WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 11)

The Christmas Pudding. If you wish to make a pudding in which everyone delights, Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites; Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine, And shred and chop some suet particularly fine; Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried, 218 A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside; Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour, And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour; Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot, Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot; But though I don’t know which of these two methods I should praise, I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs. Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome, I’d have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home; And as for other puddings whatever they might be, Why, those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me. Punch.

Song by Baron Albert Grant. Ten Joint Stock Companies, none of which were mine, One got into Chancery, and then there were Nine! Nine Joint Stock Companies, all with prospects great, One never paid at all, then there were Eight! Eight Joint Stock Companies, one a mine in Devon, The sea got into that, and then there were Seven! Seven Joint Stock Companies, all their Boards played tricks; One couldn’t pay its rent, and then there were Six! Six Joint Stock Companies, scarcely kept alive, One wound up amicably, and then there were Five! Five Joint Stock Companies, dividends long o’er, A liquidator bled one, and then there were Four! Four Joint Stock Companies, as rotten as could be, One ruined scores of folk, and then there were Three! Three Joint Stock Companies, having naught to do, A small panic killed one, and then there were Two! Two Joint Stock Companies, their course well-nigh run, One was tried as a fraud, and then there was One! One Joint Stock Company, just kept on for fun, The Chairman bolted with the books, and then there was None! From Finis.

Ten little barmaids, sitting in a line; One answer’d saucily, and then there were nine. Nine little barmaids, trying to be great; One look’d too pompously, and then there were eight. Eight little barmaids—one came from Devon— Not quite genteel enough—and then there were seven— Seven little barmaids—one was up to tricks, Glancing at the gentlemen-and then there were six. Six little barmaids, eager all to strive; One fell to quarrelling, and then there were five. Five little barmaids, counting up their store; One show’d her dirty hands, and then there were four. Four little barmaids evidenced their glee— One not “respectably”—and then there were three. Three little barmaids said it was “a do;” One said it loudly—and then there were two. Two little barmaids wish’d it all was done; One yawn’d too plainly, and then there was one. One little barmaid thought it “famous fun;” She took the prizes—and then there were none. Judy.

The Six Royal Persons. Six royal persons in the realm alive, One went to India, and then there were five. Five royal persons, finding town a bore, One went to Russia, and then there were four. Four royal persons—pleasant sight to see— One went to Gibraltar, and then there were three. Three royal persons—nothing else to do— One went to Nice for health, and then there were two. Two royal persons, who together run, Thus the second doesn’t count, and so there was one. One royal person—Session not yet done!— She went to Germany, and then there were none! Reynolds’ Newspaper. April 16, 1876.

The Ten High Commissioners. (A Song of the Conference.) Ten High Commissioners in council did combine; But Salisbury gave up at last, and then there were but nine. Nine High Commissioners no longer would debate; For next Ignatieff went off, and so there were but eight. Eight High Commissioners tried Turkish rule to leaven Count Corti he went back to Rome, and then there were but seven. Seven High Commissioners were just in the same fix, Till Count Calice started off—reducing them to six. Six High Commissioners would fain see Turkey thrive, But Werther back to Bismarck went, and then there were but five. Five High Commissioners found they could do no more, And so Count Zichy he went home, and left there only four. Four High Commissioners still failed their way to see; And even Elliott gave in—and so there were but three. Three High Commissioners, of course, could nothing do; And Chaudordy packed off to France, and left there only two. Two High Commissioners found talking sorry fun; So Bourgoing he quitted too; and then there was but one. A Turk was he, who winked his eye, as one who is elate; And, chuckling much, “Aha,” he said; “Bismillah! God is great!” Judy. February 7, 1877.

The Irish Jurymen. Twelve Irish Jurymen trying Prisoners seven, One had a frightened wife, and then there were eleven! Eleven Irish Jurymen consulting up in a pen, 219 One of them had oxen got, which left but only ten! Ten Irish Jurymen brought there by a fine, One dreaded “Boycotting,” then there were but nine! Nine Irish Jurymen listening there in state, One got a threatening note, and then there were but eight! Eight Irish Jurymen not without some leaven, One had had a Landlord, then there were but seven! Seven Irish Jurymen sitting in a fix, One feared the highway shots, and then there were but six! Six Irish Jurymen in the legal hive, One knew a murderer, then there were but five! Five Irish Jurymen springing from the poor, One of them half-witted, leaving only four! Four Irish Jurymen wishing to be “fhree,” One spouted treason, and then there were but three! Three Irish Jurymen softly whispering “Pooh!” One backed out of it, and then there were but two! Two Irish Jurymen loving not the fun, Tossed up a half-penny, then there was but one! One Irish Juryman a verdict had to give, Nobly said “Not Guilty,” and was allowed to live! Punch. January 22, 1881.

Ten Thousand Soldiers. Ten thousand soldiers, too many in the line; We’ll cut off a thousand, then there’ll be nine. Nine thousand soldiers, a number far too great, The country can’t afford them, let’s make it eight. Chorus. 10,000, 9,000, 8,000, 7,000, 6,000 soldier boys, 5,000, 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, 1,000 soldier boys. Eight thousand soldiers to guard us all, good heaven! Can’t we do with fewer men, and show up only seven? Seven thousand soldiers to help us in a fix, Let’s reduce a little more, and bring them down to six. Six thousand soldiers! as I am here alive, I see no necessity for having more than five. Five thousand soldiers, when there ain’t a war! The Reserve is ten thousand, we can’t want more than four. Four thousand soldiers—between you and me, Don’t you think we’d be quite safe if we had only three? Three thousand soldiers—between me and you, I haven’t got rifles enough for more than two. Two thousand soldiers shooting with a gun, I like doing things by halves, and half of two is one. One thousand soldiers wouldn’t be much fun, Let’s sweep them all away, then there’ll be none. When there’s no more soldiers there’ll be no more strife, We shall live a little time a peaceful sort of life, Till the Opposition come and kick us through the door, Then they’ll raise an army of a hundred thousand more. 10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 soldiers more, 60,000, 70,000, 80,000, 90,000, 100,000 soldiers more! St. James’s Gazette. June 29, 1881.

Small by Degrees. Ten British Ironclads, floating on the brine: Reed[69] went out of office, and then there were Nine! Nine British Ironclads to defend the State: Reed cocked his eye at them, and then there were Eight! Eight British Ironclads lying safe in haven: Reed raked ’em fore and aft, and then there were Seven! Seven British Ironclads, sound from keel to sticks: Reed wrote a pamphlet, and then there were Six! Six British Ironclads—hooray! Jack’s alive! Reed spoke in Parliament, and then there were Five! Five British Ironclads cruising round the Nore: Reed made a platform speech, and then there were Four! Four British Ironclads ruling of the Sea: Reed wrote unto the Times, and then there were Three! Three British Ironclads buffeting the blue: Reed had dyspepsia, and then there were Two! Two British Ironclads, big in plate and gun: Reed was snubbed by Brassey, and then there was One! Oh, make him Chief Constructor once again, whate’er befall; Or soon of British Ironclads we shall have—none at all! Punch. April 25, 1885.

Send a Remittance from Home. (Parody on “Write me a Letter from Home.”) Wretched I sit here and cry, Poorer than I’ve been for years, Not a bad ha’p’ny have I, Nothing but sorrows and tears. Poor trust, at the cook-shop, is dead, My creditors bully and foam, Oh! how’s a poor man to be fed, Without a remittance from home. Post Office Orders or stamps, What shall I do till they come? Oh! go, wake the old people up, To send a remittance from home. I hope that they’ll send a good lot; The last time they wrote to me here, A blessing was all that I got From father and mother so dear. They hoped I’d be honest and true, And ne’er in extravagance roam, But what’s a poor devil to do Without a remittance from home? Post Office Orders or stamps, &c. I have not the money for stamps, So when I write home ev’ry day, They think me the worst of young scamps, For twopence each time they’ve to pay. My best suit is sold, I possess But these clothes, one sock, and a comb, And they, too, will vanish unless They send a remittance from home. Post Office Orders or stamps, &c. My candles are burnt, and my coals Are out, but my taxes are in, And as for my boots, poor old souls! Like me, they’ve grown terribly thin. Unless money comes I shall die, And, chang’d to a goblin or gnome, Shall haunt the old people, and cry, “How ’bout that remittance from home?” Post Office Orders or stamps. &c. Anonymous.

