WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 8)

Exploits of the Eminent I. (The character of Macbeth was not one of Mr. Irving’s theatrical successes.) Macbeth stood on the new built stage, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit his tragic rage Shone round his classic head. Yes—beautiful and bright he stood, A stalwart, graceful form, And raved about old Duncan’s blood, Whose corpus still was warm. (Six verses omitted here.) The gods applaud with thunder sound: Irving—O! Where was he? Ask of the wise ones grouped around, Who came Macbeth to see. His eye had then no lurid glare, He bowed, with grateful heart; But a noble thing was murdered there— ’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art, The Figaro, October 13, 1875.

The Mule. The Mule stood on the steamboat deck, For the land he would not tread; They tied an halter round his neck And whacked him on the head, Yet obstinate and braced he stood, As born the sea to rule, A creature of the old pack brood, A stubborn steadfast mule. They cursed and swore, but he would not go Until he felt inclined, And though they thundered blow on blow, He altered not his mind. The ship’s boy to his master cried, “The varmint’s bound to stay,” And still upon that old mule’s hide The sounding lash made play. His master from the shore replied, The ship’s about to sail, And as all other means you’ve tried, Suppose you twist his tail; I think that that will make him land. The ship’s boy, brave though pale, Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand, To twist that old mule’s tail. There came a sudden kick behind, The boy, oh! where was he? Ask of the softly blowing wind, The fishes in the sea. For a moment not a sound was heard, And that mule he winked his eye, As though to say to him who’d gone, “How was that for high?”

Casabiank. The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop And in a pleasant doze, Forgot his lack of bed and board And all his canine woes. He dreamed of one fair pup he loved And soft his tail he wagged; ’Twas in those days when he was young, And kennelled, fed, and tagged. Her spirit seemed to hover ’round, For from the shop behind A fragrance came which somehow brought That she-dog to his mind. And of those pugs who’d scratched with him, And barked and gambolled ’round, Some ate the poisoned chop and died, Some perished in the pound. The dog dreamed on—the butcher-man Looked down on him and said, “A roly-poly sausage skin Shall be your final bed. With pepper and sweet marjoram And fragrant allspice grains, Casabiank, ’twill be my task To mingle your remains. And though you’re old and tough, embalmed In spices of the East, You’ll for my faithful customers Provide a dainty feast.” He took three paces toward the dog, That pup—O, where was he? Ask of the reeking knives that tore Through hide and hair and flea. And since that day though many a neck Has felt that cleaver keen, No fairer dog-meat ever fed The butcher’s dread machine. Anonymous.

The Fate of the Peers. The Peer stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The storm that meant his Order’s wreck Roared round his puzzled head. Yet masterful and mad he stood, As though all threats were vain; A creature of most noble blood, But of a childish brain. The storm raged on—he would not go Without his leader’s word; That leader, fooled by friend or foe, No warning voices heard. 135 He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see How thick the people loom!” He knew not that Lord Salisburee Was reckless of his doom. “Oh, let me go,” again he cried, “I surely can be spared?” “Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied, “Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’” Upon his brow he felt the weight Of unaccustomed care, And tried “to follow the debate,” But ended in despair. And shouted but once more aloud: “Oh, Cecil, must I stay!” But Cecil, still unwisely proud, Would have his wilful way. There came a burst, a shock, a jar! The Peer—oh! where was he? Ask of the Chief who scattered far Our old Nobilitee. Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash Amidst a grateful cheer; But the crassest victim of the crash Was that deluded Peer! Truth, October 16, 1884.

The Old Man Lingered. The girl stewed on the burning deck, For Rockaway she fled; The sun which blazed down on her neck, Turned all her tresses red. Yet innocent by Pa she sat, While glances shy and warm Shot from beneath her saucy hat At every manlike form. Pa left to see a friend, he told: And then her smile was sweet On Mr. Jones, who growing bold, Took by her side a seat. The boat rolled on. Jones would not go Without her father’s word; That father at the bar below Her laugh no longer heard. She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay Until thy task is done.” She knew, too well, the old man’s way, Unconscious of her fun. The wind had freshened to a gale, The boat tossed on the sea, “Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale? Why talk’st thou not to me?” “Speak, maiden!” once again he cried; “Art ailing? Tell me quick.” And but the drooping maid replied, “Oh, I—I feel so sick.” Upon her brow then came his breath; He smoothed her frizzled hair. She looked for all the world like death; He looked like grim despair. She murmured but once more aloud, “Oh Jones, a basin—quick!” Not one was left, for in that crowd Each female, too was sick. Oh, when was gallant like to Jones; Or, rather, one so flat! With one heroic smile, he groans, “Here, darling, is my hat.” Then came a burst of lightning sound; The girl!—oh, where was she? A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned His cup of misery. Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare; Oh! lovers think of that, The noblest thing which perished there Was Jones’s new silk hat. American Paper.

The boy stood by the stable door And watched the pensive mule; A thoughtful attitude it wore, An air serenely cool. That boy approached its hinder end— Let fall the pitying tears, “He’s gone to meet his brother, and His age was seven years.”

“I hear thee speak of the Better Land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother, oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’ —‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’ —‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?— Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’ —‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.— Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, —It is there, it is there, my child!” Mrs. Hemans.

The Best Hotels. “I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel, Where they charged thee little and fed thee well; Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine, Shall we not seek it and go there to dine? Is’t in some fair city of the far North East, By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least, Not there, not there, my child.” “Is’t among the people who love to boast Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost? Who say that, to keep their bodies sound They have spent £100,000?[48] Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells, Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!” “Not there, not there, my child.” “Is it where, through the small though festive rooms A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes— O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings, Which the languid waiter to table brings, With tottering steps that betoken, alas! The chronic effects of sewer gas?” “Not there, not there, my child.” Is it far away in some region cold Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?” here the whole concern abounds in “sells”— Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels? “Not there, not there, my child.” Full many a city, my gentle boy Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large, Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge; But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear, Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear; “Not there, not there, my child!”

Three Acres and a Cow. I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,” With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band; Tell me, oh! where are those acres found, That promised spot of domestic ground? Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore Where we all shall settle, and starve no more; Not here, not here, my man! Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine, And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine, And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade, Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made; While the cow untethered, and ranging free, Crops the summer wealth of our acres three? Not here, not here, my man! Say, are they then where rich travellers roam O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”? Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide, By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide? Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales, Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales? Not there, not there, my man! Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will; Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill, Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair, John Hodge and his brats may not settle there; Not there, not there, my man! Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles; These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles And the acres are only “Chateaux en Espagne,” Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain; They are there, they are there, my man! Edward Walford, M.A. Life, December 10, 1885.

The Bit o’ Land. I hear thee speak of a bit o’land, And a cow for every labouring hand; Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore, Where shall I find it and work no more? 137 Is it at home, this unoccupied ground, Where the three acres and cow will be found? Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed, Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed? Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand, I shall find this bit of arable land? Not there, not there, my Giles. Is it far away on the Rio Grande? In Zululand or Basutoland? Is it far away on forbidding shores, Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars? Or will it in Soudan be found, Where English bones manure the ground? Or on the banks of ancient Nile? Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle, With dusky groves and silver strand,— Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land? Not there, not there, my Giles. Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child, Ear hath but heard an echo wild,— The nightmare of excited brain That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain Far away, beyond the ken Of sober, practical, business men; Far away beyond the sight Of men whose heads are screwed on right; Where castles in the air do stand, Behold the cow and the bit o’ land! ’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles. 1885.

