WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 7)

In London when the funds are low, And state-distresses deeper grow, The rule is this—to have a show, Designed with strict economy. We here this cheapened show have had; Who now shall deem the nation sad! Distress was there superbly clad, And Sorrow stalked not shabbily. All, all the troops were out; who choose To read the list their time may lose; The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues, Besides the Surrey Yeomanry. And many a line of Foot appears, With drummer-boys and pioneers, And last, the Loyal Volunteers, The drollest of the Infantry. Not last; for of the New Police Behold how one, in pure caprice, The hat knocks off—to keep the peace— Of idler, answering snarlingly. That morn was seen by all the town King William’s brow without a crown; But ere yon autumn sun went down, ’Twas circled most expensively. The Debt still deepens. Could we save A trifle, Hume might cease to rave. Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive, And charge as low as possible. Few, few shall gain where many pay; The people must the cost defray, And give their guineas too to-day For seats to see the pageantry.

The sun it shone on spire and wall, And loud rang every bell; Wild music, like a waterfall, Upon my spirit fell; But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all, Each spire was like a spell. I breathed within that Abbey’s bound, It was a hallowed spot; The walls they seemed alive with sound, And hues the sky hath not. Good lord, my brain was spinning round, And methought, I knew not what. Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock! My spirit feels a passing shock; Eleven o’clock—you heard the chime; Oh! many shall see the King this time. My very heart it seems to sing, And it leapeth up to see the King. 114 What flattering music meets his ear, What loving voices greet! He sitteth now in presence here, With a nation at his feet. And (joy for him!) he’s not alone; Yon lady, look—she shares his throne. The bishops, a right reverend race, Bring first, then take away, Rare things of gold that through the place Dispense a brighter day They robe him next with a robe of grace, The supertunica. And many a ring, and staff, and sword, He takes from many a mumbling lord, Enwrapt in richest silk and fur; On head and hand the oil is poured, And now they touch his foot with a spur, And crown that Ancyente Marynere! Soon about the Queen they’ll stir, Crowning William, crowning her. To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek Now on their knees the bishops fall; Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek, But great Lord Brougham the last of all. Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last, But the roof it rang as on he passed; The people laugh, and the peers they stare For they never had thought to have seen him there. I guess ’twas curious there to see A baron so oddly clad as he, Ludicrous exceedingly.

NATIONAL HAPPINESS. Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front, Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt And all who once your darker feelings stirred, Have risen this morning with the earliest bird— Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King May justly prize the crown this day conferred Upon him, and for you his power employ, Was ever love like this! That maiden pale Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy Loyally standing on a spiked rail. Oh! what can damp a nation’s natural joy. EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION. What, what but Rain! When brightest shines the sun, Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns, Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns The sour vexation; all delight is done. The King is now forgotten. Many run For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me) Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be Signs of glad welcome and of social fun. Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars; Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again Now envying those below, Rheumatic men, With ague in perspective, curse their stars. Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum Thus washed away, and wish they had not come. THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace, Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace. On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs Had prayed for a “long reign!” but not for showers Like this that seems disposed to last for hours! Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms, Were disappointed of their seats to-day! ’Tis wisely ordered that—— * * * * * I have forgot what I was going to say.

I see the bright procession wind “Like a golden snake” along; And I gaze around the Abbey, lined With a proud and jewelled throng. I see fair Lady Harrington; And rich St. Albans, clad In gems that drive, though ill put on, The peeresses half mad. The little princes too are there, Those pure and pretty peers; But oh! the scene, to others fair, To me is dimmed with tears. One speck upon this earthly sun, That soon, alas! must fade, One little spot, and only one, Throws on my heart a shade. Of all the myriads met to-day, Oh! tell me which is she The gentle child I saw at play By Kensington’s green tree. 115 My eye it rests on every spot, Ladye and cavalier; But that fair child, I see her not Of all the thousands here. She is not here—the reason why[46] Is neither there nor here; At home she heaves the infant sigh, And dries the childish tear. The humblest maid will murmur when Refused its cup of bliss; How must a princess suffer then, To lose a sight like this! Thus, mid the rich magnificence, A vision sad and wild Presents unto my inmost sense An image of that child.

Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor. Just think what hungry families might dine On that laced jacket, framed of superfine. How large a nation may a little net Confine—what traps are in those trappings set! Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown, To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown? All penceless pockets theirs—the man with cakes For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes. Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least Circle her arms, and might an army feast. That zone for which a princess might have pined, Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned. On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view; Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two, It leaves you five, and five we know would do. These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat, Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.

There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth, Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth; An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown When a breathing from Araby blends with its own. But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair, Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there; And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast, Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d. This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all, But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class, Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass. Let, let but that lustre encircle me still! ’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will. Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime, It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme. * * * * * No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day! You cannot mean that!—I’ll appeal then to Grey. My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new, Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you. Your music should mix with the drawing of corks, Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks. Economy charms me—but first I must dine; You may tamper with all constitutions—but mine. Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls, Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls; What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore ’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er! No dinner!—not even a sandwich——

He comes, he comes! the news afar Is spread by gun and steeple; He seems (what many princes are) The Father of his People. That echoing cheer—it rises higher And seems to reach the stars; No Life-Guard escort he requires Who meets with such Huzzas! 116 A poet-King; nay, do not scoff! The Monarch hath his Mews; Like those whose pensions he cuts off, He’s followed by the Blues. Yet some our King and Queen must hate, For see, besides a star, Their houses they illuminate With “W. A. R.” He’s near the Abbey; on the air The guns their echoes threw; And now the bishops make him swear To mind their canons too. That organ seems on ours to play As if our love to nourish; Be ruined by reform who may, Those trumpeters must flourish. A crown is brought, they make him King; A King! why they mistake; Two crowns, each child must know the thing, But half a sovereign make. Well, he is ours; along the way He hears his people’s vow; And as he goes, he seems to say, “Your Bill is passing now!”

“They say it was a splendid sight, Such sums were lavished then, Although the nation at the time Was full of famished men; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous pageantry. “Much praise our gentle Monarch won, And so did Grey and Brougham;” “But what good came of it at last,” Quoth simple Mr. Hume. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous pageantry.”

Mr. Barnum’s Experience of Travelling in England. The way was short, the wind was cold, The voyage on Mr. B. had told; His yielding knees, his tottering gait, Showed what had lately been his fate; His sunken eyes, his face so pale, Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale. His bag, in which he took such joy, Was carried by a dockside boy; And undistributed remained The store of handbills it contained. He had not far to go to gain The platform where the London train Stood waiting, and with wistful eye He saw his welcome bourne so nigh; And soon sank down, with yearning face, Into the nearest vacant place. It was a dark and fusty den, In which were huddled several men, Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan, Which died away into a moan, As, with their chins close to their knees, They watched their new companion squeeze Into his seat, and try in vain Room for his legs, or arms to gain. When he had struggled moments twain, His wrath, which he could not restrain, Impelled him suddenly to rise; But no, he found, to his surprise, ’Twas useless, he was now, alas! Part of a packed and groaning mass. And as he, too, felt weak and ill, He gave one groan and sat him still; Till, moved by his increasing ire, He cried, “Allow me to enquire If we poor victims truly are Now seated in a first-class car?” “We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said, “I’m sure I’d much prefer instead Inside a cattle-truck to ride!” “You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried. “Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then, If you are true, brave Englishmen, Do you submit without a battle To thus be served far worse than cattle?” Then, strengthened by his indignation, He uttered this denunciation:— “Breathes there a man that England’s bred, Who never to himself hath said, This is a scandal to my land? Whose wrath has not within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From travelling on a foreign strand, When he’s been put to ache and freeze In such disgraceful trucks as these? If such there be, one soon can tell That ’tis the shares he holds impel Him to condone the line’s disgrace; Or ’cause connection he can trace With some large holder of its scrip, Or one on its directorship. That any other man of sense Should find conceivable pretence So great an outrage to defend Does probability transcend.” Truth, Christmas Number, 1883.

