WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 10)

Here’s to the Fresher! Here’s to the Fresher not out of his teens; Here’s to the fellow of forty; Here’s to the feud with our ‘vis à vis’ Queen’s; And here’s to the “town and gown” sortie! Chorus.—Toss the wine down,— Drink to the gown, I’ll warrant they’ll prove quite a match for the town. Here’s to old Univ. whose trophies we prize; Here’s to the college with none, sir: Here’s to our “pet” with a pair of black eyes, And here’s to his foe with but one, sir! Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c. Here’s to our “Firsts” which the Honour lists shew, Here’s to the blows we deliver; Here’s to our “Drag” as they merrily go; Here’s to us Head of the River! Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c. Here’s to our time honoured “esprit de corps,” Past or present I care not a feather; Old Univ. will always be well to the fore, As long as we all pull together! Chorus.—Toss the wine down, &c. A. Haskett Smith. Univ: Coll: Oxford.

A New Song for the New Times. Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host Whose agreement might well be more hearty, Who, of all creeds and none, yet their Unity boast— Here’s to the Liberal Party. Radical, Whig, Little and big, We all for the moment must dance the same jig. Chamberlain rushes he doesn’t care where; Derby is timidly backing; Hartington sideways is dragged here and there; Goschen keeps trimming and tacking. Still let us pray That for one day We all, when the tug comes, may pull the same way. And now for the man who can never do wrong, Who’s name’s an electoral lever, Whose temper is short, and whose speeches are long— Here’s to the grand old Deceiver: More than once tried, Found a blind guide, Yet still finding legions to fight at his side. Only for plunder, and only for power, (Fools may for principle fight on). But for one object and but for one hour, Interest let us unite on. Though they look glum, Whigs must be dumb, And all discords be drowned by the Radical drum. In office again shall our bonds be untied, On that point we own no illusion; Then as before we shall break and divide, And all as before be confusion. Once fairly there, Why need we care If Europe deride and if England despair? 198 Blood may flow vainly and commerce decay, Let not your cheers be less hearty. Honour and Empire in dust pass away, But flourish the Liberal Party! At his feet fall, Vote at his call, Whose grand old Umbrella will cover us all. St. James’s Gazette. November 16, 1885.

Pot and Kettle. (Some way after Sheridan.) Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain flouting and slanging, His speeches compares to a cracked tin-pot clanging. The mode in which Randy the argument carries on Suggests to tired hearers another comparison. For noise and for nuisance the claims who may settle ’Twixt Chamberlain’s pot and Lord Randolph’s old kettle? For, alas! as a source of detestable din, Men find sounding brass quite as bad as cracked tin. Punch. November 8, 1884.

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true; To you no soul shall bear deceit No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you’ll meet, And lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blest Another with your heart, They’ll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother’s part; Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you’ll meet, And lovers in the young. R. B. Sheridan. From The Duenna.

Stewed Steak. Had I a pound of tender steak, I’d use it for a stew; And if the dish you would partake, I’ll tell you what to do, Into a stew-pan, clean and neat, Some butter should be flung; And with it stew your pound of meat, A tender piece—but young. And when you find the juice express’d By culinary art, To draw the water off, were best, And let it stand apart. Then, lady, if you’d have a treat, Be sure you can’t be wrong To put more butter to your meat, Nor let it slew too long. And when the steak is nicely done, To take it off, were best; And gently let it fry alone, Without the sauce or zest Then add the gravy—with of wine A spoonful in it flung; And a shalot cut very fine: Let the shalot be young. And when the whole has been combined, More stewing ’twill require; Ten minutes will suffice—but mind, Don’t have too quick a fire. Then serve it up—’twill form a treat! Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong; Gourmets in all the old ’twill meet, And gourmands in the young. Punch. March, 1852

I. I’ve a guinea I can spend, I’ve a wife, and I’ve a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown; I’ve a cottage of my own With the ivy overgrown, And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown; So come and drain a glass In my arbour as you pass, And I’ll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown. II. I love the song of birds, And the children’s early words, And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown. III. I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown; But even when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me and above, John Brown; The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for humankind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown. IV. 199 So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex’d, John Brown; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown; I’ve parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown; I keep a conscience clear, I’ve a hundred pounds a year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown! C. Mackay.

John Brown’s Answer to “The Plain Man’s Philosophy.” I’ve listened to your song, and, unless I’m very wrong, There is much in it of what we now call bosh—Tom Smith. It is easy so to sing, but to do’s another thing, And I fear that your philosophy won’t wash—Tom Smith. Of course that’s not your name—but ’twill answer all the same For the person I’m presumed to argue with—Tom Smith. And offended you can’t be, as you’ve done the same to me, For I’m no more John Brown than you’re Tom Smith—Tom Smith. What you love and what you hate—you’re at liberty to state,— I’ve nothing upon earth with that to do—Tom Smith. De gustibus non est—I’ve no doubt you know the rest, And besides, I’ve much the same dislikes as you—Tom Smith. It’s on matters of finance, in which there’s no romance, I would break with you a lance—if you please, Tom Smith. I’m myself a family man, and I don’t believe you can Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese—Tom Smith. You’ve “a hundred pounds a year”—well, let’s even say it’s clear Of income-tax, that’s not two pounds a week—Tom Smith. But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown, Which I grant will help your income out to eke—Tom Smith. Per contra, you’ve a wife, as dear to you as life,— I hope she is, I’m sure, for both your sakes—Tom Smith. But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear, If anything your little income shakes—Tom Smith. Of children you’ve a troop—an interesting group, But to tell how many form it you forgot—Tom Smith. Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small.— Of bread and butter they must eat a lot—Tom Smith. Of their clothes you may be spare, but they cannot go quite bare, And whooping-cough and measles you must count—Tom Smith, And if only one be ill, I’m afraid the doctor’s bill Might at Christmas prove a serious amount—Tom Smith. ’Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about, And “sufficient for the day” is a fine text—Tom Smith; But at your garden gate do you never scratch your pate, When you think what’s in the cupboard for the next—Tom Smith? The pot you know must boil; ’twould be better sure to toil, And add by honest labour to your store—Tom Smith, Than moon away your time, in philosophic rhyme, Or sitting ’neath your shady sycamore—Tom Smith. You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass, But it cannot be of wine, or beer, or grog—Tom Smith. It’s more like “Adam’s Ale,” I’m afraid, than “Bass’s Pale,” And to drink, I water shun like a mad dog—Tom Smith. If “a guinea you’ve to spend,” I advise you as a friend, To put it in the Savings’ Bank forthwith—Tom Smith. You will want it before long, and sing another song, Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth—Tom Smith. J. R. Planche.

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow, Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow, Let us forget the darkness of to-day! So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee, We’ll dry the tears that we have shed before; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? So farewell, England! farewell evermore! Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England! Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand, Cheer, boys! cheer! there’s work for honest labour— Cheer, boys! cheer!—in the new and happy land! C. Mackay. * * * * *

Beer! Boys, Beer! Beer! Boys, Beer! for that’s the stuff for sorrow, Forage out more, we will, upon our way; The score behind the door, we’ll make right to-morrow, When we get over the drinking of to-day. So, farewell, Landlord, much as we may owe thee, We’ll dry the pots up, if you’ll only draw; Why should we sleep? let’s drink to better fortune; So Farewell, Landlord, Farewell, old boy, hurrah! Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country, Beer! Boys, Beer! with pewter pot in hand; Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who don’t mind labour, Beer! Boys, Beer! who a gallon’s going to stand? Beer! Boys, Beer, off the froth we’re blowing, Our throats to freely pour down Barclay’s best; The “Bobby” may follow in the track we’re going The “Star and Garter” we’ll drop in, to rest, Though we have toil, we’ve skittles to reward it, But when we’ve plenty, we’ll do our Champagne: Then ours shall be Port and Sherry for the poorest, And foaming measures we’ll fill and fill again. Beer! Boys, Beer! all over town and country, Beer! Boys, Beer! united, pot in hand; Beer! Boys, Beer! for all who hardly labour, Beer! Boys, Beer! who the next is going to stand? J. A. Hardwick.