“The Promised Land!” (Three Acres.) “I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’ For each and all of the Peasant band; Where! Oh Where! is this garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays; Or the hare runs wild on every hand Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!” “Is it far away in some distant spot, This promised parcel of garden plot? Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sound of the wind among the trees; Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown, Or the fruits of the earth in season sown; Where the land is idle, and nought is seen But the fragrant flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,— Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!” “It is deeply hid in the mazy brain Of the venturesome Joseph Chamberlain! ’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote, A bait to hook fish by the throat; In vulgar phrase it’s ‘All my eye’! A newly invented election cry. It has no existence in sober sense,— It is but the product of impudence! It lives but in Chamberlain’s speech so bland, This tempting plot of that Promised Land— It is there! only there! my Giles!”

The Promised Land: Three Acres. (An answer to the preceding Parody.) I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land For every one of the peasant band, Tories! Oh, where is that garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays? Or the hare runs wild on every hand, Is it there, dear friend, that better land? Not there, not there, my man. Is it far away in some distant spot, The promised parcel of garden plot Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sighs of the winds among the trees; Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown, Or fruit of the earth in its season known; Where the land is idle and nought is seen But the dear wild flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot— Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot? Not there, not there, my man. It only exists in the “Tory” brain. Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain; They think we want bribes to get a vote, Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat; But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,” “A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;” It has no existence in sober sense, It’s the product of Tory insolence; It’s author I think was the man in the moon, And if you expect to find such a boon— It is there, it is there, my man. Anonymous.

Out West. I hear thee speak of a Western land, Thou callest its children a wide-awake band— Father, oh, where is that favored spot? Shall we not seek it and build us a cot? Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand Whence the honey comes already canned, Not there, not there, my child. Is it far away in the Empire state Where Horace Greeley feels first rate, Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring, And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King, With two thousand men at his command, Besides a boat with a big brass band? Not there, not there, my child! Is it where the little pigs grow great In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State? And get so fat on acorns and meal That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal, Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs That they don’t make sausages out of dogs. Not there, not there, my child! 138 Or is it where they fortunes make, Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake, Where the stores are full of wheat and corn And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born, Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand— Is it there, dear father, that Western land? Not there, not there, my child. Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young The most married man that is left unhung, Where every man that likes can go And get forty wives or more you know, Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime, Can that be the gay and festive clime?— Not there, not there, my child! Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise From the Alkali plains which we all despise, Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal, Yet he often will fail to get a square meal, Where the rocks are full of silver ore— Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore, Not there, not there, my child. Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth, Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth; For though you go to the farthest state And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate, They’ll point you across the Western sea To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,” Saying “’Tis there my child.” American Paper.

The Happy Land. I hear them speak of a Happy Land, Is it at the Gaiety—Vaudeville—Strand— Or where, secure from the public gaze, Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays? Is it where the acting gives go and life To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?” —” Not there, not there, my friend!” “Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries To interfere with the actors’ guise, Because it gave us a portrait true Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]— Though you now as three music hall cads appear, Which makes the satire much more severe?” —“Not there, not there, my friend!” “Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang; Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang; Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass; Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill Inclines you to hiss her against your will?” —“Not there, not there, my friend!” “I have not seen it, my gentle bore, For five or six years—or rather more, Its joys are calmer by far than those That the Ministerial Bench bestows, For the scene of the Happy Land is laid In Opposition’s refreshing shade, —It is there, it is there, my friend!” Fun.

The Graves of a Household. They sucked their pap spoons side by side, They filled one house with shines— Their graves are lying severed wide, By many railway lines. The same nurse tied the plain night cap At evening, on each brow: She gave each naughty child a slap— Where are those screamers now? One by the broad gauge line which goes To Exeter, is laid. They ran into a luggage train, And mincemeat of him made. The Eastern Counties line hath one— He sleeps his last long sleep— Near where an engine chose, slap off, A viaduct to leap. Another went from Euston-square By an ill-fated train; They buried him at Coventry, With others of the slain. And one—’neath her an axle broke, And stayed life’s running sand— She perished on the Dover line— The last of that bright band. And parted thus they lie, who play’d At hop-scotch in the court. Who after every cab that passed, Cried “Whip behind,” in sport. Who played upon the Nigger bones, And jumped Jim Crow with glee— Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere, Where would poor mortals be? The Man in the Moon. Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II.

“He Never Wrote Again.” His hope of publishing went down, The sweeping press rolled on; But what was any other crown To him who hadn’t one? He lived—for long may man bewail When thus he writes in vain; Why comes not death to those who fail?— He never wrote again! Books were put out, and “had a run,” Like coinage from the Mint; But which could fill the place of one, That one they wouldn’t print? Before him passed, in calf and sheep, The thoughts of many a brain: His lay with the rejected heap:— He never wrote again. He sat where men who wrote went round, And heard the rhymes they built; He saw their works most richly bound, With portraits and in gilt. Dreams of a volume all forgot Were blent with every strain; A thought of one they issued not:— He never wrote again! 139 Minds in that time closed o’er the trace Of books once fondly read, And others came to fill their place, And were perused instead. Tales which young girls had bathed in tears Back on the shelf were lain: Fresh ones came out for other years:— He never wrote again! From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854.

Fish have their Times to Bite. “Leaves have their time to fall.” Mrs. Hemans. Fish have their times to bite— The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, That time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering. The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath, And tench in June, but there are all— There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death. The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools. Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all— Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught. The old man angles still For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there. The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all— Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die. C. From College Rhymes, Oxford. W. Mansell, 1861.

“The Three Fishers.” Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir, To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break; But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear, Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take. For though a South wind the trout likes best, It’s sure to be North, or East, or West, To set the angler groaning. Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir, Where they had been fishing from break of day; Yet though their bag from trout was clear, A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play. For though a cold wind the trout likes least, That day half-a-gale blew up from the East, To set those anglers groaning. They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir, With a choice selection of baits, so fine; But although that fish was devoid of fear, With that cold East wind he declined to dine. So away they sped from Sunbury Weir, And out came the trout when the coast was clear, And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.” Otter. From The Angler’s Journal, May 1, 1886.

Three Freshers. Three Freshers went sailing out into the street, Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’ Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town. Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep, And the fifth of November is hard to keep When such myrmidons are roaming. Three times that night near the Magdalen tower, Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’; They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down; For men their hands from Proctors must keep Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap, When our gallant blades are roaming. Three heroes set out for their native strands, When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’ And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands For those who may never come home to the town. And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep, And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings. A.H.S. Univ. Coll., Oxford.

Three Women. Three women went sailing out into the street To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung. They jostled the crowd all day on their feet, While “going and going and gone” was sung. For women must go where bargains are had. And buy old trash, if never so bad, And husbands must ever be groaning. Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine, But when they arrived there was nothing to eat. Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine, Were gabbling of bargains along in the street For women must talk of bargains they buy. And homes must suffer, and babes must cry, And husbands must ever be groaning. Three women were showing their husbands with glee Their bargains at prices that never were beat, 140 Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be Were tossing the bargains out into the street. For men don’t know when bargains are cheap And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep, And husbands must ever be groaning. Anonymous.

The Umpire’s Valedictory. (After a Base-ball Match.) An umpire went sallying out into the east, Out into the east, ere the sun went down. He thought of the club that loved him least And the quickest way to leave the town. But men must chin and boys must cheer, And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear, Along with the crowd and its groaning. A man stood up and called out Foul! And called out Foul! with an angry frown; Then made for the gate with a sudden howl, While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down. For men will fight and boys will jeer, And luck is best when the gate is near, To escape from the crowd and its groaning. A doctor was working the best he knew how. The best he knew how, as the sun went down, He thought as he plastered the broken brow Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown. For clubs will play and mobs will fight, And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night To escape from the crowd and its groaning. United States Paper.