The Three Fishers. Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town. For men must work, and women must weep, And there’s little to earn and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town. For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley.

An Old Friend in a New Dress. Three merchants went riding out into the west, On the top of the bus, as the sun went down; Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest, And the growing circumference of her new gown; For wives must dress, and husbands must pay, And there’s plenty to get, and little to say, While the Milliner’s Bill is running. Three wives sat up in Jane Clarke’s for hours. And they told her to put every article down, They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown; For wives must dress, and husbands will pay, Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way When they’re dunned for the Bill that is running. Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette On a Tuesday night when the sun went down, And the women were weeping and quite in a pet, For the dresses they never will show to the town; For wives will dress, though husbands can’t pay, And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way To get rid of the bill and the dunning.

The Four Fishers, (Who caught nothing) Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best Of all the folks in Liverpool town, To the Emperor Looey a letter addressed, Intended to do him uncommonly brown: “We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep, From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,” Said they, in their Lancashire toning. Four Boobies went sniggering round all day Among the folks in Liverpool town, And thinking that none were so clever as they, And how they should come to a great renown: “We’ll strike Lord Palmerston all of a heap, And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,” Said they, their impertinence owning. Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears, When the post came in to Liverpool town, And brought them a letter whereof it appears Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun. For Looey knows well how his secrets to keep, And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap A harvest of jeering and groaning. Punch, December 17, 1859.

The Lasher at Iffley. Eight coveys went out in their college boat, And they feathered their oars as the water they cut, Each thought of the races, and what they would do, And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut. For men must row and coxswains must steer, And carefully too, as the races draw near, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. 118 These eight coveys went into training one day, And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away, And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer; For men must train and coxswains must steer, And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. The races came on, and the guns went off, The crew now are spurting—the boat does jump, Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats For those who will never submit to a bump. For men must spurt, and never say die, And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. The races are past, and the bumps are made, The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won, The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed, “The Eight” is deserted—the puntings begun. For men must rest, and races must cease, But Isis’ fair stream can ne’er be at peace While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning. H. F. B. College Rhymes, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford.

How Three Fishers went Salering Three mothers sat talking who lived at the west, The west end—as that eldest son went down, Each thought him the husband that she liked the best, For the girl who had watched him all over the town, For men must pay or women weep And their dress is expensive, and many to keep, And their mothers are always wo-o-ning. Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door, And they thought of those girls as the funds went down; They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore, And of bills that came rolling in “ragged and brown.” But men must pay or women will weep— Though debts be pressing—still mothers are deep, And keep up a constant wo-o-ning. Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells— The last season’s “necessities” pulled them down— And the women are weeping and ringing their bells, For those who will never more show upon town, For men must pay or women will weep, And the sooner you do it the sooner you’ll sleep And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings. Punch, August 24, 1861.

The Three Freshmen. Three freshmen went loafing out into the High, Out into the High, as the sun went down; Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie; And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down. For men won’t work, and their mothers must weep, For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep, Though the College Dons be moaning. Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower; And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down; And a battle ensued for the space of an hour, And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown. For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there’s always a riot, And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out, While the College Dons are moaning. The Proctors came up in their shining bands, And they asked them their names, and they sent them down. And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town. For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay, And the sooner its over the better for they; So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning. Duns Scotus. College Rhymes, 1865. T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford.

The Three Fellahs. Three fellahs went out to a house in the west, To a ball in the west as the sun went down; Each thought how the women would like his new vest, And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro’ town. For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing. Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power, And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down; They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour, And the carriage came rolling up—coachman in brown— For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing, Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock’s bands, In the morning gleam as the ’bus went down; And the women are laughing and shaking the hands Of those who without them will ne’er leave the town. But men should mind, and women are deep, And the richer the husband the harder to weep, And good-bye to the swells and their groaning. Judy, September 4, 1867.

Three Husbands. Three husbands went forth from their homes in the West— From their homes in the West to the City went down, Each thought on the woman whom he loved best, And said “shall I bring her to-night a gown?” For men must work and women must dress, Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess, And gives rise to much grief and moaning. Three wives sat up in a lady’s bower, And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town, Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower; And said one “’Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,” For men must work that women may dress, And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess It is not the least use their moaning. 119 Three husbands stood at the bankruptcy bar— At the bankruptcy bar and their heads hung down, For creditors pressing for dividends are And three white-washed men will go forth to the town. For if men must work that women may dress, The former sometimes find themselves in a mess, Which gives rise to tears and much moaning. From Banter, edited by George Augustus Sala, November 4, 1867.

Three Children were Playing. Three children were playing, one day on the lawn, One day on the lawn, ere the sun was high, Their day had no shadow, their rose had no thorn, Not one little cloud was abroad in the sky. Their fathers were working when they were at play, Though pleasant the season and early the day; For the old world goes on rolling. Three husbands once met in the street of a town, In the street of a town as the crowd pass’d by; And one had a heartache, and one was cast down, And the other look’d gloomy, and said with a sigh, “Yet we must toil that the children may play, Though a night of disquiet oft follows the day; And the old world goes on rolling.” Three old men stood by the side of a tomb, By the side of a tomb when the night drew nigh; And they look’d to the westward, all shrouded in gloom, But no beam of sunset was seen in the sky: “Oh, let us to sleep; and the children will play To-morrow at day break, when we are away: For the old world goes on rolling.” From The Mocking Bird, and other Poems, by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.

Three Students. Three Students sat writing with lips compressed In a well-known house with their heads bent down; Each thought of the “tip” that might serve him best, And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown. For men must work, and little they’ll sleep, If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep, And the Church and Bar be waiting. Three Dons sat sipping at something hot By a flickering lamp when the sun went down; They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,” And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown. For men must work—but little you’ll sleep If a man with a cornet should under you keep, And the Church and Bar be waiting. Three travellers puffed out a fragrant cloud, One Saturday morn when the sun went down; Though they travelled first-class, you could see they were ploughed, And, oh! they were Robinson, Jones and Brown! For men won’t work, and little they’ll sleep If the wine be good, and tobacco be cheap, Though the Church and Bar be waiting. The Cantab, E. Johnson, Cambridge, 1873.