Vote, Boys, Vote! Vote, boys, vote, for Freedom’s noble leader; Shout, boys, shout, our chieftain’s battle cry. Ireland’s wrongs at length have found a pleader Ireland’s hope at length is drawing nigh 200 Long her barque has seemed like one benighted, Drifting down a troubled, shoreless sea; But at last a welcome haven’s sighted Leading on to peace and liberty. Chorus—Vote, boys, vote, &c. Chamberlain and Hartington and Goschen May attempt to thwart the nation’s will; But the British people’s true devotion Centres in their honoured chieftain still. Trust again the troth he’s nobly plighted And he’ll reach the welcome promised goal— Erin’s sons, by ties of love united, Shall be “one with Britain’s, heart and soul.” F. Topham. The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.

Beer, Boys, Beer! Beer, boys, beer! No more absurd restriction, Courage, Bass, Meux, and Barclay must give way; Half pints and quarts have vanish’d like a fiction, Why then, submit to the brewers’ despot sway? Brown stout of England! much as we may love thee, (Which, by the way, I rather think we do,) Pale draught of India, shall they charge us for ye, Twice what you’re worth, for the profit of a few? Beer, boys, beer! abundant, deep, and vasty! Beer, boys, beer! the stunning, strong and grand! Beer, boys, beer! the cheap, and not the nasty! Beer, boys, beer! at a price a man can stand! Beer, boys, beer! The present scale of prices, Leads to a style of tipple not the best; Vile Spanish root, and quassia, which not nice is, Bad for the bile, and oppressive to the chest. But, let’s unite with hearty agitation; Push for our rights, and battle might and main; And ours shall be a large yet brimming tankard Of real wholesome stuff, brew’d out of roasted grain. Beer, boys, beer! no more of gentian’s nausea; Beer, boys, beer! with liquorice away! Beer, boys, beer! no logwood chips or quassia, Beer! boys, beer, which is all I have to say! Diogenes, Vol. II. 1853.

There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming: We may not live to see the day, But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming. Cannon-balls may aid the truth, But thought’s a weapon stronger; We’ll win our battle by its aid;— Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming: The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, And be acknowledged stronger; The proper impulse has been given;— Wait a little longer. * * * * * (Six verses omitted.) Charles Mackay.

The Pickpocket’s Blessing. (By Charles Quackay.) Curses on thee, haughty England! Shall thy sad heart-broken child Pray for blessings on a parent, Who hath well-nigh made him wild? Why should I prate of thy freedom, When I’m laden with the weight Of two hundred pounds of iron, Forged by thy much-vaunted State? Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead. Safety comes for thieves and knaves, Felons shall not then be slaves— Go ahead, boys! Go ahead! When a child I prigged an apple, When a youth I “faked a cly,” When a man I shot a keeper; And for this am I to die, In a land of iron bondage, Bound by chains I cannot break, Scorned by every honest dotard?— Yet some day my wrath I’ll slake! Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! &c. Richly fed and richly clothed, Was the honest greasy fool, Who in judgment sat upon me; He, of tyrant’s wretched tool, Ne’er, forsooth, stole fruit or kerchief; Richly fed and richly clothed, Each unhappy wretch he punished, As a thing he deeply loathed. Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead, &c. I was led before a jury, Stuffed and gorged with choicest food; They, vile enemies of freedom, Sentenced me, in coolest mood, To be bound in iron fetters, ’Midst the basest of mankind. But though mine are chains of iron, Theirs are chains which gird the mind! Wait awhile, boys! Go ahead! Safety comes for thieves and knaves, Felons shall not then be slaves— Go ahead, boys! Go ahead! (Five verses omitted.)

Voices from the Crowd in Fleet Street. There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; We may not live to see the day, But there will be an open way O’er the good road making: Paviours may tear up the street, In time they’ll make it stronger; ’Tis true they’re always at it, but Wait a little longer! There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; The sewers shall supersede the gas, When paviours, perhaps, might let us pass O’er the good road making: Pipes and earth shall stop the way, Or bricks, which are the stronger, To jobs the impulse has been given, Wait a little longer! There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; Loud and fierce shall be the cry From the cabs, that can’t get by On the good road making: Carts and ’busses shall contend, To see which is the stronger, And panels smash for smashing’s sake— Wait a little longer! (Three verses omitted.) There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; The drivers shall be temperate, Nor swear at such a frightful rate, On the good road making; They shall use—and not abuse— Then patience will grow stronger, When ’tis not so sorely tried, Wait a little longer! There’s a good road making, boys, A good road making; Let them get what aid they can, Every boy and every man, On the good road making: Smallest helps, if rightly given, Make the impulse stronger, Fleet Street will be clear—some day— Wait a little longer! Gilbert Abbott à Beckett. From The Almanack of the Month. September, 1846.

The Waiter. I met the waiter in his prime At a magnificent hotel; His hair untinged by care or time, Was oiled and brushed exceeding well. When “Waiter,” was the impatient cry, In accents growing stronger, He seemed to murmur “By and by, Wait a little longer.” Within a year we met once more, ’Twas in another part of town— An humbler air the waiter wore, I fancied he was going down. Still, when I shouted, “Waiter, bread!” He came out rather stronger, As if he’d say with toss of head, Wait a little longer.” Time takes us on through many a grade; Of “ups and downs” I’ve had my run, Passing full often through the shade, And sometimes loitering in the sun. I and the waiter met again At a small inn at Ongar; Still, when I called, ’twas almost vain, He bade me wait the longer. Another time, years since the last— At eating-house I sought relief From present care and troubles past, In a small plate of round of beef. “One beef, and taturs,” was the cry, In tones than mine much stronger; ’Twas the old waiter standing by, “Wait a little longer.” I’ve marked him now for many a year; I’ve seen his coat more rusty grow; His linen is less bright and clear; His polished pumps are on the go. Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves— They used to be much stronger; The waiter’s whole appearance proves He cannot wait much longer. I sometimes see the waiter still; ’Gainst want he wages feeble strife; He’s at the bottom of the hill, Downward has been his path through life. Of “Waiter, waiter,” there are cries, Which louder grow and stronger; ’Tis to old Time he now replies “Wait a little longer.” Punch.

It’s a Long Time Coming. It’s a long time coming, boys, A long time coming; We may not live to see the day, But lords their tailors’ bills shall pay In this good time coming. Politicians then shall speak the truth, The people’s cause be stronger, And thrive without e’en Cuffey’s aid— Wait a little longer. It’s a long time coming, boys, A long time coming; To foster foul disease shall be, No certain proof of loyalty, In the good time coming. Those men that hate the use of soap Shall not then be the stronger, Nor poison hosts for custom’s sake— Wait a little longer. * * * * * (Two verses omitted.) The Puppet-Show. June 3, 1848.

