WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 13)

My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye! Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingèd speed; I may not mount on thee again!—thou’rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof—snuff not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold:— Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell!—thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold! Farewell!—Those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger’s home; Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare: That silky mane I braided once, must be another’s care. The morning sun shall dawn again—but never more with thee Shall I gallop o’er the desert paths where we were wont to be— Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go; the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master’s home, from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud, dark eye shall glow less proud, thy step become less fleet. And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master’s hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright— Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I startling wake, to feel thou’rt sold, my Arab steed. Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side, And the rich blood that’s in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein! Will they ill-use thee?—if I thought—but no,—it cannot be; Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;— And yet if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return? “Return!”—alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master do, When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot alone, Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by the green well, I’ll pause, and sadly think,— “’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.” When last I saw thee drink!—Away! the fevered dream is o’er! I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more; They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong— They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false! ’tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus—thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains! Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains. Hon. Mrs. Norton.

The Dying Vendor of Vegetables to his Palfrey of Jerusalem. Where art thou now? where art thou now? my beautiful, my bold; And shall they take thee far away to green-yards to be sold? O rather let them take the bed, where now, alas! I lie, Than seize on thee, for debt or rent, my beautiful—my shy! They tell me they’ll take care of thee—I know what ’tis they mean, A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops between. O no! it shall not be thy fate, I’d rather, ere I part, Plunge deep, my mild and patient ass, this pitchfork to thy heart! Nay, do not turn aside thy nose, and shake thine honest ear, Thy master’s sense is wandering, but thou’st no cause to fear; But let me give thee one embrace, ere from the world I go. There! there! nay, do not shrink from me, my terrified—my slow! Thou’st drawn with me, boy, many a year, the cart along the streets:— Put thine hoof on thy master’s heart—thou feelest how it beats. But Oh, thine eyes benevolent, my anguish’d feelings lull. Farewell, my Jackass!—Oh! farewell—my beautiful! my dull!! Punch. May 27, 1843.

A Traveller’s Farewell to his Train. (Which he thinks he has missed while lunching at York.) My railway train, my railway train, that stoodst all steaming by, With thy paraffin and oily lamps and one red gleaming eye. Thou goest to fly along the line with all thy wheelèd speed; I cannot ride in thee again—I’m sold, I am indeed! Puff not with that impatient blast; cleave not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind: The driver tends thy furnace fires; the “clerk” he hath my gold; Swift wheeled and punctual, farewell!—I’m sold, my train, I’m sold! 261 Farewell! Those swift and tyred wheels full many a mile must glide To reach old Scotland’s bonnie moors and heather’d mountain side; Some other man more fortunate must occupy my seat, The corner place I sat in once must be another’s treat. The morning sun will dawn again, but not again with thee Shall I ride along the iron rails where thou art wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o’er the grassy plain Some other train with slower wheels will bear me on again. Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the autumn sun and sky, Thy terminus—to all of these my punctual one must fly. The “ticket-man” will go his rounds, and vainly seek my “tip,” And vainly will he ply his punch my ticket then to clip. Only in sleep shall I behold that red eye gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that whistle shrill at night; And when I rouse my dreaming brain to wonder at thy speed, Then must I starting wake, to feel—I’m sold, my train, indeed. Ah now, indeed, uncared by me, some fireman’s hand may “stoke,” Till steam wreaths mix like driven snow among the blackening smoke, And the fierce fire that is in thee burns with increasing flare Till careless eyes which rest on thee may wonder at the glare. Wilt thou return here? If I thought—but no, it cannot be— Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so punctual “to a T”! And though most surely now thou’rt gone my lonely heart will yearn, Yet the man who loses thee cannot command thee to return. Return! alas, my railway train, what shall this traveller do Now thou, who wert his travelling home, has vanished from his view? When the dim distance cheats my eye, and through my gathering tears Thy bright light for a moment like a Will-o’-the-wisp appears, By parliamentary slow, alas, I now must travel on Where with thy speed and joyous shriek rejoiced I should have gone; But, sitting down on yon platform, I now in vain must grunt, “It was here he blew his whistle shrill, when last I saw him shunt!” “When last I saw him shunt!” Away! The foolish dream is o’er; I see that thou art shunting still, and here thou art once more. They tempted me, my railway train, for hunger’s power is strong; They tempted me, my railway train! I near had gorged too long! Who said that I had lost the train? Who said that thou wast gone? ’Tis false—’tis false, my railway train; I still shall travel on. Thus, thus, I leap into my seat, and my good fortune bless; Who overtakes us now must beat a G. N. R. express! W. G. McMillan.

The Horse and his Master. (A panegyric.) My—anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by, “Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye. Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed; I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed. Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind; The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind. The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told; I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I’m sold! I’m sold! To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me. Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee? ’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain; I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow step, to some “bait stables” plain (When a horse-dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears, A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears); And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink. Here—what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink, pretty (?) creature, drink! Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er; I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more. I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong, They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long! Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old? Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal’d. Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main The asphalte! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain. Philip F. Allen.

The Cabby’s Farewell to his Beer. My pewter full, my pewter full, that stands untasted by, With thy amber hue, and odour sweet, and froth heaped up so high, Fret though I may to taste thee now, howe’er I feel inclined, I may not drink of thee again—I’ve signed the pledge, I’ve signed. I fret not ’neath this cosy roof, snug near the taproom fire; The further thou art from me now, the more is my desire. The landlord hath thee still his own, and “cabby” hath his gold. Beer! yes, my pewter full, farewell, to me thou art not sold. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more for thee Shall I leave my “hansom” in the “stand” to get some stout and B; Evening shall darken o’er the “pub” and o’er it’s sandy floor; Some other “cove” may take my seat behind the taproom door, When a short distance cheats my “fare,” then through the gathering crowd I see the flash of pewter pots, and hear men singing loud; And sitting on my cab again, I pause and sadly think, “It was here I nearly broke my neck when last I had a drink.” When last I had a drink! Away! the temp’rance dream is o’er; 262 I cannot live a day and know I ain’t to drink no more. Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, for habit’s power is strong; Thou’st tempted me, my pewter full, and I have drunk too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said thou wert not sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false; here, guv’nor, come and change us this ’ere gold. Thus, thus I give my lips a smack, and call for number two; Who tries to make me sign again shall have enough to do! George R. Gallaher.