The Three Diners. (A Lay of Temple Bar in its present state, September, 1874.) Three gourmands invited were into the West, Out of Cornhill by Lord Fitz-Brown; They found they’d be late, and they thought it best From Cheapside to cab it right into Town. “For men will growl and women will weep, If waiting for dinner my Lord we keep!” Near Temple Bar they’re moaning. They were blocked up in Fleet Street for nigh an hour, And the lamps were lit as the sun went down; They swore they’d walk, but there came a show’r: ’Twas long past the hour for Lord Fitz-Brown. For cabs must walk and ’busses must creep, Which causes a block from Fleet to Chepe, While the Temple Bar is moaning. Three “empties” drew up at Fitz-Brown’s house grand, As the Devonshire cream and the tart went down; And the ladies are smiling behind the hand As the “empties” explain to Lord Fitz-Brown. While cabs must crawl and ’busses must creep, All long to say, from Fleet to Chepe, “O, good-bye to the Bar and its moaning!” Punch, September 26, 1874.

The Three Skaters. Three ladies went skating at Prince’s one day, And happy indeed were one and all; For their hearts were light, and their dresses were gay, But ’ere night they each had a terrible fall; For women will skate, whate’er be their fate, And its perfectly useless objections to state, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating. Three husbands sat waiting for dinner that night, And weary and hungry they were each one, And the cook and the butler were both in a fright, For they knew the fish would be overdone: But men must wait, while women do skate, And its just as well to put up with your fate, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating. Three sufferers that night were brought home in alarm, Bemoaning their fate with many a sigh; One had broken her leg, another her arm, And the third alas! had fractured her thigh: For woman will skate, whate’er be their fate, Though to mend we know it’s never too late, So good-bye to the rink and the skating. From Idyls of the Rink. Judd and Co, London, 1876.

Song on Cyprus, by Mr. Gladstone. Three regiments went sailing away to the East— Away to the East, to our Island new; And the nearer they came their spirits increased, For they were Englishmen brave and true: For whilst we’ve an army our troops must fight; And islands bought must be held by might, In spite of the press’s groaning. 120 Three Regiments landed on Cyprus shores— On Cyprus shores, there by Larnaca town; And having no huts slept out of doors, And a quarter next week were with fever down: For officials will blunder, and men must die, And it’s little use to be asking why; For nought comes of the press and its groaning. Three Regiments went sailing away to the West— Away to the west, whence they first had come; And none had escaped from the island’s pest, But all were feeble, and limp and glum. And soldiers must suffer and die, no doubt, But why did they send those Regiments out? Did they know at the time what they were about? It’s for this that the press is groaning. Truth. Christmas Number, 1878.

The Three Practical Men. Three practical men went strolling West, Out into the West as the Bar came down; Each said to the workmen, “May you be blest, For moving this obstacle out of the town! For cabs still crawl, and ’busses still creep— While stultified aldermen vainly weep, Their ancient Bar bemoaning.” Three barmaids stood in their gas-lit bower, And filled each glass as the Bar came down; And the practical gentlemen looked at the shower, And the mud that was rolling up slimy and brown, For men will drink, and women must keep Replenishing beakers, while potions deep Are quaffed to the Bar and its “boning.” Three “lushingtons” lie in the roaring Strand, ’Neath the Law Courts’ shade as the Bar comes down, And the barmaids are peeping—a giggling band— For they know the police may be squared with a crown. Ah! liquors are potent, and draughts are deep, And the more you imbibe, why, the sooner you sleep, An’ goo’-bye to th’ Bar an’s moaning! Funny Folks, January 26, 1878,

“Three profits” had got to come out of the land— Out of the land where the cash went down— The farmer some capital still had in hand, Which stood in his name at the bank in the town. For rents fall due, and tenants must pay, And there’s little quarter on Quarter-day From the lord the land who’s owning. Three landlords sat in an ancient hall, And mourned the way that their rents went down! “Three profits!” they cried. “It is ours that fall! Where once we’d a sovereign, now we’ve a crown! We have to live—and our farms won’t let! And we can’t exist upon what we get— So what use is the land we’re owning!” Three farmers consulted about their lands— Each face was sad with a thoughtful frown The profits were all paid to farming “hands”— The profits were all in the land sunk down! “Three profits!” they cried, “there’s not a doubt Our landlords and we must go without, And ‘Good-bye’ to our old farms owning!” Funny Folks, October 18, 1879.

When we were Boys. By an Old Boy. Three lambkins went larking there out in the west,— Out in the west at the dawn of day; At pulling of knockers they all did their best, And the bobbies looked on in a bobbylike way. For boys will be boys, and bobbies will bob, And when you get cotched you get one on the nob, If you’re out on the spree of a morning. Three lambkins got lagged and were shut up in quod, Twenty-six knockers the bobbies they found. Mr. Woolrych, he said that such conduct was odd, And he mulct each poor lambkin of twenty-one pound; For beaks will be beaks, though boys may be boys. You must grin and must bear, not kick up a noise At the court when you show in the morning. A marquess, a colonel, a captain, and I Forty years gone went out on the spree; To every trick on the cards we were fly, And now of the four alive there’s but me. For night will come and man must die, And we come, to look back half ashamed by and by On what we thought fun in the morning. Judy, March 19, 1879.

Three rascals went ranting round in the West, Disturbing old Ireland, country and town; “Bedad, it’s the landlords is bastes at the best! And if ever they drive ye for rent, shoot ’em down!” For rogues must rant, and good men must weep, With starvation to earn, and prison to keep, And a cry for Freedom sounding. Three captives sat in the prison drear, And they longed for their pipes as the sun went down; And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer, And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown. For rogues who rant in prison must weep, And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep, Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding. Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears, Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea, Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears, “Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he. For fools must smart, and victims must weep, And the harder the mattrass the later to sleep, So good-bye to the three in their “pounding.” GOBO.

Three land agitators went down to the West, Went down to the West, where the storm-clouds rise; Each thought of fair Erin, the land of unrest, And of fair Erin’s children, so poor, so unwise. For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And there’s little to comfort and little to glad, And Famine’s throes impending. Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng, And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light; They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong, And curses came rolling up black as the night, For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad, With treason’s woes impending. Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail, Away in the West where the sun goes down; And men mutter fiercely, and women bewail, And Erin—poor Erin!—must reap the crop sown, For times are hard and harvests are bad, And famine and treason make misery mad, Despair and death the ending. OBSERVER. The World, December 10, 1879.

The Three Agitators. Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen, Away at Gurteen in old Erin’s Isle, Each stormed at the Saxons, their laws and their Queen, And the “boys” their shillaleghs stood twirling the while; For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Cold lead is cheap, and the rents are high, So, hurray for the agitation! Three Bobbies came up, and they tapp’d those Pats On the shoulders, just in a friendly way, And they look’d rather sold, as they put on their hats, For the game was up, and it would’nt pay! But tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Though a dirty Government plays the spy On the Irish agitation! Three martyrs lay lock’d in the Sligo gaol, In the Sligo gaol as the sun went down, And the loafers set up a discordant wail For those whose orations were lost to the town! For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, And the sooner they’re potted, the sooner we’ll cry Farewell to the agitation! From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. (Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.)