“How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths, Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky, How beautiful is night!”

“How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!”

Come listen to my lay, While I the wild and wond’rous tale array, How Fly-by-Night went down, And set a bank up in a country town; How like a king his head he reared, And how the coast of cash he cleared, And how one night he disappeared, When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; And many an old man rent his beard; And many a young man cursed and railed; And many a woman wept and wailed; And many a mighty heart was quailed; And many a wretch was caged and jailed; Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. And many a miserable sinner Went without his Sunday dinner, Because he had not metal bright, And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight, The promises of Fly-by-night. And little Jackey Horner Sate sulking in the corner, And in default of Christmas pie Whereon his little thumb to try, He put his finger in his eye, And blubbered long and lustily. * * * * * From The Works of Thomas Love Peacock. R. Bentley & Son, London, 1875.

Ode in Imitation of Southey. How beautiful is green Where grass has every colour but its own, Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown. Lo, the trees Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze; Black as the Devil, Father of evil, With soot and smoke, Enough to choke Any unfortunate who walks below, When the winds blow; So beautiful the trees, How beautiful the Cods.[51] Each one in chapel nods, While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day, And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away; Till the organ’s thund’ring peal Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal; And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple, They toddle out of chapel, So beautiful are Cods. Thou passer by, Who traversed the famed Carthusian square, Raise thy admiring eye, And view the gloom which long inhabits there; And as thou journeyest on thy way, Do say, Within that wall How beautiful is all!

The Rebuilding. ——“Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur Lege solutis.” Horat. [Spoken by a Glendoveer.] I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52] ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose[53] 142 From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury! Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord’s tread. Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour’d— All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney,[54] The mighty roost, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton (By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55] Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs, Thou troublest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high: While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O’ertake the band! View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phœnix! While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars— Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they bellow again and again. All, all in vain! Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! See, Drury Lane expires! Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout. But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O.P. at her,[56] Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, 143 From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57] Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O.P.’s Reclined in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell. Tears dimm’d the god of light— “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick. Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O.P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid. There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do. Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight; Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: “Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite; “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen I’ll toil to undo every night.” Ye sons of song, rejoice! Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements, The spheres hymn music; Again the god of day Peeps forth with trembling ray, Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, And pours at intervals a strain divine. “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen; “The vollied flame rides in my breath, My blast is elemental death; This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases, My breath shall every line erase Soon as I blow the blaze.” The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker; The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown: Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret Are fixed at the foot of the deeds! Yamen beheld and shiver’d; His finger and thumb were cramp’d; His ear by the flea in’t was bitten, When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written, Sealed and delivered, Being first duly stamped “Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, Is judged in his turn; Parchment won’t burn! His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air Parchment wont tear! Is it not written in the Himakoot book (That mighty Baly from Kehama took) “Who blows on pounce Must the Swerga renounce?” It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: Like as an eagle claws an asp, Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, Three times as high as Meru Mountain, 144 Which is Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s. Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59] Who a durable grave meant To dig in the pavement Of Monument-yard: To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, And he fell, and he fell To the regions of hell; Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well. Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet, Array’d in blue and white and scarlet, And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!” He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; When lo! upstarting into birth A fabric, gorgeous to behold, Outshone in elegance the old, And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!” Then, bending his head, to Surya he said: “Soon as thy maiden sister Di Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, And through the fissures of her clouded fan Peeps at the naughty monster man Go mount yon edifice, And show thy steady face In renovated pride, More bright, more glorious than before!” But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, Still smarted from his former singe; And to Veshnoo replied, In a tone rather gruff, “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!”

Justice. “She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried; “She hath escaped - - - but thou art here.” I. It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s, Outside the door a painted figure stood, A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood; ’Twas new and rather good. Now Tomkins bent upon a spree, Walked down the street the various sights to see; But when the painted image Tomkins view’d, To this he sprung, to this he clung, And ran like mad along the High with this Across his shoulder swung. II. Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street, Before he was aware; He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare; The angry bobbies baffled now, Unto each other vow To make it hot for any gownsmen there They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun, Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they Seized him instead, and carried him away; He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run, Nor the least show of opposition made, Although they grasped him with their dirty hands Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid When still their victim stands. III. Thus are they always bold when they have made Some crippled beggar old, Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey, But somehow they are never in the way If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones, Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray, For they are careful of their bones. IV. “The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried, He hath escaped, but one is here, Will do as well; Now let us go and tell The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went And told their story well. Next morning Wilkins gets a note, Brought by the Proctor’s man, To call upon the Proctor at his rooms With all the haste he can. V. And when he came within the Proctor’s room, Young Wilkins roused himself, And told the Proctor ’twas a lie, Invented by those blue-clad menials base; That he was in the ‘High’ Walking alone, and never even saw The wooden figure that they talked about. And that these bobbies Came and pounced on him as he walked about, Because the real culprit they Had been so baulked about. VI. The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply, The narrow-minded man—his gooseberry eye Looked idiotic: not the smallest part Had right and justice in his foolish heart. At last he uttered loud each measured word, Long in his breast confined, Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd— The index of his mind. VII. “You must go down, Away from this town, For here you would Never do any good. You have made a row, Which I cannot allow, And so I must take you, An example to make you; You must pay me a fine Of five pounds to-day, And then go away; For you must not stay, At Oxford, lest others 145 Should follow your track; And your caution-money You’ll not get back. And now Mr. Wilkins, My words are plain, You must never again, Though it gives you pain, Come up to Oxford. If you think to do so, You think it in vain, You’ll have to obey me, Mr. Wilkins, for ever: You can go away now, Sir, And return again never.” VIII. There with those bugbears of the town Before him, stood the wretched man; There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown. Was it a dream? Ah! no, He heard his sentence flow, He heard the ready bobbies lie, And felt all hope within him die. Ah! who could have believed That he the velvet-sleeved Could have so small, so weak a mind, And ever trust those worms of dust, Those banes of student kind. With indignation flashing from his eye, He left the room, nor cast one look behind. From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. London, Chapman & Hall, 1874

How does the Water come down at Lodore. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Here smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in, It hastens along, conflicting, strong, Now striking and raging, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among. Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Twining and twisting, Around and around, Collecting, disjecting, With endless rebound; Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound. Reeding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and growing, And running and stunning, And hurrying and skurrying, And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And dinning and spinning, And foaming and roaming, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And heaving and cleaving, And thundering and floundering, And falling and crawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, Dividing and gliding and sliding, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,— And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Southey.

