WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 6)

“Hail to the Chief!” (A Popular Pæan. After Sir Walter.) Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine, Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances! Fervently flame in the front of our line! 93 Heaven his strength renew, Still keep him stout and true, Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow; While all true Englishmen Send forth the shout agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet! Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade? Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet, Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid, Firm as the fixèd rock, Braving the tempest’s shock, Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow. England and Scotland then Echo his praise agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly, And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied. Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly, But little the Veteran recked of his pride. “Fagots” all prostrate laid Long shall lament his raid, Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe: Buccleuch’s brave voting men Shake when they hear agen “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party! Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief. Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty, Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf? And there’s a stripling gem, Worthy the ancient stem— Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.” Loud shall all England then Shout for the pair agen, “Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!” Punch, April 24, 1880.

Raising the “Fiery Cross.” (Some way after Sir Walter Scott). Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore, When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee, When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore, Herald and harbinger of victory, Is not yet blotted from man’s memory. How few, how weak and withered of their force The Tory remnant, which all men might see Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course. There yet live those who can remember well When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew; When county broad and borough big, as well As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew, And fast the faithful clan around him drew. And now again his warning note is wound, Again the banner floats as then it flew; Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound, And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round. The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue; Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze, Born of conflicting policies, Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy, And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy, Are not for Members sorely prest, The prospect of unbroken rest In dull uncertainty still lies Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies. The Peers have crossed the People’s right, And there is bound to be a fight! Against the ermine and the lawn The proletariat blade is drawn, Members must leave the mountain’s side, The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide; To raise the sword and shout the cry Amidst the roused democracy. Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush, The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush, War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove Hushes her notes of peace and love. No thought of peace or Autumn rest Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast. With unsheathed broadsword in his hand, He’ll pace the war-awakened land. Strife’s rising he has heard and laid His hand upon his ready blade, His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care Midlothian promptly will prepare, Where he aforetime lessons taught With deep and deathful meaning fraught; Where they shall meet and whence abroad The Cross of Fire shall take its road. The land would hear his vocal blasts, And see the flashing glance he casts: Such glance the mountain-eagle throws, When high among the peaks and snows He spreads his pinions on the wind, And, like an albatross reclined Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes The chirpers of the brakes and bushes. ’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock, And bold to brave the stormiest shock, With kindling eye, with floating plaid, Wide waving hair and flashing blade, The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim, Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb. The Cross is shaped, and held on high; The Chieftain of the eagle eye Rears it aloft with clutch of steel, Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:— “When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan, Woe to the clansman who shall view This symbol, loved of followers true, Forgetful that when last the blue Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew Beaconsfield’s glory low! Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust, He shall be scattered like the dust, And from all loyal gatherings thrust, Each clansman’s execration just Shall doom him wrath and woe!” He stops;—the word his followers take With forward step and fiery shake Of naked brands that lightnings make, And clattering shields that echoes wake; And first in murmur low, Then like a Demonstration’s course 94 That Hyde parkwards doth his in force, And purple shouts itself, and hoarse, Burst from that thousand-throated source, “Woe to such traitors, woe!” The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave, The Tories scarce that Cross may brave; The exulting Rads hurrah afar— They know the voice of Gladstone’s War! Punch, August 30, 1884.

“O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen.” Song. Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street, And though in dwellings low they stay, Yet snug is their retreat. And as I walked thro’ Russel-square, To see what I could see, A fair one from a window there Was singing merrily Chorus— “Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.” If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree, To leave this house and place, Thou first must guess what boys we are, Who sweet St. Giles’s grace. And if thou can’st this riddle tell, As tell you may with ease, Then shalt thou enter soon our cell, As merry as you please. Chorus— Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.” “I guess you by your awkward feet, And by your stoop to boot; I guess you for a taylor meet, To make a marriage suit.” “A taylor, madam, bends his knees, And not for sake of prayer; His legs are always fix’d at ease, And mine are here and there.” Chorus— Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I wish I could with Cymon stray, And see his snug retreat.” “By the fine compliments I’ve met, And by your gallant airs, I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet, Who for him lies and swears.” “No servant I to any Squire, Nor yet a place have I, And when that trials hard require, I can both swear and lie.” Chorus— And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street, Yet never lass with me shall stray, To see our snug retreat. “Lady, a shameful life I lead, A shameful death I’ll die; The man who labours hard for bread Were better spouse than I. And when I meet my comrades rare, In places distant far; We all forget what once we were, Nor think on what we are.” Chorus— Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; And ever true and merry they, Within their snug retreat.

“And every eye was turn’d to see What such a goodly smell might be! When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d, With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d, And crest erect on high; In noble dish of china-ware, Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare, Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air, A lofty pigeon-pie! And round its edge, in bas relieve, The curious gazer might perceive S.W. and P.I.! * * * * * Knows well, no doubt the curious sage, And poet’s mind, and head of age, What such devices mean; Who made this pie, of high renown, A baker was, of Derby town, His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown, An honest wight, I ween; His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash, His mother a matron of Enfield-wash, And laundress to the Queen! And long could he trace his ancestry, Too long for my weak minstrelsy.” * * * * *

I who, of Norham’s castled steep, And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone; The battled towers, the Donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, Built of the thickest stone:— Of stalworth knight and champion grim With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb; Of Haco’s floating banner trim; Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart, Who came on baker Simnel’s part; Of abbots, monks and jovial friars, Of simple nuns and purblind priors, Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires; And wanton lady’s charms; Of painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing, And him, that Satirist, so knowing, Of whom we still make some account, Sir David Lindsay, of the mount, Lord lion king at arms:— * * * * * I, who have sung of all of these;— And eke of that same cuckold lord, Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twissel and of Ford, And Captain of the Hold. Who led the Falcon knight to the deas, And posted him full high With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie And a savoury venison pie: From the bare north, my distant home A border minstrel, lo! I come; Who much, I ween, have pored On many a huge unwieldy tome Imprinted at the antique dome, Of Caxton, or de Worde: To dear St. Valentine no thrush, Sings livelier from a Springtide bush; Then pay me half-a-crown a line, And I will be thy Valentine.”