The Bicyclist’s Farewell to his Steed. My bicycle, my bicycle, that crouchest weakly by, With thy proudly arched backbone a wreck, thy spokes all bent awry, Though not of late untreasured, now I swear, I do indeed, If any man says one pound ten, thou art sold, my iron steed. Straight shot right o’er thy patent head, my spill no easy kind, All smashed and low thou liest now: I’m sore before—behind. A stranger who’ll the trifle pay right fain would I behold, And then, my bicycle, farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold. Farewell! this knee, these tired limbs full many a mile must roam To reach the railway—then, oh my! where’s cash to take me home? Some other plan must I contrive ere I to bed repair (My silver watch, paraded once, is in another’s care). The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more, ah me! Shall I whirl upon my bicycle through tollgates running free. Evening shall darken on the earth, and over hill and plain, While I must needs with weary step slow tramp it home again. Yes, I must go, though barked my knees, a bump above my eye; Although I’m lame and scarce can wheeze, I yet to trudge must try. My big black eye will grow more black, more tired become my feet, And vainly shall I stretch my legs thy treadles’ whirl to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold thy smart lamp gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again thy bell’s tinck-tinckling light, And when I move my dreaming arm to brake thy gathering speed, Then must I starting wake to wish thou wert sold, my iron steed. Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some traveller may deride On finding here thy rusted frame upon this lone way-side, While paraffin, that tear-like wells slow through thy lamp’s cracked pane, His careless nose will so surprise that on he’ll start again. Will folks ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, that couldn’t be; Thou art so smashed, howe’er disturb’d, no harm can come to thee. And yet, if haply when I’m gone for thee again I yearn, Could the man who rode thee gaily here remount thee to return? Return, alas! My iron steed, what can thy master do But leave thee here and limp along till home appears in view? When the long distance tires me I will rest while fancies queer, Thy bright form will restore, and thou’lt a new machine appear. Slow and unmounted must I go with weary foot alone, Where with fleet wheels fast whirling round thou once did’st bear me on; And sitting down in some hotel I o’er my beer will think, I nearly broke my blessed neck when last I rode full clink. When last I rode full clink! Away! the fever’d dream is o’er; I could not live a day and know that thee I’d mount no more, I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, for solder’s sometimes strong; I’ll tinker thee, my bicycle, perchance thou’lt serve me long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said I wished thee sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed; I wouldn’t have their gold. Thus, thus I’ll heap upon my back thy battered, bulged remains; Away! who from me takes thee now gets little for his pains! S. T. A. N. From One and All. November 8, 1879.

The Cyclist’s Farewell to his Steed. My beautiful, my bicycle! that standest patient by, With thy proudly arched and glossy back, ’twould please a critic’s eye, Fret not to roam the country o’er with all thy willing speed, I may not mount on thee again—thou’rt sold, my iron steed. Fret not; thy modern Stanley head, held high in breezy ind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy handling now, thy master hath his gold— To thee, my bicycle, farewell,—thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold. Farewell; from me those wired wheels full many a mile must roam, To reach the hill, men weary climb, and near the stranger’s home; Some other hand than mine must now thy injuries repair, That brilliant surface plated once must be another’s care. The morning sun shall dawn again—but never more with thee, Shall I paddle o’er the country roads where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on my path, and trudging o’er the plain, With slackened speed and slower pace shall think of thee again. Only in sleep shall I behold that nick’ling beaming bright Only in sleep shall tread again that step so firm and light; And when I turn my dreaming arms to slack or check my speed, Then must I startling wake to feel thou’rt sold, my iron steed. Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, the lurking dark oxide, In rust marks lie, encrusted deep, along thy wire-ribbed side; And thy rich gloss, oft praised by swells, show strong metallic grain. Till careless eyes that on thee gaze shall count each patent vain. 263 Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no—it cannot be, Thou art so swift, so easy worked, so silent, yet so free; And yet, if haply when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return? Return! alas! my iron steed, what will thy master do, When thou that wast his all of joy, has vanished from his view, When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the wandering tears, Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Where with fleet speed thy whirling wheels full oft hast borne me on; And sitting down on grassy bank, I’ll pause and sadly think ’Twas here he bowed his glossy neck and shot me o’er the brink. Yet still, I love thee! away, away, the fever’d dream is o’er! I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more; They tempted me, my beautiful for money’s power is strong, They tempted me, my bicycle but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false, ’tis false, my iron steed, I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and roll o’er distant plains— Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for their pains. Anonymous.

The Public’s Address to his Cabman. My insolent, my turbulent! that stands crest-fallen by, With the recent Cab Act in thy hand, and tear-drops in thine eye, Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed; You cannot do it now again—thou’rt sold, my man, indeed Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined, The nearest station is the place at which redress to find; The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy gold, Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou’rt sold, my man, thou’rt sold. Do they ill-use thee, Cabman? No! I’m sure it cannot be; You that have bullied half the world, and humbugged even me. And yet, if haply thou’rt done up, and for thee we should yearn, Can the same law that cut thee off compel thee to return? Return! alas! my Cabman bold, what shall the public do, When rain is falling everywhere, wetting the public through? I’ll stand me up beneath an arch, and pause and sadly think— ’Twas at the beer-shop opposite, the Cabmen used to drink. The Cabmen used to drink! Away—my fevered dream is o’er; I could not live a day and know cabs were to be no more. They’ve cut thee down, exacting one; but legal power is strong: You tempted us, my insolent! you kept it up too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? ’Tis false! tis false! Thou’rt better off, my Cabman, thou art told. Thus, thus, I leap into thy cab, to ride five miles from town, And when at Acton I alight, I’ll pay thee half-a-crown. Punch. July 30, 1853.