The Jelly Fishes. Three fishes were floating about in the sea; Three fishes which were of the Jelly-fish kind, And being perceived by a certain grandee, They called up at once, as he said, to his mind, How much they resembled in form and degree, Three colleagues he recently had left behind. And men now will laugh and women must smile At this very apt joke of the Duke of Argyll. These fishes, he said, iridescent but limp Seem’d all at first sight to be able to sail, But examined had not e’en so much as the shrimp The power of propelling themselves by the tail; They neither had skeletons, nerve, nor backbone, Were nothing but jelly, no will of their own, So women must scoff at, and men will deride These structureless creatures adrift in the tide. This witty grandee has been wont to come out, To come out of his house when the sun has gone down, To meet with his compeers, tall, lean, short and stout, And bishops arrayed in black gaiters and gown, But no one could predicate till he’d begin, With head well thrown back and with prominent chin, Whether friends had to cheer or opponents to moan, Over what would among them most surely be thrown. But all must rejoice, and none can deplore, Our having among us the Mac Allum More. Morning Post, August 4, 1881.

The Three Fishers. Three Tories[47] went bravely down into the North, Away to the North which the “Rads” love best; Each thought of the man that had driven him forth, From the snug little berth that he once possessed: For Placemen must live, though the country may starve, And sometimes a blister, and sometimes a salve, Will set party waves a-rolling. Three Orators spoke for many an hour, And told ’em the blunders that Gladstone had made, Which they only could right if returned into power: And they gave ’em some pious “opinions” on trade. For Placemen must live, and—though hardly the thing, Yet even to Newcastle coals you must bring, To set Tory tides a-rolling. Three “Failures” came back, as we’ve all of us read, Sad, if not wiser, to London town; For e’en Tory organs were shaking a head, And hinted they’d better have not gone down. But Placemen must live—every dog has a day, And even “Fair Trade” may, for once in a way, Keep party waves a-rolling. From Grins and Groans. 1882.

The Academy, 1882. The Mew-Stone. J. W. Oakes, A.R.A. There were three pussy-cats sought the tiles, They sought the tiles as the sun went down, Their faces were wreathed with complacent smiles, For they were about to “do it brown.” And men may growl and women may weep, But nobody gets him a wink of sleep For pussy-cats’ caterwauling. There were three parties who yearned for sleep, Who yearned for sleep as the sun went down, They used expressions “not loud but deep,” At pussies’ commencing to “do it brown.” For men may growl and women may weep, But who, may I ask, can manage to sleep, With pussy-cats caterwauling. 122 There were three parties who rose in rage, Who rose in nocturnal cap and gown, And one of the pussies was, I’ll engage, A little surprised when they knocked her down. A second succumbed to a pistol shot, The other fell down a chimney-pot— “Good bye to the cats a-wauling!” From Fun Academy Skits, 1882.

Three London Fishmongers. Three fishmongers looked for a sale down west, In the heart of the west, when the world’s in town, Each thought of the neighbourhood paying him best Where the prices go up but never come down; For fools will pay when they can’t buy cheap, So back to the sea every day goes a heap, While the public look on groaning. Three Stores were set up some miles from the Tower, And the fish got west all over the town, And the middlemen cried, “We’re in for a shower, If this goes on! Why the price will come down! For men will dine, and—if they can—cheap, And the public seems waking at last from its sleep— It’s so precious tired of groaning!” Three bankrupts are showing their empty hands, And all that they get for their pains is a frown, And a “Serve you right—why, ’twas your demands That for years have plundered and starved the town!” But fools grow wise, and fish can get cheap, Three halfpence a pound anywhere in the heap, And the public has done with its groaning! 1883

The Potteries. Three potters set out all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best as the sun went down, Each sought out the butcher who’d serve him the best, It was Saturday night, and a crowd in the town— For women must cook and men must eat, And the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat, Tho’ ’tis better by far with no bone in. Three wives sat wearily “watching for pa,” Till the sweet chimes jingled the midnight hour, And they waited and watched with the doors ajar, Oh, where were the joints, the spuds, and the flour! For women can’t cook if the cupboard is bare, And a dinnerless Sunday will make a saint swear, With the poor little children moaning. Three potters came home all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best, but draggled and torn, Nothing they brought—you may guess the rest, And the wigging they got from their wives forlorn, For men should be sober at each week end, And give their wives their wages to spend, Then there’d be no headaches and groaning. (Stoke-upon-Trent, 1884)

The Three Champions. Three Champions went stumping up into the North, Up into the North with identical creeds; Lord S. took the Clyde, and Sir Stafford the Forth, While Lord Randolph he posed as a Leader at Leeds, For if Radicals rant, then Tories will fret, And there’s little to learn, and much to forget, When our rival Chiefs are spouting. Three Editors sat in their newspaper towers, While the “flimsies” came pouring in fast as could be; And they kindly cut short the rhetorical flowers, And sighed when the language was “painful and free;” For if Rads will threaten, then Tories must scold, Though Europe be angry and ironclads old, And patriots hate this spouting. Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered, For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;” And the Editors swear by Lord Beaconsfield’s beard That the country is with them as well as the Town. But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red, The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed, And good-bye to this pestilent spouting! Punch, October 11, 1884.

Three Fossils. Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo, Out far in the West where the sun goes down; Each thought of his crotchet—the last one he knew; And their fads and their whims were the talk of the town. For men must work and women must weep, Or there’ll be no money the Fossils to keep; And the shipowning folks are groaning. Three shipowners sat in their wild despair, By East or by West they were all done brown! For the Fossils had ruined the trade once so fair; And the foreigners cut in to put the freights down. But men must work and women must weep; ’Tis hard to do else when there’s nothing to eat, While the Fossils go on droning. Three ships were laid up in the stream hard by; And the crews were discharged ere the sun went down; And nothing was left for a roof but the sky; And the moon’s not as warm as a quilt made of down. But men must work and women must weep; For none but a Fossil in comfort can sleep, When the Shipping trade is groaning. Three Fossils laid stretched on a Whitehall floor; Right flat on the floor, on a carpet brown. And their collars were dirty; and loud was their snore; For they’d all been enjoying a night about town. But men must work and women must weep, And when the spree’s ended the Fossils can sleep, While the hard-working world is moaning. Fairplay, November 7, 1884.

Three Fishermen. Three fishermen went gaily out into the North— Out into the North ere the sun was high, And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth, Resolved to capture the trout—or die. For men will fish and men will lie, About the fish they “caught on the fly,” Their Sunday-school lessons scorning. 123 Three fishers lay under the trees at noon, And “blamed” the whole of the finny race, For never a nibble touched fly or spoon, And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face, For men will fish and men will lie, And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh Is something to tell—in the morning. Three fishermen came into town at night, And their “speckled beauties” were fair to see: They talked of their “sports” with keen delight, The envy of all the fraternity. But men will fish and men will lie, And what they can’t catch they’re sure to buy, And never repeat in the morning. U. N. None. The Saturday Evening Post, Philadelphia, U.S.A. June 27, 1885.