O that I had the muse I wot, The buxom muse of Walter Scott, Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes, Recite the tales of other times; Then should that simple muse declare, Th’ ovation of the empty chair.

Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers. Be not discouraged—gentlemen, Tho’ criticism has run me down— Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen, And Plagiary stole my renown— Give me more cash—I’ll take more pains, And far surpass my former strains In Metaphor and thought. My fancy too shall soar so high, That burlesque writers I’ll defy, And critics set at naught. Successful in my first essay, My friends began to greet— My First, entitled the Last Lay— No minstrel sung more sweet— Then envy slept and I became, At once a Poet of great fame; For much applause I had— Proud of the offspring of my pen, I was resolved to write agen, And to my laurels add. My Marmion I then gave the town, In strains energetic and bold; The critics were ready to own, The battle sublimely was told. But one Peter Pry, His humour must try, To burlesque the poem I’d written; To me it did seem A wonderful theme, For any to exercise wit on. Resolved another work to make, I wrote the Lady of the Lake; The Lady was so much the rage, That she was brought upon the stage; But grief to tell! The younger Colman must think fit, (In order to display his wit) My Lady, who the Lake did deck, To make the Lady of the Wreck; Nor was this all—for—oh, for shame! Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot, Stole all my sentiments and plot, And made a novel of the same. I’ll nought of Don Roderic say, For that, sirs, had never fair play And well the poor author may rail In oblivion Don Roderic lay; For all must allow, There wer’nt puffs enow, And how could it then have a sale? I then my dear Rokeby devised— By Murray ’twas well advertised; For he made a boast In the Times and the Post, (And many the puffs too believed) That he the first copies received— But oh my unfortunate Rokeby; Who e’er of a parody dream’t, To bring thee thus into comtempt, Metamorphosing thee into Jokeby. When I saw—oh, how great was my passion, The bills upon Edinburgh wall— Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]— I sent men to cover them all. Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted, I wish a new work to be printed— Another’s already prepared, Then don’t let your money be spared. I hate in my price to be stinted— ’Tis such—it will baffle all wit, ’Tis such that no burlesque can hit; ’Tis such so sublime and so grand— The critics will not understand. And I long—ah, I long now to show ’em, The charms of my forthcoming Poem. From Accepted Addresses, or Præmium Poetarum. London, Thomas Tegg, 1813.

Walsinghame’s Song. O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch? The lad that has worrying tikes enow, Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine With two pint stoups of good red wine; But when he looked they both were dry; O poverty parts good company! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine To woo a maid both gallant and fine; But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side He smell’d the mutton and left the bride. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch? Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal, He wanted milk, and he wanted veal; But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight, But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright, And the braggart he did what I dare not tell, But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray, He wist not what to do or to say; But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree, A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch! But the devil is cunning as I heard say, He knew his right, and haul’d him away; And he’s over the border and over the heuch, And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch! But of all the wights in poor Scotland, That ever drew bow or Border brand, That ever drove English bullock or ewe, There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch!

The Combat. ’Tis merry—’tis merry on Brentford Green, When the holiday folk are singing, When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien, And the Brentford bells are ringing; Well armed in stern unyielding mood. High o’er that Green the Warren stood; A burly man was he, Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue, And clad in waistcoat dark of hue, And thick buff jerkin gay to view, And breeches of the knee: Beside him stood his trusty band, With hat on head, and club in hand, Loud shouting to the fight; Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane, O’er hill and heather, wood and plain, Sent forth the deepened sounds again, With voice of giant might. Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green, Glitters afar with silvery sheen, The lightning of the storm; Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien, With ragged Irishmen are seen, Dreadful and drunken all, I ween, A phalanx fierce to form: Saint George! it was a gallant sight, To ken beneath the morning light, The shifting lines sweep by; 98 In mailed and measured pace they sped, The earth gave back their hollow tread, ’Till you mote think the charnelled dead Were howling to the sky. “Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum, The foe advance—they come, they come! Lay on them,” quoth the Day; “God for the right! on Brentford Heath, Our bugles stern and stormy breath, Summons to victory or to death; Hurrah then, for the fray!” Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank, In vengeance rung along each rank; And the red banners (formed by hap Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42] Waved lordlier at the cry: ’Till every proud and painted scrap, Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap, Or cloud in winter sky. The Warren first this squad espied, Ranged man to man in ruffian pride, And to each warrior at his side In vaunting phrase began, “Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush, All Brentford to a blacking brush, My foeman leads the van.” On rushed each lozel to the fight, Ruthless as flood from mountain height, The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast, And dealt destruction as they past, While high as some tall vessel’s mast, Warren o’erlooked the shock; Thence bore him back with might and main; Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain, Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain, He stemmed them like a rock; His foeman chief with wary eye, The flickering of the fight could spy, And shouted as his bands he led, To Pat O’Thwackum at their head, “Thwackum, press on—ne’er mind your scars, Press on—they yield—and oh, my stars! Each nose is bleeding fast; Strike, strike,—their skulls like walnuts cracking For Day, for Martin, and his blacking, The battle cannot last.” Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood, Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood, Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies, His breast with choler glows, Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes, And claret from his nose. The foemen meet—they thump, they thwack! Hark! burst the braces on their back! And, hark! their skulls in concert crack! And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack! With repercussive shocks: See, see they fall—down, down they go, Warren above, his foe below, While high o’er all ascends the cry Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky, And “Thwackum” to the stocks. Oh! for a blast of that tin horn, Through London streets by newsmen borne, That tells the wondering host How murder, rape, or treason dread, Deftly concocted, may be read In Courier, Times, or Post; Then in dramatic verse and prose, The martial muse should tell How Warren triumphed o’er his foes, How Thwackum fought and fell, And how, despite his cartel, Day Hied him, like recreant, from the fray. ’Tis done—the victors all are gone, And fitfully the sun shines down On many a bruised and burly clown, The flower of whose sweet youth is mown, To blossom ne’er again; For e’en as grass cut down is hay, So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay, As proved each hind who slept that day On Brentford’s crimson plain. Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad Bravely lay sprawling on the sod; They scorned to turn their tails,—for why? They had no tails to turn awry, So dropped each where he stood. First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground, Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound, Mark Wiggins from Cheapside, Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall, The two O’Noodles from Blackwall, Noggins the Jew from London Wall, And Scroggins from Saint Bride: Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose To join the motley chase, Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose Was flattened to his face: Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose, Would have essayed to pour On one—on all, his wrath red hot As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not Been hanged the day before. Illustrious brave if muse like mine May bid for aye, your memories shine In fame’s recording page; Each wounded limb, each fractured head, Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed, Shall live from age to age; And still on Brentford Green while springs The daisy, while the linnet sings Her valentine to May, The sympathising hind shall tell Of those who fought and those who fell, At Brentford’s grim foray. L’Envoy to the Reader. Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede Hath reached an end, nor feel I need To add to Warren’s fame, my meed Of laudatory rhymes; Far loftier bards his praise rehearse, And prouder swells his daily verse 99 In Chronicle or Times. Enough for me on summer day, To pipe some simple oaten lay, Of goblin page or border fray, To rove in thought through Teviotdale, Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale, (The sight and sense with awe attacking,) Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood, Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud, In boots baptized with Warren’s Blacking.