Post me a Parcel from Home. Lonely I sit here and long, Charging the air with my sighs; Whence comes a yearning so strong? Fawcett, you know I surmise. The products of garden and lea Now haunt me wherever I roam, Oh! tell the old people from me To post me a parcel from home. Have they forgotten my taste, Or do they expect me to come? At any rate bid them with haste To post me a parcel from home. I think of the butter and cream— I’ve “boshed” it for many a year— Of the plums and the apples I dream, Why shouldn’t they comfort me here? Some paper and string, don’t you see, Can now bring me whiffs of the loam, So do tell my people from me To post me a parcel from home. Have they forgotten, &c.

A Darwinian Ballad. Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old, What a pleasant race they were, And it seems most true that I and you Are derived from an apish pair. They all had nails, and some had tails And some—no “accounts in arrear,” They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the—these Of course I will not mention here. They slept in a wood, or wherever they could, For they didn’t know how to make beds They hadn’t got huts, they dined upon nuts, Which they cracked upon each other’s heads. They hadn’t much scope, for a comb, brush or soap, Or towels, or kettle or fire. They had no coats nor capes, for ne’er did these apes Invent what they didn’t require. The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon, Nor made any boots for his toes, Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief, For no ape thought much of his nose; They had cold collations, they ate poor relations: Provided for thus, by-the-bye. No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang— He couldn’t, and so didn’t try. From these though descended our manners are mended, Though still we can grin and backbite! We cut up each other, be he friend or brother, And tales are the fashion—at night. This origination is all speculation— We gamble in various shapes; So Mr. Darwin may speculate in Our ancestors having been apes. Anonymous.

Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I always find in the Book of Life Some lessons I have to learn. I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will Over and over again. * * * * * The path that has once been trod Is never so rough to the feet; And the lesson we once have learned Is never so hard to repeat. Though sorrowful tears may fall, And the heart to its depth be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for Heaven.

Over and Over Again. (As Parodied by Miss Seventeen.) Over and over again, No matter whom I may send, They always find in the old brown box Some stockings for me to mend. I must put up my fancy crocheting, I must go for that horrid old yarn, And set to work at it, smiling, Though I hate it—learning to darn. I never can measure the hole In even the tiniest stocking, Nor number the stitches giving way Of the ornamental clocking; But the hole must somehow be darned, And the clocking must be replaced, And done, too, in such a way That the stocking be not defaced. Over and over again The yarn through the needle goes, And over and over again I mend the heels and the toes; Once doing will not suffice, And the doing seems, sometimes, in vain When, after mending it twice and thrice, A stocking needs mending again. But though socks that have once been darned Are never so soft to the feet, And, mending, if twenty times done, Is just as hard to repeat; While sorrowful tears may fall As my heart grows weary with strife; I must forget all and darn, Would I ever be somebody’s wife. Anonymous.

Men say that I’m a humourist, and I can tell them why: Upon the ways of life I look with keen observant eye. So looked three centuries ago old England’s wondrous Will, Whose magic pen immortal made the precincts of Gad’s Hill, For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys, Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name. Not to be poet I pretend—there are but two or three: And dear old Thackeray’s caustic touch is not the thing for me. 221 I could have sketched in modern prose with tolerable skill, The wild young Prince, and reckless Poins, and Falstaff on Gad’s Hill, For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys, Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name. Ay, sweet Jack Falstaff! Verily, his humour was sublime; I introduce my Pickwick, the Falstaff of the time: Imagine that rare hero engaging with a will, A mob of men in buckram by moonlight on Gad’s Hill! For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys, Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name. All round the year men read me: and faith! I mean to write, So long as these clear eyes of mine are filled with living light, So long as oddities abound, and laughter lingers still, So long as there is magic in the memory of Gad’s Hill. For Gad’s Hill Charlie is my name, my boys, Gad’s Hill Charlie[70] is my name. Echoes from the Clubs. September 25, 1867.

Oh! my love stood under the walnut tree, Over the garden wall, She whispered and said she’d be true to me, Over the garden wall. She’d beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair, She was not very tall, so she stood on a chair, And many a time have I kissed her there, Over the garden wall. Chorus—Over the garden wall The sweetest girl of all. There never was yet, such eyes of jet, And you may bet, I’ll never forget, The night our lips in kisses met, Over the garden wall. * * * * *

Over the Handles. One day I was riding my wheel so free, Towards the garden wall; A charmer was standing and looking at me, From over the garden wall, Her face was fair, So saucy her air I was rattled completely, And right then and there I took a bad header, And flew through the air Over the garden wall. Chorus—Over the garden wall, a terrible, terrible fall; I never did yet a header get That filled my soul with such regret, As the time I struck, head-first in the wet, Over the garden wall. I picked myself up and said, “How do you do?” Over the garden wall. She said, “I’m certainly better than you,” Over the garden wall; “But much I should like, To know why you strike, And get so hot, and muddy, and dusty like, And take such a header from off your bike,” Over the garden wall, &c. Chorus—Over the garden wall, &c. “My dear,” said I, “I can surely explain,” Over the garden wall; “The case in a moment, if I may remain,” Over the garden wall; “Your glance was so shy, I wished to be nigh, So over the handles I went with a fly! But now I’ll beware of a saucy black eye,” Over the garden wall. The Wheeling Annual. 1885.

Over the Garden Wall. Willie M’Cann one midsummer night, Over the garden wall; Crept to greet his Julia bright, Over the garden wall. The daisies gemm’d the tender grass, And flowers enshrin’d the lovely lass, Said Willie, “the happiest hours I pass, Over the garden wall.” “Over the garden wall—the sweetest time of all! I’m happy to come, delighted to stay, Each hour I wish as long as a day; And sorry I am to wander away Over the garden wall.” The hours flew by and an old man peer’d Over the garden wall; Then stealthily into the house he steer’d, Over the garden wall, But soon returned with a big thick stick, And caught poor Willie a terrible lick, That made him scramble excessively quick Over the garden wall. Over the garden wall—the sweetest time of all! He was happy to come, delighted to stay, But somehow that night I’m sorry to say, He hurried extremely in getting away Over the garden wall. F. L. Richardson.

Popular Irish Chorus. (As sung in April, 1887.) Then down with the Castle wall! Home Rule once for all! On Gladstone yet Our hearts are set And you may bet He’ll never forget How the wishes of Ireland must be met. Down with the Castle wall.

Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry. Said the old Obadiah, to the young Obadiah, Well, that’s queer, Obadiah, so am I. So am I. 222 But the two Obadiahs had between them not a brown, And all they sought to borrow from responded with a frown. You must pay us what you owe before we lend you what you need, Said the old Obadiah “that be d——d.” * * * * *

The Two Tory Obadiahs.[71] Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “It’s my duty, Tory Leader, to complain.” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “What, again, Tory Leader? what again? Of course, you ought by this time to know what you’re about; But in thus of me complaining I myself have not a doubt That you’ll find your indignation—as you’ve oft before found out— Is in vain, Tory Leader, is in vain!” Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “But think, Tory Leader, what you said!” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “If my speech, Tory Leader, you have read, You will know that I objected at more robbery to wink, Or to let more public money in the City quagmire sink; That, in short, I told the ‘Bumbles’ just exactly what I think— So its not a bit of use to shake your head!” Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “But I must and I will, I say, protest! For of all our trusted friends, who work hard for Tory ends, Why the City Corporation is the best! And yet you go and tell it that it sadly needs reform; You denounce the Board of Works, too, in a manner very warm. Let me tell you that already your mad speech has roused a storm!” Said the Young Tory Leader, “Bah! you jest!” Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader, “Jesting matter, Tory Leader, this is none!” Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader, “Do have done, Tory Leader, do have done! For your talk at first amused me, but it now begins to bore, So let me plainly tell you that I wish to hear no more; Or you’ll make me put my foot down, as I’ve put it down before, When, as you will not forget, I’ve always won!” * * * * * (Five verses omitted.) Truth. November 25, 1886.

Duet. The Tory Obadiah, by Mr. Marriott, M.P. The Union Obadiah, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P. Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “We have both, Obadiah, turned our coats!” Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah, “That, our ’cuteness, Obadiah, but denotes!” For we turned them to some purpose; for example, in my case, Did I not receive, most promptly, from the Tories a good place? Come, my worthy fellow-ratter, let us cordially embrace!” Said the Union Obadiah, “Wait a bit!” Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah, “But surely, Obadiah, I am right?” Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “No, not quite, Obadiah; no, not quite! It is true that when you ‘ratted’—by the way, I hate that word— A by-no-means ill-paid office on you promptly was conferred But that I have taken office, as a fact, I have not heard.” Said the Tory Obadiah, “But you might!” Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah, “Self-respect, Obadiah, very strong, Would compel me any offer from the Tories, Obadiah, To reject, Obadiah, as most wrong!” The Tory Obadiah merely winked with his left eye, And the Union Obadiah, with one glance at his ally, Fell back laughing in his chair so that he’d scarcely strength to cry, “Go along, Obadiah, go along!” Truth, Christmas Number. 1886.