There’s a good time coming, boys A good time coming; The “General” has pointed out, How all the ill’s of life he’ll rout In the good time coming. Tho’ fortune’s frown may threaten us, The “Army” is still stronger, The War Cry’s raised—the battle’s won— Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; Bubble companies may break, Love-sick maiden’s hearts may ache, Till the good time coming, Altho’ woe now may seem supreme, The “Army” will prove stronger, Then mirth and jollity shall reign— Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; Ould Oirland will be our joy, “Deceased Wife’s Sister” won’t annoy In the good time coming. The Nihilists may menace us, The “Army” still is stronger, Our land will be Utopia— Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming; We’ll have then the Millennium, Earth will be an Elysium, In the good time coming. We only need to join the “Army,” And make it daily stronger, And if ills yet will come, why we Must go on waiting longer! Fun. June 16, 1886.

There’s a Good Time Coming. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, When truth and justice will prevail, And all shall listen to the tale, In the good time coming; Every day shall aid our cause, And make conviction stronger, That Toryism’s but a snare— Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, There’s a good time coming, boys, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, Education shall be free To the poor man’s family, In the good time coming; No class shall be privileged Though it were ten times stronger. But all shall share the general good, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, For the owners of the soil Starving peasants shall not toil In the good time coming; Primogeniture shall be No struggling people’s wronger, Nor rents be raised at landlords’ wills, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c. There’s a good time coming, boys, A good time coming, Sinecures shall have no pay, Endowments shall be swept away, In the good time coming; A pensioned aristocracy, Which now is growing stronger, No longer shall impair the State, Wait a little longer. There’s a good time coming, boys, &c. * * * * * (Several verses omitted.) From Songs for Liberal Electors. 1886.

Liberal Union. The past has proved a trying time, And friends, once reckoned hearty, Have left us now, and vengeance vow Against the Liberal party. And are we sorry? Truly, yes. And hopeless? Nay, not we! For we all know Our cause must grow, Till we victorious be! Aye, our thinned ranks will fill again! Already we grow stronger. There’s a good time coming, boys! So wait a little longer! Some who have left us will come back: Nor need the loss much grieve us If those who flagg’d and often lagg’d When with us, wholly leave us. For, purged of traitors and of cowards, With whom we’d no communion, The country soon Will bless that boon, A real Liberal Union! Then we for conquest or defence Shall stauncher be and stronger; Nor is this happy time far off; We shall not wait much longer. Truth Christmas Number. 1886.

Labby in our Abbey. Of all the Rads that are so smart There’s none like witty Labby; He’s played of late a leading part, So he’ll be at the Abbey; No institution in the land Escapes the sneers of Labby, But all the same, I understand, He’s going to the Abbey. Of all the days within the week There’s one that will be the day, And that’s a day that’s quite unique, Victoria’s Jubilee Day. Then he’ll be dressed in all his best With nothing old or shabby; He may be snarling in his heart, But he’ll be at the Abbey. He tried to dock the vote, you know, For fitting up the Abbey; Perhaps he’d like the Queen to go And hail the nearest cabby; All sentiment for England’s Queen He designates as “flabby;” But Truth must needs describe the scene, So he’ll be at the Abbey. The Globe. June 20, 1887.

Labby and his Babby. Of all the would-be witty Rads There’s none like clowning Labby; He is the Mother Gamp of fads And farms the Home Rule Babby. Not even Lawson, of the Pump, Whose jokelets all are flabby, When on the water-swilling stump, Is in the hunt with Labby. In fine old Saxon flowers of speech, A bargee or a cabby Would own there’s nothing left to teach The conscript Father Labby. Bad are his jokes, but even worse His Parliamentary manners, And so he’s chosen for dry-nurse By Conybeares and Tanners. On all the days right through the week, From Monday until Friday, Incessantly does Labby speak, He never has a bye-day; And, sucking at Obstruction-pap, The wizened Home Rule babby Squalls, howls, and chokes, upon the lap Of Parnell’s dry-nurse Labby. J.W.P. St. Stephen’s Review. July 2, 1887.

Sing!—Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah! who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O’er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink!—Who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah! who is this maid of thine? The Grape, boys, the Grape! O, never let her escape Until she be turned to Wine! For better is she Than Vine can be, And very, very good company! Dream!— Who dreams Of the God that governs a thousand streams? Ah! who is this Spirit fine? ’Tis Wine, boys, ’tis Wine! God Bacchus, a friend of mine. O, better is he Than Grape or tree, And the best of all good company. B. W. Procter.

An Omnibusian Song. Ride! Who rides In a ’bus that taketh twelve insides? Ah! who is this lady fine That falls on this lap of mine? A lady is she, As big as three. I prefer her room to her company. Smoke! Who smokes To the great annoyance of other folks? Ah! who is this snob so fine? A gent, Sirs! a gent! He comes with the noxious scent Of tobacco, beer, and wine: Far better that he On the roof should be. I prefer his room to his company. Punch. September 17, 1853.

Sing! Who sings Of him who weareth the fine gold rings, Ah, who is the party fine? The Jew I divine, Who works the Brummagem line. In “h’s” he Is a dealer free, And very unpleasant company. Anonymous.

A Chaunt for the Choused. Dine? who’d dine At eight shillings a head, or even nine, With the heaviest price for the lightest wine? Ah! that house I know too well, ’Tis your “first-class” Hotel: Sad “Tales of my Landlord” there they tell Far better for me To order tea, And go dinnerless at that hostelry. Sleep? who’d sleep Where a standing army their quarters keep, And in countless legions upon you creep? Ah! whose form is that I see,— A flea! Sirs, a flea! He cometh to sup off me. Far better, say I, On the sofa to lie; I prefer his room to his company. Stay? who’d stay To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way, And live at the rate of a fortune a day? Ah! who’ll expose their crimes? The Times, Sirs, the Times, The waiter his fee declines; Tell the landlord from me Him further I’ll see, Ere again I’ll be fleeced at his hostelry. Punch. October, 1853.

The sea, the sea, the open sea, The blue, the fresh, the ever free: Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide region round: It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I’m on the sea, I’m on the sea, I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, And silence wheresoe’er I go. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, O how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, Where every mad wave drowns the moon, And whistles aloft its tempest tune: And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west wind doth blow. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh her mother’s nest— And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea. The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As welcom’d to life the ocean child. I have lived since then in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a rover’s life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought or sighed for change; And death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded sea! B. W. Procter.

The Cam, the Cam. The Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam! The green, the brown, the black, the blue! Of every shade, of every hue, It runneth the list of colours through! It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls, Or like an o’erfilled kennel brawls. I’m on the Cam! I’m on the Cam! Where I never again will be, I am; With the blue above, and the mud below, And weeds are wheresoe’er I go— From The Individual. November 29, 1836. Cambridge: W. H. Smith.

The Pipe. The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe! The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe! Its odorous puffs without a sound, They float my head’s wide regions round; They rise in clouds and mock the skies, While Backy snugly cradled lies. My hookha wide! my hookha deep! I’ve that which I would ever keep; With the smoke above, and smoke below, And smoke wheresoe’er I go. If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing. What matters, &c. I love—oh! how I love to smoke, And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak! And when its waves have drowned my soul, I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!” Don’t ask me where the world is going, Nor why the sou’-west blast is blowing. I never breathed the dull tame air, But I relished my great pipe mair and mair, And back again flew for a soothing puff, Like a bird—I’m sure that’s quick enough. My mother it is, and I’ll prove it to ye, (Much more of a mother than the open sea!) For smoking, I am at it ever and ever! I hope your comment on this line is “clever!” For fear of growing at all lackadaisical I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat ’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on. From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.