The London University. March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers, Doff your great castors for brims of less border, Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers, And march off to school at great Intellect’s order; For many a poet, who now does not know it, Professor, historian, logician and great wit, Mathematician, and famed rhetorician, Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit. March, march, &c. Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble, Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls, No more waste your time on your needle and thimble, Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls, Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting, To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men, Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors, And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen. Then march, march, &c. From The Spirit of the Age, 1829

At sartin schools they make boys write Their alphabet on sand, sirs, So I thought dust would do as vell, And larnt it out of hand, sirs; Took in the “Penny Magazine,” And Johnson’s Dixionary, And all the Perio-di-calls To make me literary. They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear, As Adam vos the fust man,— And by a co-in-side-ance queer, Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen!

Smoking’s quite Regular. “When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in their mouths, it is a sign of rain.”—Old Saying. Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green, Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular. Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps; Smoking’s the fashion from gemman to higgler. Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists; Let there be piping and blowing no matter how. Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists, Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now. Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right. Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges, Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks, Bacca-pipe odour each nostril besieges. Spit! spit! all who love bacca smoke, For it produces great expectoration; Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches, Let there be spitting without a cessation. Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats; Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse, Quid! quid! what do you think of it? Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course. From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster, Dublin (about 1832, when smoking was first becoming prevalent).

Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone? He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home. Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away. Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star. Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound! The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye! But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.

Punch’s Serenade. Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?— He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne, And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home. Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?— He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well; But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell. In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?— His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid; And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad. Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!— Dog Toby would weep over him, and Punch himself would cry: But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die. Punch, October 1846.

Song of the Slighted Suitor. Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone? He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on, And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own. What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch? Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;— And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such. In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found? I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;— And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound. What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make? None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake, And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take. Punch, 1848.

The Great Kilt Reform. Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone? Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on! What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear? Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare; And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air! Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d? Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks best; But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest! Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform, Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more warm; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform. Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid? Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad! 101 Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old; Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of cold; And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold! Diogenes, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854.

Wandering Willie. Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone? He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn, And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn. Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been? He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean, And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean? Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome? For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home. In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed? As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best, And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest. Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need? ’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed; But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed. And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act If by his will the Government were out of office packed? And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact. Judy, December 31, 1879.

To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke, “This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke; And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee. For, be it a maid, or be it a man, Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can. To compass that object no method I see Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee. “’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke, What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk? But that which we like is the pluck—the esprit— Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee. So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan; Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span. And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee. “What may not result from this union of schemes, If only Jemima is aided by Jeames? We’ll soon be installed in the salon, you know, With masters and missises all down below. So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man. No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban. While every Lothario provided shall be With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee. “Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall, From footman gigantic to buttons the small, And follow your leaders the butlers, as we Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee. Quick! down with the master, and up with the man, Since that nowadays is society’s plan. You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.” The Hornet, May 8, 1872.

And did they its meeting turn into a joke, And fun journalistic presume for to poke? Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee? O be it a maid, or be it a man, Let each be placed rigidly under the ban. And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee. Dare we hope, as result of this last little game, The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same? How much more inviting the papers would be, If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee. For be it in earnest, or be it in joke, A deal of the talkee-talk does end in smoke. Of course the reports are in fault, as in re The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee. Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt, Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped. No longer that twaddling bosh should we see, “The Toast of the Evening”—all thanks to Dundee Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid, You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade. From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee. The Hornet, June 19, 1872.

Bonnie Bar-gee. “’Tis a jolly conception!”—’twas Truscott who spoke— “Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke; So let each civic wag who loves humour and me, Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be. Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone, Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan, We care for no pleadings or warnings—not we! For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’” 102 Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat, And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet, While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see, ’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!” So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van, There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man, Just over the spot where the Bar used to be They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!” There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North, But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth, Since there are sober men who the reason can’t see For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be, Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone; Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone! For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be, To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!” Punch, September 18, 1880.