Our Dear Old Church of England. (Genuine Version.) Our dear old Church of England, Let’s rally round you now, Though there’s not the least occasion For kicking up a row: You know you’re safe as ever, And watched with loving eye, But Dizzy (who’s so clever) Suggests a little Cry. So, dear Old Church of England, (And none can tell you cheap) We’ll make your name a war-cry, For those who’d office keep. Declare to win elections, Old Mother Church so dear, With these, our crack selections, Yourself, and Gold, and Beer. Shirley Brooks, 1868.

Song of the Church Union. (Air—“And shall Trelawney Die?”) And shall they strike at Ritual rites? Shall Tooth in durance lie? Then fourteen thousand Union Men Will know the reason why! For Church and conscience James’s days Saw Bishop’s sev’n confined; But Cornwall’s sons found means and ways, To change the royal mind. So we’ll resist Tait, Cairns, and Pen, And Law, in them, defy,— We, fourteen thousand Union men, And not men to say die. 223 Matters of moment still we’ll make, Of chasuble and stole; With Tooth, in teeth of Law, we’ll take The Mass of Rome for goal. While we scorn Tait and Cairns and Pen, And power of Law defy,— In Union’s name Disunion Men, Though with no reason why. Our Roman candles high shall flare, On Romish altar-plate, And lace and flowers and frontals fair, While Mass we celebrate. So using tooth and tongue and pen The Law Courts to defy, We fourteen thousand Union Men Will hang each other by! We’ll under-creep or over-leap All Acts our course that bar; Obedience to our Bishops keep, But while with us they are, And till we stump Tait, Bench, and Pen, Against the three we’ll cry: If Law dares thwart Church-Union Men, Shall they be bound thereby? Punch. February 3, 1877.

Ex-Parliamentary. (An Imaginary Dialogue that might be True) Gladstone.—“Our party’s doing very well, Amending ev’ry bad law, I’ve silenced the O’Donnell’s yell, And now I’ll shut up Bradlaugh. My copious flow of words each night Would any good-sized pan fill; And what I say is always right——” “You think it is,” says Granville. Granville.—“I fear we’ve not done much as yet, And daily I’m affrighted That one of us may p’rhaps forget We all should be united. Against our party house of glass That Harcourt’s thrown a bad stone. I hope no damage, but——” “Alas! He’s smashed a pane,” says Gladstone. “A penny on the Income Tax Who’s mean enough to grudge it, When duties they on malt relax? Indeed, a glorious Budget! And ev’ry night my words fall fast, Like hammer blows on anvil, While wond’ring hearers gape aghast—” “They do indeed,” says Granville. “Yet somehow certain words you speak Require explanation; And when their Premier eats the leek It don’t much please the nation. You may not like our old Whig ways, But we don’t like your Rad’s tone, Nor can we bear your talking craze—” “You’ll have to, though,” says Gladstone. Judy. June 23, 1880.

Song.—Miss Mary Anderson. I am the pink of properness, and wheresoe’er I roam I carry the accessories to make a happy home. I bear about an old armchair, the very best of mothers A step-papa, a cousin Jane, a time-piece and two brothers. Chorus.—Oh! we’re a happy familee, From Mary down to Jo, Step-pa, mother, sister, brother, I, and cousin Flo; We have a very cosy hearth Which scandals never mar, We’re a devoted familee We are! we are! we are! I always hurry home to them when once the curtain’s down, ’Twould kill me were mamma to weep or step-dada to frown. My servants fully understand “No followers allowed,” And o’er my spotless domicile there rests no scandal cloud. Chorus.—For we’re a happy familee, &c. When interviewers visit me (I know not why they call), I rattle in my artless way, and tell my little all; How I work hard for mother dear, and teach my brother Jo. And how we spend our happy hours, and where to church we go. Chorus.—For we’re a happy familee, &c. Yet people dare to say that when a soap I recommend, It’s not because I merely wish the maker to befriend; And that when I am photographed (in somewhat scant attire), ’Tis not twelve copies for myself alone that I require. Chorus.—Yet we’re are a happy familee, &c. Truth, Christmas Number. 1884.

A Lay of the Law. The Crusted Old Bencher sings. We are a Corporation rich, with coffers filled with gold; Our aspirations high we pitch; we’re proud and close and old; We hold our honour very dear, our services likewise; But ’tis a thumping sum per year most fervently we prize! And so that we may get the more incessantly to waste, Those blocks law students took of yore, we’re pulling down in haste; And in their stead are running up palatial flats, wherein Rich snobs can pose as barristers and reputation win. Chorus (supported by all the performers).—To always take, our motto is, to give—we seldom can; For he who gives the least, of course, becomes the richest man; Ours is a strange morality, peculiar to the bar; We are a grasping family—we are! we are! we are! The Popular Common-Law Barrister sings. We never ask for any fees, oh! no, we’ve too much pride; But we’ve a clerk who always sees our briefs have cheques inside; Who duns attorneys when they shirk refreshers to renew— In short, does all the dirty work we’d rather die than do. 224 If any scandal should arise, quite safe is our fair fame; We just repudiate his acts, and he gets all the blame; But he is quite prepared for this, and knows his place ’twill cost If, through some squeamishness of his, a fee is ever lost. Chorus.—’Tis for this clerk, our strong right hand, we make our clients pay, He costs us not one penny-piece, his stipend they defray; So as you see, our trickiness is rather over par; We are a grasping family—we are! we are! we are! The Successful M.P.-Q.C. sings. We take more work than we can do, and know it at the time; But if a client’s case fall through, we don’t think that a crime! For though his all he may have lost by our insatiate greed, He cannot sue us for the cost, so what care we, indeed? Besides, when we’ve received more briefs than we can ever read, A surplus one enables us to do a kindly deed; For we choose some young barrister, whose chance of work is dim, And with a patronising nod, toss on the brief to him. Chorus.—Oh, yes; we take the widow’s mite, the orphan’s little store, And if a bigger fee come in, look at their briefs no more. Our carelessness their lot may blight, their life, their honour mar, But we’re a grasping family—we are! we are! we are! The Incapable Barrister with a Connection sings. We’re very jealous of our trade, and anxious to retain Monopoly’s ill-omened aid our rivals to restrain; We know solicitors are fit to plead in court their cause— Nay, as a rule, they’re better up than we are in the laws. But still to keep the barrier up protects all weaker men, For if there were free trade in briefs, why, where would they be then? So “Vive abuses old!” say we, and long live anything That extra guineas to our purse more easily will bring. Chorus.—So Vive th’ abuses of the past! Long live the good old days! Why should we try to alter what such thumping income pays? We’ll foster all the mystery that hangs about the Bar— We are a grasping family—we are! we are!! we are!!! Truth, Christmas Number. December 1882.