The Gin, The Gin! The gin! the gin! Hodge’s Cordial Gin! It fairly makes our heads to spin; It gives us marks, and without bound, It turneth our head completely round; It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain, 205 And sends us rolling in the drain. I love the gin! I love the gin! And in a butt of it I could swim, Or ever live among butts below, For the juniper’s taste so well I know; If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin, What matter? We’ll settle it all with Gin. I love, I love—oh, how I love to bide, With a flowing gin-cask by my side; Where every quartern gives relief, We whistle a stave, and drown all grief; And when our browns to the host we show, The gin-cock then will merrily flow. I never tasted watery swipes, But I always found they gave me the gripes; So back I flew to my favourite juice, Until my sorrows were all reduced. No three-outs I’ll have, but my whack to the brim. For when I was born my mother gave me gin. The gin it flow’d the glasses to adorn, On the drunken hour when I was born; The nurse she sang, but I did scream, My mother called out for valley’s cream; And never was known such a drunken crush, As welcomed to life this child of lush! I’ve lived since then in riot and din, Full thirty winters quite warm with gin; With ready blunt to the shops I range, But where I find it good I never change; And Death, whene’er it comes so grim, Shall find me guzzling Hodge’s gin. Anonymous.

The Mail! The Mail! The Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail, The black, the red, the never pale; Without a bar, without a gate She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight, She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands, Or like a tilted waggon stands. I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail! I am where I would ever sail, With the dust before and the dust behind, And driving straight before the wind, If a storm should come, and disturb my ride, What matter! what matter! I can jump inside. I love, O! how I love to drive, To urge the wheelers all alive, While every loose stone strikes the box, Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks, And tells how goeth the road below, Or why the panting leaders blow, I never was in a dull post chaise, But on the Mail was fain to gaze, And jumped again on the buoyant box, Like an ape that sits on its native rocks, And my native place I always hail, For I was born, was born in the “Royal Mail.” The roads were rough, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born, The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung, The leaders jobled, and out they flung, And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the coachman’s child. I have lived since then on ale and gin, Full fifty summers and not grown thin, With a coach to run and a team to drive, And never have sought or sighed to wive, And love if ever in that I engage, Must come on the fast light bounding Stage. From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster, Dublin. No date.

The Road. The road, the road, the turnpike road! The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad, Without a check, without an end, Horses against horses on it contend; Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls, Or stop and pay like honest souls. I’m on the road, I’m on the road, I’m never so blithe as when abroad, With the hills above, and the vales below, And merry wheresoever I go, If the opposition appears in sight What matters—we’ll soon make that all right. I love—oh! how I love to ride, With a smiling damsel by my side, Where every prad keeps well his pace, Nor draws my eye from the sweet one’s face. Nought tells how goeth the time of day, Nor why the hours so fly away. I never heard the angry sea roar, But I love the dry land more and more; And away have flown to my box and reins, For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains; On my team is all my care bestow’d, For I was born on the turnpike road! The clouds were dark, and grey the morn, In the hazy hour when I was born; The guard he whistled, the coach it roll’d, And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold, And never was heard such a curious din, As when the road-child the world popt in. I have driven since then in fair and rough, Full forty winters, a traveller tough, With primest of cattle, and carriages neat, And never had a spill or beat, And death, whenever he looks for me, Shall come on the road, and not on the sea. From The London Singer’s Magazine.

The Steak. Of steak, of steak—of prime rump steak— A slice of half-inch thickness take, Without a blemish, soft and sound; In weight a little more than a pound. Who’d cook a steak—who’d cook a steak, Must a fire clear proceed to make: With the red above and the red below. In one delicious, genial glow. If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn’t put on your steak. First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat, The gridiron’s bars, then on it flat, Impose the meat; and the fire soon, Will make it sing a delicious tune, And when ’tis brown’d by the genial glow, Just turn the upper side below. 206 Both sides with brown being cover’d o’er, For a moment you broil your steak no more, But on a hot dish let it rest, And add of butter a slice of the best; In a minute or two the pepper-box take, And with it gently dredge your steak. When seasoned quite, upon the fire Some further time it will require; And over and over be sure to turn Your steak till done—nor let it burn: For nothing drives me half so wild As a nice rump steak in the cooking spiled. I’ve lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef; With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my steak I never wished to change: For a steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea. Punch.

The Tea! The Tea! The tea! the tea! the genuine tea! Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea— Without a leaf that was not found, Growing on Noqua’s famous ground. It fills the teapot, and from the spout, The hand of beauty pours it out. I’m for the tea! I’m for the tea! No chocolate, coffee, or such for me— No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow— No silence when round doth the tea-tray go! If friends drop in, we will hail with glee Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea! I love—oh! how I love to sip, The green—green tea with my willing lip, When the toast is brown and the muffins hot, And there’s plenty of tea in the China pot, And to talk some scandal and how below, Matters and things in this world do go. I never sat down with a dull tame “bore,” But I loved a tea-party more and more; And I backward flew to the cheerful sup Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up; And sugar it was, and more to me, For ’twas blent with the flavour of good green tea. The clouds were dull and rainy the morn— So the gossips say when I was born. The kettle sung and the jest was told, And the teacups and saucers were green and gold. And never was heard such a chattering wild, As welcomed to Congo the China child. I’ve lived since then upon “heavy wet,” And all sorts of drinks which a man can get, With splitting headaches and purpled nose, With empty pockets and tattered clothes! But I’ve signed the pledge, and when death seeks me, He shall find me over a cup of tea! Anonymous.

The See. The See, the See, the wealthy See! I can’t resign it gratis free; Within the mark—within fair bounds— I think I may say six thousand pounds— That is little enough—but one’s heart’s in the skies— Therefore one can’t be worldly wise. I’m in the See, I’m in the See, I am where I may ever be. Suppose I do not choose to go, What do you say then; yes or no? Of the whole of the income I stand possessed, And I can’t be turn’d out of my mother’s nest, For a Mother the Church has been to me, And I was born for her fattest See. I love my See, my wealthy See, I scorn the idea of Simony; But I must take care what I’m about, Six thousand a-year and I’ll turn out. My offer you had better take, And you will, if you are wide awake, For Death, whenever he comes to me, Can alone compel me to quit my See. Punch. August 2, 1856.

The Tea. By Carry Bornwall. The tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea! The brew from gravy-beef for me! Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound, The best for an invalid ’tis found; It’s better than gruel; with sago vies; Or with the cradled babe’s supplies. I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea, I’m satisfied, and aye shall be, With the brew I love, with the brew I know, And take it wheresoe’er I go. If the price should rise, or meat be cheap No matter! I’ll to beef-tea keep. I love—oh, how I love to guide The strong beef-tea to its place inside, When round and round you stir the spoon, Or whistle thereon to cool it soon. Because one knoweth, or ought to know, That things get cool whereon you blow. I never have drunk the dull souchong, But I for my loved beef-tea did long, And inly yearned for that bountiful zest, Like a bird: as a child on that I messed— And a mother it was and is to me, For I was weaned on the beef—beef-tea! Tom Hood, the younger.

The C! The C! The ALTO C! Most singers never get past B, Nor reach that most expensive sound. The C, which now at last I’ve found,— The C! that treasure which to gain, Lessees shall hunt no more in vain. I’m up to C! I’m up to C! I am where I ne’er hoped to be!” Diogenes, Volume ii. 1853.