The Dissolution. In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke: You will now be released and can take off the yoke. As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea, The majority of you can go to the D.! You have squandered my money in powder and shot; Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot. You did this, and much more, in the name of the free, So away you incompetents! Go to the D.! You have fostered intolerance—bigotry’s ban; Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man, Compensated iniquities lavishly free— Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.! But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown, Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone. Two million! Ah, they to my future will see! Farewell, then, I’ve done with you—go to the D.! D. Evans. The Weekly Despatch, November 15, 1885.

Jawing “J. C.” (Air, “Bonnie Dundee.”) To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke, “Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke! So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me, Let him follow the system of jawing J. C. Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men, Come, open the best way to let us go free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.” J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land; The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;” But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be, For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.” “Come fill up,” &c. There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth; If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North; There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three, Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C. “Come fill up,” &c. “Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums— Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums. So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me. Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men; Fling everything open, we all will be free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.” The Globe, December 1, 1885.

The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming. The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear! They winna foregather, I fear, I fear; For Jock certain questions has got to speer That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear. The Pop’ till his Council did all invite, Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight, “For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right; Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light. “Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot, An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot; Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit; Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot. “Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude, Magnesian, Electric—do be sae gude! Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude; When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.” The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply; Non possumus, noo, he may truly cry. ’Tis not as it was in the days gane by, When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry. 103 The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’, An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’, An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’ Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’! Punch.

Hey, Johnny Cumming! (Air—“Hey, Johnny Cope!”) Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet! Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet? Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait, To shrive Johnny Cumming i’ the mornin’. Johnnie wrote a challenge to the Pop’ o’ Rome, Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come, Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb? I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.” When Pawpie read the letter on, He took him pen and ink anon, We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son O’ Scotia an’ Knox i’ the mornin’.” A line through Manning the douce auld Pop’ To Johnnie did in answer drop; “Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop To re-open the noo of a mornin’. “There’s nane can doot or deny that we Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie. D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee? Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’! “Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’, Doon on your marrowbones to fa’ An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw, Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’! Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute, We dinna argue or dispute, Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute, Kiss that, Johnny Cumming, i’ the mornin’! When Johnnie gat the Pop’s reply, Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny An’ sae do mony mair forbye, The commission ye claim of a mornin’.” Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’ To tell what the Pop’ says ex cathedra’ An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.” When Pawpish Doctors disagree As to what maks gude the Pop’s decree, The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee To ae canna Scot of a mornin’. Nae dogmies Pio will discuss To prove whilk wad auld Nick nonplus: And sae he cries non-possumus; Canna meet Johnnie Cumming i’ the mornin’. Punch.

Khartoum. The Camels are coming at last, at last! Over the desert so fast, so fast! Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar The might of Old England is felt once more— Thanks to the Franchise Bill. The Camels are coming at last, at last! The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed. But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame, Or the growing power of that hero’s name, Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”— But to the Franchise Bill. The Camels are coming at last, at last! The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast, Every nerve must now be strained, New prestige must now be gained, Money be spent and blood be rained— To save the Franchise Bill. C. B. S. The Globe, September 30, 1884.

The Millionaire on the Moors. My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere, My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer; Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe; My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know. I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor, As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor, Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep, And grouse-shootins also—don’t care much for sheep. I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind, Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind, Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around, On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound. There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream, And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream. There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about, Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out. Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free, Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me, In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go. Punch, October 27, 1883.

Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter, The summer or autumn to pass, I’ll tell you how far you may venture To flirt with your lad or your lass; 104 How close you may come upon marriage, Still keeping the wind of the law, And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’, Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’. This maxim itself might content ye, That marriage is made—by consent; Provided its done de prœsenti, And marriage is really what’s meant. Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny Say, “We two are husband and wife;” The witnesses need’nt be many— They’re instantly buckled for life, Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t with us a hard thing To get woo’d and married an’ a’. Suppose the man only has spoken, The woman just giving a nod. They’re spliced by that very same token Till one of them’s under the sod. Though words would be bolder and blunter, The want of them isn’t a flaw; For nutu signisque loquuntur Is good Consistorial Law. Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: A wink is as good as a word. To get woo’d and married an’ a’. If people are drunk or delirious, The marriage of course will be bad; Or if they’re not sober and serious, But acting a play or charade. It’s bad if it’s only a cover For cloaking a scandal or sin, And talking a landlady over To let the folks lodge in her inn. Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t the mere use of words Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’. You’d better keep clear of love-letters, Or write them with caution and care; For, faith, they may fasten your fetters, If wearing a conjugal air. Unless you’re a knowing old stager, ’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost; As a certain much-talked-about Major[43] Had very near found to his cost. Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: They are perilous things, pen and ink, To get woo’d and married an’ a’. I ought now to tell the unwary, That into the noose they’ll be led, By giving a promise to marry, And acting as if they were wed. But if, when the promise you’re plighting, To keep it you think you’d be loath,— Just see that it isn’t in writing, And then it must come to your oath. Woo’d and married ah’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid Being woo’d and married an’ a’. A third way of tying the tether, Which sometimes may happen to suit, Is living a good while together, And getting a married repute. But you who are here as a stranger, And don’t mean to stay with us long, Are little exposed to that danger, So here I may finish my song. Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: You’re taught now to seek or to shun Being woo’d and married an’ a’. Charles, Lord Neaves.

Air—“Charley is my darling.” Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring, Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight; For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring, Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright. Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter, The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand: But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter, He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he scanned. “Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys, For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire; But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare boys, Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire. And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys, ’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat; ’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!) Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.” And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover, And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen; And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky, Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been! Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely, Punch holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s day; And Punch states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking, That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away. Punch, November 29, 1856.