New Words and Old Songs. Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge; With Countryman Hodge, too, the Cow went down; The Acres and Cow were a capital dodge For those who could never get in for the town. The men may vote—the women may not— But the Primrose League is the comfort they’ve got; So the Knights and Dames go cadging! Three Rads came out in the country to speak— By the village-pumps where the Cow went down; And they all kept talking on end for a week, Till the rustics came polling up, horny and brown. The men did vote—the women did not— But though they didn’t, they canvassed a lot; And the Knights and Dames went cadging! Three Tories retired to their Primrose Lodge— Left out in the cold when the Cow went down; And the women sate cussing at Countryman Hodge, For going and spoiling the votes of the town. That men should vote—and women should not! But if ever they do, ’twill for Members be hot, So, good-bye to the Dames, and their cadging! Punch, December 19, 1885.

Three Farmers went Driving. Three farmers went driving up into the town, Up into the town when the sun was low; Each thought what he’d do when the sun went down, And the women came outward to see them go. For farmers must carry their produce to town To buy themselves clothes and the women a gown, And the neighbours wives are groaning. Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat And swung their staves as the sun went down, They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet, And now and then squinted round through the town: For “cops” must hunt for men who are full, And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull” Though the prisoners may start howling. Three farmers were locked in a cell that night, Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down; Their produce they sold and they soon got tight, And started at once to take in the town. For “cops” will “pull” whenever they see Three farmers together out on a big spree, Whose wives are at home a-growling. Scraps, January 1886.

Three Topers. Three topers went strolling out into the East, Out into the East as the sun went down— Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast, And not of the wife with the tattered gown— For men must drink, and women must weep, For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep, When the pot-house bar is groaning. Three wives sat up in a garret bare, And they lit their dips as the sun sank low, And they gazed at the squalor and misery there Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow. For men must drink and women must weep, And storms are sudden when men drink deep, And the pot-house bar is groaning. Three bodies lie out on the shining sands Of the pot-house floor in the morning light, And the women are weeping, and wringing their hands, For there’s murder done in a drunken fight. For men must drink, and women must weep; Oh! would that the Temperance pledge they’d keep, Bid adieu to the bar and its groaning. Hyde Parker, 1886.

The Three Poets. Three poets went sailing down Boston streets, All into the East as the sun went down, Each felt that the editor loved him best And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must write tho’ the editors frown, Their æsthetic natures will not be put down, While the harbour bar is moaning! Three editors climbed to the highest tower That they could find in all Boston town, And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the sun or the poets had both gone down. For Spring poets must write though the editors rage, The artistic spirit must thus be engaged— Though the editors all were groaning. Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand, Just after the first spring sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand, In honour of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while editors sleep, Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep; And the harbour bar keeps moaning. Lilian Whiting.

The Three Filchers. Three filchers went cadging in character dressed, To every move most remarkably down, Each thought on the fakement that suited him best; And the peelers stood watching them out on the town. “Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap, We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire, And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down; They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer, For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown. “Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep, And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three convicts, connected with iron bands, In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down, And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands At the coves who will never more cadge on the town. “Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet, Sich a gitting up-stairs—oh, ain’t it a treat, Besides we are barred from boning.” From The Free Lance, Manchester.

Three Students. Three students were walking, all dressed in their best, On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown. Each lit a cigar that came from the West, And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town. For men will slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep, Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep, And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning. Three students sat up past the midnight chimes, And they re-trimmed their lamps, as they oft ran down, And they “mugged” at their Paley, and got up the rhymes, And turned o’er their “Dictions,” so ragged and brown. For men must work and give up their sleep, Their livings to earn and themselves to keep, Though o’er Euclid they be moaning Three proctorised students the Proctor call’d up On the Monday morning. He sent them down; But not for the others did dons wring their hands, Because they would nevermore wear cap and gown. For if men won’t work by night or by day, The sooner they go down the less there’s to pay, When goodbye is said to the college. From The Lays of the Mocking Sprite, by E. B. C. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons.

Meloncholic. Three Melons went sailing out in the West— Nutmeg, water, and musk, Three little boys at evening dusk, While nature brooded in damp suspense, Climbed over a ten rail, eight foot fence And stowed a Melon beneath each vest. Three little colics appeared that night And tackled the cherubs three— Oh, the groan, the pain, the misery, The cramp, the gripe, and the inward hurt, The fate that doctors couldn’t avert, Three Undertakers at morning’s light. Let Melons go sailing everywhere And women are born to weep, And boys will forage while farmers sleep, And colics will come where melons go, And so will doctors and every woe That points the way to the golden stair. United States Paper.

House Cleaning. Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze Abroad in the breeze as the sun went down, And three husbands with patches of dust on their knees Whacked whacks that were heard for miles up and down. For men must work and women must clean And the carpet be beaten, no matter how mean, While neighbours do the bossing. Three housewives leaned out of their windows raised Of their windows raised where the light streamed in And they scrubbed and scrubbed till their heads grew dazed, And their ears were filled with a horrible din; For pots will fall and kettles go bang, And boilers refuse in the attic to hang, While husbands do the swearing. Three husbands went out in the hay mows to hide In the hay mows to hide where their wives ne’er looked. Each said as he rolled himself o’er on his side, “I guess I will snooze, for I know I am booked, For men may swear, but women will dust, And before I’ll move that stove I’ll be cussed— I’ll stay right here till morning!” Three Judges sat up on their benches to judge Three cases that came from a house-cleaning row; The parties asserted they never would budge, But wanted divorces “right here and right now.” So the men went off and the women went home, And hereafter will do their house-cleaning alone, While their former partners snicker. United States Paper.

The Three Worthless Fellows. Three worthless young fellows went out in the night, Went out in the night when the sun went down, They wandered along ’neath the moon’s pale light, And smoked their cigars as they walked down town. For men will go and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows looked up at the moon, Looked up at the moon as they went their way, Each thought of O’Shaunnessy’s big saloon, Where every night they could billiards play. For men will play and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. 125 Three worthless young fellows got safe to the door, Got safe to the door as the clock struck nine, Each well knew the place, they had been there before, And drank of the brandy, and ale, and wine. For men will drink and women will weep, ’Tis useless to cry, ’tis better to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows came out in the street, Came out in the street as the clock struck three, Two stalwart policemen they chanced to meet, And were marched straight along to the armoury. For men will sing and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows came home in the morn, Came home in the morn as the clock struck ten; They “went out for wool,” but alas, were shorn, And they wished themselves anywhere else just then. For men will sin, and women will weep, ’Tis waste of affection, forget it in sleep, And dream till the dawn of the morning. United States Paper.