The Van-Demon. The Van, the Van! the hurrying Van! Terror alike of beast and man; With awful rush and roaring sound It thunders merrily over the ground. It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies, Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies. I’m on the Van, I’m on the Van! Let people get out of the way who can. Jolly the day when the Van was born, In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne; Says they, “The people denounce as slow The waggons so huge from our yards that go. We’ll build a Van that hath equal space, And horse it with horses that go the pace; With a scowling blackguard the box we’ll man, Let people get out of the way who can.” I have lived since then in storm and strife, The fierce Van-Demon’s right jovial life. I drive like mad,—if a cove complains, He gets an oath or a cut for his pains; And right and left doth the traffic fly, When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by. I scrunch folks’ spokes as you’d scrunch a fan— Let people get out of the way who can. Shirley Brooks. 1859.

King Death was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And pour’d out his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black wine. * * * * * B. W. Procter.

Song of July. July is a rare old fellow, He’s a month when the sun does shine; He makes the pear quite mellow, Sagittarius is his sign. Hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why, For that rare old month—a hot July. The Quail, that ne’er deceives us, Now makes his morning call; The fickle cuckoo leaves us, But that’s the way with them all. Then hurra, hurra! though we don’t know why, For that blazing month—a hot July. Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea! The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free, The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light, Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running bright. All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep, Strange things come up to look at us—the masters of the deep! In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark— Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark! Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day) Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey! Who’ve fought for him and conquered, who’ve won with sweat and gore Nobility, which he shall have whene’er he touch the shore! Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a word— To lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord! I’d shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee, “Some day I’ll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!” Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew, Still talk’d he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew; And he look’d up at the heavens, and he look’d down on the sea, And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee! He shook—’twas but an instant: for speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied; It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath, And he look’d like some grim warrior new risen up from death! That night a horrid whisper fell on us where we lay— And we knew our fine old admiral was changing into clay And we heard the wash of waters, though nothing could we see— A whistle and a plunge among the billows on our lee; Till dawn we watched the body in its dead and ghastly sleep, And next evening at sunset it was slung into the deep; And never from that moment, save one shudder through the sea, Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee! B. W. Procter.

The Return of the Omnibus. How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane, The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train; The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly, Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry: And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep; Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep. A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road— Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load! And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may, Of twice three people (in and out) who’ll each a shilling pay; He’s proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very hard The hay and water he shall have when once more in his yard. Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word, That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord, I’d shout unto the free-school boy who’s hanging on our lee, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll whip behind, as quickly you shall see.’ 208 Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along, Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song; And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight; And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’ He shook—’twas but an instant—we saw his fearful plight, The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right. He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath, And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death. We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again! We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’ And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see, But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee. We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep, Then back again t’wards home with all our luggage did we creep; But never from that moment, having once been ‘sold,’ again We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train. From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith.

The Alderman. (By a Parishioner of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook.) How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way; Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day! The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright, Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight. All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep, Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they keep. In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and stark; Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark? * * * * * (Five verses omitted.) Punch. 1844.

The Cruize of the Old Admiral. How crazily, how lazily, We creep along the sea; Our upper works are straining, Our hull is rolling free; Our lower ports they baffle Attempts to caulk ’em tight, Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams The water runs outright! E’en coal-brigs o’er us triumph, Smart yachts about us sweep; Green’s ships come up to look at us— The slow-coach of the deep! In their wake, like any servant, We sail from day to dark; Oh, proud must be our Admiral- -ty Lords of such a barque! And proud must be our Admiral (He’s seventy-four to-day) Of turning out on duty, Whate’er the doctors say; He has fought with them and conquered, Although ’twas mad, they swore, To go to sea, when he should have Been laid up snug on shore. Oh, if I were an Admiral I wouldn’t be on board, I’d stay in London, if I could, And be made a Junior Lord; I’d write to the Prime Minister, “Just find a place for me, For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling, No longer fit for sea?” Our Admiral grew paler, And bluer and more blue, ’Midst the sniggers of the officers, And the broad grins of the crew; For at sixes and at sevens His stomach well might be, ’Twas so long, the poor old creature! Since he had been at sea. He heaved—’twas but an instant— For the old sailor’s pride Succeeded in the effort His nausea to hide. So he mopped his poor old forehead, And held hard his wheezy breath; And, like a steamboat passenger, Sat, looking grim as death! That night the surgeon’s whisper Went round the mess to say, That our poor old used-up Admiral Was in a dreadful way: Next day we beat to quarters, In a Bath-chair wheeled was he, With a Welsh wig, and his legs Wrapped in fleecy hosiery! That night a glass of toddy Sent him cozily to sleep, And next morning into harbour The old ship made shift to creep. And never from that moment, (Lest again sick he might be) Excepting in fine weather, Did we venture out to sea. Punch. January 15, 1853.

The Return of the Members. From the great Naval Review in 1853. How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail, The M.P.’s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail; And now they’re going back to town to sit again to-night, Like creatures who’ve no Factory Bill to guard their labour’s right; And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep, And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep; But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark, “How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark!” * * * * * 209 Said Bright, “For no inducement’s sake an admiral I’d be, No Peace Societies again would ask me out to tea; And people all would think that I demeaned me, as they say, That Mr. Buckstone does the fighting Quaker in the play.” “I would not be an admiral,” Mackinnon said, “until Each cannon were subjected to my smoke-prevention Bill, Else should I fire a single gun ’twould drive me wild to see A curl of smoke upon the air, or even on the sea.” * * * * * Diogenes. Volume ii. 1853.

The Term of the Freshman. How jollily, how joyously we live at B. N. C.[53] Our reading is all moonshine—the wind is not more free: The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night, Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright. All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep; Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so deep; In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go, And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro. Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say, Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey, Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour sore, The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er. Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word, His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord? I’d shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed it be— Each morn I’ll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale’s hounds to see. Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew, Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few; And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see, And at last there came the fearful time for what we call “degree.” We read—’twas but an instant! for speedily the pride Of being plucked twice for “little go,” all chance of ours defied; This gave boldness to th’ examiners, as, sitting in a row, They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go. That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay, And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away; And we heard the wash of waters—hard by the gutter we— And a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be. Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep, And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep; And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see, The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee. From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.

The Return to Tyrol. I. How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep, Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep; The green Inn rushes foamingly, far down beneath our path, And chafes against the stocks and stones, like an M.P. in wrath. All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam, The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam; So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the Gastwirth[54] grin, He sees the Nirgend’s[55] Wanderer come very soppy in: (Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots:—) The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in! II. Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day, Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the way. The wind was high, the road was rough, where slushy mud snow, Lay on the long and winding path, and through it went our Joe! He sneezed! a moment’s weakness, for speedily he cried, “Bring me a glass of your Brantwein,[56] and a masz of Bier beside!” It gave colour to his cheek and nose, yet took away his breath, And he look’d like some old fox-hunter, new come in at the death: (Chorus, discriminative and appreciatory:—) Like some half-wash’d-out fox-hunter, that rides in at the death. III. The Wanderer grew merrier, and merrier still he grew, Joining in all the harmless fun of that Tyrolean crew; He sang Italian Opera airs, French chansons,[57] English songs, And Burschen lieder,[58] that were chorused as by Chinese gongs. He looked in his deep beer-glass: the kellnerin[59] knew the sign, And fill’d it up: he took one sup, and then set-to at wine. That night a horrid whisper pass’d, with calumny imbued, It said “The long-hair’d Wanderer got regularly screw’d!” (Chorus, unanimous and valedictory.) Of course ’twas false, but how he got to bed he never knewed! Joseph Woodfall Ebsworth. Innspruchk. 1854.