The Manager to Mrs. Langtry. Air—“Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me, On lime-lit boards to win renown? Can crowded stalls have charms for thee— The painted scene and tinsel crown? No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen, No more restrained to Park and Square, Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene, Where thou art fairest of the fair? O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play “Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind; Though Beauty’s charming in its way, In acting “there is more behind.” Some say, so stately is thy mien, High tragic rôles thou well could’st bear; Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen, As well as fairest of the fair. O Langtry, canst thou act so true, Through long and trying scenes to go, Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review, Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?” As yet, they don’t agree at all What praise or blame shall be thy share; And critics, whether great or small, Are not the fairest of the fair. And when at last thy Muse shall try Ophelia, Juliet, Queen Macbeth, Say, canst thou make thy audience cry, Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath? And wilt thou from thy handsome pay, Of poorer players take due care? If so, then still the world will say That thou art fairest of the fair.

A Parody on Robin Adair. You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier, How does Dampiere do? Ay and Bournonville too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier? I will light France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier. I will fight France with you; I will take my chance with you; By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier. Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier: Then let us fight about, Till Freedom’s spark is out, Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt—Dumourier.

A Song. Tune—“Robin Adair.” Hark! to yon glorious shout, Canning, O rare! Echo proclaims it out, Canning, Huzza! Beauty, each step you see, Displaying loyalty, Whose charms keep Britons free, Canning, Huzza! O! ’tis a lovely sight, Canning, O rare! Thrills each heart with delight Canning, Huzza! What! though no freeman true, What! though their eyes are blue, Still are their lips for you, Canning, Huzza! Lips whose persuasive touch, Canning, O rare! Strengthens our cause so much, Canning, Huzza! Thou’lt think when far away, Where red rose held its sway, On Bosoms, pure as day, Canning, Huzza! Heroes wait their command, Canning, O rare! When waves their lily hand. Canning, Huzza! Whilst you with smiles approve, Naught can our bosoms move, Save Mars, or God of Love, Canning, Huzza! Mark as in lines they lead, Canning, O rare! See England’s hero tread Canning, Huzza! Whose bosoms void of care, Wounds from your eyes but fear, Whence falls the tender tear, Canning, Huzza! View their faces with surprise, Canning, O rare! Lovely tints lips and eyes, Canning, Huzza! Mark coalitions wile, Join’d by a heavenly smile, That can each hour beguile, Canning, Huzza! You whom all hearts adore, Canning, O rare! ’Tis you to guard our shore, Canning, Huzza! Tell wandering nations far, Our’s is bright honour’s war, Shine Salamanca’s star, Canning, Huzza!

Address to the G.O.M. (After Burns’s Address to the De’il.) O thou, whatever be the name Your silly pride wad gar ye claim As likely best to spread your fame Owre land an’ sea, Great People’s Will, or G.O.M., Listen a wee. D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel, When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal, Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil, Verbose an’ rash, Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,” An’ sic like trash? To reckon a’ your wild harangues Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs, About the countra’s woes and wrangs, A gruesome tale O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs An’ time wad fail. In short, ye kicked up sic a splore, Pourin’ out speeches by the score, An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore Through a’ the land, The countra’ bid ye tak the oar An’ try your hand. How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling, Upset or bungled everything, Mair waste and shame contrived to bring Down on the land Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing Or understand. Despite your boasts about finance, An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France, The whisky duties, sad mischance, Hae laid ye low, An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance At ae fell blow. I’m wae to think upon your state, Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate, An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate, Tak thought and mend, Consider, while it’s no owre late Your hinner end. “Midlothian” in Moonshine, July 1885.

For a’ That and a’ That. A new Version, respectfully recommended to sundry whom it concerns. More luck to honest poverty, It claims respect, and a’ that; But honest wealth’s a better thing, We dare be rich for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, And spooney cant and a’ that, A man may have a ten-pun note, And be a brick for a’ that. What though on soup and fish we dine, Wear evening togs and a’ that, A man may like good meat and wine, Nor be a knave for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their fustian talk and a’ that, A gentleman, however clean, May have a heart for a’ that. You see yon prater called a Beales, Who bawls and brays and a’ that, Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh, He’s but a goose for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that, A man with twenty grains of sense, He look and laughs at a’ that. A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that, And if the title’s earned, all right, Old England’s fond of a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that, A name that tells of service done Is worth the wear, for a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may And come it will for a’ that, That common sense may take the place Of common cant and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Who cackles trash and a’ that, Or be he lord, or be he low, The man’s an ass for a’ that. Shirley Brooks, 1868.

If a Proctor meet a Body. “Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’” If a Proctor meet a body Coming down the High, If a Proctor greet a body Need a body fly? Every Proctor has his bulldog, Dog of mickle might, When he marches forth in full tog At the fall of night. Every bulldog, when he spies a Man without a gown, Promptly chases him and tries a- Main to run him down. From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874.

Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed, Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d, Welcome; each condition read— Then make bids to me. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower, Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power, Pay the £ s. d. Wha would hear an English knave, Just pretending to look grave, Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave, Place for shrimps and tea?” Wha would see the cursed law, Grab it in its cruel paw, Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’ Sae contemptuously? By your sturdy Scottish brains, By your wealth of Union games, Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains An anomalie. Lay provincial pedants low, Give the cant of Race a blow, England’s one—and that you know— One—from Thames to Dee. Shirley Brooks, 1865.

Gaelic Speech; or, “Auld Lang Syne” done up in Tartan. Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot, And never brocht to min’, For she’ll be spoke in Paradise In the days of auld langsyne. When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms, First met fond Adam’s view, The first word that he’ll spoke till her Was “cumar achum dhu.” And Adam in his garden fair, Whene’er the day did close, The dish that he’ll to supper teuk Was always Athole brose. When Adam from his leafy bower Cam oot at broke o’ day, He’ll always for his morning teuk A quaich o’ usquebae. An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack, He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn, An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark A pony praw Cairngorm. The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens— The sneeshin’ mull is gran’; We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens, And pass frae han’ to han’. When man first fan the want o’ claes, The wind an’ cauld to fleg. He twisted roon’ about his waist The tartan philabeg. An’ music first on earth was heard In Gaelic accents deep, When Jubal in his oxter squeezed The blether o’ a sheep. The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens, The praw bagpipes is fine; We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet, For the days o’ auld langsyne!