A Royal Flush. Three Sports got into a railroad car, A railroad car with a pack of cards; They called “hear” “hyar,” and “there” was “thar,” And they always spoke to each other as “paur” For sports there are both good and poor, Professional and amateur, Where railroad trains are running. They wanted a fourth at a poker hand, Three were they, and they were one short, And they asked a stranger if he’d the sand To try a little game for sport; For strangers there are when men abound, And you’ll always find a stranger round Where railroad trains are running. The stranger didn’t know the game, But he was willing to live and learn; To him the cards were all the same— “They was to all at first he’d hearn,” And the Sports laughed loud and dealt the pack And gave him four queens and a thick-legged Jack, As they will when trains are running. And then they bet on the poker hand, And fattened the pot to a goodly pile, And they asked the stranger if he would stand, And the stranger stood with a simple smile. And one sport raised the other two, And the stranger won, as strangers do Where railroad trains are running. And then in a solemn breathless hush The three Sports showed what they had got; But aces won’t beat a royal flush, And the stranger gobbled that obese pot, For strangers and sports are natural foes, And the former carry cauls in their clo’es When railroad trains are running. United States Paper.

The “Bar” and its Moaning. (Not a Parody.) By Mrs. G. Linnæus Banks. Three husbands went reeling home out of the West, Home out of the West ere the moon went down, Nor thought of the women who loved them the best, Or the children expecting them home from the town; Oh! women must work and women must weep, When there’s all to be earned, and many to keep, And the tavern bar makes moaning. Three wives sat up past the midnight hour, And they trimmed their lamps till the moon went down, They wept o’er their work, and looked out through the shower, Till the night-rakes came reeling with menace and frown; But women must work, and women must weep, For storms are sudden when drink is deep, And the tavern bar makes moaning. Three husbands shake out life’s sodden sands In the morning gleam when the moon goes down, And women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never go back to the town; But women must work, and women must weep, And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar, and its moaning.

Welcome, wild north-easter! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne’er a verse to thee. Welcome, black north-easter! O’er the German foam; O’er the Danish Moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds, Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. 126 Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! the brave north-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O’er the frozen streams. Let the luscious south-wind Breathe in lovers’ sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies’ eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? ’Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What’s the soft south-wester? ’Tis the ladies’ breeze, Bringing home their true loves Out of all the seas: But the black north-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come, and strong within us Stir the Vikings’ blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God! Charles Kingsley.

The Surgeon’s Wind. The wind is North-East—so let it be! The North-East wind is the wind for me, To me it blows good if to none besides; For the boys on the pavement cut out slides, And the passenger on the hard flagstones Comes down, ha, ha! and breaks his bones. I have had a radius to do, And a compound fractured tibia, too, And that had been scarce ten minutes gone, When in came a case of olecranon, There was next a dislocated hip, Resulting also from a slip. Zymotic diseases lend a charm To genial autumn, moist and warm. We have Scarlatina and Typhus then, And Cholera good for medical men; But practice is best, I always find, In the bracing air of the North-East wind. When the North-Easter whistles shrill, It makes me think on the little bill To many a patient that I shall send, Whom that wind calls me to attend And though its music may seem severe, ’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear. Punch, February 21, 1857.

My Song of the North Wind. Hang thee, vile North Easter; Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog— “Tired we are of summer” Kingsley may declare, I give the assertion, Contradiction bare: I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: “There’s a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!” Set the dust-clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe, Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe. 127 Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making door and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Hark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent. Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent! Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past? If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often, Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men! In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I’d let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one’s teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world. Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandie. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood— All to have a Kingsley Swear it does him good! Punch, April 10, 1858.

Ode to the North-East Wind. By a Débutante at the last Drawing Room. Welcome, wild North-Easter? Oh! most certainly! Here a girl must gladly Turn a verse to thee! Welcome, black North-Easter? Eugh! a German goddess, Or a Danish nymph, Never donned low bodice. True it looks like Summer, There’s a chilly glare; But the Sun seems hurtling Ice-shafts through the air. In their glad Spring greenery All the trees look gay, But through Summer’s scenery Winds of Winter play; Sweep my golden tassels, To my bosom strike; Make my toes feel tingling In some frozen dyke; Fill my eyes with tear-drops, Cold—I hope as bright— As those diamond ear-drops, Dear Mamma’s delight; Through this thin tulle-pleating Worm their way until My poor heart stops beating With the deathly chill. Hark! the brave North-Easter, Like a blast from Norway, Howls along the passage, Whistles through the doorway. Cringe, ye courtly darlings, In your robes of snow, Trimmed with pure white lilac! Heavens! it does blow! Even the plump Duchess In her brocatelle Finds the draught too much is, Though she’s covered well. Her blue lips she closes, Her chilled eyelids wink, And her Roman nose is, Like her train, shrimp-pink. Mamma’s eye is on me, Sparkling like a jewel. Courage! but this wind is Cruel, cruel, cruel! Such a scene as this is Every girl’s delight is; But my throat’s so raspy, And that means bronchitis: One would rather die Than not be presented; But in a North-Easter? Kingsley was demented! Yes, the luscious South-wind Which the goose decries, Less afflicts our bosoms, Better suits our eyes. Why belaud and soften With his tricky pen What, alas! too often Women slays—and men? Says the soft South-Wester Is the Ladies’ breeze! Be it so, and let us Have it, if you please! But the black North-Easter Through May’s mid-day hurled, Drives poor English girls by scores Death ward from “the world.” Drawing-rooms are lovely, But diaphanous dress In a May North-Easter Means—eugh! I can guess By this inward quivering, By this bosom chill: E’en Mamma is shivering, Spite of her strong will. 128 Oh! cannot our mothers (From the dear Queen down) Some less killing fashion Set the foolish Town? Mode rules strong within us, But—we’re flesh and blood, Frozen by what Kingsley Calls “the wind of God.” Punch, May 30, 1885.

Ode to an English Easter. (After a Muscular Poet). Welcome English Easter, Cowards should we be, Loving our vacations Not to sing to thee; Welcome English Easter When we long to roam, O’er the heights of Dover, Far away from home. Tired we are of working, Sick and ill with care. Weary of Reformers, House of Commons air! Sweep the busy city Of the dust of years. Prime with pluck and muscle All our volunteers. Shriek, ye snorting engines, With your loads in tow, Worried station-masters Give the word to go! Shriek, ye puffing engines, For we want to see Paris Exhibition Now that we are free. Let the lazy summer Tempt us by and by With its cosy pic-nics, Ice, and pigeon-pie. Lengthy expeditions, Put them off till then, ’Tis this doubtful weather Pleases Englishmen! What’s the sunny summer! ’Tis the ladies’ hour, Bringing lawns and crôquet, Tea and toast in power; But an English Easter Often takes us in, And ’midst our enjoyment Soaks us to the skin. Welcome English Easter, We must have our spree, Cheap excursion-tickets, By the land and sea, Take us for next to nothing There and back again, Blow the doubtful weather, Never mind the rain! Fun, April 27, 1867.

I’m off at eight to-morrow morn To bring such fishes back.