The Rinker’s Farewell to her Skates. My beautiful! my beautiful! That hang so calm and still, I may not use you e’er again, For you have wrought me ill. Though you may roll the rink again With all your wingèd speed, I may not mount on you again I mayn’t, I mayn’t indeed. You’ll fly as you are wont to fly, Fast as the breezy wind, Alas! however fast you fly, You’ll leave me still behind. I must not rink on you again, For so by all I’m told; Swift wheel’d and beautiful, farewell! They say you must be sold. Farewell! your patent “canting” wheels Full many a mile must rink, Ere into fell oblivion. Like others you must sink. Some other foot less soft than mine Must now upon you press, Some other hand must oil your wheels And maybe make a mess. The morning sun shall dawn again But never more with thee Shall I across the asphalte skate Where we were wont to be. Evening shall darken on the rink, For that what shall I care? I’ll ne’er return alone again I never shall go there. Yes! you must go! no matter though The wrench should break my heart; My parents, friends, and doctors too, All say that we must part. Your tender straps some other foot To grasp must now endure, Beneath whose weight your “rubber pad” Perchance will grow less sure. Only in sleep again shall I Your springing action feel; Only in sleep shall hear again The creaking of your wheel. And when I raise my toe or heel To guide you through the stream, Then must I, starting, wake to find “’Tis nothing but a dream.” A dream? alas! my much loved skates, What shall your mistress do When you, who were her joy of joys, Have vanish’d from her view? Shall I the charms of Badminton 264 Or Lawn Tennis essay, Or knock the Billiard Balls about To pass the time away? Or purposeless, and aimless too, The lanes and meadows roam Seeking that “constitutional” I cannot get at home, And may-be pass that darling spot And pause and sadly think, ’Twas here we got that fall when last Together we did rink? When last together we did rink! Away! the dream is o’er! I could not live a day, and know That we shall meet no more. They tempted me, my beautiful! Not without cause I own— For all the rinking world knew well I broke my collar-bone. Who said that I had given you up? Who said you wrought me ill? ’Tis false, ’tis false! ’Twas my own fault I’ll risk another spill. Thus, thus I mount on you again, And o’er the asphalte fly— Away! who’d win you for her own, To catch us let her try!

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers— There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand, And he said: “I never more shall see my own my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine! * * * * * “Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate’er they would—but kept my father’s sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen—calm Bingen on the Rhine! “Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too—and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen—dear Bingen on the Rhine! “There’s another—not a sister,—in the happy days gone by, You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;— Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out o pain—my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine! * * * * * His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak His comrade bent to lift him,… but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine! Hon. Mrs. Norton.

A Democratic Statesman stood in the bright saloon There was lack of laundried linen—to all Democrats a boon— But a comrade stood beside him as the whiskey ebbed away And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say. The bedrock Statesman faltered, as he put the tumbler down And he said, “I never more shall see my own, my native town,” Take a message and a token (’tis my board bill for a week), For I am from St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek. “Tell my Democratic comrades as they gather from afar To hear my mournful story standing up against the bar; That we fought the battle bravely and when the shock was o’er Full many a jug that once held rye lay empty on the floor; 265 And ’mid the knocked out phalanx were some grown old at bars, The death wound on their noses red the last of many scars; And some were young and suddenly began to feel quite weak And one was from St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek. Tell my sister not to weep for me and make an awful scene; When the delegates are carried home (with aching heads I ween) But to put her foot down proudly, minding not what it may smash For her brother was a delegate, and stormed the sour mash. And if a comrade seek her love don’t let him get away. But secure a marriage license, and appoint the happy day: And hang the cork screw in its place (nor yet to use it seek) For the honor of St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek. When we came here to Washington we thought to name the town Where the next convention would be held, but Chicago bore us down: The copper bottomed stomachs of their Statesmen held out well And to us the merry gurgle of each bottle was a knell, Who could hope against such talent the convention to secure— Hope to make our sham Democracy o’ercome their Simon pure! No—the contest was a hopeless one—defeat has made me weak! And I ne’er shall see St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse—he motioned for a drink, His eyes assumed a home-like look, he even ceased to blink; His comrade mixed a cocktail, but the spark of life had fled— The Bourbon from St. Louis in a foreign land was dead. And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down (For the moon herself was full that night) on the crimson painted town, Her rays fell on the delegate his ruddy nose and cheek As they fell on far St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek.

“Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? In Europe’s land? In Asia’s land? Where islands spot the ocean’s face, Or where uncultured tribes have place? O no, O no, O no, O no! Her boundary farther yet must go. “Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? In Afric’s land? Columbus’ land? Or is it marked by desert sand? By rocks, or by the sea’s wide strand? O no, O no, &c. “Where doth proud England’s boundary stand Australia’s land? Tasmania’s land? Where earth and waters teem with gold? Where wealth is heaped in sums untold? O no, O no, &c. “Where doth proud England’s boundary stand? O tell me in what distant land. From shore to shore, from pole to pole, Where’er the ocean surges roll, The earth doth smile, the sun doth shine,— Go England there, for there is thine!” F. C. H.

Hans Breitmann’s Vaterland. (With due respect to Mr. Leland.) Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Py Sharman sdream or Yankee sdrand? Ist wo Mosel tovärts de Rhein Pours bright pure vafe und thin poor wein? Ist wo, py Erie’s voondrous fount, De treaming Dutch de bubbles count? Oh no, no, no! Oh, no, no, no, You von’t content Hans Breitmann so. Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Vho raised dis shief von blut and brand? Ist wo de hosts von Geist adfance To murder French und ploonder France? Ist wo, mit sack und sword und flame, Ne North de rebel South reclaim? Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no! You von’t content Hans Breitmann so. Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland— Dis segond Gotz von iron hand? Ist wo Petrolia’s fiery draught Of olt fictorious Bummers quaffed? Ist wo, ’mid corpses scharcely sdill, De true Champagne die Uhlans schvill? Oh no, no, no! Oh no, no, no! Hans Breitmann sdill wär dirsty so. Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Oh name dat blace so pig und grand! Vhere Geist is sdill so voonderful, Vhere cities all are ploonderful, Vhich iron und blut to glory pring, Vhere robbers ne’er on gallows schving. Dere let me go! Dere let me go! Und wie der Breitmann leben so! Was ist des Breitmann’s Vaterland? Verefer roves de Bummerband; Vhere Var lets lust und murder loose, Und theft in glory finds excuse; Vhere tyrant mob or robber-king Triumphant hymns to Himmel sing; Das soll es seyn, das soll es seyn; Ja, Breitmann, ja! dat land ist dein! The Standard. January 30, 1871.

What is the Germans’ Fatherland? (Dedicated to the Exiled Deutchlanders.) What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A country where the purple vine Adorns the banks of flowing Rhine, And men in want and hunger pine; That is the Germans’ Fatherland. What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A thoughtful people’s teeming land, 266 Where groan and pine a noble band Of men who love the right: That is the Germans’ Fatherland. What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A nation where the stern command Of one man sways with iron hand The destinies of all; That is the Germans’ Fatherland. What is the Germans’ Fatherland? An Empire steeped, on every hand, In poverty—an o’er-taxed land, Where iron grip and blood command; This is the Germans’ Fatherland. What is the Germans’ Fatherland? A soldier-ridden, blood-stained soil, Where heaves and pants a vast turmoil Of down-trod noble souls; This is the Germans’ Fatherland. From Fiz. January 17, 1879.