Additional Verses to “Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut.” Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang, Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee, And aye the chorus, a’ night lang, Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.” And aye they sang, “We are nae fou, But just a drappie in our e’e; The cock may craw, the day may draw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.” That time for them the cock did craw, The harbinger of morn to be; That time for them the day did daw’, Wi’ gouden tint o’er tour and tree. And aye they sang, &c. That time for them the moon’s pale horn Did wax and wain o’er land and sea, But now has dawn’d the hapless morn, That gilds the grave o’ a’ the three, Nae mair they sing “We are nae fou, Nae mair the drappie’s in their e’e, Nor cock does craw, nor day does daw’, Nae mair they’ll taste the barley bree.” Thus Learning makes for Willie main, For Robin, Poesy wipes her e’e, And Science wails for Allan gane, Since death’s dark house hauds a’ the three. Then Britons mourn for genius rare, A’ victims o’ the barley bree, And ban the bree that could na spare The youthfu’ lives o’ a’ the three.

My Foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I’d siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so; But mark ye, how you’ve treated me, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, We’ve been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John And I will tak’ anither; 108 For we maun tumber down, John, If hand in hand we go; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween! My hands wi’ palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye’ll surely be the death o’ me, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, T’was love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear’, John, And sit sae late at e’en; The best o’ friens maun part, John; It grieves me sair, ye know; But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,” John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith; And yet to part wi’ you, John, I own I’m unko’ laith; But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It’s better late than ne’er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe. Home Tidings, January, 1886.

Ted Henderson my Jo. Ted Henderson,[45] my Jo, Ted, When we were fast acquent, On giving Bobbies martial drill Your mind was wholly bent: But burglars have revolvers now, And mobs to riot go, And Hugh thinks you behind the times, Ted Henderson, my Jo. Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted, It is a little hard The men in blue you won’t review Again in Scotland Yard. That you were not alone to blame Is what we all well know, But take your pension and depart, Ted Henderson my Jo. Moonshine, March 13, 1886.

The Wife’s Appeal. Tune—“O Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut.” O never touch the drunkard’s cup, It drumly makes your sparkling e’e, And changes a’ your features sae, My kind gudeman nae mair I see. Then get na fou’, no, ne’er get fou’, Aye keep the wee drap oot your e’e; And at cock-craw, when day does daw, You’ll blyther far than drunkards be. Ne’er waste your hours wi’ merry boys, Who to strong drink for pleasure flee; For if at night they merry be, You know the pains next morn they dree. Then get na fou’, etc. “The moon, that frae her silver horn, Pours radiance over tower and tree,” Should never shine “to wile folk hame,” Frae tipplin’ o’ the barley bree. Then get nae fou’, etc. Shun a’ the gilded snares o’ vice, “The cuckold coward loon is he,” Who dare not say that wee word No! And act the man where’er he be. Then get na fou’, etc.

Tib’s Sang—“Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo.” Tune—“Duncan Gray.” Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Ne’er again ye’ll see him fou,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! When a’ the lave tak’ to the drink, An’ gar the change-house glasses clink, While they themselves like howlets wink, He ne’er thinks o’ preein’ o’t. Takin’ drink baith late an’ ear’,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Aft he made oor hearts richt sair,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! But what cared he for wife an’ weans— For a’ oor sighs and heavy granes! We micht as weel ha’ saved oor pains,— He couldna see the meanin’ o’t. Drink had seared his heart within,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! He ne’er was pleased till he was blin’,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! His wife and weans micht hungry be; Tam ne’er cared a single flee, As lang’s he’d got the barley bree.— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Hame he reeled fu’ late at nicht,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Gi’ein’ wife an’ weans a fricht,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! An’ when ance atowre the door, He wad stamp, an’ shout, an’ roar; Oh! it was an unco splore,— Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Noo, oor hame’s a heaven on earth,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Life, in sooth, is something worth,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! We’re a’ weel clad frae tap to tae, An’ meat in plenty, too, we ha’e, An’ something for a rainy day,— Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t! Wha wad thocht to see me here,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Singing sangs o’ hearty cheer,— Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Nae mair the weans an’ me think shame To hear folk mention “daddy’s” name; We’re prood our kinship noo to claim,— Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t!

Song of the Session. There’s nought but talk on every han’; On every night that passes, oh! ’Tis wonderful how Members can Behave so much like Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! While business wails amid debates; And so the Session passes, oh! All this delay, from day to day Arrears of work amasses, oh! By sum on sum, till August’s come, When Statesmen look like Asses, oh! Loud, &c. The Income Tax upon our backs, With leaden weight is pressing, oh! And Ireland’s grief demands relief, The Debtor’s wrongs redressing, oh! Loud, &c. The Poor-Law Bill is standing still, While Gentlemen are jawing, oh! At fists and foils, in private broils, Each other clapper-clawing, oh! Loud, &c. Give them their hour to spend at night, In altercation dreary, oh! And England’s good, and England’s light, May gang all tapsalteerie, oh! Loud, &c.