A Husband’s Lament. Air—“I once had a sweet little Doll, dears.” (Kingsley’s Words, set by A. Cecil.) I once saw a sweet pretty face, boys: Its beauty and grace were divine. And I felt what a swell I should be, boys, Could I boast that such charms were all mine! I wooed. Every man I cut out, boys, At my head deep anathemas hurled:— But I said as I walked back from church, boys, “I’m the luckiest dog in the world!” As doves in a cot we began, boys, A cosy and orthodox pair: Till I found at my notable wife, boys, The world was beginning to stare. She liked it. At first so did I, boys, But, at length, when all over the place She was sketched, hunted, photo’d and mobbed, boys, I cried, “Hang her sweet pretty face!” Still, we went here and there,—right and left, boys;— We were asked dozen’s deep,—I say “we,” Though wherever I went not a soul, boys, Could have pointed out Adam from me. But we had a rare social success, boys, Got mixed with the noble and great, Till one’s friends, who say kind and nice things, boys, Talked of me as “the man come to wait!” So, I’ve no more a sweet pretty wife, boys; For the one that I once hoped to own, Belongs, as I’ve found to my cost, boys, To the great British public alone. So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys, And a rival more touzled or curled, Drives her home to her own proper place, boys— I’m the dullest dull dog in the world! Punch, January 7, 1882.

The Dirdum. It was a fearfu’ Dirdum, ae morning in the spring, He hirpled down the brae his lane, a sair and grewsome thing. The muckle buirdly dirdum, wi’ pawky glarin een, And couched himsel amang the grass, whare he could na be seen. Wee leein’ Jamie Nagle cam daunderin’ up the glen; A fusionless camsteary chiel, aye answering back again. And when auld Jock the cadger tauld him where the dirdum lay, And warned him aff, he leugh, and sware he’d surely gang that way. Sae on he went, and up he gat, and lang, fu’ lang, he staid— For naebody saw Jamie e’er come back the gate he gaed. But mony an eldritch screech was heard within the lonesome glen, Though what the dirdum did wi’ him, I’m sure I dinna ken.

The stately Homes of England! How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. * * * * *

The Donkey-Boys of England. (A Song for the Sea-Side,) The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly, With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye. And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand, High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate’s sand. The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove The brute that won’t “come over,” with an impressive shove; And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve From side to side, but won’t advance to spoil true beauty’s curve, The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight, When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight; From nurse’s arms the babies are clutch’d with fury wild, And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child. The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy The pleadings of a parent’s shriek, the infant’s piercing cry; As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot, Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey’s fitful trot. The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream, When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team; And the riders who are anxious to be class’d among genteels, Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-Boys “hallooing” at their heels. The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend The animal to whom they act as master, guide and friend; The understanding that exists between them who’ll dispute— Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute? Punch, September 29, 1849.

The Garden Grounds of England. The Garden Grounds of England! how hopeful they appear When all things else are desolate at winter time of year; For though the summer foliage no longer lends its screen, The earth still wears her uniform of vegetable green. The Cabbage Rows of England! how gaily they deploy, With ranks of stout auxiliaries from Brussels and Savoy; And regiments of native greens, which eloquently speak Of dishes rich and savoury—of bubble and of squeak! The Cel’ry Heads of England! how airily they rise, High up above the trenches, where the root they spring from lies; Types of the true nobility—bursting by force of worth Out of the low position of circumstances and birth! The Beetroot Beds of England! how sturdily they shoot, The leaves the hardy produce of a stout and stalwart root; A rough and tough exterior serves but to cover o’er The rich internal saccharine—the sugar at the core! The Endive Plants of England! how selfish is their plan, Spreading at first their arms about to catch at all they can; Then shutting up within themselves—like hypocrites demure, With hearts as cold and white as snow, but wonderfully pure! The Garden Grounds of England! how merrily they thrive; They show there’s always something to keep the world alive; For though deprived of Autumn’s fruits, and spring and summer flowers, There’s always green about the earth to brighten winter hours! Punch, December 15, 1849.

The Merchant Prince of England, What a glorious name he bears! No minstrel tongue has ever sung The deeds the hero dares. Enlist that soldier in your cause, No dangers bar his way, But gallantly he draws his—cheque, If the Cause will only pay. Where Freedom waves her banners He stands her champion bold, The noble English merchant Prince For her unlocks his gold. For her the Prince’s glowing pulse With generous ardour thrills, If only sure that Freedom Will duly meet her bills. When scarce the gory bayonet Upholds the Despot’s throne, The Merchant Prince, all chivalry, Springs forward with a loan. And vain a nation’s cry to scare That dauntless friend-in-need, Provided only that the loan Is safely guaranteed. See, where a sovereign’s crown rewards A venturous Parvenu, Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss His royal brother’s shoe. For trampled law, for broken vow, No doit his Princeship cares, If that salute can raise an eighth His gain on railway shares, You Christian of the slop-shop, And you usurious Jew, Assert your royal blood, for both Are Merchant-Princes, too. One common creed unites you, Devout professors of it, “There’s but one Allah—Mammon, And Cent. per Cent.’s his profit.” What, blame some petty huckster, That his vote is bought and sold: What, chide some wretched juryman That he blinked at guilt, for gold: What, whip some crouching mendicant, Who fawned that he might eat— With the Merchant Prince of England At the Third Napoleon’s feet? Shirley Brooks, 1853

The Cabs of London. The dirty Cabs of London! How lazily they stand About the public thoroughfares, Or crawl along the Strand; The omnibuses pass them by With a contempt supreme; E’en the coal-cart overtakes them With slow and heavy team. The crazy Cabs of London! How wretched is the sight Of one of those old vehicles That ply for hire by night! There, cracked is every window-pane, The door is weak and old; The former lets in all the rain, The latter all the cold. The shaky Cabs of London! How impotent the powers Of one poor nervous female fare, When fierce the driver lowers, Swearing, with impudence sublime And ruffianly frown, He can’t afford to lose his time; “His fare will be a crown.” The dear, bad Cabs of London! In vain the public call For a better class of vehicles That can’t be got at all. Extortion must for ever thrive, Cabs must be bad and dear, Till Legislation looks alive, And deigns to interfere. Punch, February 26, 1853.

The Duns of merry England! how terrible their air, With brows like midnight low’ring, and eyes with fiendish glare; And never-ceasing questions, when you really mean to pay The Duns of merry England, what nuisances are they! The Meats of merry England! how limited their range, Of roast and boiled, or boiled and roast, by way of start startling change; Of chops and steaks, and steaks and chops, on each alternate day, The meats of merry England, what sad affairs are they! The Colds of merry England, how easy to be caught! How hard to be got rid of, and with what discomforts fraught! Swelled eyes, red noses, puff’d out cheeks,—the mildest they display. The colds of merry England, how torturing are they! The Wines of merry England! the Port at half-a-crown! The pure Amontillado, and the nutty-flavoured Brown; Their horrors e’en while swallowing, and worse effects next day, The wines of merry England, how villainous are they! Then here’s to France the smiling, where the weather’s always clear; The wines are light and wholesome, and as cheap as English beer; Where a man may grow moustaches, and—blissful thing to say! The Writs of merry England, how powerless are they!