The Baby in the Train. “Why is there not a Compartment ‘for Babies only’?” The Crusty Philosopher. How merrily, how cheerily, we ride along the rail! We think not of the driving rain, nor care about the gale! I’m comfortably seated in a snug back corner seat, With woolly rugs about my knees, and warmers at my feet; I’ve all the morning papers in a heap upon my lap, I read and calmly contemplate, and think about a nap; A nap indeed? Impossible! You’ll find it all in vain, To have the slightest slumber with the Baby in the Train! He’s autocratic as to rule, and as to language terse, He’ll freely fist his dear Mamma, and domineer o’er Nurse! 210 He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee’s, And babbles of the “puff-puff,” and prattles of “gee-gees:” He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit, But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit. I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain— But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train! I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect— In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect? Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene? Is “kitchee-kitchee” fitted for my gravity of mien? Can I talk of “doggie-oggies,” or prate of “ittle dears”? Is “peep-bo” fit amusement for a person of my years? And though I do my very best to try to entertain, I’m thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train! He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly, How spitefully I’d pinch him if no guardians were nigh! He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit, He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot; He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch; He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch; And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he’ll drain, With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train! O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets! And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes, And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and toys, To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys. O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup flow! Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also! And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train! Punch. March 24, 1883.

The News. (After “The Sea! The Sea!”) The News! the News! the motley News! Oh, how I love the motley News! ’Tis here, ’tis there, ’tis everywhere, At market, statute, wake and fair, And tells to all the country round, Where rogues and knaves may soon be found. I love the News! I love the News! And when I’m bothered with “the blues,” I turn me to the motley page, Where barbers boast, and patriots rage, And if it tells of bankrupt Jews, What matter? I’m among the News! I love, oh, how I love the News! It’s gay bon-mots and keen reviews— To loll at ease from morn till night, With nought but News within my sight, While lords attend the huntsman’s becks, And set no value on their necks. I never see the motley News, But love the more its new-born dews; And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose, As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose, That come to his hand from wits and blues, Ambitious of places within the News. The devil was black, ’twas early morn, And the pressmen sweat, when the News was born; A proof had been in the editor’s gripe, And there wasn’t a single misplaced type. Each pig was set, the galleys were high, No column could crumble into pie— The forme was so well lock’d up with quoin, And the chase was proud of every line. I love, I love, the motley page, And if I live to well-fed age, And e’er-so-often change my views, What matter? I’ll always love the News!

The Press. The Press! the Press! the glorious Press! The deep, the fresh, the ever free, Without a mark, without a bound, It searcheth the earth’s wide regions round. It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen, Or like a flaming rod is seen. I’m on the Press! I’m on the Press! I am where I would ever be, With the ink above, and the paper below, And the devil to pay wherever I go. If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall, What matter? what matter? I can beat them all. It loves, oh! how it loves to ride On the lordly voice of the popular tide, When every madcap speaks his mind, Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind. And tells how goeth the National Debt, And why at taxes the people fret. I never reported for one short hour, But I loved the free Press more and more, And backwards flew to my devils and type, Like a bear cub that loveth its mother’s gripe; And kinder and kinder it is to me, For the Press was born to be useful and free! The world was changed, and the Pope looked round, When the hydra head of the Press was unbound, And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled, And tyrants offered their bags of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild, As strove to smother the free-born child. It has stood since then with great strength and weight, In spite of prisons and engines great, With Truth to guide, and Power to range, And never may England see its change; And life,—whenever it loves me less, Shall see me bound to the glorious Press! From Songs of the Press.

The Middlesex Election. (A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase.) God prosper long our noble king, And eke his subjects too; And grant such deeds as now I sing We never more may rue. 211 In seventeen hundred sixty-eight, All on a summer’s day, Grim death did on our member wait, And took him clean away. O, then a writ was issued out, To chuse a member in; And soon began a mighty rout For Procter and for Glynn. When as the day advanced nigh, Each party did its best; And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye) Turn’d Proctor’s cause to jest. Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who, Of Irish strength assur’d, Provided many a gallant crew, True men, I’ll pawn my word. Such crowds to Brentford town did hie, As fill’d the place outright; While thousands knew not where to lie, And so—sat up all night. At length the fatal morning came, O had it ne’er arriv’d! For many a wight crawled home quite lame, Full glad that he surviv’d. Soon as the rising sun had clear’d The gloomy shades of night, All on the hustings they appear’d— O! ’twas a glorious sight! With ribbon and with star bespread, (Given by the good old king) Sir William hung his languid head, And looked—like any thing. The serjeant held his head upright, For conscious still was he, That those who do the deed that’s right, Have real cause for glee. Mr.O’Murphy too was there, Hight counsellor at law— His business was to strut and stare, And find or make a flaw. Count Gambler look’d as who should say, “I’ll bet ye six to one “That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:” “I’ll take it, damme.”—“Done.” Whilst bustling still from place to place, Old Brentford’s priest was seen, Who for this meal said many a grace, And fervent pray’r, I ween. And still to heighten all they could This mighty gallant show, Close by the hustings numbers stood, Like—soldiers all a-row. The clock told two, up flew the hat, (A signal for each wounder) And soon the freeholders lay flat As ever lay a flounder. Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs, Were darken’d, fractur’d, broke; And those who could not keep their pegs, Fell down—to mend the joke. And many a ribbon flew about, (For favours then were common) And hundreds of the rabble rout Were dizen’d out like yeomen. What they did more, let other bards In other guise declare; For, truth to say, they play’d their cards, To make all England stare. Now God preserve our noble king, And grant henceforth, for aye, No future poet e’er may sing The deeds of such a day!

The Litchfield Defeat. God prosper long our noble king! Our lives and safeties all; A woful horse-race late there did At Whittington befall. Great Bedford’s duke, a mighty prince! A solemn vow did make, His pleasure in fair Staffordshire Three summer’s days to take. At once to grace his father’s race, And to confound his foes: But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak) A luckless time he chose. For some rude clowns, who long had felt The weight of Tax and Levy, Explained their case unto his Grace By arguments full heavy. * * * * *

Go soul, the body’s guest, Upon a thankless errant, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must dye, And give them all the lye. Go, tell the court it glowse And shines like painted wood; Go, tell the church it showes What’s good, does no good. If court and church replye, Give court and church the lye. Tell potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions, Not lov’d unless they give! Not strong, but by their factions. If potentates replye, Give potentates the lye. * * * * *

A Parody written in 1764. Go, truth, unwelcome guest! Upon a thankless errant; Fear not to touch the best, For truth is a safe warrant. Go, since thou needs must die, And give them all the lye. Go, tell the Tory faction, Now in their noontide hour, England won’t bear an action Of an arbitrary power. If Tories should reply, Give Tories all the lye. Go, tell th’ ennobled thief, While cares oppress him most, He ne’er shall taste relief From guilt—from Ayliffe’s ghost. And if the thief reply, Then give the thief the lye. * * * * *

Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,) Usurp the chair of wit Inditing and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vaine Commission of braine Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn; They were not made for thee,—less thou for them. Say that thou pour’st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; ’Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste On such as have no taste! To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead! No, give them graines their fill, Husks, draff, to drink and swill. If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not their palate with the swine. No doubt some mouldy tale Like Pericles[61], and stale As the shrieve’s crusts, and nasty as his fish- Scraps, out of every dish Thrown forth, and rak’t into the common-tub, May keep up the play-club: There sweepings do as well As the best order’d meale, For who the relish of these guests will fit, Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit. And much good do’t you then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes, Dare quit, upon your oathes, The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers), Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks: Which if they’re torn, and turn’d, and patch’d enough, The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcæick lute, Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre; Warm thee by Pindar’s fire; And, tho’ thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat; As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy’s in thy brain[62]. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy King, His zeal to God, and his just awe o’er men, They may blood-shaken then, Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, As they shall cry like ours, In sound of peace, or wars, No harp ere hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, And raising Charles his chariot ’bove his wain.”