Before and After Marriage. Before. How do the Gentlemen do before marriage? Oh! then they come flattering, Soft nonsense chattering, Praising your pickling. Playing at tickling, Love verses writing, Acrostics inditing, If your finger aches, fretting, Fondling and petting, “My loving,”—“my doving,” “Petseying,”—“wetseying,” Now sighing, now dying, Now dear diamonds buying, Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly, Cashmere shawls—brandy balls, Oranges, apples—gloves, Gros de Naples, Sweet pretty “skuggies”—ugly pet puggies; Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing, Or squandering guineas upon Sevignés 146 Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing, Bringing you bull’s eyes, casting you sheep’s eyes, Looking in faces while working braces; Never once heeding what they are reading, But soiling one’s hose by pressing one’s toes; Or else so zealous, and nice, and jealous of all the fellows, Darting fierce glances, if ever one dances, with a son of France’s; Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you “Valtz;” Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your cousin; Continually stopping, when out-a-shopping, and bank notes dropping, Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin” money, and promising pin-money; Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham and champagne to quicken ’em; Detesting one’s walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent the men talking; Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens,” and hate Crinolines; Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear low-neck’d dresses; Or when up the river, almost sure to diskiver that it beats all to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver; Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches; Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber’s a box, to see “Box and Cox,” or pilfer one’s locks to mark their new socks; Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they’ll be swinging, or in serpentine springing, unless to them clinging your’ll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen. Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on before marriage. After. How do they do after marriage? Oh, then nothing pleases ’em, But everything teases ’em; Then they’re grumbling and snarling— You’re a “fool,” not a “darling”; Though they’re rich as the Ingies, They’re the stingiest of stingies; And what is so funny, They’ve never got money; Only ask them for any And they haven’t a penny; But what passes all bounds, On themselves they’ll spend pounds— Give guineas for lunch Off real turtle and punch; Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery; Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing, Storming and raging past all assuaging. Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous, To hear the door slam to, be called simple ma’am too: (I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;) As a matter of course they’ll have a divorce; Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends; Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter; Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right; While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong; “Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton; They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one, or else they’re a-worrying one; Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your big brother; After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why “the house is in ruins!” Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you’ve taken to drinking; They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping; So when they’ve been meated if with pies they’re not treated, they vow that they’re cheated; Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces; And they’ll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you’re quite brown; For their wife, they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to stand a cap from a Milliner—e’en a paltry twelve shillinger; And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers, of those bowers and scrapers the young linen drapers; Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children’s clothes; Though you strive and endeavour, they’re so mightily clever, that please them you’ll never, till you leave them for ever!—Yes! the hundredth time sever—“for ever and ever”!! Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on after marriage. From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac, for 1850.

How do the daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily, slidingly, Gingerly, slippingly, Tenderly, trippingly, Fairily, skippingly, Glidingly, clippingly, Dashing and flying, And clashing and shying, And starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And rushing and crushing, And leaping and creeping. Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all— Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all, Balmorals dancing and glancing, entrancing all, Feats of activity— Nymphs on declivity— Sweethearts in ecstacies— Mothers in vexaties— Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on 147 True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on, Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on, Any fine afternoon About July or June That’s how the daughters Come down at Dunoon! From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley Pennell— London, Chatto and Windus.

How does the Drunkard go down to the Tomb? Here he comes crawling, And there he lies sprawling, Here growling and muttering, His gloomy thoughts uttering, He totters along, with passions so strong, Now striking and raging. Or wordy war waging, His drunken companions among. Sitting and drinking, ogling and winking, Rising and leaping, peering and peeping, Humming and singing, swelling and flinging, Turning and twisting, around and around, Hallooing and cooing, with endless rebound; Sparring and fighting, Lewd pieces reciting, Blundering, thundering, Disgusting and deafening the ear with the sound. Laughing and scoffing, sneering and jeering, Hissing and kissing, sporting and courting, Spouting and shouting, rhyming and chiming, Smoking and joking, jesting, detesting, Huffing and puffing, bouncing and pouncing, Sweating and betting, winning and dinning, Slapping and rapping, whipping and skipping, Scuffling and shuffling, rattling and battling, Ranting and panting, blustering and flustering, Reading, receding, With antic so frantic, Conceited, pedantic. Jumping and bumping and thumping, Dancing and glancing and prancing, Bawling and squalling and calling, Chattering and shattering and battering, Scaring and swearing and tearing, Tiring, persevering, The fumes are expiring; Money gone, credit none, Kicked about, bolted out. Staggering, swaggering, whirling, twirling, Wheeling, reeling, tumbling, grumbling, Pondering, wandering, moping, groping, Here he goes with broken nose, Battered face, sad grimace, Chairs he crashes, crockery smashes, Wife he thrashes, children lashes, Passions deadly, such a medley. Sighing, crying, snoring, roaring, Groaning, moaning, sleeping, weeping. Screaming, dreaming, screeching, retching All the night, till morning light; Then on waking, head is aching, Shaking, quaking, shivering, quivering, Whining, pining, quailing, wailing, He seems to see spirits dire, With eyes of fire, and fiendish glee, Mocking at his misery. Yet spite of all his pain And woes, he goes And seeks it yet again. To himself he’s a fool, To liquor a slave, To the landlord a tool, To his friends he’s a knave, And he makes his own winding-sheet, digs his own grave. Cut down in his bloom, He seals his own doom, And this way the drunkard goes down to the tomb. Anonymous.

All the Luxuries of the Season. How do the jolly days Pass in the holidays? Joking, and smoking, In Wales or at Woking, And riding, and hunting, And lazily punting, Canoeing, and boating, And swimming, and floating, And using in bathing, The sea as a plaything, And watching with glasses Each ship as she passes; And punning, and rhyming, And glacier-climbing, And fishing and shooting: New theories mooting In desolate islands, Or up in the Highlands; And yachting, rope-knotting, And random notes jotting, And sailing and baling, And picnic-regaling, Deerstalking and walking, And merrily talking, And skipping and prancing, And glancing and dancing, And flirting, exerting Each talent diverting; And playing at racquets In white flannel jackets; Golf, cricket, and touring, Hard labour enduring, In quest of new pleasure, And spending your leisure In dicing and gambling, And quietly rambling, And trudging with trouble O’er turf and o’er stubble, Exploding your cartridge At grouse or at partridge; Returning to table, And feeling well able To eat a whole elk up Washed down with moselle cup And drinking, and eating, At each merry meeting, 148 Beef, venison, and mutton, Not caring a button, Because indigestion Is out of the question; Or, better and better, Avoiding a debtor. (Perhaps growing pale, if You think of a bailiff,) And audience attracting By Amateur acting, And singing, and playing, And modestly staying At Ramsgate or Margate, Destroying a target By accurate aiming, And sporting and gaming And draining the bubbly can Of beer-bearing publican, Chastising a slow moke With cudgel of holm-oak, Your animal thrashing, And beating and lashing, To carry his master A little bit faster; At croquet excelling, And tale of love telling To charming young lady With hair black and braidy; Oh! sweetly the jolly days Pass in the holidays! From Banter, edited by G. A. Sala. September 23, 1867

How the Horses come Round at the Corner. How do the horses come round at The Corner? When eyes are all straining, To see which is gaining, And far-distant humming Grows louder and clearer,—Grows stronger and nearer. “They’re off!” “They are coming!” “Who leads?” “Black and red!”—“No! Green, by a head!” “The Earl!” “No, the Lady!”—” Typhœus looks shady!” “Orion! Orion,—To live or to die on!” “Twenty pounds to a crown—On the little Blue Gown.” “I’ll venture my whole in—That colt by Tom Bowline!” “Paul Jones!” “Rosicrucian!” “Green Sleeve!” “Restitution!” “Le Sarrazin!” “Pace!” “It’s Mercury’s race!” Then on they come lashing, and slashing, and dashing, Their colours all flashing like lightning-gleams gashing The darkness, where, clashing, the thunder is crashing! With whipping and thrashing, With crowding and smashing, With pressing and stirring, With lifting and spurring, With pulling and striving, With pushing and driving, With kicking and sporting, With neighing and snorting, With frisking and whisking, With racing and chasing, With straining and gaining, With longing and thronging, With plunging and lunging, With fretting and sweating, With bustling, and hustling, and justling, With surging, and urging and scourging, With rushing, and brushing, and crushing, With scattering, and pattering, and clattering, With hurrying, and scurrying, and flurrying, and worrying, With sliding, and gliding, and riding, and striding, With crying, and flying, and shying, and plying, With tying, and vying, and trying, and hieing! Till rapidly spinning, The ranks quickly thinning, The crowd is beginning To see which is winning:— Some faces grow brighter—and some grow forlorner: And that’s how the horses come round at The Corner! Fun, May 30, 1868.