The Barristers of England. The Barristers of England, how hungrily they stand About the Hall of Westminster, with wig, and gown, and band; With brief bag full of dummies, and fee book full of oughts, Result of the establishment of the New County Courts. The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit, Expending on each other a small amount of wit; Without the opportunity of doing something worse, By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse. The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause, They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws; And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side, Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide. The Barristers of England, how with sang froid sublime, They undertake to advocate two causes at one time; And when they find it is a thing impossible to do, They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two. The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse, The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse; Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.” The Barristers of England, how often they degrade An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade, And show how very slight the lines of separation are. Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.” The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge, They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge; And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench. The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal; But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar. Punch, November 26, 1853.

The Homes of England. (By Infelicia Shemans.) The compo’d homes of England! ’Tis wonderful they stand Their weight of shaky chimney-pots, Smoke-drying all the land. Adown their flimsy tissue roofs Slate after slate fast slips; Each gentle rain that on them falls Through crack and crevice drips. The drafty homes of England! Alas! how one must squeeze Close round the grate in winter time Unless one quite would freeze. There every voice continually Of some vile ache complains; Lumbago, or sciatica, Or stiff rheumatic pains. The stifling homes of England! In summer’s sunny time More close and suffocating Than hot India’s burning clime! No breath of coolness finds its way From morn till evening’s close; But countless vile impurities Assail each inmate’s nose. The smoky homes of England! Spread o’er the smoky land, If smoke were only grandeur We’d all be passing grand. The dull blue vapour pours itself Increasingly adown Each chimney, and provokingly Turns everything black-brown. Oh, may the homes of England Long, long in freedom rise, But may the homes of England Be built by men more wise; Let air and light be one chief aim, Sufficient warmth another; And let them bear in mind as well, Our great want is not—smother. The Figaro, August 24, 1872.

Ballad—By Viscount Blank. The stately homes of England, Conveniently they stand; For helping co-respondent’s games, ’Twould seem they had been planned. Their lords preserve their game with care, But cannot keep their wives; They hunt, they shoot, they fish, they ride And Hannen’s business thrives! The blessed homes of England, How snugly in their bowers, Their owners soak on liquor fetched Ere interdicted hours, Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells chime, But piggishly they snore. For well they know whilst those bells clang Close shuts the public’s door. The cottage homes of England, By thousands on her plains, Are wretched hovels as a rule, And quite devoid of drains. There’s sodden thatch upon their roofs, And mildew on their walls, And yet they’re what the poetess, “Sweet smiling dwellings” calls. The free fair homes of England! Well, these do not exist; And if you doubt me just read through What’s on a jury list. Think of the things you’re forced to do, And all you dare not try; The free, fair homes, in sooth! Go to Free fiddlesticks, say I! Truth, Christmas Number, 1877.

Cottage Homes. “The Cottage-homes of England, How beautiful they stand!” (So once Felicia Hemans sang), Throughout the lovely land! By many a shining river-side These happy homes are seen, And clustering round the commons wide, And ’neath the woodlands green. The Cottage-homes of England— Alas, how strong they smell! There’s fever in the cesspool, And sewage in the well. With ruddy cheeks and flaxen curls, Though their tots shout and play, The health of those gay boys and girls Too soon will pass away. The Cottage-homes of England! Where each crammed sleeping-place Foul air distils whose poison kills Health, modesty and grace. Who stables horse, or houseth kine, As these poor peasants lie, More thickly in their straw than swine Are herded in a stye? * * * * * (Three verses omitted.) Punch, May 23, 1874.

The Haunted Homes of England, How eerily they stand, While through them flit their ghosts—to wit, The Monk with the Red Hand, The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook— To stop the boldest breath; The boy that inked his copy-book, And so got “wopped” to death! Call them not shams—from haunted Glamis To haunted Hawthornden, I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts Of women, priests, and men! I know the spectral dog that howls Before the deaths of Squires; In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide For Gurney and for Myers! I see the Vampire climb the stairs From vaults below the church; And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears! Oh, Psychical Research, Cans’t thou not hear what meets my ear, The viewless wheels that come? The wild Banshee that wails to thee? The Drummer with his drum? Oh, Haunted Homes of England, Though tenantless ye stand, With none content to pay the rent, Through all the shadowy land, Now, Science true will find in you A sympathetic perch, And take you all, both Grange and Hall, For Psychical Research! A.L. The Pall Mall Gazette, December 21, 1883.

The Men of England. By a blighted being turned pessimist through disappointed ambition. I. The stately men of England, How eloquent the band; Setting their sails to catch the breeze Which they themselves have fanned! With argument, not over sound Patched up with awkward seam, Whig versus Tory—both a’ground On life’s tumultuous stream! II. The merry men of England, Who take a strange delight, In making jokes that none can see Unless he’s extra bright! Who volunteer a comic song Some pointless tale retold! Or try and make you think you’re wrong And roar to see you sold! 133 III. The saintly men of England, Teaching their screeching choirs; Full of huge pedantic words! Their sermons lasting hours! Though down upon “life’s idle whims!” Though other men they scorn, You’ll see them—well—not chanting hymns On many a tennis lawn. IV. The free, fair trade of England, Long, long in shop and stall, May harmless customers be fleeced Of their small and little all! Thus, to my thinking it behoves Him who earth’s paths hath trod To mind and not spoil other coves By sparing satire’s rod. From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.

The Homes of England. The unhealthy Homes of England! How jauntily they stand Among their long-untended drains By crafty builders planned! The deer would shun them like the pest, Though beautiful they seem, And the Doctor’s face, in passing by, Lights with a sickly gleam. The drainy Homes of England! In Summer’s sultry heat What sniffs of not unmixed delight Each varied odour greet! Then woman’s voice is heard to say She thinks there’s something wrong, While manly lips the landlord bless In language rather strong. The typhoid Homes of England! How pleasant ’tis to know That liquid microbes of disease Keep up a constant flow! Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby The sewer-gas ascends; They’re perfect masters of their art, Our homicidal friends. The fever-dens of England! By thousands on her plain, They smile at the defective pipes Which link them with the “main.” Through glowing orchards forth they peep, And gardens all abloom, And hygienic dullards sleep Unconscious of their doom. The scamping rogues of England! Long, long in hut and hall May heads of wisdom still be reared To circumvent them all! And trapped for ever be the drains, And pure the watery store Where first the child’s glad spirit learns What lurks beneath the floor. Punch, August 30, 1884.

Cottage Homes. Theoretical— Ye Cottage Homes of England! How pleasantly ye stand, With bees and bowers and birds and flowers, And rich allotment land! How happy, too, each owner, As fearless, free, and frank, He thanks his landlord that he has His “oven, porch, and tank!” Practical— Ye Cottage Homes of England, That reek with filth and smells; There’s rheumatism in your roofs, There’s typhus in your wells; And many an ill-fed tenant— His landlord’s helpless fief— Looks forward to his workhouse home With positive relief! Truth Christmas Number, 1885.

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form! The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father’s word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud—“Say, father, say. If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. “Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone! And”—but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair! He shouted yet once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way: They wrapped the ship in splendour wild. They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. Then came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast and helm and pennon fair, That well had borne their part— But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart. Mrs. Hemans.