Another Version. What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is’t where unfinished Paul’s doth stand, Is’t where Boyne William, stern, doth frown, Or where Sir Walter, calm, sits down? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be. What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is’t little Wales’s mountains grand, Is’t where Australia’s cattle grazes, Or where Maöris fight like blazes? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be. What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is it the grim Heligoland, Whereof Tom Campbell took and wrote A ghastly song about a Boat? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be. What is the Briton’s Father-Land? Is it the brave Canadian strand Whereof Tom Moore he took and wrote A pleasing song about a Boat? O no! O no! Because, you see, His Father-Land must greater be. What is the Briton’s Father-Land? (My patience drops its final sand—) ’Tis known by bâton and by hunch— ’Tis where all good folk read their Punch— Where Punch is seen in every hand, There! there’s the Briton’s Father-Land! Shirley Brooks.

Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say, If ever I lived upon dry land, The spot I should hit on would be Little Britain! Says Freedom, “Why, that’s my own Island!” O, it’s a snug little Island! A right little, tight little Island! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little Island. Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, Came by water—he couldn’t come by land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on, And all for the sake of our Island. O, what a snug little Island! They’d all have a touch at the Island! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some stayed to live on the Island. Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried, “D—n it, I never liked my land. It would be much more handy, to leave this Normandy, And live on your beautiful Island.” Says he, “’Tis a snug little Island; Shan’t us go visit the Island?” Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick’d up a dust in the Island. But party deceit help’d the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed to buy land; By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d, Had they stuck to the King of their Island. Poor Harold, the king of our Island! He lost both his life and his Island. That’s all very true: what more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his Island! The Spanish Armada set out to invade—a, ’Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing on the Island. O, the poor Queen of the Island! The Dons came to plunder the Island; But snug in her hive, the queen was alive, And “buzz” was the word of the Island. These proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the Island! Huzza for the lads of the Island! The good wooden walls of the Island; Devil or Don, let them come on; And see how they’d come off the Island! Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, “This shall be my land;” Should the “Army of England,” or all it could bring, land, We’d show ’em some play for the Island. We’d fight for our right to the Island; We’d give them enough of the Island; Invaders should just—bite once at the dust, But not a bit more of the Island. Thomas Dibdin.

The very latest Edition of Robinson Crusoe. Published, with splendid illustrations, by Augustus Harris, Covent Garden Theatre. Henry Byron one day to A. Harris did say “You’ve asked me to write, and I’ll do so; 267 My pantomine theme I’ll work out with a dream, Of the fairies and Robinson Crusoe; There’s Payne will play Robinson Crusoe; Years ago he did Robinson Crusoe; But such pleasures of Payne, Evergreen will remain; And his sons shine in Robinson Crusoe.” Then when came Christmas time, to the new Pantomime, Great crowds to the theatre drew; so Uproarious with joy grew man, woman, and boy At each scene in bright Robinson Crusoe. Coral groves were in Robinson Crusoe; Fairy-land was in Robinson Crusoe; Matt Morgan and Telbin, Hawes Craven had well been Working wonders for Robinson Crusoe. Nelly Power skips in, with not much on her skin, But her natural charms are not few, so We need not complain if she likes to remain Half-naked through Robinson Crusoe. A smart elf she’s in Robinson Crusoe. Jigs a hornpipe in Robinson Crusoe; And sings to the tune “Up in a Balloon;” And frolics through Robinson Crusoe. Stepping more warily, dressing less airily, Sweet and grave as the Last Waltz of Rousseau, Comes charming Miss Harris; while a danseuse from Paris Brings her pas into Robinson Crusoe. Lambertini’s in Robinson Crusoe; A grand ballet’s in Robinson Crusoe; With the tips of their toes They point at one’s nose, And cut capers in Robinson Crusoe. When the next scene begins, we see Payne and the twins, His coat and his face looking blue, so We know that his wife is the plague of his life, And is master of Robinson Crusoe. Very riled is poor Robinson Crusoe; Sore perplexed is poor Robinson Crusoe; But, drinking and hopping Like sailors at Wapping, Hops away from Dame Robinson Crusoe. Vivat wrecks! we may cry, when we next him espy, As he paddles his raft—not canoe—so We next see him land, on that desolate strand Where the footprint shocked Robinson Crusoe. Quashibungo meets Robinson Crusoe; Three niggers meet Robinson Crusoe; One of them fled, And one he shot dead, And one stayed with Robinson Crusoe. Then we see him with Friday in his dwelling so tidy, Goat and parrot, and dog and cat, too; so, To bake they get at, while Friday a rat Pops the pie in of Robinson Crusoe. Oh! the gestures of Robinson Crusoe. While Friday jeers Robinson Crusoe! Then the last thing from France They, with decency, dance; The man Friday and Robinson Crusoe. The procession of tribes then, as Stoyle says, “arribes;” The King and his squaw, and her trousseau; In the crocodile car, very splendid they are; ’Tis the great scene in Robinson Crusoe. Full of splendour is Robinson Crusoe; Full of fun, too, is Robinson Crusoe; But here I will stop, And the curtain will drop, On the Pantomime Robinson Crusoe. Once a Week. February 6, 1869. London.

The Sailor’s Slip. Spithead, Saturday, July 23, 1887. (Lord Charles Beresford sings.) ’Twas when the Great Review was o’er, To signal Lady C. I started. Oh, etiquette’s a horrid bore! I erred, and hence am broken-hearted. The whole huge Fleet the signal read— Confound that thoughtless act of folly! What could I do but bow my head, And bid a long [?] adieu to Solly? * * * * * You see ’twas getting on for night, And true-bred tars, e’en midst carouses, Think with considerate delight About their sweethearts or their spouses. Up went my signal, frank and free, (A breach of rule most melancholy) To “give the tip” to Lady C., And now I have to part with Solly. “Tell Lady Charles to go on board The Lancashire Witch, where I will join her”—— And all the Fleet read this and roared. Well—of strong words Jack’s a free coiner, But never mind what I remarked When I perceived my act of folly. They’ll think the Naval Lord has larked! Hang it! I’ll say good-bye to Solly. Such games aboard the Royal Yacht!— Although I am a chartered rattle, The Big-wigs won’t stand this. ’Tis rot, But with red-tape who, who can battle? A private message to my wife By public signal! Oh, what folly! It is a lark, upon my life! But—I’ll resign my berth, dear Solly![80] Punch. August 6, 1887.