The Right Hon. Joseph Chamberlain, Loq. “I am the cleverest of men! In all that I essay, It is my rule on no account to second fiddle play. There’s scarce a talent or a gift to which I lay not claim, And “Chamberlain” has, thanks to me, become a famous name. I brook no interference with the plans which I propose; I’m dictatorial, to a fault, alike to friends and foes. Nor am I satisfied applause for my own acts to win— No! I demand the self-same praise for all my kith and kin. For we’re a clever family, From Arthur down to Dick; My Nephews, cousins, quite by dozens, And brother-in-law Ken-rick. So who dares question aught we say, Or our advance to bar? For we’re a clever family, We are! we are! we are! “The nation must be daft to doubt a word of what I say, Or think that Mr. Gladstone’s plan is equal to my way! Poor man! What use is it for him his played-out brains to tax, When all that Birmingham can give so notably he lacks? He was not born there, has not been its Alderman or Mayor, Nor tasted of those honours which our family still share. O, foolish Gladstone! to suppose that any chance he runs With me, the pride of Brummagem, and greatest of her sons! And head of such a family, &c. “And what can England be about to not at once agree To simply leave her welfare to my family and me? Why need she fear the rising storm will wreck or overwhelm? Does she forget her Chamberlains have hurried to the helm? Not Joseph only, for he’s called his brethren to his aid. Oh! silly, silly England, to be, in spite of this, afraid! For how can harm upon you come, or ill of any kind, When, for your sake, the Chamberlains have openly combined? For we’re a clever family, &c. “And do those Radicals believe, who dare to me condemn, That they can still exist without the Pride of Brummagem? Do they suppose their Caucus can throughout one session last If I withdraw the nerve and strength I gave it in the past? Can they in sooth imagine that, however they may strive, Their party possibly can hope my loss to long survive? ’Twould seem they can, and yet—no! no! it surely cannot be; They must have learned the value of my family and me. For we’re a clever family, &c. “And yet how strange it is that though I’ve turned against my chief, He still exists—such stubbornness is well-nigh past belief; I’ve told him he must reckon with my family and me, And yet he has not bowed as yet, not even on one knee. I’ve warned him that he must my wrath most certainly expect, And yet he positively dares to hold his head erect; He must be mad, yes, very mad, to think that thus he can Defy not me, the chief alone, but Caine and all my clan! For we’re a clever family, &c. “And yet, as days and weeks go by, ’twould seem, I must confess, That if my influence grows at all it only grows much less. The Tories who two months ago knelt humbly at my feet, Ignore the man who brought about the Government’s defeat; The Whigs who warmly welcomed me as their most dear ally, Already seem inclined to be reserved with me and shy. In short, ’midst friends and foes alike a tendency I see To underrate most shamefully my kith and kin and me. Though we’re a clever family, &c. “’Tis vain for me a caucus new to start, and it to man With brothers and with relatives, all members of my clan, If Radicals continue to ignore that caucus new, And further dare my policy to laugh at and pooh-pooh; In vain my family and I display our talents thus, If the ungrateful State declares ’twill not be saved by us; And ’tis in vain, too, that my foes I threaten and asperse, When they are clearly for my threats in no wise aught the worse. Though we’re a clever family, &c. 225 “And yet I scarce can bring myself to think I’ve had my day, And ne’er again shall have the power a Ministry to slay. Can it, indeed, have come to pass that Birmingham’s chief pride Is now a pow’rless leader who is feared by neither side? Can it, indeed, be true that I, spite all my brethren’s aid, Shall see that Statesman triumph who so lately I betrayed, And, hardest blow of all, live on to but too surely find That England is a match for all us Chamberlains combined? Though we’re a clever family, From Arthur down to Dick, With kith and kin, both stout and thin, And brother-in-law Ken-rick. But to the last, spite all that’s past, This fact we’ll spread afar, We are a clever family! We are! we ARE!! we ARE!!!” Truth. August 5, 1886.

The Political Happy Familee. We are a Happy Familee, And never, I engage, Was known such peace and unity As flourish in our cage! For we are all true Unionists, And it is good to see With what delight we all unite, How sweetly we agree! Chorus—For we’re a Happy Familee, From Peter to John B.! From Joseph’s brothers, and sundry others, To Hartington and me! We are devoted, one and all, And never snap nor spar, For we’re a Happy Familee, We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!! John Bright and Randolph Churchill make A truly loving pair, And gushing Goschen has no notion Which Rylands does not share; Collings and Caine would moan with pain To be from Chaplin parted; And Hartington, relieved of James Would be quite broken-hearted! Chorus—For we’re a Union Familee, Whose hearts with fondness glow; Peter and Otto ’ve but one motto, And so have John and Joe. No thought of rupture troubles us, No split, no party jar, For we’re a Happy Familee, We are! We ARE!! We ARE!!! Truth Christmas Number. December, 1886.

Wait till the Clouds Roll by. Popular Premier Pipes to a Popular Air. Willy, my own Grand Old One, Afar from the House you be, Out in the Hawarden woodlands, Under the still home tree. Doubtless Town misses you, my William. Winds blow and storms are raging high; Willy, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by! Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy, Wait till the clouds roll by; Willie, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by! * * * * * (Two verses omitted.) Willy, here’s time for thinking. Salisbury’s pack is hushed; But in affairs of empire, Have you been fogged—or rushed? Hodge has his boon, and is contented, But foreign foes seem in full cry. Willy look sharp, but take it coolly; Wait till the clouds roll by! Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by! Willy, canards are flying,— Cool skill will bring them down. But, when the eagles gather, Danger perchance may frown; Give it your careful thought, my William, Don’t be alarmed,—yet mind your eye! But when the bogey-mongers croak, man, Wait till the clouds roll by! Chorus—Wait till the clouds roll by, Willy, Wait till the clouds roll by; Willy, my own Grand Old One, Wait till the clouds roll by! Punch. January 24, 1885.

The Children’s Voices. I hear the children’s voices Shouting at their play, And the tears don’t rise unbidden, For I know well what they say. They use strange words, and call each other Names that are forbid, And their sole idea of repartee Is “Didn’t!” “Yaas! ye did!” Chorus—Sweet children’s voices haunt me night and day, And how I wish those children’s voices far, far away. I hear the children’s voices Singing in the street, And I do not like their singing, For its neither low nor sweet. They are not singing quite in tune, The pitch is far too high, And I do not like the tune they sing, For its “Wait till the clouds roll by.” Chorus. I hear the children’s voices, Behind my cottage door, And I think I never heard them So soft or low before. I hear a gentle tapping, I rush out in the rain, And I hear their little voices shouting “Hullo! sold again!” Chorus. 226 I hear the children’s voices, Murmuring in the lane, As I saunter ’neath the elm trees, To meet my pretty Jane. We fondly sit together, That little lass and I, And they softly creep behind us both And loudly call out “Hi!” Chorus. Written and composed by Corney Grain. Published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London. The Volunteer’s Song. (Air.—“I am a Simple Muleteer.”) I am a Rifle Volunteer, And quite particular to rules; Nor march, nor drill, howe’er severe, My military ardour cools. I arm but in my country’s cause, To keep her from the Eagle’s claws; If they attempt a swoop to make, Crack, crack! my course is clear; They’ll find they’ve made a slight mistake— I am a Volunteer! * * * * * Punch. July 21, 1860.

Oh! give me but my Arab steed, My shield and falchion bright, And I will to the battle speed, To save him in the fight. His noble crest I’ll boldly wave, And gird his scarf around; But I must to the field repair, For hark! the trumpets sound. Oh! with my Arab steed I’ll go, To brave the embattled plain, Where warriors brave their valour show, And drain each noble vein. His brow that oft the battle braves With fadeless laurels crown’d, Shall guide me where his falchion waves, But hark! the trumpets sound.

Oh! Give Me but my Donkey, Joe. Oh! give me but my donkey, Joe, His panniers fixed on tight; And I will to my doxie go, And do the thing what’s right! Her bran new wipe I’ll proudly wear, And pass the punch around, But I must to my crib repair— For, hark! the cleavers sound. Oh! with my donkey I will go, And greens and lettuce cry, While my doxie patters with the foe, I’ll toddle on the sly. Their chaffing without fear she braves— Her head with carrots crowned, Shall guide me where her hand she waves— But hark! the cleavers sound. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Coachman’s Lament. (Air—“Oh! give me but my Arab steed.”) Farewell my ribbons, and, alack! Farewell my tidy drag; Mail-coachmen now have got the sack, And engineers the bag. My heart and whip alike are broke— I’ve lost my varmint team, That used to cut away like smoke, But couldn’t go like steam. It is, indeed, a bitter cup, Thus to be sent to pot; My bosom boils at boiling up, A gallop or a trot. My very brain with fury’s racked, That railways are the rage; I’m sure you’ll never find them act, Like our old English stage. A man whose passion’s crost, is sore, Then pray excuse my pet; I ne’er was overturn’d before, But now am quite upset.

Just Before the Wedding, Mother. Parody on “Just before the Battle, Mother.” Just before the wedding, mother, what a lot there is to do, Seeing after wreaths and dresses, and the wedding favors, too; Bridesmaids six, around one crying, spoiling pretty bonnets gay, Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day. Farewell, mother, we must sever, We must sever, mother, Cries the bride in tones of pain; But oh! you’ll come and see us, mother, You will come and see us, When we’re back in town again. Just before proposing, mother, oh! how nervous young men are, Even after they’re accepted, and referred to dear papa. For the settlements and breakfast, dear papa has got to pay, And says, “Oh! what a comfort, mother; weddings don’t come every day.” Just before the breakfast, mother, no one knows what to be at, But when guests are round the table, they are more at home at that; Billious wedding-cake and speeches—save me from such speeches, pray— Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day. 227 Just before departing, mother, and the carriage is outside, Aunts and uncles, brothers, sisters, tearfully caress the bride; Every slipper in the household after them is thrown away, Oh! what a comfort ’tis, dear mother, weddings don’t come every day. Just before the christening, mother, such a fuss you never saw, When the household is commanded by “dear mamma-in-law.” “Pretty Poppet,” cry the ladies; “happy father,” people say. Ah well! he has this consolation, christenings don’t come every day. Dearest mother, did you ever—no, I never, mother, See so fine a child before; You may take the glove off, mother, From the knocker on that door! The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. May 28, 1887.

Just after the Wedding, Mother. Parody on “Just after the Battle, Mother.” Still upon my recent marriage I am thinking, Mother dear; But the fatal step I’ve taken cannot now be help’d, ’tis clear; She was such a duck, I told her that to eat her I’d be glad, And now, between ourselves, dear Mother, don’t I only wish I had. Mother dear, your boy is married; all regret is now in vain; But oh, how gladly would I, Mother, be a bachelor again. Oh, those callers in were fearful, Jones, and Robinson, and Brown, Shower’d in congratulations, when we first returned to town. All my darling wife’s relations came to breakfast, sup, and dine, And oh! what appetites, dear Mother, oh! the fearful waste of wine. Mother, dear, &c. Oh! our dreadful cook and housemaid, oh! that boy we did engage, In the hist’ry of our servants, gladly I’d blot out that page; All our china he demolish’d, not a glass upon the shelves; And oh! the only spoons remaining are our two unlucky selves. Mother, dear, &c. Sweet she look’d in gipsy bonnets blushing, like a damask rose, Little did I think that angels wanted such a lot of clothes; Wives, of course, are very charming, but be careful if you can, And when you chose one take a warning by a henpeck’d married man. Mother, dear, &c.

It’s of Three Jovial Statesmen, and a-stumping they did go; And they spouted and they flouted, and they blew their horns also. Look ye there! And one said “Mind your eye, Staff, there’s Reaction in the wind, And soon, by hook or crook, we a winning cry shall find.” Look ye there! They spouted and they flouted, and the first thing they did find, Was a tattered scare-crow-mummy-thing, which seemed much to their mind. Look ye there! One said it was a scare-crow, but another he said “Nay; It’s the real farmer’s friend, Fair Trade, and I think this cry will pay.” Look ye there! They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a swelling, swaggering Bogey, its arms waving in the wind. Look ye there! One said it was a Bogey, but another he said, “Nay; It’s our dear old Jingo-Fi-Fo-Fum, not yet quite past away.” Look ye there! They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a Bull who browsed at leisure, and seemed easy in his mind. Look ye there! One said ’twas brave John Bull himself, another he said “Nay; It’s just a Boer-whipt Jackass, without even pluck to bray.” Look ye there! They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find Was a fat pig grunting in a stye, with anger almost blind. Look ye there! One said it was a fat pig, but another he said “Nay; It’s just a worthy Alderman who fears Reform’s black day.” Look ye there! They spouted and they flouted, and the next thing they did find, Was two old Patriots trying to bring Pat to his right mind. Look ye there! One said they were two Patriots, but another he said, “Nay; They’re just two ranting Demagogues. We’re sold! let’s come away.” Look ye there! So they spouted and they flouted, till the setting of the sun; And they hadn’t got a cry at last, when their stumping-course was run. Look ye there! Then each unto the other said, “This stumping doesn’t pay; But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.” Look ye there! Punch. November 5, 1881.

It’s of three Jovial Huntsmen, an’ a-hunting they did go; 228 And they hunted, an’ they hollo’d, and they blew their horns also. Look ye there! And one said, “Mind your eyes, and keep your noses right i’ the wind, And in Leeds or in Midlothian some game we’re bound to find.” Look ye there! They hunted and they hollo’d, and the first thing they did find Was that a previous huntsman little game had left behind. Look ye there! One said there was a chance for them, but another he said “Nay; In these North Country moorlands we have been and lost our way.” Look ye there! * * * * * They hunted and they hollo’d, and the last thing they did find Was a Bull, safe in a Liberal fold, and that they left behind. Look ye there! One said he was John Bull still, but another, he said “Nay; He’s no better than a jackass since he learned the Radical bray.” Look ye there! So they hunted and they hollo’d till their holiday course was ran, And they’d nought to bring away at last when their hunting time was done. Look ye there! Then one unto the others said, “This hunting does not pay; But we’ve pounded up and down a bit, and had a rattling day.” Look ye there! Punch. October 18, 1884.

Beautiful Snow. (With a Drift) Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow (This is a parody, please you to know; Over and over again you may meet Parodies writ on this poem so sweet; Rhyming, chiming, skipping along Comical bards think they do nothing wrong; Striving to follow what others have done, One to the number may keep up the fun). Beautiful snow, so gently you scud, Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud. Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! Here’s a fine mess you have left us below; Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes; Cheekily landing full pert on our nose; Jinking, slinking, ever you try ’Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye; Gamins await us at every new street, Watching us carefully, guiding our feet, Joking, mocking, ready to throw A hard compressed ball of this beautiful snow. Anonymous.

O, the snow! the beautiful snow! Feathering down to the ground below. Snow on the pavement and snow on the street, Snow on the boots of the people you meet. Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!—no! Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow; Nothing to go by and nowhere to go, All through the fall of the beautiful snow. O, the slush! the ineffable slush! Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush, Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet, Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat. Into town—into country—wherever you rush Nothing to-day but ineffable slush: Bedraggled merino and velvet and plush Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush. The Globe. January 28, 1886.

Where the Wet Comes In. (Parody of “When the Tide Comes In.”) He had a dull and beery look, And I was ill at ease, When from the kitchen came the cook: “The plumber, if you please.” His very first request of me Was for a “drop o’ gin;” And then he said, “I’ll quickly see Where the wet comes in.” He hammered there for many hours, At what I couldn’t guess, And broke some pots of winter flowers, Making an awful mess; Then said “he’d mended every crack,” Departing with a grin, Remarking, “I will soon be back If the wet comes in.” I saw the main with joy again The empty cisterns fill. When, at a sound like summer rain, My heart began to thrill; While o’er the furniture it ran, A voice came through the din: “We’re certain now,” cried that false man, “Where the wet comes in!” Funny Folks. February 8, 1879.

If Dirty Deeds. (Sung by an inebriated Chimney-sweep. After Sullivan’s “If Doughty Deeds.”) I. If dirty deeds my lady please, I’m jest the man to soot ’er; With me she’s sure to feel at ease, Both now and in the futur’. A dingy colour o’er me lies, Wot pictur’s forth my art; Wich, if it gets into my heyes, It alwuss makes ’em smart. Then say if I shall soot my love, Oh, say if I shall soot ’er! Or else—’weep ho! I’ll drownd my woe In this ’ere pot of pewter. 229 II. But, if fond love ’er ’eart could gain, I wish she’d tell me ’ow; For love it is wot gives the pain As haggeriwates me now. Ah, yes! I’m weepin’ still—’weep ho!— And likely to continner: Not thinkin’ so to soothe my woe, But trustin’ thus to win ’er. Then say if I shall soot my love, Oh, say if I shall soot ’er! Hair from my grief I seeks relief In this ’ere pot of pewter.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like an eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. * * * * * Allan Cunningham.

In the House of Commons. (A Voice from the Ventilator.) With wet feet, in a committee, To our seats tied hard and fast, We sit half-starved, and to our call Comes Dr. Reid at last: Comes Dr. Reid at last, my boys, And turns the valves so free; Away the cold air flies and leaves The room at eighty-three. “Oh, for a cool and gentle wind!” I heard a member cry; “But give it to me hot and hot,” Another did reply: Another did reply, my boys; So Dr. Reid made free To give it to us half and half, And wretched men were we! The Speaker sits at freezing point, At fever heat the crowd; In the reporters’ gallery They all complain aloud: They all complain aloud, my boys, Of Reid in language free; And say, not even Peel can blow So hot and cold as he! Punch. 1845.

Sir Percy and the Fearful Fogge. (A new “Percy Relique.”) Full seven hundred Members mayde aloude thys one remark— “Scarce can we breathe, or speke, or thynke. Wee all are in the darke.” Like unto pygmyes arm’d against great Basan’s Monarque Og, So gasping, gallant gentlemen doe battell with the Fogge. Stout Percy to the Commons went, all in Westministeere. Quoth he, “Ye have good neede of help, the Fogge doth enter heere. “I ventylate and drayne the House, and keep it sweet and cool.” Cryed every man, “Who’ll stay the Fogge?” Quoth bold Percy, “I wool!” “Now bless thee, Doctor Percy!” cry the Commons with a cheer, “If thou the Fogge shall set at naught all in Westministeere; “And if with cotton-wool thou pluggest cranny, hole, and crack, The Lords we’ll dysestablyshe, and to thee give the Woolsàck.” Stout Percy sniff’d a pynche of snuff, all of the olden schoole. Quoth he, “And if I fayle I’ll get the Sack without the Wool. “Natheless the cotton-wool I’ll try; my very best I’ll do.” “No more can we expect,” sayde each to each. “Que woolley woo?” Stout Percy hies him to the work, nor lists to knave nor fool. “Plenty of ‘cry’ there be,” quoth he. “My ears hold cotton-wool.” “As walls have ears, I trow,” quoth he, “those at Westministeere Will thank me soe for saving them from much that else they’d heare.” * * * * * Then Heav’n send Doctor Percy may bring them light and peace! May Fogge clear from Westministeere, and all obstruction cease! Punch. March 19, 1887.

I in a mighty palace, She in a lonely room, I where the lights are shining, She where there is but gloom, I amid mirth and laughter, She where no laugh is known, I with gay friends around me, She with her fears alone. I where gay music soundeth, She where the clock ticks loud, I where the lights are shining, She with her fair head bowed, I noble, rich, and courted, Chief of a mighty throng. She by her kin deserted, Burdened with care and wrong. Could I but share her sorrow, One aching thought beguile, Gladden her heart to-morrow, Woo from her lips one smile, Oh, then I would give how gladly The joys that the world may prize, For one touch of her gentle fingers, One glance of her loving eyes. G. Courtenay Boyle.

I and She. She in a gay gin palace, I in a lonely room, She where the gas is shining, I where there is but gloom, She amid mirth and laughter, I where no mirth is known, She with young swells around her, I with my pipe alone. She where the money clinketh, I where no tick’s allowed, She where the masher drinketh, I with my poor head bowed, She pretty, young, and courted, Chief of the Barmaid throng, I by my friends deserted, One more good man gone wrong. Ah! she could soothe my sorrow, This aching heart beguile, If from her I could borrow Ten shillings for a while. And, oh, I would take it gladly, Altho’ it perhaps sounds queer, If she drew me with gentle fingers One glass of her bitter beer.

Wild West-minster! Air—“Do you ken John Peel?” Do you ken Arthur Peel in the nightly fray? Do you ken Arthur Peel at the break of day? Do you think he won’t wish himself far far away, Ere the House rises early in the morning? Chorus— For the sound of the Pats keeps us each from our bed, And the Tory horse bolts if you give him his head, And the row of the Rads, by sly Labouchere led, At Wild West-minster sounds until morning. Yes, I know Arthur Peel, with his seat so true, And he needs it indeed on that buck-jumping screw, Which to fling Arthur Peel has done all that it knew, The bit and the bridle still scorning. Chorus—For the sound, &c. Do you ken Arthur Peel of the resolute will, And the “hand” that is worthy of Buffalo Bill? Do you think the buck-jumper would not like to spill The cool hand on its back ere the morning! Chorus—For the sound, &c. Yes, I know Arthur Peel for a rough-riding body, At handling a rogue almost equal to Cody, And down like a hammer on noodle and noddy, Though kept in the saddle till morning. Chorus—For the sound, &c. Do you ken Arthur Peel with a snaffle so strong, Prepared for a contest that’s dour and ding-dong, For a rally that’s sharp and a struggle that’s long, Which may last all the night until morning? Chorus—For the sound, &c. Do you ken Arthur Peel with the spur at his heel, Which the stubbornest buck-jumper’s bound for to feel, And flinch at the punishment dealt out by Peel, While Wild West-minster howls in the morning? Chorus—For the sound, &c. Yes, I know Arthur Peel as a chap who won’t shirk; But his mount of to-day is a tiger, a Turk, And to break it to harness he’ll have all his work, Though he leathers and spurs night and morning. Chorus— For the sound of its snorts and the pad of its feet Show this buck-jumping brute is a teaser to beat, And Peel will do well if he still keeps his seat When Wild West-minster shuts some fine morning. Punch. May 14, 1887.

Boatswain Chamberlain. Air—“Sailing, sailing.” The Liberal Barque is on the wave, And manned by seamen stout and brave, And though the Tory shoals are near, The gallant ship will danger clear, For Chamberlain The bo’san’s pipe will blow, And a hardy crew Stand ready for the foe— Then here’s to the captain, With grand old heart so true. To Harcourt, Dilke, and Hartington, Who lead a gallant crew—— Sailing sailing, Over the bounding main, 231 Ready and ripe, At the sound of the pipe, Of Boatswain Chamberlain. Joe Chamberlain is bold and free, And skipper some day he will be, For never a heart more true and brave, A murmuring people counsel gave; No false step marks His actions or career; And he sounds his pipe For action now to clear— Then here’s to the captain, &c. From Songs for Liberal Electors. Manchester, A. Heywood, 1885.

À Son Nez. Beau Nez, dont les rubis ont cousté mainte pipe Du vin blanc et clairet, Et duquel le couleur richement participe Du rouge et violet; Gros Nez! Qui te regarde à travers un grand verre, Te juge encore plus beau. Tu ne ressemblas point au nez de quelque hère Qui ne boit que de l’eau. Un coq d’inde, sa gorge à toy semblable porte: Combien de riches gens N’ont pas si riche nez! Pour te peindre en la sorte, Il faut beaucoup de temps. Le verre est le pinceau, duquel on t’enlumine; Le vin est la couleur Dont on t’a peint ainsi plus rouge qu’une guisgne En beuvant du meilleur. On dit qu’il nuit aux yeux; mais seront ils les maistres? Le vin est la guarison De mes maux: J’aime mieux perdre les deux fenestres Que toute la maison.

Drinking Song. Jolly Nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip Were dug from the mines of Canary; And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip With hogsheads of claret and sherry. Jolly Nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass, Beholds thee in all thy perfection; And to the pale snout of a temperate ass Entertains the profoundest objection. (For a turkey-cock’s neck one might surely mistake thee: Why there’s many a well-to-do fellow Can’t boast such a nose! what a time it must take thee To get to a colouring so mellow.) For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues, The fuller I fill it,—the fuller. Jolly Nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight Such dullards know nothing about it; ’Tis better with wine to extinguish the light, Than live always in darkness without it.

Derby and Jones. (With convivial compliments to Mr. James Molloy.) The Derby’s here, and I’m getting grey, By Jove I’m fifty if I’m a day; But through dust and sun, I like my fun As the cab rolls on. So we, that is Jones my friend and I, Have each to our wives made this reply: “Yes, we’re going,—like two staid elderly men, But don’t mean, my dear, to do it again.” And its always the same! Serious tones,— Then a nice little game with my old friend Jones. A nice little game with my old friend Jones. Arm-in-arm, after lunch that day, Arm-in-arm,—well we made our way: And everything spun round and round like fun As the cab bowled on! Arm-in-arm, we managed to slide, Though the streets and lamps all took the wrong side; And we never could quite tell how or when Each of us got safe home again! Always the same!—Banjo and Bones— Always the same with my old friend Jones. Always the same with my old friend Jones. Punch. June 4, 1881.

Gladstone sings:— (Addressing the Earl of Derby.) Derby, dear, I am old and grey, Fifty years since my Newark day; Changes will come to every one As the years roll on. Derby, dear, when the votes went wry, Out in the cold and alone was I; Ah! but the thought of you cheered me then, “’Tis not for long he can hold with Ben.” Always the same, Derby, my own, Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Derby, dear, but I did feel riled, When the Jingoes with joy went wild, Until hope whispered Knowsley’s lord “Loveth not the sword.” Derby, dear, ’twas your backing out Showed the way for the Tories’ rout, Ah, dear! how you stilled my fear, Life appeared better and office near. Always the same, Derby, my own, Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Always the same to your old Glad-stone! Punch. December 23, 1882.

Song of the Railway Clerk. Come dwell with me, and be my own, For a joyful lot is mine; I’ve a sunny bank, with turf o’ergrown, And a cottage on the line. And two policemen own my sway, And strive to be my slaves, And daren’t receive gratuities, Though each one well behaves. Then, dearest, be for ever mine, In that small station on the line. And though my lot’s all day to stamp Those slips of card-board blue, When faded is the mail’s red lamp, I come to love and you. Then, dearest, you must not refuse, But to my prayers incline; I’ll fetter thee, in Hymen’s noose, Not in—but on—a line. And let me link my lot with thine, And love thee on the banks of line. From The Man in the Moon. Edited by Albert Smith.

Mutton Chops. Come dine with me, come dine with me, And our dish shall be, our dish shall be, A mutton chop from the butcher’s shop And how I cook it you shall see. The chop I choose is not too lean; For to cut off the fat I mean. Then to the fire I put it down, And let it fry until ’tis brown. Come dine with me; yes dine with me, etc. I’ll fry some bread cut rather fine, To place betwixt each chop of mine; Some spinach, or some cauliflowers, May ornament this dish of ours. I will not let thee once repine At having come with me to dine: ’Twill be my pride to hear thee say, “I have enjoy’d my chop, to-day.” Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me; Dine, dine, dine, with me, &c.

Don’t Dye your Hair when you Grow Old. (Parody on “Silver Threads among the Gold.”) Don’t dye your hair when you grow old, Or you surely will be sold, As I found myself one day When my hair was turning grey, On a pretty girl, named Grace, I was spooney, quite a case, But her hair was black and bright, Whereas mine was turning white. Don’t dye your hair when you grow old, Either black, or brown, or gold, Or the day you’ll surely rue, “Ne’er say dye” what’er you do. Then to myself I said, said I, I’ll try a bottle of hair dye; Out I rush’d, and hurried back With a bottle labell’d black. When I’d rubb’d it on my head, I look’d beautiful, folks said, But when I’d embraced dear Grace I found out I’d dyed her face. Don’t dye your hair, &c. And in the morning, I declare, Bright magenta was my hair. To the hairdresser I flew, “Sir,” said he, “that’s nothing new, Try our ostrich marrow grease, Try it, and your fretting cease;” So I did, and next was seen With my hair a light pea green. Don’t dye your hair, &c. Next day, alas! ’twas dirty pink, Then the colour of red ink; Next ’twas purple, then ’twas blue, Every colour it’s gone through. Now content with homely grey, Often to dear Grace I say, “Locks may lose their black or gold, But true love will ne’er grow old.” Don’t dye your hair, &c.

I. I thank the goodness and the grace, Which on my birth have smiled, And made me in these Christian days, A happy English child. * * * * *

A Parody. Upon my childhood’s pallid morn, No tropic summer smiled, In foreign lands I was not born, A happy heathen child. Alas! but in a colder clime, A cultured clime I dwell, All in the foremost ranks of Time, They say: I know it well. You never learn geography, No grammar makes you wild. A book, a slate you never see, You happy heathen child. I know in forest and in glade, Your games are odd, but gay. Think of the little British maid, Who has no place for play. When ended is the day’s long joy, And you to rest have gone, Think of the little British boy, Who still is toiling on. The many things we learn about We cannot understand, Oh, send your missionaries out To this benighted land! You blessed little foreigner, In weather fair and mild, Think of the tiny Britisher, Oh, happy heathen child. Ah! highly favoured Pagan, born In some far hemisphere, Pity the British child forlorn And drop one sorrowing tear.

Maxwelton braes are bonnie, Where early fa’s the dew; And it’s there that Annie Laurie Gied me her promise true; Gied me her promise true, Which ne’er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee. Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e’er the sun shone on; That e’er the sun shone on, And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying, Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet; And like winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet; Her voice is low and sweet, And she’s all the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I’d lay me doun and dee.

Old Sir Peter Laurie. The Guildhall Bench is funny, When prisoners stand in view, For it’s there Sir Peter Laurie, Gives them his promise true. Gives them his promise true, To “put ’em down,” he’ll try; How that Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law—my eye How that Old Sir Peter Laurie, &c. His nose is like the roast beef, The Civic board upon; His phiz it is the ruddiest, That e’er the gas shone on, That e’er the gas shone on, And grey his gooseberry eye; And how Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law—my eye! Like a dray through Cheapside going, Is the fall of his heavy feet; Like a windy knacker blowing, His voice about as sweet. His voice is just as sweet, And to put down all he’ll try; How that Old Sir Peter Laurie Lays down the Law—my eye! J. A. Hardwick.

My Mother-in-Law. (Air—Mary o’Argyle.) I have heard the cats a-squealing On the slates at early morn; I have the seen the tiles a-stealing, From the roof-tops in a storm; But the sound which most doth fear me, And disturb life’s sweet repose; I have seen an eye still blacker, Than the ink upon white clothes. ’Tis thy voice, my once dear-mother- In-law, which doth me rile, When you speak the house doth tremble, So roof-lifting is your style. Though thy voice may lose its gruffness, And thine eye its pot-black hue; And thy lengthy step its longness, And thy hair its redness too; Still to me thou’lt be more frightful, Than I shall ever own; I have shunn’d thee for thy harshness, But not for that alone. ’Tis thy voice—hark—now ’tis stealing, Down the garret stairs, the while, Like sad funeral bells a pealing, I must answer it, or I’ll—— David Welch. Detroit Free Press. January 15, 1887.

Poor Joe.[72] Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Joseph’s so very much out. 234 He promised to give us a cow and three acres, And make us contented and placid as Quakers, But now we can’t even get bread at the bakers, Joe was so very much out! He told us that Erin was not to be trusted, And that our friend William was very nigh “busted,” But all his remarks with romance have been crusted, Joe was so very much out! “Our Imperial Integrity” was the foundation Which lured us to “back up” poor Joe’s declamation, But the words, it appears, meant a clap-trap oration, By Joe, who was very much out! Then let us rejoice to rejoin the old master, Who never has led us to wrong or disaster, Nor pretended to cure us with “Brummagem plaster,” Like Joe, who was very much out! Oh, dear; what can the matter be? Oh, dear; what can this chatter be? Oh, dear; what can this clatter be? Why, Joseph’s so very much out. Truth. July 15, 1886.

Kick him now the bold outlaw, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Show no mercy Tories a’, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Let your hands and hearts agree, Let the cheeky laddie see How we curse with muckle glee, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Long old Sal. has doom’d his fa’, Randy Randolph Churchill O! For he spurned the Tory law, Randy Randolph Churchill O! We can for our party dee, We will e’er staunch Tories be And can ne’er forget—forgie Randy Randolph Churchill O! Ne’er again the Primrose pride, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Our reward must now abide, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Long from office let him pine, We’re but glad he did resign, Kick him, then, for auld lang syne, Randy Randolph Churchill O! Pall Mall Gazette. 1886.

Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gi’e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak’ a kiss or grant ye are; But, guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Whate’er ye do when out o’ view, Be cautious aye before folk. Consider, lad, how folks will crack, And what a great affair they’ll mak’ O’ naething but a simple smack That’s gi’en or ta’en before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Nor gi’e the tongue o’ auld or young Occasion to come o’er folk. It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak’ it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; When we’re our lane, you may tak’ ane, But fient a ane before folk. I’m sure wi’ you I’ve been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; I’ll ne’er submit again to it— So mind you that—before folk. Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae, I dinna care; But ne’er again gar’t blush sae sair As ye hae done before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi’ your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet; Sic tales I doubt are a’ deceit; At ony rate, it’s hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; Gin that’s the case there’s time and place, But surely no before folk. But gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss’d, Gae get a license frae the priest, And mak’ me yours before folk. Behave yoursel’ before folk, Behave yoursel’ before folk; And when we’re ane baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak’ ten before folk.

The Answer to “Behave Yoursel’ Before Folk.” Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When wily elf, your sleeky self, Gars me gang gyte before folk? In a’ ye do, in a’ ye say, Ye’ve sic a pawkie coaxing way 235 That my poor wits ye lead astray, And ding me doilt before folk. Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk; While ye ensnare, can I forbear A kissing ye before folk? Can I behold that dimpling cheek, Whar love ’mang sunny smiles might beek, Yet howlet-like my eelids steek, And shun sic light before folk? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka smile becomes a wile, Enticing me before folk? That lip, like Eve’s forbidden fruit, Sweet, plump an’ ripe, sae tempts me to ’t, That I maun pree’t though I should rue’t, Ay twenty times before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When temptingly it offers me So rich a treat before folk? That gowden hair sae sunny bright, That shapely neck o’ snowy white; That tongue e’en when it tries to flyte, Provokes me till’t before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka charm, young, fresh, and warm, Cries, “Kiss me now;” before folk? An’, oh, that pawkie, rowin ee, Sae roguishly it blinks on me, I canna, for my soul, let be Frae kissing you before folk! Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, When ilka glint conveys a hint To tack a smack before folk? Ye own that were we baith our lane, Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane; Weel, gin there be no harm in’t then, What harm is in’t before folk? Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk? Sly hypocrite, an anchorite Could scarce desist before folk! But after a’ that has been said, Since ye are willing to be wed, We’ll hae a “blythesome bridal” made, When ye’ll be mine before folk. Then I’ll behave, then I’ll behave, Then I’ll behave before folk; For whereas then ye’ll aft get ten, It winna be before folk. Alexander Rodger.

The Turtle Dove. (Air—Jessy of Dunblayne.) As lonely I sat on a calm summer morning, To breathe the soft incense that flowed on the wind, I mus’d on my Boots in their bright beauty dawning, By Warren’s Jet Blacking—the pride of mankind. On a maple-tree near sat a turtle bewailing, With sorrowful cooings, the loss of her love; Each note that she utter’d seemed sadness exhaling, And plaintively echo’d around the still grove. When, lo! in my Boots, the lone mourner perceiv’d Her form, and suppos’d that her lover was there; Even I, that the vision was real, half believ’d; The Blacking reflected her image so clear. She hover’d around, at the figure still gazing, Anxiety seem’d but to heighten her woe; She perch’d on the Boot with a courage amazing, And fondled the vision that bloom’d in its glow. I pity’d the dove, for my bosom was tender,— I pity’d the strain that she gave to the wind; But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendour Of Warren’s Jet Blacking—the pride of mankind.