May in Lincolnshire. (After the manner of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore.) What are the chief delights of May— This season, verdant, sweet, and gay? The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers, The genial sun, the reviving showers, The feathered songsters of the grove— All nature redolent of love. So poets write, and write it true; Alas! there’s a prosaic view, Dwellings are turned quite inside out; The household madly rush about— Cleaning and changing, Counting and ranging, Painting and lining, Tinting and priming, Stirring and mixing, Glueing and fixing, Mounting and glazing, Hauling and raising, Thatching and tiling, Crowding and piling, Dragging and trailing, Sprigging and nailing, Stitching and lining, Twisting and twining, Turning and clipping, Sorting and ripping, Fing’ring and thumbing, Sticking and gumming, Stretching and climbing, Draining and griming, Rembling[60] and raving,[61] Tewing[62] and taving,[63] Noising and clatting,[64] Rightling and scratting,[65] Sanding and grinding, Fussing and finding, From garret to ground No peace to be found! Slaving and laving, Shoving and moving, Working and shirking, Lifting and shifting, Soaping and groping, 149 Washing and splashing, Routing and clouting, Messing and pressing, Bending and rending, Greasing and squeezing, Kneeling and wheeling, Humming and drumming, Pailing and baling, Lugging and tugging, Laughing and chaffing, Dusting and thrusting, Tripping and dripping, Unbedding, blackleading, Upsetting and wetting, They come with their brooms, Invading the rooms, Carry off all the books, In spite of black looks, Such confusion and riot, Destruction to quiet! And filling, and swilling, and spilling; And mopping, and flopping, and slopping; And racing, and chasing, and placing; And hustling, and rustling, and bustling; And holding, and folding, and scolding; And sudding, and flooding, and thudding; And banging, and clanging, and hanging; And clapping, and rapping, and frapping; And pasting, and hasting, and wasting; Inspecting, selecting, rejecting; Varnishing, tarnishing, garnishing; Hurrying, scurrying, flurrying; Bothering, pothering, smothering; Unrusting, adjusting, disgusting; Clattering, spattering, chattering; Whitening, tightening, brightening; Ransacking, attacking, unpacking; Reviewing, renewing, and doing. Charing, and airing, hammering, and clamouring; And mending, and sending, and spending, and ending; And tacking, and blacking, and cracking, and packing; And oiling, and soiling, and moiling, and toiling; And creaking and squeaking, and reeking, and seeking; And racking, and sacking, and smacking, and clacking; And thumping, and bumping, and lumping, and pumping; And wrapping, and strapping, and tapping, and clapping; And heaping, and steeping, and creeping, and sweeping; And wringing, and dinging, and bringing, and singing; And knocking, and rocking, and flocking, and shocking; And jamming, and cramming, and slamming, and ramming; And rubbing, and scrubbing, and tubbing, and grubbing; And huddling, and muddling, and puddling, and ruddling;[66] And patching, and matching, and catching, and snatching; And rushing, and gushing, and slushing, and brushing; And rumbling, and jumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling; Thus, in the manner that I have been telling, May-fever spreads over the whole of the dwelling.

The Boat-race. (A Retrospect.) How do the ’Varsities come to the Race?— All a-rowing, and knowing their pluck they are showing, And blowing, and going the deuce of a pace; With the ending depending on strong arms extending, And bending oars rending the waves in the chase. With a spurting, exerting their muscles, and hurting Their hearts, say the Doctors (but that’s a rare case), With too much book-making, and arms next day aching— And that’s how the Varsities come to the Race? How do the Ladies come down to the Race?— With a rustle and bustle, and zest for the tussle, With a hustle and jostle, and tearing of lace. With a gushing and blushing, and little feet rushing, And pushing and crushing to get a good place. With a petting and getting the odds in the betting, And letting their fretting be seen in their face: With a swarming so charming, in toilettes alarming, And that’s how the Ladies come down to the Race! How do the Gentlemen come to the Race?— With a walking and talking, and pleasant “dear”-stalking; Uncorking and forking out “pegs” from a case. With a smoking and joking, and badinage-poking, Invoking the Stroke in the boat that they “place.” With a laughing, Bass-quafting, and eke shandy-gaffing And chaffing the cads till they’re black in the face, And hurraying, and laying the odds—and then paying— And that’s how the Gentlemen come to the Race! How do the Roughs and Cads come to the Race?— With a cheering and beering, and sneering and jeering; “My dear”-ing and leering at each pretty face. With a scowling, and fouling the air with their howling, And prowling and growling, and grin and grimace, With a swearing and tearing, and blue rosettes wearing, And a daring uncaring what things they abase— And a reeling, and feeling for fighting, and stealing— And that’s how the Roughs and Cads come to the Race! Punch, April 27, 1878.

Ready for the Start. Here they come sparkling, There they go darkling, A tide that flows onward conflicting and strong: Some betting, some fretting At losing relations At choked railway stations, And storming and raging, And hansoms engaging, Or aught upon wheels that will drag them along; While tramps, the path keeping, Are running and leaping, And slinking and creeping, Eddying and whisking, Panting and frisking, Slouching and twisting, Planning for trysting When reaching the ground, Collecting, expecting Where flats may be found. Smiting and fighting Some crowds fun delighting, Strong language abounding, Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound; Feeding and speeding, And shockingly mocking, And tripping and skipping, And sipping and whipping, And nipping and slipping, 150 Quivering and shivering, And vainly endeavouring By pushing and rushing, And craving and raving, And waving and staving, And tossing and crossing, And working and jerking, And wriggling and giggling, And hugging and mugging, And boring and roaring, And thundering and blundering, And hauling, and falling, and sprawling, And frequently naughty names calling, And striving and hiving and driving, And sounding and rounding and bounding, And grumbling and tumbling, much humbling, And chattering and battering and shattering, And thumping and bumping, and plumping and stumping, And flashing and splashing, and dashing and crashing, Such sounds and such motions for evermore blending, Till at last, with a tumult that seems never ending, By train, carriage, drag, coach, cab, wheelbarrow, cart, The thousands reach Epsom in time for the start. Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.

“How does the water Come down at Niagara?” Somebody asked me Thus once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme How the Rapids’ broad tracts And the Falls might be seen. So without hesitation I made explanation And gave him the facts, For I feared he was green. When you leave your hotel, To enjoy the sight well, And, in wonder At the thunder, To Goat Island go, Fifty cents is the pittance They charge for admittance To gaze at the show. Again you pay fifty (Unless you are thrifty) To take a not very Smooth trip o’er the ferry; And the victim soon finds It is three times as much to the Cave of the Winds. It is twenty cents here, and it’s forty cents there; Half dollars and more when you’ve money to spare. At all the good places For seeing the way In which the flood races, There’s something to pay. Wherever you walk, As a bird by a hawk, You are worried and flurried By beggarly louts, Importunate touts, And hackmen who, swarming around, Waylay you at starting, And, never departing, Keep stopping, confusing, Annoying, abusing, And plotting and scheming, And often blaspheming, And pumping and bumping, And dunning and stunning, And shouting and spouting, And pressing and guessing, And beckoning and reckoning, And following and holloaing, All over the ground; Although so inviting, Far, far from delighting, Confounding, astounding, Pestering and maddening the ear with their sound. So with a sensation of great irritation, Of native extortion quite out of proportion, Of vanishing dollars and rather damp collars, Of guides never ending, but always attending, Wherever your fugitive footsteps are wending, You may get, at a cost that will cause you to stagger, a Precious dear sight of the Falls of Niagara. Funny Folks, November 23, 1878.