A Sailor’s Journal. (Bound in Iron.) ’Twas post meridian, half-past four, The Nancy from her moorings parted; At six we drifted on to shore, And found out half her “plates” had started. 268 At seven, as in distress we lay, To fire a signal was our fancy; But then, d’ye see, there was no way, No powder was aboard the Nancy. Next day, tugged off, and into port, A month’s repairs, and off we glided At three o’clock, all trim and taut— Then with the Margate boat collided. She soon sheered off, all safe and sound, But as for us—it was no fancy— We overhauled the craft, and found There was a big hole in the Nancy. We stuffed it up; a gale came on; We weathered it, though well-nigh worsted; Then at eight bells, or close upon, Two of our blessed boilers bursted! “Avast!” I cried, and swam ashore, “Them ironclads is not my fancy; If e’er I go a-cruising more, The Devil seize me, and sink the Nancy! W. H. Hadley.

Poor Jack. Go, patter to Lords of the Admiralty ’Bout torpedoes and rams and the like; A sturdy old-fashioned three-decker give me, And to never a foeman I’ll strike. Now we’re caged up in armour, with guns of rare might, And think scorn of our vessels of wood, But our enemies with us keep pace left and right; Then I ask, after all, what’s the good? But jobbers are reckless and taxpayers soft And we sailors are taken aback, Though we know “there’s a Providence sits up aloft” To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. Just hear Lyon Playfair palaver away About ironclads, ordnance, and such. By Jingo! what Science has done in our day! But it hasn’t been proved very much. Those huge iron monsters may founder, d’ye see? And those great guns may burst, don’t you know? And our boasted appliances turn out to be More fatal to us than the foe. When hardy sea lions, who’ve conquered so oft, Are by engineers told to stand back, It may take the “sweet cherub that sits up aloft” All his time to look after Poor Jack. Robert Puttick.

Tom Torpedo. Here lies a bit of Tom Torpedo, The darling of our crew, Who lost his rating, mates, indeed, O, At last Spithead Review. Our eighty-tonner was a beauty— All flaws, like pewter soft: Tom fired it—for it was his duty— And now he’s gone aloft. “True to the core,” was poor Tom’s motto: He swore he’d fire the gun, His mates hung round and begged him not to, His Poll cried “Tom, ha’ done!” The crew all fainted—leastways, I did— But at our fears he scoffed, And, just as two first-rates collided, He fired and—went aloft. They saved us, being summer weather: The Queen she gave commands To pipe our fragments all together, All minus feet or hands. But when she asked for Tom, our skipper Said, as his hat he doffed, “We’ve only got, marm, this ’ere flipper, The rest of him’s—aloft.” Darjew.

A sheer hulk lies the Devastation, The terror of its crew, And half a million to the nation Is broached by one review; Its form had nought of naval beauty, Its prowess was all “rot,” One bump unfitted it for duty, And now it’s gone to pot. It barely from its berth departed Till Ajax barred the way, And then the Devastation started, For which John Bull must pay. The Jubilee had else been jolly, But here began the blot— The monster brute betrayed its folly, And now has gone to pot. Yet with the aid of pleasant weather, And pumping day and night, It somehow kept itself together To swell a show of might: When ship on ship its mate dispatches, And strives to sink the lot, Let those to whom the blame attaches At once be sent to pot. George Hamilton.

The Armoured Cruiser. Come, all ye modern seamen bold, Whose lot is cast in iron “mould,” Vast terror now in fashion old— Hurrah for the armoured cruiser! Aggressive zeal has launched too far These huge leviathans of war, For smaller craft more deadly are— The restless armoured cruiser! The lither foe, says E. J. Reed, Would prove, with its terrific speed, To foes an awful foe indeed— The flashing armoured cruiser! And now let’s hope that wars may cease, And power enforce a lasting peace, Making a strife upon the seas Absurd, with the armoured cruiser. Isaac Read.

Some men go in for Science, And some go in for shams, 269 Some roar like hungry lions, And others bleat like lambs; But there’s a beast, that at this feast Deserves a double glass. So let us bray, that long we may Admire the British Ass! Chorus—With an Ass-Ass-ociation, &c. On England’s fragrant clover This beast delights to browse, But sometimes he’s a rover To Scotland’s broomy knowes; For there the plant supplies his want, That doth all herbs surpass, The thistle rude—the sweetest food That feeds the British Ass! We’ve read in ancient story, How a great Chaldean swell Came down from all his glory, With horned beasts to dwell; If you would know how it happened so, That a King should feed on grass, In Section D, Department B, Inquire of the British Ass! To Grecian sages, charming, Rang the music of the spheres, But voices more alarming Salute our longer ears; By Science bold we now are told How Life did come to pass. From world to world the seeds were hurled, Whence sprung the British Ass! In our waltzing through creation, We meet those fiery stones That bring, for propagation, The germs of flesh and bones; And is it not a thrilling thought, That some huge misguided mass, Will, one fine day, come and sweep away Our dear old British Ass! The child who knows his father, Has aye been reckoned wise, But some of us would rather Be spared that sweet surprise! If it be true, that when we view A comely lad or lass, We find the trace of the monkey’s face In the gaze of the British Ass! The ancients, childish creatures! Thought we derived from Heaven, The Godlike form and features To mankind only given But now we see our pedigree Made plain as in a glass, And when we grin we betray our kin To the sires of the British Ass!

Some prate of patriotism, and some of cheap defence, But to the high official mind that’s all absurd pretence; For of all the joys of snubbing, there’s none to it so dear, As to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, the British Volunteer! A patriotic Laureate may bid the Rifles form. And Citizens may look to them for safety in War’s storm; But Secretaries, Dooks, and such as this delight to jeer, And to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer! A semi-swell he may be, but he may be a mere clerk, And he’s an interloper, and to snub him is a lark. Sometimes he licks the Regulars, and so our duty’s clear, ’Tis to snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer! He hankers for an increase in his Capitation Grant, It’s like his precious impudence, and have the lift he shan’t. What, make it easier for him to run us close? No fear! We’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer! He has a fad for Wimbledon, but that is just a whim, And as eviction’s all the go, we’ll try it upon him, He’s not an Irish tenant, so no one will interfere, When once more we snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer! His targets and his tents and things are nuisances all round, As Jerry-Builders, Dooks, and other Toffs have lately found. Compared with bricks and mortar and big landlords he’s small beer, So we’ll snub, snub, snub, snub, snub, snub the British Volunteer! * * * * * If he must shoot his annual shoot somewhere, why, let him go To Pirbright or to Salisbury Plain, or e’en to Jericho. But out from his loved Wimbledon he’ll surely have to clear,— A final snub, snub, snub, snub to the British Volunteer! Punch. August 20, 1887.