The Last Duke. (After The Last Man.) All selfishness must meet its doom; Humbug itself must die, Before the Dukes give us their room ’Stead of their company. I saw a vision in my sleep, Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap, And Belgian cattle prime:— I saw the last of Ducal race, Who in the steamer took his place, To seek a foreign clime. His Grace had quite a bilious air; His cheek with woe was wan; The Ducal glories center’d were, All in that lonely man! Some had gone to Boulogne—the hands Of mortgagees were on their lands— To Rome and Baden some; The House of Peers was drear and dead, And Punch himself as dull as lead, Now that the Dukes were dumb. Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood, In seediness still high, And, turning on the pier of wood To England gave good bye: Saying, “Thou hast set, my country’s sun! Thou may’st shut up—the thing is done; The Dukes are forc’d to go; The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years Have kept up rents and paid the Peers, Have fallen at a blow! “What though beneath them we had dearth, And no reward for skill? What though the tillers of the earth Their bellies ne’er could fill? Henceforth to men in toil grown grey, The new coat with its buttons gay, No Ducal hand imparts— Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng, With curry-powder warm and strong, To cheer the labourers’ hearts. “But I, for one, won’t vote supplies To men who thus conspire To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes, And poke fun at the Squire. I quit my country, doomed to death; Hard soil, where first I drew my breath, Where long I ruled the roast; I’ll take the Corn-Laws for a pall, And, wrapping them around me, fall— Wept by the Morning Post! “Go, John—the steam will soon be up, A sandwich I would taste; I shall be too sea-sick to sup— Unto Sir Robert haste; Tell that man to his brazen face, Thou saw’st the last of Ducal race Quitting this classic spot, Peel and Potato-blight defy To make him hold his tongue, or try To talk aught else but ‘rot’!” Punch, 1846.

The Last Man. (A Study after Campbell.) The Park has quite a sickly glare, The trees are brown as tan, The spectres of the season are Around that lonely man. His world has vanished—ah, ’tis hard, He cannot find a single card For party on the lawn, For picnic, flower show, or dance; To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France Or Cyprus they have gone. Sad and perplexed the lone one stood, And muttered with a sigh, “I have no friends by field or flood, By moor or mountain high. The opera’s over, Goodwood done, And sport with fishing-rod or gun Alone is very slow. Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear, About the closing of the year, I know not where to go. 110 “And wearily each moment flies, For stale amusements tire; An idle man’s in agonies When seasons thus expire. Belgravia is as still as death, And in Mayfair I hold my breath; Or on some absent host Make quite unnecessary calls; Or haply in familiar halls I linger like a ghost.” He sought the club—“Bring claret cup Oh, waiter, and with haste; Something to keep my spirits up In mercy let me taste. And if a pilgrim seeks the place Tell him the last swell of his race This afternoon hath trod, The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row, And met no single belle or beau To greet his listless nod.” Funny Folks, August 24, 1878.

The Song of the First Lord of the Admiralty. (The Earl of Ellenborough.) Ye mariners of England, I’ll thank you if you please, To come and tell me something of The service of the seas: I’ve something heard of horse marines But nothing do I know; Though a trip in a ship I to India once did go. If enemies oppose me, And say I’m very far From being what I ought to be, I’ll say that others are. So come, brave tars, and teach me A vessel for to know: If the heel is the keel— Or abaft means down below. Then courage, all you admirals, And never be dismay’d, For I’m a bold adventurer, That never learnt my trade. Our ministers employ me To vote for them, you know; Then be bold, when you’re told That by interest things go. Then here’s a health to Wellington, Who made of me the choice; And to his worthy colleagues bold, Who scorn the public voice. Tell France and tell America They may begin to crow;— While I reign o’er the main Is the time to strike a blow. Punch, January, 1846.

You Managers of Railways, Who meet to talk and dine, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the line; Give ear unto your engineers, And they will plainly show All the wrack, which, alack! From mismanagement doth flow. All who are engine-drivers Must have tremendous pluck, For when you get upon your seat You trust your life to luck; You must not be faint-hearted For crash or overthrow, And the spills from the ills Of mismanagement that flow. Sometimes our trains are mixed up, Of common sense in spite, With several heavy carriages, And others that are light; Out rolls the train, and no man What next may come can know; And whate’er happens here From mismanagement doth flow. But our worst source of peril By far, is when we find An engine put before the train, And one to push behind; Then jamm’d and crush’d together Of carriages the row Oft will be—which, you see, From mismanagement doth flow. Unto our trains of breaksmen There is a shameful lack; And hence it is our lives and limbs So often go to wrack, For want of due assistance Our peril when we know: This defect from neglect And mismanagement doth flow. Ye legislative sages! On you it is we call! For as for our proprietors, Gain is their all in all, Which, for the public safety, They somewhat must forego, Or your bills stop those ills From mismanagement that flow. Punch, 1847.

Ye husbandmen of Scotland, Who till our native soil, How vain your high-class farming! How profitless your toil! 111 Your fields of grain are humbug, Your flocks and herds are “bam”— Go cultivate the strawberry, And make it into jam! * * * * *

The Liberals of England. (Campbell’s “Mariners of England” applied to recent events.) Ye Liberals of England Who vote by land and seas, Who stamped your names in other years, On Parliament’s decrees— Your glorious party launch again To meet its ancient foe, And sweep, swift and deep, And no hesitation know, Till a Liberal army, brave and strong, Shall Tories overthrow. The great deeds of your fathers Still speak from many a grave; For the Commons was their field of fame, Their native land to save. Again let noble Gladstone tell, While every heart doth glow, How to leap o’er the deep Machinations of the foe, Till England echoes with the song Of the Tory overthrow. Britannia needs no bulwarks On every savage steep; At keeping rebel hordes in awe Small glory will she reap. She smiles at “Foreign Policy,” While “Peace and Honour” grow, And Jingoes roar abroad no more About a savage foe. But John Bull sees ’twixt right and wrong, Through the Tory overthrow. The Liberal strength of England Shall fill the voting urns, Till Tory fictions fade away, And common sense returns. Then, then, ye Liberal warriors, The song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, And the glory of the blow That struck a Sham with the force of Truth, And laid the Tories low. Funny Folks, April 17, 1880.