If “Robert the Rhymer” were alive, I’d implore, Forgiveness, for trying to copy “Lodore.”

“What things do you want For the Sandown Bazaar?” My kind friends have ask’d me Thus, time after time. Moreover some wish’d me To tell them in rhyme, So what with one friend, And then with another, Eagerly urging The request of each other; I promised to tell them What things we required For the Sandown Bazaar From near and afar, As many a time We have had them before; And to tell them in rhyme, For of rhymes I have store; Though ’tis not my vocation, But their recreation That makes me thus sing, Because I am anxious To please in this thing. From sources which well In the heart’s deepest cell; From fountains In the mountains Of thought and good will. 151 Through post and through rail We expect things to come; Then rest for awhile In some kind friends home; And thence at departing After effort at starting, They will quickly proceed, With a general stampede, To the Hall of the Town. Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry, Every one seems In a terrible flurry. Hammering and clammering, The tumult and banging, Making a furious Terrible roar. ’Mid all this confusion, The boxes are placed On the Town Hall floor. Then arms which are strong Drag them along To the stalls, where there falls On the faces of “graces”— All found in their places, A light of delight. Laughing and talking, Smiling and walking, Turning and twisting, Walking and frisking, Soon all are agreed That a sight to delight in, At last is displayed, As the stalls are arrayed In articles useful and fancy, As if by the aid of necromancy. Tatting and platting, Matting and blacking, And crochet and croquet And crewls and jewels, And baskets and caskets, And brackets and rackets, And lustres and dusters, And feathers and leathers, And towels and trowels, And cradles and ladles, And sables and tables, And mittens and kittens, And dresses and presses, And dishes and fishes, And cases and braces, And pencils and lentils, And pictures and tinctures, And bangles and mangles, And brushes and thrushes, And coffee and toffee, And bonnets and sonnets, And pickles and sickles, And papers and scrapers, And slippers and nippers, And sashes and taches, And money and honey. And screens and machines, And ferns and epergnes, And coseys and poseys, And lamps and stamps, And games and frames, And spoons and balloons, And quilts and stilts, And yachts and whatnots, And telephones and microphones, And phonographs and photographs, And oleographs and chromographs, And telescopes and stereoscopes, And pinafores and battledores, And lemonade and gingerade, And cheffoniers and caffetiers, And letter racks and knickknacks, And cocoatina and farina, And barometers and thermometers, And refrigerators and perambulators, And chrysanthemums and kettle-drums, And pelargoniums and harmoniums, And canaries and cassowaries, And clocks and socks and frocks. And stools and wools and tools, And bibs and cribs and nibs. And rugs and jugs and mugs, And muffs and cuffs and stuffs, And caps and maps and scraps, And thus without ceasing and ever increasing, I might go on telling what things we’ll be selling, If they only come here, from near and afar, To make most successful the Sandown Bazaar! W. J. Craig. 1879.

First Prize. Is it how the Home Rulers, Make spaches, me boys? Whist! I’ll tell ye the tale In a ‘three-cornered’ rhyme, Wid the laste taste, iv brogue— Be the mortial, its prime! Where they riz thim quare clothes, Sorra, one iv me knows! Their wondherful ‘caubeens,’ Their illegant ‘dhudeens,’ Their rings and sich things, But we saw them wid joy Comin’ over the bogs, In sich beautiful togs, Each a broth iv a boy. So they kem walking, Chattering and talking, Wid ivery long word That iver ye heard, Blarneying and fighting, Dividing, uniting; Wid the finest iv action Explaining and proving, All scruples removing, To their own satisfaction. Stamping, hurrahing, Erin-go-bragh-ing, Jumping and pushing, Wildly ‘hoorooshing,’ 152 Shaking shillalies, Brandishing ‘dailies,’ Tearing their hair, Sawing the air (Be jabers, ’twas quare!) Storming and raving, Deluding, ‘desaving—’ Demosthenes would have been struck with despair. Objecting, correcting, Defying, denying, Remarking and barking, And shouting and spouting, Rebelling and yelling and telling, And growling and howling and scowling, Deriding, deciding, and chiding and hiding, Rejecting, reflecting, projecting, directing, Refusing, abusing, confusing, amusing, An’ taching and praching and shaking and spaking, Wid the gift of the gab such a shindy awaking, That the author of mischief might listen wid joy— That’s the way the Home Rulers make spaches, me boy. (Miss Story.) FABULA SED VERA.

Second Prize. How do the Home Rulers behave in the House. Here they come broguing, Together colloquing, Here jangling and wrangling, The Queen’s English mangling, Staircase and hall and lobby along: Execrating, dilating, On methods of baiting, The Sassenach foe for their fancied wrong. Then rising and bawling, Caterwauling and squalling, Perspiring, untiring, And sputtering and spluttering, With ceaseless outpour, Blustering and flustering, Explanation mistrusting, A sight full disgusting, Amazing, gorge-raising, Half crazing the House by their senseless uproar. For dry rot eternal Commend me to Parnell: For bosh by the gallon, Go listen to Callan; Like a train in a tunnel Is the voice of O’Donnell; For imbecile vigour Unrivalled is Biggar. Nagging and bragging, And canting and ranting, Speech-prolonging, sing-songing. Face-contorting and snorting, And stranger espying, In gallery prying, Mispronouncing and bouncing and flouncing, Impeding Bill-reading proceeding, And scorning the dawning of morning, Rage inducing, time-losing, abusing, Naught-revering but jeering and sneering. Unremitting, late sitting, straw-splitting, and twitting, Body-swaying, inveighing, and braying, and neighing; Blue-book spouting and shouting, and doubting and pouting; Ear-shattering, dirt-spattering, and clattering and smattering, And so never stopping, but always upcropping, Fresh batches in-dropping to keep up the ball, Disloyal Obstructionist bores one and all; From the start of the year till the shooting of grouse— This is how the Home Rulers behave in the House. (C. L. Graves.) TROT.

Here they come wrangling, And there they go jangling, Here mumbling and fumbling, With tumult and grumbling, They wander about in trouble and doubt; Now calling and squalling, As if they were brawling, With many an angry shout. Storming and groaning, Scolding and moaning, Their bad taste disowning, With gibes and with jeers; Fluttering and muttering While uttering their sneers. Now bouncing and flouncing, And madly denouncing, And filling the air with their wild Irish cheers. Rebelling and yelling, Haggling and naggling, Jabbering and blabbering, Sweating and fretting, Exploding and goading, Embarrassing, harrassing, Chaffing and laughing, And talking and balking, Vapouring and capering, Bewailing and railing, And sparring and jarring, And growling and howling, Discussing and fussing, Retorting and thwarting, And thrashing and slashing, Disquieting and rioting, ‘Bejaber’-ing and labouring, And hustling and bustling and tussling, And leaguing, fatiguing, and often intriguing, Provoking and joking and choking and croaking, And poking and prying, and ‘strangers espying,’ Delighting in smiting, inciting to fighting, Interfering and jeering, domineering and sneering, Exceeding good breeding by rudely impeding, And figuring and sniggering, and Parnelling and Biggaring, And always obstructing, and oft misconducting, And flaring and daring and wearing and tearing, And blundering and sundering and wondering and thundering, And clustering and mustering and flustering and blustering; Hindering and teasing, they bring without ceasing Their ‘questions’ and ‘motions’ for ever increasing, And rush to the fore with a mighty uproar, These Irish Home Rulers whose freaks we deplore. Pembroke.

Just out of one bother Into another. Gone is the Fenian— Here comes his brother, Worse than the other. Whence is this fooling Of Irish Home Ruling? 153 From English invasion, At Irish persuasion, Of Paddy’s first unity In village community— Not with impunity; From his horror of digging, From his habit of pigging, From his love of things smooth Better far than the truth; From our law-codes too drastic, From our treatment too plastic— Neither elastic; Generally speaking, Without further seeking— From Irish obliquities, From English iniquities; Of such-like antiquities Eight centuries reckoned From Henry II. Thence come Home Rulers, Both fools and befoolers, Here they stand spouting Our Parliament flouting; There they go shouting, At this silly season To Irish unreason Murder and treason; Lunging of gunning, Plotting at potting, Mooting of looting, Hooting of shooting, Braying of slaying, Rent-paying delaying, Some of them hedging, Scruples alleging, while treason is fledging, Hoping to get the thin end of their wedge in! Yet they cut a poor figure, This Parnell and Biggar. With all their pretension. As they linger and linger With a trembling finger On the racketty trigger Of their glorious National Irish Convention! Hoyle. The World, November 5, 1879.

How the Home Rulers Behave at St. Stephen’s. Here they come shouting, And there they sit pouting; Here fuming and raging. A wordy war waging, They stand a most irate throng Now fussing and fretting As though much regretting They cannot fight all night long! Collecting, dispersing, Rejecting and cursing, Hurrying and flurrying, Tormenting and worrying Like some snarling bow-wow; Taking delight in Abusing and fighting, Deafening all with their terrible row! Vapouring and capering, Grumbling and mumbling, And wrangling and jangling, And growling and scowling, And squalling and bawling, And jumping and thumping, And roaring and boring, And moaning and groaning, And laughing and quaffing, And hissing and missing, And tearing and swearing, And thundering and blundering, And querying and wearying, And hating, and prating, and rating, And leering, and peering, and jeering, And dancing, and glancing, and prancing, And masking, and asking, and tasking, And stammering, and hammering, and clamouring, And teasing, and wheezing, and sneezing, And stunning, and funning, and punning, And stumping, and pumping, and jumping, and thumping, And twitting, and hitting, and sitting, and flitting, And hashing, and gnashing, and lashing, and slashing, And mustering, and clustering, and flustering, and blustering, Replying, denying, and eyeing, and crying, Tallying, and dallying, and rallying, and sallying, And staring, and glaring, and daring, and flaring, And railing, and wailing, and quailing, and failing, And therefore the House they can never have peace in, The tumult unceasing, for ever increasing, Rolls restlessly on like some huge tidal wave, And this is the way the Home Rulers behave!] From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.

The Shore. How do Cheap Trippers Come down to the shore? * * * * * From their sources they wend In the squalid East-end; From Whitechapel, Surge and grapple Its ’Arries and its Carries. Through court and through lane They run and they shout For awhile, till they’re out By their own special train, And thence, at departing All bawling at starting, They drink and they feed; And away they proceed Through the dark tunnels, ’Mid smoke from the funnels, Where they shriek in their flurry, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Now singing, now smoking, Now practical joking, Till, in this rapid ride On which they are bent They reach the sea-side And make their descent. * * * * * 154 The excursion crowd strong Then plunges along, Running and leaping Over rocks creeping, Kicking and flinging, “Kiss-in-the-ring”-ing, Pulls at the whisky, Making them frisky. Smiting and fightin’— A thing they delight in— Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound. * * * * * Sea-weeding and feeding, And mocking and shocking, And kissing and missing, And skipping and dipping, And drinking and winking, And wading and bathing, Shell picking and sticking, In mud-holes and kicking. And going a rowing, And fishing and wishing, And roaming in gloaming, Sight-seeing and teaing, And larking and sparking, Love-making and taking To beering and jeering, Donkey-riding and hiding, And squeaking and seeking. * * * * * And galloping and walloping, And wandering and maundering, Uncoating and boating and floating, Upsetting and getting a wetting, And crying and drying and spying, Immersing, dispersing, and cursing, And meeting and greeting and seating and eating, And fuddling and muddling and huddling and puddling; And so never ending, but always descending, The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending, All at once and all o’er with a mighty uproar— And this way Cheap-Trippers come down to the shore! Punch, August 7, 1880.

The Meeting of the Medicinal “Waters.” How do the Waters come down on the public? Here they come bouncing, All rivals denouncing, “Untradesmanlike falsehoods” tremendously trouncing, Swearing that hurt is meant By foe’s advertisement; Public ear stuffing, And rubbish be-puffing. Greek meeting Greek—in the crackjawish names of ’em; Polyglot rot setting forth bogus claims of ’em. Loquaciously gassing Of merits surpassing, Phosphates and carbonates, jargon empirical Blazoning each pseudo-medical miracle, Taunting and vaunting, Their praises loud chanting, And bothering and pothering And boasting, and posting On hoardings and boardings Their pictures and strictures, And much advertising, And circularising; Till one wishes the roar Of these Waters were o’er, And votes the whole business no end of a bore. Punch, June 4, 1881.

A Legislative Cataract; or how the Commons rush in through the Door. “How do the members, Rush in through the door?” A curious friend asked me Last year at this time; And, furthermore, tasked me To tell him in rhyme. So anon, thus possess’d Of his wish in the matter, My muse I entreated To come when address’d And describe how those seated With clamour and clatter, Rush in through the door, And swarm over the floor When so eager they are To press to the bar And to hear the Queen’s Speech As they’ve heard it of yore! The result of my prayer To my Muse for her aid, You will see in the rare List of rhymes I have made. Tho’ the strict truth to tell, Robert Southey as well, By writing before Of the Falls of Lodore, Has a prominent share, In this little affair. * * * * * “From all parts of the town Have the members come down, To renew legislation— For this favored nation; From South, West, and North, They have all issued forth; Brought by brougham and train They have mustered again; And the signal awaiting Are busy debating; Excitement controlling, And friends button-holing, And some even napping, Till Black-Rod comes rapping. But, then, ere he’s done, Off the nimble ones run Up passages, stairs, Four-a-breast, or in pairs, Till some even swelter, So fierce is their flurry; Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry, 155 There they go rushing, And here they come crushing, And rudely rebuffing, (But Warton is snuffing) With a chorus of “oh’s,” And much treading on toes, Till increasing their pace, For quite reckless they are, They tear on in their race To be at the Bar. Some five hundred strong, They hasten along, Fuming and raging, As though a war waging. Slighting and smiting, And old ones affrighting; Dodging and darting, With gouty feet smarting, Limping and hustling, And fussily bustling; Talking whilst walking, And punning whilst running, Twisting and turning Sharp corners around, Selfishly spurning The friends that abound; Calling and bawling, (Some actually sprawling), And hooting and yelling, With outcry so swelling, That all who are near they completely astound. Pressing, progressing, Proceeding and speeding, And threading and spreading, And shocking and mocking, And tattling and battling, And coursing and forcing, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And going tip-toeing, And hopping and stopping, And gaining and straining, And hieing and vieing, And flouncing and bouncing, And seizing and squeezing, And catching and snatching, And ambling and scrambling, And stripping and slipping, And singing and swinging, And doubling and troubling, And pining and whining, And shifting and drifting, And filing and smiling, And dinning and winning, And moaning and groaning; And thundering and blundering, And hurrying and scurrying, And quivering and shivering, And parrying and harrying, And hastening and chastening, And cantering and bantering; Dividing, and sliding, and striding, And bumping, and lumping, and jumping, And stumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling, And chasing, and racing, and pacing, And clattering, and battering, and chattering And bounding, and rounding, and pounding, And steering, and jeering, and fearing. And contriving, and driving, and striving, And stooping, and whooping, and trooping; Retreating, and eating, and meeting, and greeting, Delaying, and straying, and staying, and saying, Advancing, and prancing, and chancing, and glancing, Recoiling, embroiling, turmoiling, and toiling, And steaming, and beaming, and scheming, and teaming, And clapping, and slapping, and rapping, and tapping, And crushing, and brushing, and gushing, and rushing, And backing, and tracking, and hacking, and packing, And dashing, and clashing, and smashing, and crashing, And glaring, and daring, and pairing, and flaring, So seeming ne’er ending, but always ascending, These sounds and these motions are loudly contending, As five hundred and more with a mighty uproar, On their way to the Bar, hurry in through the door.” Truth, February 9, 1882.

The Meeting of the Landlords. How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act? Here they come hurrying, there they come scurrying, Their minds about destiny dreadfully worrying; With big “Resolutions” and plaints against “Wrong,” They hasten along, more sounding than strong. Posing and glosing, Dread dangers disclosing, And hinting that Providence sure must be dozing. Blaming, and shaming, Declaiming, and flaming, And large “Compensation” commandingly claiming. Sobbing, and throbbing, ’Gainst Radical robbing, Sighing and crying; Rack-renting denying With stinging jobation Against confiscation, And much botheration About Valuation; Spouting, and flouting, and doubting, Denouncing, and bouncing, and flouncing; And fluttering, and muttering, and sputtering; And swearing repairing the past is uptearing, Society’s self from its basis and bearing; And flaring, and blaring, and simple souls scaring By wild elocution About Revolution; Proclaiming that law is now putting a stopper On Property’s game in a manner improper: That Civilization is coming a cropper. So the Landlords galore, Like Cassandras, deplore, And down on the Land Act like Cataracts pour, O’er and o’er, o’er and o’er, With a mighty uproar. While the World says,—“We’ve heard all this Shindy before!” Punch, January 14, 1882.

That’s How the Tourists come Down to the Shore. Cheerily, Wearily, Warily, Merrily, Slidingly, Glidingly, Trippingly, Skippingly, 156 Leaping and creeping, At nymphs slyly peeping, Mashing and dashing, In salt water splashing, Billing and cooing, The wooed and the wooing, Hobbies entrancing all, beauty enhancing all, Laughter and jollity ruling and schooling all, Neptune from ocean arising surprising all. Ceaseless vivacity, Reckless audacity, Some in high ecstasies, Others in vextasies. Merry girls spooning and flirting and catching on, Elderly matrons with schemes of love matching on, Old gents asthmatical, wheezing and sneezing on, Artists all sketching and etching and painting on, Geologists searching and peering and diving on, Climbers ascending and wearily wending on, Activity endless with never an ending on. When the season arrives, And the big billows roar, That’s how the tourists Come down to the shore. The Detroit Free Press, Summer Number, 1885.

“You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “The few locks that are left you are grey: You are hale, father William, a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” father William replied, “I remember’d that youth would fly fast, And abus’d not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.” “You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” father William replied, “I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.” “You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “And life must be hast’ning away; You are cheerful and love to converse upon death; Now tell me reason, I pray.” “I am cheerful, young man,” father William replied, “Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember’d my God, And he hath not forgotten my age.” Robert Southey.

Father William. “You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head, Do you think at your age it is right?” “In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, “I feared it might injure the brain, But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.” “You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back sommersault in at the door, Pray, what is the reason of that?” “In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, “I kept all my limbs very supple, By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box, Allow me to sell you a couple.” “You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet, Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak, Pray how did you manage to do it?” “In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife, And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.” “You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose, That your eye was as steady as ever, Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose, What made you so awfully clever?” “I have answered three questions and that is enough,” Said his father. “don’t give yourself airs, “Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!” From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. (Macmillan and Co., London.)

The Old Man’s Cold, and how he got it. By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey. “You are cold, Father William,” the young man cried, “You shake and you shiver, I say, You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red; Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied— (He was a dissembling old man), “I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots, And snowballed my aunt Mary Ann.” “Go along! Father William.” the young man cried, “You are trying it on, sir, to-day; What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanettes? Come, tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “I went to the North Pole with Parry; And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreux Plays with this old man the Old Harry.” 157 “Get out! Father William,” the young man cried, “Come you shouldn’t go on in this way; You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold— Now tell me the reason I pray.” “I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied, “I’ve a cold my impertinent son, Because for some weeks my coals have been bought At forty-eight shillings a ton!”

You seem cold, Father William, the young man cried, And chilblains are massed round your nose, I rarely in all my experience before Saw chilblains so broken as those. You are right, my young man, Father William replied, These chilblains you see are the fruits Of the snowballs I put, when a youngster like you, In my Aunt Mary Ann’s Sunday boots. You seem cold, father William, the young man cried, And if I may venture to say so, You have influenza most awfully bad, Come, why do you wheeze in that way so? In the days of my youth, father William replied, I found it uncommonly easy To sit on the ice when I wanted to skate, ’Tis hence that I now am so wheezy. You seem cold, father William, the young man cried, And I see you incessantly shiver; Do you think, aged pal, such a jellyish trick Is good, at four score, for the liver? I shiver, young man, father William replied, Because, with your mirth bubbling o’er, You slipped lumps of ice down the nape of my neck, But I’m blowed if I stand any more! O. P. Q. Philander Smiff, Esq., in his remarks on the Weather.

“You air old, Father William, an elderly cuss, But I reckon you air real grit, For the high handed way you sailed into that muss Astonished creation a bit.” “Waal, fact is,” said William, removing his quid, “I allus was cheerful and spry; And my motto is, ‘Do, or you’re sure to be did,’ And ‘Root little hog, or die.’” “You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “Your fingers are stiff you’ll agree; Yet you euchred the boys till they hadn’t a red, And bust up the heathen Chinee.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “I played on the square, you perceive; But now I have let old integrity slide, And I keep the best bower in my sleeve.” “You are old, Father William, and whiskey took neat, Unsettles the sight I opine; Yet you wiped out the digger who called you a cheat, In a way that was powerful fine.” “Take the lead when you can,” was his father’s response, “That’s a bully old rule you’ll allow; Besides, if you settle a critter at once, It saves you from having a row.” “You are old, Father William, and soon I expect To be taking you round in a hearse; Yet somehow you never appear to reflect That you’re goin’ from wicked to worse.” “Go slow” said his father, replacing his chaw, “You are getting too all fired proud; I reckon we’ve had just enough of your jaw, Let’s licker. Hi! drinks for the crowd.” Zoz (Dublin), October, 1878.