An Answer to the Ode, “Come Leave the Loathed Stage, &c.” Come leave this sawcy way Of baiting those that pay Dear for the sight of your declining wit ’Tis known it is not fit That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown Should cry up thus his own. I wonder by what dower, Or patent, you had power From all to rape a judgment. Let’s suffice, Had you been modest, y’ad been granted wise. ’Tis known you can do well, And that you do excell 213 As a translator; but when things require A genius, and fire, Not kindled heretofore by other pains, As oft y’ave wanted brains And art to strike the white, As you have levell’d right: Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal, You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall. Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly[63], and all Your jests so nominal, Are things so far beneath an able brain, As they do throw a stain Thro’ all th’ unlikely plot, and do displease As deep as Pericles. Where yet there is not laid Before a chamber-maid Discourse so weighed[64], as might have serv’d of old For schools, when they of love and valour told. Why rage, then? when the show Should judgment be, and know-[65] ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge For stages, yet can judge Not only poets’ looser lines, but wits, And all their perquisits; A gift as rich as high Is noble poesie: Yet, tho’ in sport it be for Kings to play, ’Tis next mechanicks’ when it works for pay. Alcæus lute had none, Nor loose Anacreon E’er taught so bold assuming of the bays When they deserv’d no praise. To rail men into approbation Is new to your’s alone: And prospers not: for known, Fame is as coy, as you Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove A rape on her shall gather scorn—not love. Leave then this humour vain, And this more humourous strain, Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood, Eclipse what else is good: Then, if you please those raptures high to touch, Whereof you boast so much: And but forbear your crown Till the world puts it on: No doubt, from all you may amazement draw, Since braver theme no Phœbus ever saw.

An Answer to Mr. Ben Jonson’s Ode, To Persuade him not to Leave the Stage. I. Ben, do not leave the stage Cause ’tis a loathsome age: For pride and impudence will grow too bold, When they shall hear it told They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause; Their hiss is thy applause: More just were thy disdain, Had they approved thy vein: So thou for them, and they for thee were born; They to incense, and thou as much to scorn. II. Wilt thou engross thy store Of wheat, and pour no more, Because their bacon-brains had such a taste As more delight in mast: No! set them forth a board of dainties, full As thy best muse can cull; Whilst they the while do pine And thirst, midst all their wine. What greater plague can hell itself devise, Than to be willing thus to tantalise? III. Thou canst not find them stuff, That will be bad enough To please their pallates: let ’em them refuse, For some Pye-corner muse: She is too fair an hostess, ’twere a sin For them to like thine Inn: ’Twas made to entertain Guests of a nobler strain; Yet, if they will have any of the store, Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore. IV. And let those things in plush Till they be taught to blush, Like what they will, and more contented be With what Broom[66] swept from thee. I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains Write not to cloaths, but brains: But thy great spleen doth rise, ’Cause moles will have no eyes; This only in my Ben I faulty find, He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind. V. Why shou’d the scene be mute ’Cause thou canst touch the lute And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine Claim thee, and say, th’art mine. ’Twere fond, to let all other flames expire, To sit by Pindar’s fire: For by so strange neglect I should myself suspect Thy palsie were as well thy brain’s disease, If they could shake thy muse which way they please. VI. And tho’ thou well canst sing The glories of thy King, And on the wings of verse his chariot bear To heaven, and fix it there; Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise To please him, as to praise. I would not have thee chuse Only a treble muse; But have this envious, ignorant age to know, Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.

TO ALTHEA. When Love, with unconfinèd wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like, confinèd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make,[67] Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. R. Lovelace.

Song.—After Love-lace. Grey hairs do not a prophet make, Nor wrinkled brow a sage; Though Innocence as such may take These signs upon Life’s stage. Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise, And some a profit find In hair—but then it is in dyes, And braids to pin behind! Though flowing locks will drop away, The flowing cups remain. The drops they hold will go, but they Can still be filled again. And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught, That clay must ne’er be dry, Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought So, fill the Tankard high! C. H. Waring. From Hood’s Comic Annual. 1885.

A Frugal Mind. Champagne will not a dinner make, Nor Caviare a meal: Men gluttonous and rich, may take Those till they make them ill. If I’ve potatoes to my chop, And after chop have cheese, Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop Know no such luxuries! Punch. April 3, 1875.

On Going to the Wars. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase,— The first foe in the field; And with a stronger love embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore: I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more. R. Lovelace.

The Grand Old O’Diddle to Miss Erin. Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge Because so swift I hie, From making love to Molly Hodge And wink at thee an eye! True, a new charmer now I chase Across wild Faction’s field, Prepared, with shame-forgetting face, Whate’er thou wilt, to yield. Yet this apostacy is such As thou, too, shalt adore: I should not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not office more. Moonshine. January 2, 1886.

Hang Sorrow and cast away Care, and let us drink up our Sack; They say ’tis good to cherish the blood, and for to strengthen the back. 215 ’Tis wine that makes the thoughts aspire, and fills the body with heat; Besides ’tis good, if well understood, to fit a man for the feat: Then call and drink up all, The Drawer is ready to fill, A Pox of care, what need we to spare? my father has made his will.

Hang fear, cast away care, The parish is bound to find us, Thou and I and all must die, And leave this world behinde us. The Bells shall ring, the Clerk shall sing, And the good old wife shall winde us, And John shall lay our bones in clay Where the Devil ne’er shall find us.

Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care, for now I do mean to be merry, Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere, With sugar, and clarret, and sherry. Now I’le have a wife of mine own, I shall have no need to borrow; I would have it for to be known that I shall be married to-morrow. (Burden:) Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be, Come pledge it you boon merry blades: The day I much long for to see, We will be as merry as the Maides, &c.

Drinking Song. Cast away care, he that loves sorrow Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow; Money is trash; and he that will spend it, Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it. Merrily, merrily, merrily, Oh, ho! Play it off stiffly, we may not part so. * * * * * John Ford. (About 1623.)

A Drinking Song Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow, You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow: Best, while you have it, use your breath; There is no drinking after death. Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure ’gainst age but it: It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisick, And is for all diseases physick. Then let us swill, boys, for our health; Who drinks well, loves the Commonwealth. And he that will to bed go sober Falls with the leaf, still in October.[68]

Five reasons for Drinking. There are five reasons, as I think, Why man, being reasonable, should drink. A friend—a bottle—being dry. Or, that one may be, by and bye, Or—any other reason why.

Three Band of Hope Boys. (Anti-Bacchanalian Song, dedicated to the Temperance Society, as an Aid to Moral Suasion.) Air.—“Three Jolly Postboys.” Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle, Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle, And they determinèd, And they determinèd, And they determined again to tap the kettle. We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water. We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water. Fill us the teapot up, Fill us the teapot up, Fill us the teapot up, strong liquor’s self-slaughter. Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic, Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic, And it not inebriates, And it not inebriates, And it not inebriates like potions alcoholic. He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow, He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow, Lives as he shouldn’t do, Lives as he shouldn’t do, Lives as he shouldn’t do, and wakes a seedy fellow. He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober, He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober, Lasts as the leaves do, Lasts as the leaves do, Lasts as the leaves do, bright green in October. Punch. May 7, 1870.