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie Lassie, O, Thro’ its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O; Where the rose, in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. * * * * *

Let us haste and join the Chase. Let us haste and join the Chase, Jolly huntsmen, O! See the morning’s peeping face, Jolly huntsmen, O! We’ll sound the lightsome horn, Brush the dew-drop from the thorn, And danger treat with scorn, Jolly huntsmen, O! Hark, hark, the barking pack, Jolly huntsmen, O! Bids us seek the courser’s back, Jolly huntsmen, O! So, mount! away we’ll go; Give our victim a death-blow, With laughter, mirth, soho! Jolly huntsmen, O! And then, when drowsy night, Jolly huntsmen, O! Brings the brown ale to our sight, Jolly huntsmen, O! Then we’ll quaff the flowing can, And ugly care trepan, With a health to every man Jolly huntsmen, O! The Universal Songster. Volume III.

Song of March. March, March; daisies and buttercups Put forth their petals in exquisite order. March, March; crocuses springing up, Give a gay aspect to bed and to border. 236 Little birds fly about; turkeys’ eggs lie about, And the broad daylight gets broader and broader. Boreas goes about; everything blows about; Bonnets and hats are in dreadful disorder. March, March; daisies and buttercups Put forth their petals in exquisite order. March, March; crocuses springing up, Give a gay aspect to bed and to border. Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

I’m wearin’ awa’, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair I’ the land o’ the leal. &c. * * * * * Lady Nairne.

The land o’ the Leal. (New and improved version.) I’m frichtened for ye a’ weans, Sic merriment to shaw, weans, That’s no the thing ava For the land o’ the leal. There’s nae lauchin’ there, weans, Nor faces smilin’ fair, weans, There’s noucht but looks o’ care, In the land o’ the leal. II. Ye’ll winder hoo I ken, weans? I’m no like ither men, weans, I live juist but and ben Frae the land o’ the leal. An’ gloomy faces stare, weans, Wi’ looks o’ wan despair, weans, Upon me ilka where, Frae the land o’ the leal. III. Then bend your little broos, weans, An’ hing your bonny moos, weans, An’ hear my blessed news, Frae the land o’ the leal. That thegither we may meet, weans, An’ sab, an’ sigh, an’ greet, weans, In happiness complete, In the land o’ the leal.

A Corn Law Rhyme. Where the poor cease to pay, Go, lov’d one, and rest! Thou art wearing away To the land of the blest. Our father is gone Where the wrong’d are forgiven, And that dearest one, Thy husband, in heaven. No toil in despair, No tyrant, no slave, No bread-tax is there, With a maw like the grave. But the poacher, thy pride, Whelm’d in ocean afar; And his brother, who died Land-butcher’d in war; And their mother, who sank Broken-hearted to rest; And the baby, that drank ’Till it froze on her breast; With tears, and with smiles, Are waiting for thee, In the beautiful isles, Where the wrong’d are the free. Go, loved one, and rest Where the poor cease to pay! To the land of the blest Thou art wearing away. But the son of thy pain Will yet stay with me, And poor little Jane Look sadly like thee.

The Lament of the Lost One. Residing in the Unprotectorate of Notting Hill. Oh where, and oh where is our one policeman gone? Each night (when it was light) we used to see him come; And ’tis oh, in my heart, I fear we’re now not safe at home. Suppose at my nose a cocked pistol I espy, No policeman comes to save, tho’ Murder! loud I cry; And for aid I must wait till somebody passeth by. To “first catch your hare” is sound advice ’tis true; But when my burglar’s caught, pray what am I to do? One can’t hold him, like a baby, in one’s arms the whole night through. For peace and police each half-year a rate I pay; But, alas! I find them pass only once or twice a day; And ’tis night when thieves delight to steal a march, they say. Punch 1856.

Oh, Where, and oh, Where, does your Own True Lover Stray? Oh, where, and oh, where does my own true lover stray? He’s gone upon his travels, oh, he’s gone to Botany-Bay; And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not stay. Oh, where, and oh, where does your own true lover dwell? He lived in Tothill-fields, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And its oh, in my heart I loved him very well. What cloth, and what cloth does your own true lover wear? 237 He’s clothed in wool and yarn, and they’ve shaved off all his hair. And its oh, in my heart, I love him to dispair. But what should I do if my own true love should die? I’d fret myself to death, oh, I would lay me down and cry. And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not die. The Universal Songster. Volume III.

Ormonde, M.P. An Election Song. June, 1886. To the “House” at Westminster, ’twas wisdom that spoke, The Home Rule of Gladstone is nothing but smoke; Then each brave elector, who loves honour and me, Let him stand by the flag of the kingdoms, all three. Chorus— Come fill up your cup, come fill up your can, Come saddle your horses and follow your man; Frustrate disunion, and let us gae free, For its all up with Gladstone and his minis-trie. The Light ’un is mounted, he rides up the street, Bravo! cry the whigs, and the “rads” they retreat: Whilst the Tory (douce mon) says just e’en let it be, For we’ve had quite enough of Old Ver-bos-i-tie. The horseman is loyal, in speech he is short, He’s his country to serve, and has no other thought; No seeker for pension, no time server he, Nor lawyer, place hunter, nor peers pro-te-gée. There are hills up to Highgate and lands as set forth, There are Lords in the west, and Lads in the north; And bold free electors, twice thousand times three, Who can make Little Leighton our local M.P.! Then awa’ to the highlands and meadows in cocks, Eer I’d own with old Gladstone I’d crouch with the Fox: Oh! tremble false whigs, in the midst of your glee, Ye hae no seen the last o’ my colours or me.

Gladstone’s Address. To the millions of England, ’twas Gladstone who spoke, “I’ve freed you at last from the Squire’s strong yoke, The march of the people to triumph I’ve led, And, henceforth, the rule of the Tories is dead. Come, follow me, men, for the fight that is near; Come, gather and rank for the battle that’s here; And again your old Leader to lead you, you’ll see, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me. “You’ll fight as you fought when the people I led, With Cobden and Bright, and with Peel, for cheap bread; You’ll fight as you fought and you triumphed with me, When commerce and trade we for ever set free. Come, follow me, men, for the fight that shall say If you or the Tories shall rule from to-day; And again your old leader to lead you you’ll see, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again under me. “Think how we have fought for the people’s free Press, For the schools that with knowledge your children shall bless, For the laws that from Ireland swept wrong upon wrong, In Church and in land, that she’d suffered so long; So gather, my men, for the fight that is near, And follow me, men, when the battle is here, And again your old leader your leader shall be, And you’ll fight and you’ll conquer again, led by me.” (Two verses omitted.) He spoke, and the people arose at his word, And the march of the millions to aid him, I heard; “At my call how they gather to triumph,” said he, “And they’ll conquer and conquer again yet with me; For England’s I am till I yield up my breath, Like Chatham, I’m her’s still in life and in death, To the last, for the people, their leader I’ll be, And they’ll conquer and conquer again, led by me.” W. C. Bennett.

To the Peers. To the Peers ’tis the People that sturdily spoke ’Ere Privilege rule us its power shall be broke; So let the Lords tremble if hostile they be, For the end of their House they will certainly see. Chorus. Then be it the duty of every man To fight for the franchise as hard as he can, And teach gilded puppets, whoever they be, That England from fossilised claims will be free. For who are the handful of lords who assume The right thus to silence the millions to doom? Why, the answer is plain, they are bubbles which dream They rule, since they float upon Time’s mighty stream. But the bubbles, though gilded and gay they appear, The tempest of anger will find very near; And ere they perceive that it speeds on its way The bubbles called Peers will be blown far away. J. Pratt. The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.

The Black Broom. The Broom cam capouring doon to the Hoose, Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon; It sims the Exchequer can loosen a noose Which the law too cruelly ties, mon; So Looshington cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest, We weesh ye much joy o’ the prize, mon; ’Tes a vera new grievance, but are o’ the best, Whan the Trasury snubs the Excisemon.” The Broom is commonly pawkie enoo; Boot was, faith, ilka night, not a wise mon, Ef he thought in the coontry, to make a hubboo, Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon; For the Trasury cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest,” &c., &c. * * * * * (Two verses omitted.) From The New Whig Guide. London. 1819.