The Landlord’s Farewell. A respectful Perversion of The Exile of Erin. There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin, The due on his rent-roll was heavy and chill, For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin’, While the boots on his feet were just “tenants-at-will;” But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion, And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean, “There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion, And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.” “Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger, To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree; I have no refuge from famine and danger But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free. Never again, at the midnight’s small hours, Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers, Which my grandfather got from the governing powers, When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh. Erin, my country! you’ll soon be forsaken By all the respectable landlords of yore; Then will those rascally tenants awaken, With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before. Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase me; I’d vote for Coercion—though Healy should face me— And prove my relations were hanged by the score! Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood (Hounds that are poisoned can’t answer the call), Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood? And where are my rack-rents? They’re gone to the wall. Ah, my sad pocket ’tis easy to measure, Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure, Fifty per cent. I’d abate now with pleasure But the devil a ha’penny they’ll give me at all! New Year is here now, and creditors pressing, One dying wish! ere I’m forced to withdraw Davitt! a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing, (’Tis all that you’ve left him in Erin-go-Bragh). And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean) I’ll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion, And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh. M. O’Brien. From The Irish Fireside, February 6, 1886.

The Escape of the Aldermen. (After The Battle of the Baltic.) Sing the adventure rare Of those worthies of renown, The Right Honourable Lord Mayor Of great London’s famous town, And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large On diversion they were bent, And on junketting intent; So they up the river went In their barge. Like porpoises afloat Roll’d their Worships in their craft, In that truly jolly boat It was merry fore and aft: The thirtieth of September was the day, They were sitting at dessert, With their waistcoats all ungirt, So extremely full of tur- -tle were they. Michael Gibbs was in his chair, In his chair of civic state; And the Sheriffs near him were,— The elect as well as late; And the Aldermen the board were sitting round, As they drifted up the tide, In their cabin big and wide, Each took care of his inside, I’ll be bound. 112 In a moment from his seat Was the Mayor of London thrown, And the Aldermen—like wheat By the sickle newly mown: And the Sheriffs four were stretched their length along, And the mace joined in the fall, With decanters, plates and all, Which the company did sprawl Prone among. Out bawled his Lordship then, And the Corporation, too, Loudly raised those Aldermen Of affright the wild halloo:— “What’s the matter, what’s the matter” was the cry; And the answer to their shout Was “Quick! put the barge about; Now, you fellow there, look out, For your eye!” And then it did appear, By bad steering, or bad luck, The barge against a pier Of Westminster Bridge had struck: Their escape was most miraculous, indeed, Now, your Worships, have a care Who your navigators are When on board you next repair For a feed. Punch, 1845.

Oh! in London To London ere the sun is low, The unemployed in thousands go, Where the Trafalgar fountains flow, Like Hyndman speaking rapidly. But London saw another sight, When Hyndman bade his friends unite To make o’erladen shops more light Of their superfluous jewelry. By word and gesture fast arrayed, Whitechapel thieves of ev’ry grade— Who rushed upon their westward raid To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the streets to riot given, Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven They roared in all their devilry. But more defiant yet they grow, As down South Audley Street they go, Bottles and legs of mutton throw In Socialistic bravery. The havoc deepens! On, ye brave, To win no glory—risk no grave— Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave, And charge with East-end chivalry. ’Tis eve, and all the damage done, Police stroll up to see the fun, And from each thousand capture one Who joined not in the knavery. Few, few shall smart, tho’ many meet, And carpenters and glaziers greet A day dear to South Audley Street, The famous eighth of February. Hyde Parker.

Long years have pass’d, since lyre of mine Awoke the short and easy line That now unbidden flows; Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long My steps have shunned the halls of Song, And sent, for sundry reasons strong, My pages, an uncounted throng, To bear the train of Prose! But now my harp anew is strung; And eager grows my tuneful tongue, Like panting steed that paws the earth, To burst and tell its tale of mirth. And visions float, like those that danced Before my eyes, when George the Fourth, Be-tartaned o’er, erewhile advanced With knightly train, and quite entranced The fondly-frantic North. Again I see such glittering show, Again such pageants gleam and go, As well might form the golden theme Of minstrel-song or morning-dream. The last excursion formed, I ween, To charm our gentle King and Queen, Was on the tide of Thames; A sight that few may e’er forget, That bards, enrapt, are singing yet: Then all the court, defying wet, Embarked at House of Somerset; But now the Royal party met At Palace of St. James! Sunny was that September morn; And groups grotesque were there; The beef-eaters—and those who scorn To taste such vulgar fare— And those again who daily mourn, Condemned to dine on air. Highest and lowest of the land 113 Were met, and saw no vacant stand; Ladies with white and waving hand, And troops, a fine mustachio’d band, With brandished weapons bare. And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big, Beneath a curly world of wig; And pages slim, a countless race, So dazzlingly disguised in lace, So like a line of dukes they stood, That had their thousand mothers old Beheld them in those suits of gold, They had not known their blood. Now, now the standard fondlier floats, The cannons speak with hoarser throats, And cheek of trumpeter denotes The coming of the king! Each lady now her kerchief throws, Each exquisite with ardour glows, Each treads upon his fellow’s toes, And deems he sees the monarch’s nose,— Ah! no, ’tis no such thing. Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes, He comes as sure as drums are drums; The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers, You hear—or you have lost your ears. Let all look now, or look no more; What stands at yonder palace-door? Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight Is passing through that palace-gate— A coach of gold, with steeds of cream, It moves, the marvel of a dream. With coursers six, are some that bring The suite and kindred of the King; Bold Sussex, honest Duke; And him, the darling of renown, A nation’s idol, hope and crown, Great Cumberland—whom yet the town Salutes with sharp rebuke. And not one lazy lacquey there But glance of rapture drew, Like tinselled hero at the fair Of old Bartholomew. Some rode, some walk’d, some trumpets blew, Some were with wands and some without; And all along the line of view From pavement and from housetop too Rose one continual shout; That Charles the First at Charing-cross His head, amazed, might seem to toss. Rang all the Mall with needless noise, From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys!