WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 12)

The Riflemen’s Return. The Belgians are coming, Oh, dear! oh, dear! The Belgians are coming, Oh, dear! oh, dear! Says Colonel Loyd Lindsay, M.P., M.P., We’ll take ’em our Sydenham Palace to see, To Richmond and Windsor, and give ’em some tea, In return for their great hospitalitee, So let ’em be coming, oh, dear, &c. * * * * * The Belgians are coming, My dears, my dears! They’re coming, receive ’em— With cheers, with cheers; But Colonel Loyd Lindsay, I’m sure will be, Delighted his Belgian friends to see. And treat them at all events more handsomelee, Than our Royaltee treats foreign Royaltee. The Belgians are coming, &c. Punch. May 25, 1867.

A Dirge for the Departed. BY AN OLD MEMBER. Air.—“The flowers o’ the forest are a’ wede awa’.” So mourn we to-night! Yet not all of them—nay! But we miss many proud, Parliamentary, blossoms, We lucky “survivals” assembled to-day, Sad fog in our brains and soft pangs in our bosoms; The fog for the future, the pangs for the past, A past peopled fair with—we will call them flowers, Whose petals were strewn by November’s chill blast, Or beaten to earth by December’s dread showers. Where are they, the bright ones who bloomed and looked brave, Hardy annuals, year after year on these benches? Some Villon should “wake” them with lachrymose stave, The mild modern Muse from the tragical blenches. “A Ballad of M.P.’s Unseated,” Good lack! Master Francois would make it pathetic and pretty; But he, too, is fled and will hardly come back, Though tempted by Swinburne, though coaxed by Rossetti. Oh, for yester-year’s snows! Where is Newdegate gone? The House without him! ’Tis a thought that bewilders. Shaw Lefevre, where’s he? Like the rose season gone With rare Farrer Herschell and radiant Childers. The rose will return, and these twain in its train May, like penitent peris, in Paradise sport on; But ever henceforth may we hunger in vain For the shout and the snuff-box of Bill-blocker Warton. Where’s Firth? How the flushed City Fathers rejoice At the fall of the foe who assailed them so rashly! Where’s Alderman Lawrence’s soul-soothing voice? And where, O ye Graces, is Evelyn Ashley? Like Villon’s fair Echo, “beheld of no man” Any more in the House; mute as Lesbia’s dumb pet, Departed to Limbo the weary and wan, With Lawson’s Joe Millers and Thomasson’s trumpet. Where’s Briggs? Who’d suspect ’neath his Cymon-like air, A consuming desire to coquet with the Muse hid? Where poor “Toots” McIver? where’s Elliot? and where Is Sir Patrick O’Brien, the luscious and lucid? Campbell-Bannerman’s gone; we have no “Truthful James” To o’erwhelm us with wild economical shoddy; And—oh, ruthless fate! ’twas the sorest of shames To deprive us of Wirtue’s palladium in Waddy! That general fidus Achates, “dear Caine,” Is a wanderer now, which seems cruel, most cruel. Like Mossoo in his seat O’Shea “does not remain.” Smug McArthur has got—and deserved it—his gruel. Sidney Waterlow’s down ’tis low water with him. Smart George Russell’s defeat Rads regard with abhorrence; But few of them weep that Dame Fortune’s wild whim Has upset Lambeth’s bête-noir, Sir “Jamie” Clarke Lawrence. And Power, Ciceronian O’Connor? Alack! Where was Kennington’s wit when, though loving, she lost him? Well he, like poor Bo-peep’s strayed sheep, will come back To the seat which his pluck, for the season, hath cost him. But Wolff! Ah, Sir Henry, ’tis pitiful work. To “Shoe the Gray Goose” Eastward-Ho you were summoned, And while you were wasting your time with the Turk, Fickle Portsmouth played jilt. ’Tis too bad, my dear Drummond! Then Bright, Jacob Bright! But time fails us to tell The whole sorrowful tale of our manifold losses. Big Ben’s solemn boom strikes the ear like a knell, As we muse on our Ecroyds, and moan o’er our Crosses. Good Gosset, ’tis well you no longer are here, For the Lobby strikes chill, and the Terrace looks sodden; The winter wind wails, not a Happy New Year, But a mournful lament like the dirge after Flodden. So sounds it to one who remembers old days: Yet dreams of the past are but bogies and spectres, The House from to-night sets its foot in new ways, Hurrah for the choice of the county electors! We have the Grand Old One, at least, to the good; Neither Time nor the Tory dished him in December. One tear for the fallen may soften one’s mood, Then face to the fray with the freshest New Member! The Daily News. January 13, 1886.

My love is like the red red rose That’s newly sprung in June; My love is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear Till a’ the seas gang dry. 239 Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run. But, fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel awhile; And I will come again, my dear, Though ’twere ten thousand mile. R. Burns

My Love She has a Red Red Nose. O my love has got a red red nose, I long to see it soon, O my love is like the mulberry, All cover’d o’er with bloom. As fond as thou my bonny lass, Of full-proof gin am I; For I will drink with thee, my dear, And drain the bottle dry. I’ll drain the bottle dry, my dear, We’ll sing and dance for fun; And if you wish for more, my dear, Why for it I will run. But I must cut my stick, my love, And hop the twig ashore; And we’ll get fou again, my dear, A thousand times or more.

My love he has a great red nose— Would that its hue were whiter! Yet every day it larger grows, And every hour gets brighter. But still it is a useful nose For on a winter’s night, As bright as any fire it glows, And gives a brilliant light. * * * * * (Two verses omitted.)

“A small Note-Book on Wealth and True Wit. “Pen sketch took by S. H. Hewitt. “Not to be had of those who all books sell “But only of the Author, M.R.C.S.L.” 1851.

The Home Rule War Song. Men whose fathers crushed the wrong, Men whose love for freedom’s strong; Shall the rights you’ve won so long Down be trod to-day? Tories now and traitors threat Fetters on your rights to set; That you’re voters they forget; Sweep the fools away. Yours to-day are rule and power; You, the People, reign this hour; Do they dream you’ll basely cower? At their threats, you scoff: Up, you millions, for the fight; Up, to rush your foes to flight; Up, for freedom and for right; Sweep these Tories off. Tell them this is not the day They, their tyrant tricks, can play Up, and forward to the fray; On, to war and win; What you will you’ve strength to do; Men, you’ll to yourselves be true; Out with Salisbury and his crew; In with Gladstone—in. Thunder well your meaning out; Leave the Whigs and rats no doubt, All the turn-coats, out you’ll rout; Even Joe and John. If your teeth you plainly show, They turn tail as well you know; Will they wait your bite? No—no; On to smash them—on! From Radical Rhymes. By W. C. Bennett.

Love and Liberty. Where’s the girl can fear disdain? Where’s the man can woman pain? Where’s the heart not proud to gain Love and Liberty? Where’s the wretch can woman shun? (Woman! life’s meridian sun!) Cold, and not by beauty won! Poltroon let him be! Fill the glass to Beauty’s power! Fill the glass to Freedom’s hour! Naught that breathes should live to sour Love and Liberty! The Universal Songster.

The “Model” Suit. Should old habiliments be forgot, Especially such as mine? Oh, no, I venerate the lot, For the sake of Auld Langsyne! For Auld Langsyne my boys, Though them and I decline, And they shabby get, I’ll stick to ’em yet, For the sake of Auld Langsyne. Now, here’s a beaver, look at that, This old chapeau of mine; ’Tis the first Policeman’s left off hat, In eighteen twenty-nine, In eighteen twenty-nine, my boys, Yet still to make it shine, I dip it into the water butt, For the sake of Auld Langsyne. There’s a coat, my boys, that saw the days Of poor Queen Caroline, 240 Of the fit and cloth, that George the Fourth, In as Regent used to shine. That is it was a fit, my boys, But I don’t too often dine, So it’s rather loose, and worse for use, Still I don it, for Auld Langsyne. * * * * * J. A. Hardwick.

Auld Lang Syne Let auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind, Oh! from your memory ever blot The days of auld lang syne. No steam—no gas, rail-road to pass, O’er Menai Bridge so fine; The present hour is worth a power Of days of auld lang syne. * * * * * For friend of auld lang syne, dear ma’am, Was never friend of mine— Depend on me, no enemy Like friend of auld lang syne! The ancient fair with youthful air Who’d pass for twenty-nine, Finds no such bore, when past twa score, As friend of auld lang syne. Take this advice of mine, dear ma’am, Cut friends of auld lang syne;— The twaddling sage who tells one’s age, Is—friend of auld lang syne!

A Song for Small Germans, in 1871. Ye German Princes puir an’ proud, You sae do Commerce scorn, Ye wadna hae Louise allowed To wed the Lord o’ Lorne, In trade’s honest line, you fools, In trade’s honest line; Because o’ kinsmen to Argyll, In trade’s honest line! Your wealth and wits alike are sma’, Ye pack o’ lazy loons, You that were in your mouths born a’ Wi’ German siller spoons. In trade’s honest line, you fools, In trade’s honest line; Wad ye’d the wit your bread to get In trade’s honest line! Are ye na blate, ye pauper chiels, Ye burdens on the soil, To think ye’re owin’ for your meals To ither people’s toil? In trade’s honest line, ye fools, In trade’s honest line; Their livin’ whilst your betters earn In trade’s honest line? Punch. February 4, 1871.

Should Brandy ever be Forgot? Should brandy ever be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should brandy ever be forgot, For port or sherry wine? For port or sherry wine my friend, For port or sherry wine; We’ll tak’ a glass of brandy yet, And kick away the wine. And, surely, you’ll your quartern be, And, surely, I’ll be mine; And we will drink so merrily, But we’ll not call for wine. But we’ll not, &c. And here’s six-pence, my own good friend Give me six-pence of thine; We’ll for another quartern call, To wile away the time. To wile away, &c. The Universal Songster. Volume III.

A Rink’s a Rink for a’ That. Is there, at jolly skating rinks, Who shakes his head and a’ that, Who from the fun of skating shrinks? We still will rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Whate’er it cost and a’ that, The entrance is but half-a-crown— At least we’re good for a’ that. What tho’ we get an ugly spill, And break our limbs and a’ that, We will not bear it any ill, A rink’s a rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, We do not care for a’ that, And rinking, spite of all its risks, Is king o’ sports for a’ that. You see your party blithe and gay, Who bats and bowls, and a’ that, Though hundreds go to see him play, He cannot rink for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, His bat, and ball, and a’ that; The man who feels at home on wheels, He looks and laughs at a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may As come it will and a’ that, That roller skates and skating rinks, May hold their own and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, The time will come, and a’ that, When every man and woman, too, Shall skate and rink and a’ that.

A Gladstonite’s Lament. There’s nought but loss on ev’ry han’ As each election passes, oh! What signifies the Grand Old Man?— He cannot move the masses, oh! Chorus. A’ fools and asses, oh, Ding doon “the classes,” oh! 241 In spite of breath and siller spent We cannot move the masses, oh! For power and place the Tories race (The Whigs too seldom shy them, oh!) But though at last they catch them fast, We’ll see if they’ll enjoy them, oh! Gie me some more o’ Parnell’s men, (Great Parnell’s William’s dearie, oh!) And Unionists an’ Upper Ten Shall a’ gae tapsalteerie, oh! Now John and Joe ye’ll smile at this? (Ye’re naething else but asses, oh!) The langest tongue the warld e’er saw Has ceased to move the masses, oh! Dame Gladstone swears the Nobs and Peers Are clean against the masses, oh! Her ’prentice han’ for Grand Old Man Had failed to drive the classes, oh! Chorus. A’ fools and asses, oh! Ding doon the classes, oh! In spite of breath an’ siller spent, We cannot move the masses, oh! G. The Globe. London, July 9, 1886.

There’s naught but care on every han’, In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life of man, An’ ’twere not for the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O! The warly race may riches chase, And riches still may flee thee, O! And when at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O! Give me a canny hour at e’en, My arms about my deary, O! Then warly cares and warly men May all gang tapsalteery, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent Were spent amang the lasses, O! For ye sae douce ye sneer at this, Ye’re naught but senseless asses, O! The wisest man the warld e’er saw, He dearly loved the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O! Dame Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O! Her prentice han’ she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O! Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spent, Were spent among the lasses, O! Robert Burns.

Curæ corrodunt Urbem, Rus, Et sapientûm cellulas, Nec vitâ vellem frui plus Nî foret ob puellulas— Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas Divitias avaro dem, Insudet auri cumulo, Quærat quocumque modo rem, Inops abibit tumulo. Virent arundines At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas! Cùm Sol obscurat spicula, Mî brachio tunc niveo, Stringente, fit, amiculâ, Rerum dulcis oblivio! Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas! Num dices contrà? canum grex! An fuit vir sagacior Quàm Solomon? aut unquam rex In virgines salacior? Virent arundines! At me tenellulas Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas! Quas cum de terræ vasculo Natura finxit bellulas, Tentavit manum masculo Formavit tunc puellulas. Virent arundines! At me tenellulas, Tædet horarum nisi queis Inter fui puellulas! Father Prout. (The Rev. Francis Mahony.)

The Wearing o’ the Sashes, Oh! All people bow at Fashion’s Shrine, Especially where there cash is, O! And the latest thing in Fashion’s line Is most extensive sashes, O! Chorus. We’ve seen those sashes, O! Red and yellow sashes, O! In fact, all hues the ladies choose For vast and varied sashes, O! That lovely and all-conquering sex, Who in man’s heart makes gashes, O! Will now still more man’s mind perplex By flying such big sashes, O!—(Chorus.) For now, where Fashion’s nymphs are seen, Through man this thought now flashes, O! That maybe all the darlings mean To hide themselves in sashes, O!—(Chorus.) And, oh! if Woman should do this, We’d need sackcloth and ashes, O! Then do not rob us of our bliss You fine and large new sashes, O!—(Chorus.) Who but reveres the lovely dears? Love meant us for their “mashes,” O! And so, why plan to draw poor man By adding large-sized sashes, O! Chorus. But still they wear those sashes, O! And sweet are all those sashes, O! Like window-frames our maids and dames Now need a lot of sashes, O! Fun. August 4, 1886.

My Kitty O! Dull books, good bye! No more shall I In you seek recreation, O; I’ll pore no more o’er musty lore For fruitless information, O, I’ll o’er the foam, I’ll hie me home, I’ll leave the dreary city, O, O’er hill and dale, through glen and vale, I’ll roam alone with Kitty, O, My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O! Oh, what are joys of city, O, Long years compared with one hour shared In converse sweet with Kitty O? Her eye is bright, her step so light It scarcely bends the daisy, O. If men her laugh like wine could quaff ’Twould surely send them crazy, O. Soft ringlets press in fond caress Around her ears so pretty, O, And brow of snow, and lips aglow, And rosy cheeks has Kitty, O. My Kitty, O! My Kitty, O! She’s handsome, winsome, witty, O; Seek far and near, from Bann to Clear, You’ll meet no peer for Kitty. O! From Irish Songs and Poems. By M. Fahy. 1887.

A Man’s a Man for a’ that. I. ‘A man’s a man,’ says Robert Burns, ’For a’ that, and a’ that;’ But though the song be clear and strong, It lacks a note for a’ that. The lout who’d shirk his daily work, Yet claim his wage and a’ that, Or beg when he might earn his bread, Is not a man for a’ that. II. If all who ‘dine on homely fare’ Were true and brave and a’ that, And none whose garb is ‘hodden grey’ Was fool or knave and a’ that, The vice and crime that shame our time Would disappear and a’ that, And ploughmen be as good as Kings, And churls as earls for a’ that. III. But ’tis not so; yon brawny fool, Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that, And thinks because his strong right arm Might fell an ox and a’ that, That he’s as noble, man for man, As Duke or Lord and a’ that, Is but an animal at best, And not a man for a’ that. IV. A man may own a large estate, Have palace, park, and a’ that, And not for birth, but honest worth, Be thrice a man for a’ that. And Donald herding on the moor, Who beats his wife and a’ that, Is nothing but a brutal boor, Nor half a man for a’ that. V. It comes to this, dear Robert Burns, The truth is old and a’ that, ‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’ And though you’d put the self-same mark On copper, brass, and a’ that, The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, And will not pass for a’ that. VI. For a’ that and a’ that, ’Tis soul and heart and a’ that That makes the king a gentleman, And not his crown and a’ that, And whether he be rich or poor, The best is he for a’ that Who stands erect in self-respect, And acts the man for a’ that. Charles Mackay.

He’s the Man for a’ that. Is there for tenets Liberal That hangs his head and a’ that, And thinks the de’il is in us all— Bah! he’s a fool for a’ that. 243 For a’ that and a’ that, Perhaps he’s right for a’ that; But what’s the odds, we’ve ta’en an oath To vote wi’ Glad. for a’ that. What tho’ he beaten ten times o’er is, Cried down, despised and a’ that, By fools of Rads and knaves of Tories. Why, he’s the man for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Perhaps he’s wrong for a’ that; But what’s the odds if he mistake, We’re pledged to him for a’ that. Ye see yon members, Liberals ca’ed, They fume and fret and a’ that, When asked to vote they hummed and ha’ed, They’ve a just cause for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, They’re honest perhaps for a’ that; But whoso hangs by Gladstone’s tail He scoffs at them for a’ that. Moonshine. May 8, 1886.

A Radical’s Lament. Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, “When we were first acquent,” Your speech was like a Radical’s, With us your life was spent; But now you’ve sadly changed, Joe, Your voice we hardly know, While Tories have your sympathy, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe. (Two verses omitted.) Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, The right is on our side; And we have gallant leaders, Joe, All trusty, true, and tried. And though you have deserted us And gone to join the foe, We mean to fight and conquer yet, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe! Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, With us you climbed the hill; And hand to hand we helped you up, With Radical good-will. Now, hand in hand with Salisbury, You down again will go, And you’ll “sleep together at the foot,” Joe Chamberlain, my Joe! The Liberal Home Ruler. April 9, 1887.

Ye gentlemen of England. That live at home at ease, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give ear unto the mariners, And they will plainly show All the cares and the fears, When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c. If enemies oppose us When England is at war With any foreign nation, We fear not wound or scar; Our roaring guns shall teach ’em Our valour for to know, Whilst they reel on the keel, And the stormy winds do blow. And the stormy, &c. Then courage, all brave mariners, And never be dismay’d, Whilst we have bold adventurers, We ne’er shall want a trade: Our merchants will employ us To fetch them wealth, we know; Then be bold—work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow. When the stormy, &c.

Ye Pugilists of England.[73] I. Ye Pugilists of England, Who guard your native sod, Whose pluck has braved a thousand years, Cross-buttock, blow, and blood, Your corky canvas sport again, To mill another foe, As you spring, round the ring, While the betters noisy grow; While the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow. II. A Briton needs no poniards, No bravos ’long his street— His trust is in a strong roped ring, A square of twenty feet. With one-twos from his horny fists, He floors the coves below, As they crash, on the grass, When the betters noisy grow; When the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow. III. The spirits of prime pugilists Shall rise at every round; For the ring it was their field of fame, To them ’tis holy-ground. Where Slack and mighty Belcher fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, 244 As you peel, true as steel. While the betters noisy grow. While the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow. IV. The Randal-rag of England Must yet terrific burn, Till Ireland’s troublesome knight be beat, And the star of Crib return! Then, then, ye glutton-pugilists, The claret red shall flow, To the fame, of your name, When the noise of bets is low. When Sir Dan lies levelled loud and long, And the noise of bets is low. Blackwood’s Magazine. September, 1819.

Mark Sprot’s Lament. Ye President’s and L’Amy’s men, Who drill on foot at ease, O, little do you think upon The dangers of our knees! My song shall make your legs to shake Within your pantaloons: We such woe undergo When we ride with the Dragoons. Our Quarter-Master, Donald, Is up at peep of day; A whacking fine he doth design, If you remain away. When he doth call the muster-roll, His pipe each yeoman times— Spare me, lo! here I go, To ride with the Dragoons. Then out speaks Sergeant Whigham, And an angry man is he; If you’ve that day forgot pipe-clay, Or put your belt ajee, Quoth great Whigham, “Resolved I am, To trounce such awkward loons— Please pay down, half-a-crown, To the fund of our Dragoons.” Then out speaks Captain Cockburn, With accents stern and gruff, “Count one, two, three, that I may see How many files go off.” We jog along, some eighty strong, Despising absent spoons— A gay band, o’er the sand, The Volunteer Dragoons. Although the sand is flying, And the sun is burning hot, And every soul is frying, We must not shrink a jot. We don’t give o’er, though basted sore, But halt and fire platoons. O, the shock, when we cock! O, the falls of the Dragoons! Sometimes the thing will happen, The rear rides o’er the front; Myself, I once came slapping. And fell with such a dunt! I hate the gloom of Borthwick’s plume! There’s wisdom in my tune, “Make your will ere you drill, Each desperate Dragoon.” But O! the cup of blessing, That washes down our pain! I would not lose our messing, Though I must ride again. Care killed a cat, remember that, To-night enjoy your lunes: Fairly fill, deeply swill, Bellygerent Dragoons.

You Grand Old Man of England, So fond of felling trees. Ah, little did you think your Bill Would stir up such a breeze. Give ear unto your trusted friends, Who vainly try to show All their doubts and their fears, When your honeyed words do flow. Agelastes.

Ye barristers of England, Who live upon our pleas, How pleasant could you moderate Your too inflated fees; Give ear unto poor suitors, And you shall plainly know All their care and despair, As those fees so swiftly grow, &c. Nutshell.

Ye gentlemen of England, Who bat with “Grace” and ease, What think ye of Australian teams Arrived a’yont the seas? Be careful that the colonists Don’t make too great a show, For they play, everyday, In their island home below, &c. Crystal Palace.

Ye Liberals of England, Attention, if you please, Pray let me know which you prefer, My programme or J. C.’s. Give ear unto your Grand Old Man, And he will plainly show, ’Tis the cads, not the Rads, That are in the swim with Joe, &c. Mavis.

You gentlemen of England That live the fair to please, Ah, little do you think upon The fancies of the shes; Give ear unto the dressmakers, And they will plainly show, The dresses made with tears With dead birds in a row. J. McGregor Allan.

You noblemen of England, That boast of pedigrees, Ah! little do you think of those Who fare on bread and cheese. Give ear unto the people, For soon they mean to show They’re a power, in the hour When the Lords we overthrow, &c. W. Val English.

Ye Unionists of England. Ye Unionists of England, Who grace our native land, Whose Union Jack has braved so long The whole Gladstonian band. That glorious standard launch again To meet the Liberal foe, As you rave like the brave While you follow after “Joe!” The spirit of the Tories In every heart burns bright. Coercion is your field of fame, Obstruction your delight. The hatred of all Irishmen Your burning zeal shall fan, As you shout and you spout That you’ll crush the Grand Old Man. When Brand and noble Goschen fell Your Tory breasts still glow, As you stand at command Of your mighty leader “Joe.” The meteor flag of Brummagem Terrific still shall burn, Till Gladstone’s troubled course be run And Joseph’s star return. Pall Mall Gazette. June 16, 1887.

Ye Cricketers. Ye cricketers of England, That guard the timbers three; Whose game has brav’d a thousand years All other games that be! Your pliant willow grasp again To match another foe. As ye stand, bat in hand Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow. The spirit of your fathers, Look on from nook and shade; Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad, Peer forth from every glade. Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move Their spectres long to show How to stand, bat in hand, Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow. Long, long, on lawn of noble, And in the cottage field, This game of games to English hearts, Its healthy joys shall yield; And oft at eve, when stumps are drawn, The fragrant weed shall glow; As ye tell, how they fell, Where the ripping swift uns go; Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist Sends in his teazers slow.

The Cricketer. There’s a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and cot, ’Tis the first in boyhood’s happy years, in this our island plot. The stripling thinks himself a man, when once he owns a bat; A flush beams on his youthful brow when comrades vote for that. ’Tis a noble game, deny it who can! The pride of a fine young Englishman! ’Tis, &c. It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true, And trains our youth in nerve and eye—things well to keep in view; It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere, And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear, ’Tis a noble game, &c. There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to peer: Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer; Canada adds a loving word, America its praise, Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise. ’Tis a noble game, &c. To gallant South and noble North a welcome tribute bring Of Lillywhite, old Fuller, Mynn, this day, my boys, we sing; Still Parr and Daft are words that burn—W. G. the champion is; The Walkers, Littletons are grand! Whoever should them quiz. ’Tis a noble game, &c. ’Tis a noble land that bears such sons, who fight in love and peace. May concord, truth, and unity through all the world increase; May those who win and those who lose united ever be— Old England’s pride shall be, my boys, good cricketers to see. ’Tis a noble game, &c. Anonymous.

Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, All lonely, waiting here for you? While the stars above are brightly shining, Because they’ve nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you; But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, With their rosy faces wash’d with dew, Oh, Molly Bawn, &c. Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine; And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And may be you were made for mine; The wicked watch-dog here is snarling, He takes me for a thief you see; For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling, And then transported I should be. Oh, Molly Bawn, &c. Samuel Lover.

Oh! Molly, pawn without repining, That wedding-ring I gave to you, Where three gilt balls are brightly shining, Because they’ve customers to do. * * * * *

A Voice from Cannes. Oh, Robert Bawn, why leave me pining, Lone waiting here for news from you? With Leader now I’m idly dining, Because I’ve nothing else to do. The Whigs were into office creeping, We hear, to try a brush with you; But their nurse, Russell, set them sleeping, Their sanguine faces turn’d to blue. Oh, Robert Bawn, why leave me pining, &c. The pretty flowers were made to bloom, Bob; The pretty moon to wax and wane; A tidy wig was made for Brougham, Bob— Ah! cruel, was it made in vain? There’s wicked Campbell at me snarling; He takes me for a rat, you see: I wish you’d take me, Robert darling! Then ratified my hopes would be. Oh Robert, &c. Punch. 1846.

A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling, And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.” Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended the knee. “Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.” * * * * * Samuel Lover.

A woman half sleeping, o’er a window was peeping, For her husband had not come to dinner or tea: And the watchman was telling the hour that was knelling, And he cried, “Past eleven,” most vociferously. The hours while she number’d, her anger still slumber’d, And she thought where the deuce her wild husband could be! Oh! where is he snoring till this hour of the morning, Oh! I’m certain he can’t be in good companie. Sich hours to be keeping, is quite overleaping The bounds of decorum and all modesty; I think it is rather improper in a father, Who might sit quietly at home, in his wife’s companie. And five in the morning, saw Jenkins returning, And the wife gloom’d, her husband half-drunk for to see, And he, while undressing, his folly confessing, Cried, I’ll never take up with such bad companie. The Irish Comic Vocalist. 1862.

The Land of the West. O come to the Wild West, O come there with me, To see th’ exhibition of Buffalo B—, Where the fair ladies shoot at the glass balls up-thrown; O come to the wild west—and come not alone. I’ll treat you, I’ll show you the pictures, and best Of all, I will show you Bill Cody’s Wild West. The North has attractions, I do not deny; It’s Hampstead, its Hall, and its Palace on high. Let ’Arrys at Hampstead enjoy themselves best, The Indian location is down in the west. So go there with me, and it will be confessed, You’ll have fun for your money at Cody’s Wild West. The South has its Palace of Crystal, ’tis true; All sparkling in sunlight, and lamps not a few; Half greenhouse, half theatre, it hasn’t the zest, It’s right small potatoes compared to “Wild West.” So come to the “Yankeries”—Earl’s Court is best Place for a ticket—the Bully Wild West! From Max in the Metropolis. By Max P. Romer. 1887. George Routledge & Sons. London.

When first I saw the Emperor, ’Twas on the Ascot day. Beside our gracious Queen he sat, And chatted free and gay: And when the cup was won, they named The horse “The Emperor,” No compliment to the horse, we thought, But flattering to the Czar: The bullying northern Czar: The crazy northern Czar, As fast as that steed to run he’ll have need, When with us he goes to war. (Three verses omitted.)

Count O’Cavourneen, the bubble is breaking You’ve had the last scene, Solferino’s red hill, The cannons no longer the echoes are waking, Count O’Cavourneen, what, Minister still? O, hast thou forgot the diplomacy clever In which thou didst bear so distinguished a part, Thy vow to clear out all the Hapsbugs for ever? The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart. Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight; In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers, But Italy’s Hapsbugs continue to bite. Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle That fired all the pulses of Italy’s heart; And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle; Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman’s part. Shirley Brooks, 1859.

Kathleen Mavourneen. (Her Answer.) Oh! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking, To open the window would give me a chill, The lark—of last evening—has left my head aching, So don’t sing outside there, but let me lie still. My hair is in papers—three screws on each side, dear,— Not very romantic for lovers to see. The “Voice of your heart” has a thrifle of pride, dear, And that’s why I’m silent, which pray let me be. Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now; Don’t throw up the pebbles, you’ll break every pane; Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now, I’ll get very mad if you wake me again. It may be for five years, it may be eleven Or even fourteen, or for life we must part, But this is no reason to wake me at seven, So don’t come again, till I’ve made myself smart.

With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where’er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I’ve heard bells chiming, Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine; While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I’ve heard bells tolling Old “Adrian’s Mole” in And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o’er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There’s a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O! In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air, Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there is an anthem More dear to me— ’Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Rev. Francis Mahony (Father Prout).

In deep dejection, but with affection, I often think of those pleasant times In the days of “Frazer” ere I touched a razor, How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal, Of Water-grass Hill, O renowned P. P.—— May “The Bells of Shandon,” Toll blythe and bland on The pleasant waters of thy memory! Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, In this social city, have I heard since then— (With the glass before me, how the dream comes o’er me, Of those Attic suppers and those vanished men!) But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken. Or hath left a token of such joy in me, As “The Bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.” The songs melodious, which—a new Harmodius— “Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword; With their deep vibrations and aspirations, Fling a glorious madness o’er the festive board; But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee— Of the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There’s a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes, Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, And a white stone flashes o’er Goldsmith’s ashes, In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar; So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest, Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, While the bells of Shandon Shall sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. Denis Florence McCarthy.

“Frazer.”[75] Obit.—A.D. 1882. Oh, the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on, The pleasant waters of the river Lee, Ne’er tolled so sadly where once so gladly They pealed their merriest old “Yorke,” for thee, As when they laid thee with those that made thee Of “broths of boys” that blithest company, That round the table (while they were able) Of friendly Frazer held rare revelry. Eheu, fugaces! Their vacant places, Like empty tumblers tell of vanished glee, Of jokes and jokers now stiff as pokers, Of silent singers, shut-up repartee, Of wits phosphoric all dumb as “Yorick,” Fun, fire and fancy, and philosophy; With that rich cargo at Death’s embargo, The good ship “Frazer” ne’er more sails the sea. Ah! well they knew it (why did they do it?) Who spoilt the gallant rig we loved to see? That double column grown broad as solemn, The old brown coat turned modern filagree. Yet while there lingers of those sweet singers, That jovial crew still pleasant memory In mood as frisky, we’ll fill the whisky. And make sweet end in mirth and melody. Maclise’s pencil, that rare utensil, It gives those brave boys immortality, As still they’re sitting, the swift wit flitting, Like lightning forked round Frazer’s snuggery— Sage, singer, joker, from Crusty Croker, Gay Theodore, that “divil” for a spree, To th’ Reverend Barham (garter and star him!) The prince of ballad-singers, Ingoldsby. There’s the gentle Barry (Cornwall won’t marry With rhyme at all) famed for sweet minstrelsy, And that rare old thinker, the whisky drinker, Brave Father Prout—ould Irish Mahony, Blockhead and blockheart who loves not Lockhart, Singing the brave old song of chivalry; But of those brave brothers, above all others Bold Barry Lyndon! turn our hearts to thee. Eheu, fugaces! e’en younger faces No more will gather ’neath thy old roof-tree— Those “boys” so curly, the slashing “Shirley,” Hypatia’s hero, dull “A. K. H. B.” All—all are vanished, for ever banished From their old happy haunt of life and glee, But as sons to father come home, they’ll gather With joy to welcome, dear old “Frazer,” thee. Anonymous.

“The Bells I’ve Shamm’d On.”[76] The Bells I’ve Shamm’d on, This town so grand on, Have made me famous among greater names. Though silent swinging, Nor proudly ringing, They’ve sent no music over Father Thames. I’ve stood all tremblin’, ’Neath the vaulted Kremlin, While aisles vibrated with a solemn hum. But what’s all their mettle To Westminster’s kettle? That gave one bang out, and then was dumb. Men were well wearied Of chimes so varied, And longed some simple song to hear; And my cracked pitcher, If it were not richer, At least was newer to the world’s ear. 249 At midnight waking, And thro’ silence breaking, Some bells would seem a solemn sound to tell; A song of nations, In the deep vibrations, Sending the echo, thro’ many a far-off dell. But my harsh screamer, With the shrill cry of steamer, Awakes no memory of distant times, Nor rings a benizon, But the knell of Denison, Who first invented these cruel chimes.

Brian O’Lin had no coat to put on, He borrow’d a goat skin to make him a one, He planted the horns right under his chin, “They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Lin. &c. * * * * *

A New Irish Melody. (To an old Air, viz., “Brian O’Lin.”) Daniel O’Connell’d no mischief to brew, So he started Repeal just for something to do, And the watch-word like mad through Hibernia ran; “Och! the rint is a mighty fine income,” says Dan. Daniel O’Connell found nothing would do But to keep up a regular hullabaloo, Till he found himself frying like fat in a pan; “Faith, I’m thinking I’d like to be out on’t,” says Dan. Daniel O’Connell said rather too much, About blackguards, and tyrants, and Sassenachs, and such, Till the Government shut up the turbulent man; “Arrah! here’s a gintale situation,” says Dan. Daniel O’Connell had friends to his back, So he got out of prison again in a crack; And he now is exactly just where he began, “Arrah! What in the world will I do now,” says Dan. Punch. 1844.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom’s knell, A more able sportsman ne’er followed a hound Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open’d, with Tom near the wood, But he’d challenge the tone, and could tell if ’twere good; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheer’d up the pack, “Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark! High!—wind him! and cross him! Now, Ratler, boy!—Hark! * * * * * Andrew Cherry.

Pat Fagan. You all knew Pat Fagan, the labourer, well; The bell just done tolling, was poor Paddy’s knell: A more able hodsman can never be found, St. Giles’s well known to him every inch round. No pal that e’er cross’d him, whether little or big, But he’d challenge the boy, and flourish his sprig; And all with attention would eagerly fix, When they cheered up the boy with, “Paddy, more bricks! A little water!—more mortar! Below, Pat, below!” Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress’d, Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest; His hod, which he styled the best hod in the world, (On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that’s unfurled,) His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound, And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” sound; But no more, sure, the boys his loud “hollo” will fix, Nor the buildings resound with, “Paddy, more bricks! A little water!—more mortar! Hollo, Pat, hollo!” Thus Pat spoke, “My honies, now I give up de ghost, I hope of my death you’ll all make de most; One favour I’ll ask—the same I will crave— Kick a thundering big row up, now, over my grave; And, unless I jump up and flourish my sprig, My boys, you’ll conclude I’m as dead as a pig!” Honest Pat was obey’d—the howls rent the sky, And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” cry. “Hubbaboo!—philliloo! Arrah, my darling, why did you die? Och, murder!—Pat, come back!” Anonymous.

Wade’s Version. Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale Must be told by the light of the moon, In the grove at the end of the vale. O remember! be sure to be there; For though dearly the moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of thine eyes. Then meet me by moonlight alone. Daylight was made for the gay, For the thoughtless, the heartless, the free! But there’s something about the moon’s ray That is dearer to you, love, and me. Oh! be sure to be there, for I said I would show to the night-flowers their queen. Nay, turn not aside that sweet head— ’Tis the fairest that ever was seen. Then meet me by moonlight alone.

Abbé de Prout. Viens au bosquet, ce soir, sans témoin, Dans le vallon, au clair de la lune; Ce que l’on t’y dira n’a besoin Ni de jour ni d’oreille importune. Mais surtout rends-toi là sans faillir, Car la lune a bien moins de lumière Que l’amour n’en sçait faire jaillir De ta languissante paupière. Sois au bosquet au clair de la lune. Pour les cœurs sans amour le jour luit, Le soleil aux froids pensers préside; Mais la pale clarté de la nuit Favorise l’amant et le guide. Les fleurs que son disque argentin Colore, en toi verront leur reine. Quoi! tu baisses ce regard divin, Jeune beauté, vraiment souveraine? Rends-toi là donc au clair de la lune. Francis S. Mahony.

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone? Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone. * * * * * Charles Lever.

Larry O’Toole. You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by— Och, murther, but that was a jew’l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O’Toole. ’Twas he was the boy didn’t fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any strong dhrink, Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale; I’m bail This Larry would swallow a pail. Och, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I’ve sot cheek by jowl; He’s gone to his rest, Where there’s dhrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For ’twas he made the noggin to rowl. W. M. Thackeray.

Nordisa. Did you hear of Nordisa’s first night? A sight! “Old Drury” choke full. First Act bright And light. The Second was dull, But it wasn’t a mull, As an Avalanche put it all right, We quite Screamed de Gus-tibus Harris in fright! The Third Act took place in a serre, Plants rare! The Avalanche had arrived there, You stare? And the storm being strong, Took Nordisa along, And carried her in ’twixt the pair Who were Being married! Oh my! What a scare! Then Oscar (M’Guckin), in throes Soon shows His heart is less false than his nose (I knows), Miss Burns becomes riled, And this makes Oscar wild, Reparation Nordisa he owes For woes He has caused, so he turns to propose. Then enter old man with a crook, Or hook, He’s hither “conducted by Cook” (Aynsley Cook). He says Nordi’s mother, Was some swell or other. Perhaps she’s the heiress of Snook— I’ll look, But I do not see this in the book. Punch. May 14, 1887.

From Brest in the Bay of Biskey, We come for de very fine whisky, To make de Jacobin friskey, While Erin may go bray. We have got de mealy potato From de Irish democrato, To make de Jacobin fat, O, While Erin may go bray. I get by de guillotine axes, De wheats and de oats, and de flaxes, De rents, and de tydes, and de taxes, While Erin may go bray. I put into requisition, De girl of every condition, For Jacobin coalition, And Erin may go bray. De linen I get in de scuffle, Will make de fine shirt to my ruffle, While Pat may go starve in his hovel, And Erin may go bray. Fitzgerald and Arter O’Connor, To Erin have done de great honour, To put me astride upon her, For which she now does bray. 251 She may fidget and caper and kick, O, But by de good help of Old Nick, O, De Jacobin ever will stick, O, And Erin may go bray.

The Shan Van Voght.[77] Oh! the French are on the sea, Says the Shan Van Voght; The French are on the sea, Says the Shan Van Voght; Oh! the French are in the Bay, They’ll be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Voght. Oh! the French are in the Bay,[78] They’ll be here by break of day, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Voght. And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Voght; Where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Voght; On the Curragh of Kildare, The boys they will be there With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Voght. To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, Says the Shan Van Voght. Then what will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Voght; What will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Voght; What should the yeomen do, But throw oft the red and blue, And swear that they’ll be true To the Shan Van Voght? What should, &c. And what colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Voght; What colour will they wear? Says the Shan Van Voght; What colour should be seen Where our Fathers’ homes have been, But their own immortal Green? Says the Shan Van Voght. What colour, &c. And will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Voght; Will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Voght; Yes! Ireland SHALL be free, From the centre to the sea; Then hurra for Liberty! Says the Shan Van Voght. Yes! Ireland, &c.

“Into Parliament you’ll go, (meaning O’Connell,) says the Shan Van Voght, To extricate our woe, says the Shan Van Voght; Our foes you will amaze, And all Europe you will plaze; And ould Ireland’s now at aise, Says the Shan Van Voght. “Our worthy brave O’Connell, says the Shan Van Voght, To have you in we’re longing, says the Shan Van Voght; Sure you we well have tried, And you’re always at our side, And you never took a bribe, Says the Shan Van Voght.”

Jan Van Beers. There’s a Dutchman in the town, Says the Jan Van Beers; There’s a Dutchman in the town; Though he’s more than half a clown, Still folks pay their shillings down, Says the Jan Van Beers. Oh! what should the English do? Says the Jan Van Beers; What should the English do, But admire my red and blue, And swear that I’m “too too!” Says the Jan Van Beers. And shall not Artists kneel? Says the Jan Van Beers. No! Artists will not kneel, But express contempt they feel For your incense and pastille, Mister Jan Van Beers.

The Parliamentary Ballyhooly, A Parody of “Ballyhooly.” There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy, But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me. He often takes command in a fury-spouting band Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army. At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare, 252 A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly, It is catching, I’m afraid, for when he is on parade There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.” Chorus. Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know, Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me, Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate, In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army. The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control, Discussion takes a most extinded radius, It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer. But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.” And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way, That is in being ructious and unruly, If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight, Faith, they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.” Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c. They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State, Which one and all they do their best to injure; I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer, And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger. The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own The young Tories are as noisy and unruly, And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.” Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c. There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long, Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun. It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,” As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription. You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot, Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly; For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt, Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.” Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c. Punch. August 13, 1887.

Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing; But now I mourn that e’er I knew— A girl so fair and so deceiving! Few have ever loved like me,— Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e’er deceived like thee,— Alas! deceived me too severely! * * * * * Thomas Moore

Lines to Mary. O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew— That you were taken up for thieving! Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported! But then to gaze on that fair face— It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace— And Flints had suffered from your stealing. Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammered out a word, How could I dream you’d heard a sentence? Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction? How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand—where I have looked and lingered; Altho’ it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered? In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my Muse delighted; Alas! the lay, I thought, was new, Spoke only what had been indicted! Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too! You said you picked me from the world— My vanity it now must shock it, And down at once my pride is hurled, You’ve picked me—and you’ve picked a pocket? Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Doctor Daly, Who asked if there was any bar— Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey”? But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with Darbies! And when the parson came to say My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honour and obey, Who could have thought—“O Bay of Botany!” But, oh!—the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover— That down in Deptford’s prison ships, O Mary! you’ve a hulking lover! Thomas Hood.

Plain Cold Water. The days are gone when claret bright Inspired my strain, When I sang on every festive night About champagne. Prime thirty-four in floods may pour, And glasses gaily clatter. But there’s nothing half so safe to drink As plain cold water. 253 Though the bard may make a greater noise Over his wine, When with other Bacchanalian boys He chances to dine. Yet if he wake, with a headache, And wonders what’s the matter, He learns there’s nought so safe to drink As plain cold water. There’s Doctor Hassall, he proclaims That water’s full Of curious brutes, with curious names In every pool. Now you will see that this must be A most important matter, For it’s clear there’s meat as well as drink In plain cold water. Professor Clarke, of Aberdeen, Says chalk is there, And Monsieur Chatin, iodine Finds everywhere. If this be true, ’tis clear to you It’s just so much the better, For there’s meat and drink, and physic too, In plain cold water.

Horatii Rosarum. Eheu rosarum floruit ultima! Vel mille nuper cincta sororibus, At nunc amicarum cohorti Floribus et sociis superstes! Nec una mansit conscia quæ propé Suspiriorum suavë olentium, Suspiret ultro—quæ rubenti Erubeat, pia frons, vicissim. Non te relinquam stemmate, lugubre. Quæ singulari fers caput, unica! Iere dormitùm sodales, Tu ceteris comes ito—dormi! Sparsis amicà sic foliis manu, Finire tristes pergo tibi moras; Siccis odoratas per hortum Frondibus i superadde frondes. Et mi sit olim sors eadem, precor! Quando sodales, quæque micantia, Ornant amicorum coronam Gemmata, depereunt—perire! Abrepta fato dissociabili Quando tot eheu! corda jacent humi Quis poscat annos? vita talis Nonne foret mera solitudo? Father Prout.

The First Rose of Summer. ’Tis the first rose of summer, I saw it come out, Its arrival I hailed with a rapturous shout. I took off my hat (for politeness I’m famed), And striking an attitude, thus I exclaimed:— “Oh! clear first rose of summer, it gladdens my heart, To behold thee thus lovely and bright, as thou art; I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed me, Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee. “But thou hast no cough, I may fairly suppose, Such as I had all winter, delectable rose— A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear; And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear! “I’ll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree, Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me. This summer’s the last that will ever be thine, And I somehow believe ’tis the last, too, of mine. Judy.

The Last “Quid.” ’Tis the last “quid” of many Left sadly alone, All its golden companions Are changed, and are gone; No coin of its kindred, No “fiver” is here, To burn in tobacco, Or melt into beer. I’ll not leave thee, thou last one, All lonely to pine, As the others have left thee,— Go seek them in wine. Thus kindly I scatter Thy shillings away, Like those of thy comrades, To moisten my clay. So soon as I’ve changed thee To silver, alas! It flies like the sparkle Of froth in the glass; I’ll seek, when I’ve spent thee— If credit’s not flown— What’s hard to obtain in This bleak world-a loan! Fun. July 20, 1887.

The Last Fly. ’Tis the last fly of summer Left buzzing alone, All its club-footed comrades Have buzzed and passed on. No remnant pestiferous Save this one is nigh, To tickle our proboscis, Or bob in our eye. I’ll not leave thee, old buzzer, To feast upon me— Take that, thou tormentor— To other lands flee. It is folly to spare thee Swear words to maintain, When the mates of thy raidin’ Stick flat on the pane. Sound, sound, shall we slumber, When thou art away— When the bedroom is quiet In cool of the day. 254 Really, all things considered, Both beauty and tone. We’d much rather inhabit This queer world alone. William Lyle.

Those Bicycles. Those bicycles, those bicycles! How merry a tale their image tells, Of youth and health, and that fleet time When last I heard their whistle’s chime. Those boyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay, Out of or in town darkly dwells, And rides not now those bicycles. Again ’twill be—they are not gone; That gleeful wheel will still roll on, While I help bards to wire their shells And sing your praise, fleet bicycles. From Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.

Strong and Sure. Strong and sure were the skates she wore, And a neat little hat on her head she bore; But, oh! her grace, so wondrous that, Beyond her skates, or her dainty hat. “Lady! dost thou not fear to rink, So hard is the ground should’st thou chance to sink? Are Plimpton’s skates of so great renown As not to be tempted to let you down?” “Nay, nay! I feel not the least alarm, No skate of Plimpton’s will bring me to harm: Though at night I love dancing on polish’d floor, By day—I love skating and rinking more.” On she went, and her magic skill Guided her safely without a spill; And happy are they who trust their fates To Plimpton’s rollers and Plimpton’s skates.

On an Unanswered Letter. I knew by the dirt that so greasefully lined All its corners and sides, that an answer was due; And I said if a sheet in my desk I can find, My pen that is ready shall fill it for you.

The Temple Bar Memorial Obstruction. Where stood the Bar, we’re building love, A something all stone, and some gilding, love, Ah! the best of all ways Can be stopped up by drays, When we steal a few feet from the road, my love. Punch. October 9, 1880.

Oh, there is not in nature A bliss so complete As the first glass of toddy— Strong, smoking, and sweet. All care it dispels, Drives blue devils away, ’Tis the first glass of toddy, That makes our hearts gay.

Oft in the chilly night, Ere solar rays had bound us, Have we for heat cried out With blankets all around us. But now when Sol has got the call To dry us up like leather. We sigh for ice, with breezes nice, And civil-service weather.

A Balfour Ballad. Air—“The Young May Moon.” Most Irish questions are about A Peeler, a Pauper, or Carman, O! They’re quite beneath me, As Chief Se-cre-ta-ree— I hand ’em all o’er to King-Harman, O!

The publican on his raid has gone. All over the land you’ll find him; A bottle of Bass he has girded on, And a barrel is slung behind him. “Oh, drink divine,” said Boniface, “What though teetotallers make thee A thing of scorn and of black disgrace, I never will forsake thee!” He did not fall, for Common Sense Soon brought the enemy under, And the bottle of Bass we Britons dense Refused to smash asunder. Sir Wilfred—well, he looked quite demure, For, fallen out of favour, he Was shown that we Britons will not endure Stern prohibition’s slavery. Judy. July, 1887.

The Militiaman. The militia man to parade is gone, In single file you’ll find him; The Albert hat he was fain to don, His blunt spade left behind him. “Land of wheat,” said the warrior-clod, “Tho’ Sir Robert now neglect thee, One bayonet still upholds the sod, One plough-boy will ‘protect’ thee.” * * * * * From Mephystopheles. February 28, 1846.

255 The Row. I knew by the noise that I heard all around In the street where I was, that a row it was near; And I said, “If there’s fun this good night to be found, As I love it so dearly, I shall sure find it here.” Every tongue seem’d employ’d, and the row did increase, Whilst the Charleys their rattles so cheerily spring. I hopp’d into the crowd, the news for to catch, But scarcely had open’d my mouth to inquire, When a rascally thief made off with my watch, Tript my heels, and so laid me flat down in the mire. The watchmen surrounded, and bore me away, And in limbo was kept till the dawn of next day. To the justice they took me, to tell my sad tale, Who ask’d me what in defence I’d to say, I told him that rogues in the crowd did assail, Used my person quite ill, and my watch bore away. He looking quite grim, bade me good hours keep, Pay a shilling—and go to my home with all speed.

The Cook Shop. I knew by the smoke that so greasefully curl’d, From a kitchen below that a cook-shop was near, And I said if a gorge’s to be found in the world, The man that is hungry might hope for it here. Ev’ry plate was at rest, And I heard not a sound, But the knives and forks rattling, Sweet music for me. And here in this snug little box would I sit, With a joint that was lovely to nose and to view, With a sirloin of beef, a turkey and chine, How bless’d could I live, and how calm could I dine. Ev’ry plate, &c.

“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef, I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone. I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in; Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin; I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed, I took up a poker and flung it at his head.”

Taffy is a Welshman: Taffy’s not a thief; Taffy’s mutton’s very good, Not so good his beef: I went to Taffy’s house, Several things I saw, Cleanliness and godliness, Obedience to the law. If Taffy rides to my house, Or unto Pat’s doth swim, I think my Taffy will remark That we might learn of him. He does not drink, my Taffy, (Not leastwise as a rule); He goes to chapel regular, And sends his boys to school; He dresses well on Sunday, His family the like; He’s not too fond of over-work, But seldom cares to strike; He never lurks behind a hedge To pay his rent with slugs. Up craggy hills of steep incline His garden mould he lugs; And there he grows his garden, His cabbages and leeks; His kids get green meat in their mouths, And roses in their cheeks. Taffy is a Welshman, And glories in the name, To laugh at which enjoyment Appears to me a shame. You compliment the Scotchman Who talks of Bruce and Burns; You tolerate the Irishman Who vaunts ancestral Kerns; You’re nuts on your own pedigree, Won’t call it English, fair, But prate of “Anglo-Saxons,” Till Reviewers nearly swear. Why shouldn’t gallant Taffy Have his relics and his bones, Llewelyns and Cadwallos, And Griffyevanjones? To say nothing of the question Whether Taffy’s mother-tongue Wasn’t quite a fine old 256 When all of ours were young. He says he has good poets, Leave him his own opinion: You like obscure old ballads, And Taffy likes Englynion. Pray are not “moel,” “afon,” And “Morwyns” (pretty rogues), At least as good as “birks” and “braes,” “Mavourneens,” “Arrah Pogues!” By all Nantfrancon’s Beavers, Of the pre-historic age; By Aberglaslyn’s hoary bridge, And the Swallow’s roaring rage; By the trout of Capel Curig, By Carnarvon’s Eagled Tower, The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch, And the frown of Penmaenmawr; By yon lonely Puffin Island, And the monster head of Orme, The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh, Llanberis, Pass of Storm; By the magic bridge of Bangor, Hung awful in the sky, By the grave at sweet Beddgelert, Where the Martyr-hound doth lie; By the lightnings that on Snowdon Glint, the jewels of his crown, Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right, And never be put down. If all Victoria’s subjects Were half as good as thou, Victoria’s subjects would kick up Uncommon little row. And Punch, Incarnate Justice, Intends henceforth to lick All who shall scorn or sneer at you, You jolly little Brick! Shirley Brooks.

Cymro ydyw Taffy, Lladratta byth ni wna; Mae mutton Taffy’n gampus, Nid yw ei biff mor dda. Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy, I wel’d ei ddull o fyw— Mae’n lân a duwiol yn ei dy, I’r gyfraith ufudd yw, Os merchyg Taffy yma, At Pat os nawf y lli, Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef Fod ganddo wers i ni: Nid ydyw Taffy’n yfed. Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant, I’r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn, I’r ysgol gyr ei blant; Ymwisga ’n hardd y Sabbath, A’i deulu yr un modd; Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith, A strike ni fyn o’i fodd; Ni lecha byth tu ol i’r gwrych, I dalu ei rent a phlwm; Mae’n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith I fyny’r llechwedd llwm; Ac yno tyf ei foron, A’i genin yn ei ardd. Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau ’i blant, A gwrid i’w gruddiau hardd. Cymro ydyw Taffy, A dyna’i fynych fost, Ymddengys gwawdio’r fath fwynhâd, I mi’n gywilydd tost: Canmolwch yr Ysgotyn Am son am Bruce a Burns; A goddef wnewch i’r Gwyddel tlawd Ymffrostio ’n nheulu Kerns; Ni fynwch chwithau chwaith, Eich galw ’n Saeson teg, Ond dwndro am “Anglo-Saxons” wnewch, Nes peri i ddyn roi rheg. Pa’m na chaiff Taffy ddewrwych Am ei hynafiaid son— Caswallon a Charadoc fawr. A Gryffydd Ifan Shon? Heb son dim oll am holi, Allasai ’i famiaith fod Yn hen iaith bur y pryd nad oedd Ein holl rai ni mewn bod. Mae’n d’weyd fod ganddo brif-feirdd, Boed iddo ’i farn ar hyn; Hen gerddi tywyll hoffwch chwi, Englynion yntau fyn. Ai nid yw “moel,” ac “afon,” “Morwynion” (hudol rôgs), Yn llawn mor dda a “birks,” a “braes,” “Mavourneens,” “Arrah pôgs?” Yn enw efeingc gwylltion Nantffrancon oes a fu, Y bont ar Aberglaslyn, A’r Wennol groch ei rhu, Britbylliaid Capel Curig, Twr Eryr Arton hen. Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr, A Than y Bwlch a’i wên; Yn enw Ynys Seiriol, A’r Gogarth erch ei drwyn; Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd, Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn; Yn enw Crog-bont Menai, Sy’n hongian yn y nen; Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi A’r garnedd uwch ei ben, Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa, Sy’n euro ei goron fawr. Sa ’i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl, Na’th fwrier byth i lawr, Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug Yn hanner mor ddi fai, Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith Yn llawer iawn yn llai; Mae Punch, y Barnwr Cyfiawn, Am roddi curfa ci I bawb ro’nt ddirmyg it’ rhagllaw Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.

