulk along. Drawn by its bony steed; The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered, The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered, The street-boys raised a yell: And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid To fares a long farewell! Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat; He knew the end was near Of over-charge and under-pay, And did not shed a tear; Saying—“Too long I have delayed; My Cab is old, my Horse decayed, ’Tis mercy bids me bolt; For fifty years of mortal breath, We’ve jolted Passengers to death, And shall no longer jolt. “What though upon my seats have writhed The Great, perhaps the Good. Condemned in this proud Capital To use my box of wood? Yet now repentance, all too late, Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate A vehicle provide More maddening in each palsied shake, Or where long-suffering Fares might take, A more atrocious ride? “’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls Upon the myriad men Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down, And ‘had me up’ again. Those frowsy cushions bring not back Nor stretch four souls upon the rack By Nature made for twain! Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go, Also thy dirty straw below, Thou Vehicle of Pain! “Even I am weary now of playing My customary pranks; Rank idiocy it was to place Such Cabs upon the ranks! How came it, else, that London’s sons To stable-owning Goths and Huns For aid in vain did cry, While every Gent, and every Cad, In Aberdeen and Glasgow had His reputable Fly? “Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect On London’s awful waste By not a single Four-wheeled Cab From Kew to Greenwich graced! Go, tell the world how you beheld A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld, Guiding his Growler mean,— The general universe defy, To match for sheer obliquity, That ramshackle machine! Punch, September, 1885.

The Massacre of Glenho. Through deep Glenho the owlet flits, That valley weird and lone; The chieftain’s aged widow sits Beside the bare hearth stone. Beside the bare and blighted hearth Whose fires, now quenched and black, Had seen five gallant sons go forth, And never one come back. ’Tis silent all! but hark—a cry And ghastly clamours wake The midnight glen. Then rose proudly That ancient dame, and spake— “What mingled sounds of woe and wail Up Mortham’s valley spread? What shrieks upon the gusty gale Come pealing overhead? “I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell, The banshee’s scream I hear, And hark! again that stifled yell— The boderglas is near!! 47 “The Boderglas with bloody brow And tresses dripping red— I see him at the window now He shakes his gory head! “Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms, Thus, thus, in close embrace, The messenger of death we’ll meet— The slayer of our race. “Then do not weep, my daughter!”— “Oh mother, ’tis not that— But Donald Roy the carrotty boy Has killed our old tom cat.” From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and Windus, London,)

The Lawn Tennis Match. The summer day proved all too short, But light forbade the pleasant sport, And silent lay the tennis court, Where time had flown so rapidly. But morning saw another sight, When, after slumbers soft and light, The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight Upon the level greenery. On either side the net they stand, Each with her tennis bat in hand, The fairest maidens in the land, Opposed in bloodless rivalry! Then “faults” no longer were forgiven, Then o’er the net their balls were driven, And like the deadly bolts of Heaven, The “serves” in their velocity! But faster yet the balls shall fly Beneath the cloudless summer sky, And still more frequent be the cry Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily! ’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow, Though scorching hours may come and go, Those maidens, fleeter than the roe, Are ever darting rapidly! The combat deepens, Grace will win, In Jersey, fitting like her skin, Just give the ball a subtle spin, And snatch from Maud the victory! A few games more, and Grace has won! “Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!” And from the fury of the sun They scamper most bewitchingly! F. B. Doveton. From Society.

Ye Mariners of England Who watch our distant seas, ’Tis very odd that you should be The half of you Chinese. It scarcely fits our notions To have you down below; And though your keep, perhaps is cheap, The news comes like a blow; To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack Gives one a dreadful blow. * * * * *

At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. * * * * * Thomas Campbell.

Campbell, undone and outdone. When oftentimes the young aerial beau Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below, Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye, Whose misty outline mingles with the sky? Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear More meet than all the landscape shining near? ’Tis distance sends enchantment to his view, And lures the mounted with its azure hue. From Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Hodges and Co., Boston, 1885.)

Of Scotia and the North A loving son would sing, And to laud surpassing worth Would wake the silent string, Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb; But bardic fires still burn In the ashes of the urn, And glimmering back return Through the gloom. For Burns this spirit lay Is wafted to the earth, In honour of the day That gave the poet birth. * * * * *

“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope, Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope; His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry, There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye. Half gone his last tumbler—clean gone his last joke, And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke. What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.” W. Maginn.

“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane. Was five and twenty days begun, ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ Blew hansel in our Robin.”

Bruce to his Troops. On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn. (As originally written by Burns.) Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front o’ battle lower: See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a cowards grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’, Let him follow me? By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us DO or DIE!

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 2nd, Chains—chains and slaverie. 3rd, Let him, let him turn and flee. 4th, Let him bravely follow me. 5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 6th, Let us, let us do, or die!

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled: Scots, wham Bruce has often led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour See approach proud Edward’s power— Edward! chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’, Caledonia! on wi’ me! By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be—shall be free! 49 Lay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Forward: let us do or die!

Gulls, who’ve heard what Hobhouse said! Gulls whom Joseph Hume has led! Who deem that Pater Moore has head For Plans of Liberty! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the face of Gifford lour, See approach the lawyer’s power, Bags and knavery. Who’ll believe Italian spies? When honest Times indignant cries, That all they say are monstrous lies, Foul conspiracy! Who for England’s Queen so bright, To purchase Plate subscribes his mite, Or signs addresses, wrong or right, To Brandenburgh with me! By our Wood that shields the Queen, By our Broom that sweeps all clean, We will go through thick and thin, But she shall be free! Lay her proud accusers low, Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,” Can we but persuade them so, Let us on and see!

Britons who have often Bled. Britons who have often bled In the cause that Hampden led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory, Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lour, See approach your tyrant’s power, Chains and slavery! Who would be a traitor knave? Who would fill a coward’s grave? Who so base as be a slave? Traitor, coward, turn and flee! Who at Liberty’s sweet cry Freedom’s sword would raise on high? Freeman stand, or freeman die, Hark! your chief cries “on with me!” By oppression’s woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay your proud oppressors low! Tyrants fall in every blow! For the cause of God below, Is the cause of Liberty. From The Republican, October 8, 1819. R. Carlile, printer, 55, Fleet Street, London.

Glee. Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed! Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread! Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed! Come not o’er the sea: Victuals here are but so, so; Hollands, too, run very low; Scarce is coffee and cocoa; Sojourn where you be. Now’s the time and now’s the hour, For little bread, there being no flour; Liberty’s a glorious dower— Though ragged, let’s be free! We will walk the unlopp’d wood, And taste what Nature grows for food— Grumbling here does little good! So hail, glad Liberty! From The Fancy, a selection from the Poetical remains of the late Peter Corcoran, 1820.

Whigs! who have with Michael dined, Whigs! who have with Bennet whined, Hasten now to raise the wind, For a Knight’s dismissed.

Whigs whom Fox and Petty led, Whigs who under Lord Grey fled, Welcome, though three in a bed, To the Treasury: 50 Now’s the day, and now’s the hour— Starve the Tories out of power— Cent. per cent. their wages lower, They cannot choose but flee. Who would be a grumbling knave, Though but half a loaf he have? Who prefer to toil and slave Without pay or fee? Who in spite of King and Laws, Faction’s darling weapon draws, Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s—Freedom’s cause, Let him follow me! Let Bennet boast his purity In politics and pedigree, Talk loud of his nihil-ity By long service won. Let Hume dissect each place and fee, Each clerk, although a brother he, And prove that Cocker’s Rule of Three Means only Number One. Whigs, with Carlile who condole, Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl, Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control, And swears at horribly! Hume vows he has made a breach, (Not a pair, as hirelings teach), Out of little Bennet’s reach, By Financery! Let Wilson rear his fallen crest, Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d, Leave Creevey’s virtues—to be guess’d, And Cam to form the line. Let Brougham be taken off the shelf, And make his fees from Michael’s pelf; Michael’s a host, sirs, in himself, So—let us in and dine! By our long and hopeless pains, By despair of office gains, We will draw our dearest veins, But we will get in. Lay Lord Londonderry low, Placemen fell at every blow; Every placeman is our foe; Let us—pray begin.

Parody. Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October, 1823. Scots wha hae the duties paid; Scots wham whiskies aft made glad: Welcome, for the duty’s fled, And it shall be free! Now’s the time and now’s the hour; See the shades of evening lour; See the streams of toddy pour— Pledge it three-times-three! Wha wad be a brandy slave? Wha wad shilpit claret lave? Wha of rum wad ever rave? When the whisky’s free? Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink, Will fill a bicker to the brink! Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink, Aquavitæ aye for me! By taxation’s woes and pains! By the smuggler’s ill-got gains! We shall raise our wildest strains, For it shall be free! Lay the big gin bottle low! In the fire the port wine throw! Let the tide of whiskey flow! Like liberty, aye free! Robert Gilfillan.

Roasted Sucking Pig. Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity. Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the Pig’s interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that’s rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined. Dredge with flour o’er and o’er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before ’Tis for serving fit— Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter’d cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut—not tear— Off the head of it. Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O’er it melted butter spread— Stinginess won’t do. When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me!