“Maurus, last morne, at’s mistress window plaid An hunt’s up on his lute; but she (it’s said) 270 Threw stones at him: so he, like Orpheus there Made stones come flying his sweet notes to heare. Wits’ Bedlam, 1617. “And now the cock, the morning’s trumpeter, Play’d hunt’s up for the day-star to appear.—Drayton.

“With hunts up, with hunts up, It is now perfite day; Jesus our King is gane in hunting; Quha (who) likes to speed they may. “Ane cursit fox lay hid in rox This lang and mony ane day, Devouring sheep, whilk he might creep; Nane might him shape away. “It did him gude to laip the blude Of young and tender lammis: Nane could him mis, for all was his, The young anes with their dammes. “The hunter is Christ, that hunts in haist; The hunds are Peter and Paul; The Paip is the fox; Rome is the rox That rubbis us on the gall. “That cruel beist, he never ceist, By his usurpit power, Under dispence, to get our pence, Our saullis to devoure. “Quha could devise sic merchandise As he had there to sell, Unless it were proud Lucifer, The great Master of Hell? “He had to sell the Tantonie bell, And pardons therein was; Remissions of sins in auld sheep skinis, Our sauls to bring from grace. “With buls of lead, white wax and reid, And either whiles with green, Closit in ane box, this usit the fox; Sic peltrie was never seene.”

“Go from my window, love go; Go from my window, my dear; The wind and the rain, Will drive you back again; You cannot be lodged here. “Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy, Begone, my love, my dear; The weather is warm, ’T will do thee no harm; Thou canst not be lodged here. “Quho (who) is at my windo, who, who? Goe from my windo, goe, goe. Quho (who) calls there, so like ane strangere? Goe from windo, goe, goe. “Lord, I am here, ane wretched mortal, That for thy mercie dois crie and call Unto thee, my Lord celestiall; See who is at my windo, who? “O gracious Lord celestiall, As thou art Lord and King Eternal; Grant us grace that we may enter all, And in at thy doore let me goe. “Quho is at my windo, quho? Go from windo, go; Cry no more there, like are strangere, But in at my doore thou go.’

Gunpowder Plot. ’Tis good to remember The Fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason, and plot; There’s abundance of reason To think of the treason, Then why should it e’er be forgot? Our sympathies thrive By keeping alive Such sweet little hatreds as these; And folks love each other As dear as a brother, Whose throat they are ready to squeeze. I delight in the joys Of the vagabond boys, When they’re burning Guy Vaux and the Pope; It the flame keeps alive, It makes bigotry thrive, And gives it abundance of scope. ’Tis a beautiful truth For the minds of our youth, And will make them all Christians indeed; For the Church and the State Thus to teach ’em to hate All those of a different creed. From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac, 1835.

A Rhyme for the Time. “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going a-voting, Sir,” she said. “I’ll be your escort, my pretty maid.” “I need not trouble you, Sir,” she said. “Then will you not vote for me, my pretty maid?” “Tell me your policy, Sir,” she said. “Concession and cowardice, my pretty maid.” “Out of the question, Sir,” she said. “Yet they are the cheapest, my pretty maid.” “Not in the long run, Sir,” she said. “But I’ll leave my friends to stew in their juice; I’ll let the colonies go to the deuce; I’ll truckle to Russia and worry the Porte (Pray look upon that as my special forte); I’ll shut my ears when a hero calls, And I’ll go, when he dies, to the music-halls. “How will that suit you, my pretty maid?” “I could not consent to it, Sir,” she said. “Never mind foreign affairs, my lass; I’ll give you a cow and three acres in grass: The cow shall be Smith’s and the grass shall be Brown’s, And the butter will buy you a couple of gowns. What do you say to that, pretty maid?” “Robbery! bribery! Sir!” she said. “Then I won’t be your escort, my pretty maid!” “Nobody asked you, Sir!” she said. The St James’s Gazette. November 27, 1885.

Sweet Home Rule. ’Mid closures and procedure and orders by the tome, Be it ever so simple, there’s no Rule like Home; To mind our own business we often are warned, Then why not let Paddy take Ireland in hand? Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule! There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule. Without it Coercion is tried, but in vain, Evictions and Land Acts all bring strife and pain; A Senate in Dublin, to meet at their call, With the knowledge of their local wants dearer than all. Home Rule! Sweet Home Rule! There’s no plan so good, so give them Home Rule. The Liberal and Radical. September, 1887.

Ale. O’er cut-glass and chalices the eye may like to roam, And our pewter may be humble, but ’tis ale that makes it foam; The taste that you prize surely waits for you there, Oh, the flavour of such malt and hops was never found elsewhere. Ale, ale, double X ale! There is no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale! Some tell me their small is good, but for me I do not heed it; And I don’t like your fourpenny, nor yet your intermediate. The gin it don’t agree with me, the brandy makes me pale, But the reason I’m so jolly is, I stick to drinking ale. Ale, ale, double X ale! There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale! An exile from Knight’s, liquors dazzle me in vain; Oh, give me nay seat at the Christopher again; The jolly little pot-boy that came at my call; And give me my glass of ale, dearer than all. Ale, ale, double X ale! There’s no drink like ale, there’s no drink like ale! Everard Clive.

Jubilate. “Ring out the joybells! ring a loud peal! We are English you know! So English, you know! Yes, this is a moment at which we all feel We are English, you know! So English, you know! ’Tis a time to exult! At the sound of her voice The rest of the world should kneel down and rejoice That England, the mighty, allows them this day To come to her throne their poor homage to pay. So cry jubilate! and banish your woe! We are English, you know! Yes, so English, you know! “For we English, you know, are the mightiest nation; We are English, you know! So English, you know! And have we not cause for this grand jubilation? So English, you know! So English, you know! The Queen of our country has reigned fifty years, So greet her with joybells, and join in three cheers! Our wealth and good fortune she graciously shares, She has cost a few millions—so Bradlaugh declares, So cry jubilate! and banish your woe! For it’s English, you know! Yes, so English, you know! “Then cheer for Prince Bertie! He’s gallant, if weak; That is English, you know. So English, you know! Though of German extraction, he sticks to his clique; Which is English, you know! So English, you know! His thoughts are Imperial, his Institute’s grand; To build it he begs with his hat in his hand. For there’s nought to be done without hats full of tin; And he doesn’t much care so the money comes in From the rich and the poor, from the high and the low— Which is English, you know! Yes, so English, you know! “The publicans now are assisting to pay— Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know! Our taxes by fines, and they don’t like this way— Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know! Sir Wilfrid declares selling liquor is wrong, But the Government analysts say, ‘Make it strong.’ Next election the Tories will find, I much fear, Their votes from the bungs will be very small beer— But cry jubilate! Good bitter must flow— For it’s English, you know! Quite English, you know! “At the last Jubilee people went on a spree; Which is English, you know! So English, you know! They feasted and fed all the poor with much glee; Which is English, you know! Quite English, you know; But this time a journalist heads his own list, And makes an appeal which few folks can resist, For treating the children, oh, won’t it seem queer, If Jewbilee Lawson[81] is not made a peer? Will Didcott be knighted for bossing the show? ’Twould be English, you know! Quite English, you know! From The Reign of Error. London: J. Cheetham. 1887.