Bouncer was a welsher, Bouncer was a thief, I won a bet of Bouncer, And came to awful grief. When I went to Bouncer, He said he hadn’t bet it, Put his thumb up to his nose, And wished that I might get it.

257 Term Commences. On by the love of costs we’re goaded— “Term” begins then mischief’s boded, For we’ve hearts as hard as steel What care we for wrong or right, When we hold a client tight, Or the least compunction feel! Like serpents now, we’re slyly creeping, Then on our prey like tigers leaping. In a twinkling we garotte him— No escape when so we’ve got him. While on him there is a stopper, We clean him out of every copper. Stick unto him till we bag All he has to the last mag; His body then, by way of ransom, We seize and squeeze out something handsome. Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring— In our charges fast keep pouring; Actions ne’er by us are stayed. Ours is a safe and thriving trade; To the Law Courts let’s away, Expenses call and we obey.

The Tory March. With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, and dancing, Lying speeches, vain romancing, See the boastful foe advancing Onward to the fray. Banners now are gaily streaming! In Liberal colours falsely gleaming, Hoping by thus meanly scheming, Yet to win the day. Jingo shouts are hoarsely braying, Brazen trumpets loudly playing, High-toned churchmen warmly praying For Tory victory. Like the ass in olden fable, Clothed in lion’s skin unstable, They can but bray (to roar unable) Of Tory liberty! Turn from them with loathing, Contempt and anger both in, And ever they Will rue the day They dressed in Liberal clothing; Honest truth will overcome them, The stolen skin will not become them, So tear the lion’s covering from them, And show the ass beneath. Songs for Liberal Electors. 1885.

Liberal Marching Song. Brothers, up, to win new glory, That shall brighten future story, Sweeping off abuses hoary, Shaping righteous laws; To the Ballot early go, men; That we mean to conquer, show, men; Well, we vote to win, we know, men For the good old cause. For ourselves we’re fighting, The people nobly righting; Quick, come all, at Freedom’s call, To do her will delighting. On, your Blue to victory bearing: Nought for all their vauntings caring: For the Right all dangers daring— Better lives and laws. W. C. Bennett.

(Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.) Shall I like a hermit dwell, On a rock or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel-gold[79] If a stranger may be bold Unrebuked, unafraid To convert them to a braid; And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, too; If the mine be grown so free What care I how rich it be? Were her hands as rich a prize As her hairs or precious eyes; If she lay them out to take Kisses for good manners’ sake; And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she be not chaste to me What care I how chaste she be? No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show, Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot; Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate’er she be!

Shall I, Wasting in Despair. (George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.) Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow’ry meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Should my heart be grieved or pined ’Cause I see a woman kind Or a well disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget my own 258 Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? ’Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo; And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne’er the more despair. If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? From “The Mistress of Philarete,” published in 1622.

Song. Mr. Gladstone. Shall my heart be filled with care ’Cause the Whigs are so unfair? Or, their services to keep, Shall I sacrifice my sleep? Or, lest they offence may take, My great measures weaker make? If they are not true to me, What care I what Whigs they be. ’Cause they show such self-conceit, Shall I risk severe defeat? Or, in their good books to stay, Scare good Radicals away? Tho’ their talent be as great As they never fail to state, Yet, if they are not with me, What care I what Whigs they be? They have duped me far too long, Threatening they were very strong, Now I know they are at best Fossils of no powers possest, And methinks they soon will find I am neither weak nor blind. If their heats beat not for me, What care I what Whigs they be? They have thwarted me enough, Tried to hinder and rebuff; Why should I reward them, then, To the loss of better men; Better far to let them go, And become an open foe! If they will not work with me, They may Tories be for me! Truth. Christmas number 1882.

Matilda. Shall I fret and fume and swear, Because Matilda dyes her hair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, That hers so very rosy are? Though her raven locks to-day Turn as yellow as the hay, If she be but true to me, What care I how blonde she be! Shall a woman’s weakness move Me such weakness to reprove? Or her little failings known Make me careless of my own? Though her bills be longer than Bill of duck or pelican, If they be not paid by me, What care I how long they be? If her youth be left behind, Shall I play the fool and mind? She must be, the women say, Forty-five if she’s a day— But I swear she looks no more, At the most, than forty-four: If she’s young enough for me, What care I how old she be? Be she painted, fast, or old— Be she flirt, or rake, or scold— She has cash enough to make Me submissive for her sake: If she loose her money, though, I can scorn and let her go; If in poverty she be, She may go to Bath for me!

Come, switch with me, my cockney Love, And we will all the pleasures prove Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands, And strains of military bands. And we will, sitting on the car, Where other nymphs and shepheards are, Shoot up and down, in rise and fall, With catch (of breath) for madrigal. My manly arm about thy waist, For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced; Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear The latest thing from Swan and Edgar. My checks, my tie, my gilded studs, Will vanquish all the rival “bloods.” So, if such pleasures may thee move, Come, switch with me, my cockney Love. The Globe. September 19, 1887.

Shepheard, an I were sweet seventeen, And thou wert green and I were green, 259 These pretty pleasures might me move To switch with thee, my cockney Love. But hills and valleys have their fears For maidens of discreeter years; And nymphs when they have had their tea Like to digest it quietlie. These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots; And where in flowering Arcadee Flow founts of Sal Volatile? Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud, Stir no bold humours in my blood; And nothink, ’Arry, can me move To switch with thee, my cockney Love. The Globe. September 20, 1887.

After Herrick. (Upon seeing her picture in profile.) I die If I but spy One eye; Yet would I fain See twain. (Upon receiving the same in a full view.) In profile ’Twas vile; But in th’ obverse ’Tis worse. Ernest Radford.

Cats’ meat, cats’ meat—meat I cry On a skewer—come and buy; From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall, All the year I cats’ meat bawl; Cats’ meat—cats’ meat—meat, I cry, On a skewer—come and buy. From The Book of Cats, by C. H. Ross. 1868.

The Whip’s Song. (After Ben Jonson.) Come to my lobby with thy vote, And give it in with mine; Or pair with one who’d vote against, And I’ll not ask for thine. Divisions thus will make us still More closely link’d as friends, And when our party is in place, You may attain your ends. I sent thee late a three-lined whip, And posted it to thee, In hopes that ere the House was made, It might deliver’d be. But thou didst never come that night Nor wrote a line to me! Do this again my friend, I swear, I’ll make it hot for thee. C. H. Waring.

Of the Genders of Nouns. Air—“Here’s to the Maiden of bashful fifteen.’ All names of the male kind you masculine call, Ut sunt (for example), Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, the deities all, And Cato, Virgilius, virorum. Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore, Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er. Fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes likewise, Fine rivers in ocean that lost are, And Mensium—October an instance supplies; Ventorum, ut Libs, Notus, Auster. Latin’s a bore, and bothers me sore, Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o’er.

This bottle’s the sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine: We, planets that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound! You’ll soon grow bright With borrowed light, And shine as he goes round. R. B. Sheridan.

The Light of the Stud. Bicycle’s the sun of our stable, His beams the spokes so fine; We planets that so are able With him to roll and shine. Let circling mirth abound; We’ll all grow bright With borrowed light, And shine as he goes round. From Lyra Byclica, by Joseph G. Dalton, Boston. 1885.