The Boys for You! (After the Earl of Dorset’s Song.) Air.—“To all you Ladies now on Land.” Ho! all you toilers in the land Who freedom would promote, We fain would have you understand The way you ought to vote. Old Whigs eschew, And Tories too— The Rads, they are the boys for you— Boys for you! With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la— With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la— With a fal-lal-lal, fal-lal-lal— The Rads are the boys for you! To Jingoes, of whatever ilk, Who’d bid you with them march, 216 Proclaim for Chamberlain and Dilke, And men like Burt and Arch. Brave men and true, Good work they’ll do, And they’re the only boys for you— Boys for you! Abracadabra. The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

Back from the Wars. Sadly Lord Salisbury Muttered “Oh, lor!” As he was hobble-ing Back from the war; Wailing, “From Voterdom Hither I come; Party dear, Party dear, Welcome me home!” She at the thought of him Mournfully wept; Ruefully dreamt of him Too, while she slept; Wailing, “From Voterdom Would thou could’st come Victor—yet, Salisbury, Hurry back home!” Into her presence then Slowly he came, Seeking her sympathy, Battered and lame; Wailing, “From Voterdom Vanquished I come: Party dear, Party dear, Soothe me at home!” Fun. December 16, 1885.

Air.—“Gaily the Troubadour.” Gaily the Grand Old Man Spoke by the way, As he was hurrying Home from the fray, Singing, “From Parliament Hither I come; Darling Midlothian, Welcome me home.” She for her veteran Felt much distress’d; Sadly she grieved for him, By foes sore press’d, Singing, “To succour thee, Would I might come; Grand Old Man! Grand Old Man! Haste to thy home.” Hark! ’twas the Grand Old Man Breathing her name. Through the applauding crowds Swiftly he came, Singing, “No need have I Farther to roam. Darling Midlothian, Here is my home.” Excelsior. Truth. July 15, 1886.

The Chief of the Liberal Party. Air—The King of the Cannibal Islands. Now, all ye hungry Whigs, who wait For pickings from your Premier’s plate, Attend, while I predict the fate Of the Chief of the Liberal Party. No more he plays the daring game That made all Europe fear his name; The Temple now enshrines a Fame Whose trumpet-notes are rather tame. And he’s only saucy, “jaunty Pam”— His boasted power’s an empty sham— And his colleagues groan when he says, “I am The Chief of the Liberal Party.” Joking—poking feeble fun— That is the way his work is done By the Premier Palmerston— The Chief of the Liberal Party.” Pam’s oft the victim of his men— For Gladstone’s tongue, or Russell’s pen Brings into trouble, now and then, The Chief of the Liberal Party. Now Gladstone’s fancy decks finance With all the charms of fair romance, And shows an Income-tax advance. Or cheapened rates on goods from France, To be, in fact the nation’s gain— While poor John Bull protests in vain, And of his taxes doth complain To the Chief of the Liberal Party. Taxing, waxing, more and more, We pay in peace the price of war— Thanks to our brilliant Chancellor, That not too “liberal” party. Then Russell will despatches write, And bark at States he dares not bite: His every movement causes fright To the Chief of the Liberal Party. “Non-intervention” is his plan. And yet he’ll meddle where he can; But nobody minds the little man, Except perhaps poor, weak Japan, And he’ll bully Prussia about the Danes, And get a snubbing for his pains— Till not a rag of respect remains To the Chief of the Liberal Party! Meddling, peddling everywhere— Intervene and interfere— Oh! what a Foreign Minister Has the Chief of the Liberal Party! But now the Whigs are in retreat— At every poll they lose a seat— So bid “good-bye” to Downing Street, Oh, Chief of the Liberal Party! The bench you fill, you soon shall face,— Like your own jokes, be out of place! And a better man your post shall grace— The country’s fav’rite in the race;— So clear the course for the Derby-day Tories gather in strong array! And Whigs prepare to clear the way For the great Conservative Party! Gladstone, Russell, Grey & Co., Nobody mourns your overthrow— Your time is come—so out you go With the Chief of the Liberal Party! E. J. Goodman, 1864.

Sign the Bill Stamp, Sign. (A Lay of the Downy One.) Air.—“Dance, the Boatman, Dance.” I lead a very merry and a rollicking life, Each passing day with fun is rife, I’ve hunters, I’ve a yacht, I’ve an Opera box, And this is how I steer clear of rocks. Sign the Bill Stamp, sign, Sign the Bill Stamp, sign. You may dance all night, ’neath the gay gas light, If you only do a bill in the morning. Heigho! I’m the regular doo, Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U. I’m Director of ten railways, and a tip-top swell, My villa’s at Richmond, my Club in Pall Mall. I laugh at petty larcenies, and never cut my stick, For this is the way we do the trick. Sign the Bill Stamp, sign, Sign the Bill Stamp, sign. You may revel all night, and yet feel all right, If you only do a bill in the morning. Then heigho! for the regular doo, Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U. The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.

Gentle Zitella, whither away? Love’s ritornella, list while I play. No, I have linger’d too long on my road,— Night is advancing, the Brigand’s abroad, * * * * *

Real Havannah. Real Havannah! precious cigar! Gentle as manna, bright as a star; Pleasant at fire-side, cheery on road, Best of all perfumes at home or abroad: Real Havannah! Puff away care— Blow my misfortunes Into thin air. Real Havannah! O who would dare, Meerschaum or hookah with thee compare? When thy bright tip any mortal may see, Thou art his choice, and a smoker is he: Real Havannah, &c. Real Havannah! primest of stuff, Sell me no humbug, vender of snuff; Think not on me you can cut any jokes, ’Tis Toper Thomas himself who now smokes: Real Havannah, &c.

“You are going far away, far away from poor Jeannette, There’s no one left to love me now, and you, perhaps, may forget. With your gun upon your shoulder, and your bayonet by your side, You’ll be courting some fair lady, and making her your bride.” * * * * *

The Lay of the Creditor. You are going far away, far away from all your Debts, There’s no one left to pay me now, for you have no assets, My bill it will be with you, wherever you may go; Can you look into my ledger, and deny me what you owe? When you wear the light moustache, and the vest of brilliant blue, I fear that you’ll forget then all about my I. O. U. With the reins between your fingers, and a danseuse by your side, You’ll spend your uncle’s legacy, and all your duns deride. Oh, were I Lord John Russell, or still better Robert Peel, I would pass a stringent measure that would make you debtors feel; I would put a stop to swindling, or at least would find a way That the man who had the goods should be the only one to pay. The Puppet Show, April 1, 1848. In the same paper there was another parody relating to the Company of French actors, whose appearance at Drury Lane Theatre led to some disgraceful disturbances on the part of the “gents” of the period. A Monte Christo Ballad. You are going to the play, if an order you can get, And Monte Christo you’re to see; so mind you don’t forget To take two days’ provisions, and remember ere you go, That I want some cash to “keep the house” till you come back, dear Joe. When you’re sitting in the pit, and when “part the first” is o’er, You’ll be voting Monsieur Dumas a most terrific bore; With your head upon your hand, and your hand upon your knee, You will long to be at home again at Kensington with me. When the playhouse doors are opened, you’ll be madly rushing on, Never thinking if they squash you, that your only chance is gone; For your hard eggs will be broken, and your brandy bottle cracked, And you’ll faint from thirst and hunger in the pit so densely packed. Oh! if I were Lord Chamherlain, or, better still, the Queen, At Drury Lane, I’d take good care, no Frenchmen should be seen. If they choose to bring out pieces which it took two nights to play, They should keep such stuff for Paris, and from London stop away.