Here I come in complete Constitutional coat (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know): The type of true Monarchy based on the Vote. (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know); To have a legitimate King on the throne, To make all the Country’s best interests his own, Great, grand, patriotic, but not overgrown (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). Chorus. Oh, the things that you see and the things that you hear Are English, you know; quite English, you know. My mind, like my last Manifesto, ’tis clear, Is English, quite English, you know! Just now a great calm meets the national eyes (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know): But imminent perils it cannot disguise (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). We have deserved well of Conservative France; A Monarchy only her bliss can enhance; And now of its nature I’ll give you a glance (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). Direct, universal, free suffrage, my friends, (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know), 272 Will vote—well for Me, and all trouble then ends (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). The King, with the Chamber’s concurrence, will rule. The Deputies then can no more play the fool— Clemenceau, Boulanger, and men of that school (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). * * * * * Constitutional principles, these, my good friend! (They’re English, you know; quite English, you know)— They Conservative needs and Equality blend, (That’s English, you know; quite English, you know). Do at my new Royal rig-out take a glance! In this to the front I shall proudly advance, As the true King of all, and first Servant of France, (But English, you know; quite English, you know). Chorus. The things which I say it is time you should hear (They’re English, you know; quite English, you know). The principles these to make France without peer (Though they’re English; quite English, you know)!

I never Mention It. Oh, no! I never mentioned it, I never said a word; But lent my friend my five pound note, Of which—I’ve never heard! He said he merely borrowed it To pay another debt— And since I’ve never mentioned it, He thinks that I forget! Where’er we ride I pay the ’pike; I settle every treat; He rides my cob, he drives my cab,— But cuts me when we meet! My new umbrella I lent him too, One night ’twas very wet; Tho’ he forgets it ne’er came back, Ah, me!—I don’t forget! (Three verses omitted.) My friend is cousin to a lord; And when a feed I sport, He always asks his own fine friends, Who drink champagne like port! Last night down my own very stairs They kick’d me for a bet! By goles! I’ll fight them every one— That’s—if I don’t forget.

Parody on “Alice Gray.” “She’s all my fancy painted her, She’s lovely! she’s divine!” Thus sighed all day my silly heart, Before my wife was mine: I loved as mankind ever love, And all love must decay: I found I had a wife,—Good lack! Whose horrid hair was grey! Fine dark brown locks seemed braided O’er her brow of spotless white; Her eyes, on me soft languishing, Oft beamed with fond delight:— But now they flash with angry fire; The paint is washed away From off that forehead brown—Good lack! Whose horrid braids are grey! I’d slumber o’er a mountain’s side, I’d cross an angry flood; T’escape her tongue’s continued strife, I’d dare the field of blood. But soon the turf will wrap my grave. And all my friends will say:— He thought her young—and died—Good lack! When he found her locks were grey! Louisa H. Sheridan.

The Soldier’s Fear. Upon the hill he turned, To take a last fond look Of the alehouse, and the village church, And the cottage by the brook. To use his pockethandkerchief, While tears began to swell, The soldier leant upon his sword— It bent—and down he fell. Amid the roar of battle, The warrior’s fellest blow Has failed to penetrate the coat That shields the vaunting foe. But though the pliant steel may cost Our bravest and our best, Be sure the sword most yielding there Has passed the strictest test. Punch. April 30, 1887.

The Shopman’s Horror. She stood beside the counter, The day he’ll ne’er forget, She thought the muslin dearer Than any she’d seen yet; He watched her playful finger The silks and satins toss, The shopman looked uneasy And felt a little cross. “Show me some velvet ribbon, Barege and satin turc,” She said, “I want to purchase!” Then gave the goods a jerk. The shopman, all obedience— Brought satins, silks and crape; At length, with hesitation, She bought a yard of tape! Anonymous.

For Ever and for Ever. Ah, me! I often think, my pet, Of that sweet hour when first we met— A time that I would fain forget For ever and for ever! Beneath the palms we sat alone; We’d lost, I think, your chaperon; You whispered you would be my own For ever and for ever! Ah, me! how well can mem’ry show That letter which I wrote to know If I were doomed to weal or woe For ever and for ever! When her papa’s consent I read— Oh, how to see my love I sped! Folks thought me one whose wits had fled For ever and for ever! Ah, me! that stroll down Regent Street, That afternoon when you, my sweet, Said strawberry ices you could eat For ever and for ever! Ah, me! with what a queenly air You entered “Jay’s” and took a chair! I thought, my love, you’d keep me there For ever and for ever! Ah, me! the way you said, “I see A bracelet sweet. Oh, give it me! And I shall fondly think of thee For ever and for ever!” I said, “I can’t!” You said, “You will!” My love, I owe the money still. By Jove! they’ll have to send that bill For ever and for ever! Ah, me! that morn at Whiteley’s mart; What time I said, “I think, sweetheart, That you and I had better part For ever and for ever!” A luckless speech with dire effect; My new silk hat at once was wrecked! That moment I shall recollect For ever and for ever! Ah, me! that afternoon in court, When you, my love, your action brought; The peals of mirth would last, I thought, For ever and for ever! Some beings we can ne’er forget; Years may roll on, but I, my pet, Shall think of thee—with deep regret— For ever and for ever! Laurence S. May. From Cassell’s Saturday Journal. March 19, 1887.

The Old Creeds. Air—“I cannot sing the Old Songs.” I cannot hold the old creeds, We have them now outgrown; They cramped and bound the loving soul With fetters quite their own; The dogmas of the ancient faiths Are passing fast away, And now there dawns upon us Beams of a brighter day. I cannot love the old times, When truth was seldom taught, When Church and Priest usurped the right To stifle human thought; When deeds of darkness, crime and woe, Were seen on every hand, And Old Religion’s name was made A terror in the land. I cannot tread the old paths, With rankest weeds o’ergrown; A better way is opened up, Whose gates are closed to none. Nature’s domain is now our road, And science is our guide; We’ve travelled from sectarian strife With Freethought to abide. G. Sexton.

Butcher, spare that pig! Touch not a single limb! He’ll soon be fat and big, Though now he’s lean and slim. ’Twas my old father’s hand That placed him in his sty; And, till too fat to stand, That porker shall not die! My little girl and boy Delight to hear him grunt; They prod him in their joy With sticks which are not blunt. My mother kissed him here, Upon his luscious cheek; My aunt would shed a tear Whene’er she heard him squeak. My heart-strings round thee cling Close as thy crackling, friend! Thy bacon soon shall sing, Its frying scent ascend. But now thou would’st be tough So, butcher, go away; Not till he’s fat enough, My piggy shall you slay. Anonymous.

I’d be a Bottle-Fly. I. I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue, With a Chuny[82] proboscis, and nothing to do, But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow The choicest of meats when the summer days glow! Let the hater of sentiment, dew-drops, and flowers, Scorn the insect that flutters in sunbeams and bowers; There’s a pleasure that none but the blue-bottle knows— ’Tis to buzz in the ear of a man in a doze! II. How charming to haunt a sick-chamber, and revel O’er the invalid’s pillow, like any blue devil; When pursued, to bounce off to the window, and then From the pane to the counter-pane fly back again! 274 I’d be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue, With a Chuny proboscis, and nothing to do, But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow The choicest of meats when the summer days glow! From Blackwood’s Magazine. May, 1828.

I’m a shrimp! I’m a shrimp of diminutive size; Inspect my antennæ and look at my eyes; I’m a natural syphon when dipped in a cup, For I drain the contents to the latest drop up; I care not for craw fish, I heed not the prawn; From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn. Nor e’en to the crab or the lobster I’ll yield, When I’m properly cooked and efficiently peeled. Quick, quick! pile your coals, let your saucepan be deep, For the weather is warm, and I’m not sure to keep. Off, off with my head! split my shell into three! I’m a shrimp, I’m a shrimp, to be eaten with tea!

I’m a Gent! I’m a Gent! I’m a gent! I’m a gent! I’m a gent ready made; I rove through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade; I’m a register’d swell from the head to the toe; I wear a moustache and a light paletôt. I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye; And I wink at the girls as I pass them by. Then, la! how they giggle to win my regards, And I hear them all say, “He’s a gent in the Guards!” I can sing a flash song, I can blow on the horn, I like sherry cobblers—am fond of Cremorne; I love the Cellarius, the Polka I dance, And I’m rather attached to a party from France. This gal I adore, is a creature divine, Though deucedly partial to lobsters and wine; She was struck with my figure, and caught with a hook, For I took her to visit “my uncle the Duke.” I’m a gent! I’m a gent! in the Regent Street style; Examine my waistcoat, and look at my tile. There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far, But none who can puff with such ease a cigar.

The Old English Constable. I’ll sing you of a good old boy, whom all must now revere, Of a fine old English constable, who lived for many a year; Who, though his natural looks were kind, could oft be most severe, And could whene’er he had a mind strike every one with fear— Like a fine old English constable, one of the olden time. His office was to keep the peace and order of the town, To take the roaming spirits up, and knock the rising down. They wanted then no new police, with hats glazed round the crown, To strut about, for he did all, in rare old rusty gown— Like a grand old English constable, one of the olden time. He often had to ring a bell, that every one might hear, When goods were stolen, strayed, or lost, in accents loud and clear. So maidens when their reticules were miss’d, did never cry, For love letters were found before they reached the parent’s eye— By the good old English constable, one of the olden time.

An Opium Vision. (After a long course of Alma Tadema.) I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, Whilst Sappho sang songs at my side, Ah! cold as a bath were those glittering walls, The doors and the windows were wide. From no point of view could I make head or tail Of the plan, the perspective, the plot; Though ’twas all on a truly magnificent scale, If I knew what it meant I’ll be shot. * * * * * From Harry Furniss’s Royal Academy. 1887.

I dreamt that I gazed at the Marble Arch, King Fog and King Coal at my side; The soot of November, the dust storms of March, Had made it a sight to deride. * * * * *

My Dude. Air—“My Queen.” When and where shall I earliest meet him? What are the clothes he then will wear? Will he still use the same big eye-glass Which gives his eyes such a vacant glare? Will he still walk like a hen rheumatic, Or like a goose by a boy pursued? He whom I look for with longing ecstatic, He whom I worship—My Dude, My Dude. Will his small moustache be with wax anointed? Will his hair in the middle be parted neat? Will he still wear those boots so pointed, Pinching his dear little tender feet? Will his legs be thin and his hat be curly? Will he suck his cane as a child its food? Will he still call me his girly, girly? He whom I worship—My Dude, My Dude. Anonymous.

How Very Green! Oh! a cunning plant doth the Jew, I ween, Oft make of both young and old; The younger the better, for then the more green, And so much the more readily sold. He’ll lend him cash, or sell him jewels, Or horses; he’ll pleasure each whim Of such arrant young fool; for he knows by-and-bye There’s a merry meal for him! So teaching the youth how life should be seen, He plucketh the feathers of Verdant Green. Fast he leadeth him on at a terrible pace (Yet how staunch doth his false heart seem); How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend “Mishter Verdant Green!” All the while slily weaving around his path, A net that very soon will Put a stop to his game; then no longer the Jew Will discount, but sue on each bill; Having shown the way that life should be seen, By emptying the pockets of Verdant Green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decay’d, And nations have scatter’d been; But the cunning old Jew will ne’er cease to drain The life-blood of each Verdant Green. And old “Shent per shent,” in his lonely days, Will e’er chuckle o’er the past, As he crones of the fortunes that Christians raise But to come to the Jews at last. And thus to the end of time, I ween, The Jew will thrive on each Verdant Green. Diogenes. July, 1853.

A Fine Old Chant. Oh! a fine old chant is “God Save the Queen,” With “Britannia Rules the Waves,” I like a red cabbage from Turnham Green, And Britons are—always slaves. We are miserable, in this happy land, Impossible things must be done; For a mouldy crust, and water for thirst, A Briton about doth run. Oh, chanting where gay life is seen, A fine old chant is “God Save the Queen.” Chanting where gay life is seen, A fine old chant is—“God Save the Queen.” A. W. Humphreys.

“In the Gloaming.” On the ocean, oh, my darling, When it rocks us to and fro, Don’t you think ’twere better, darling, We should both go down below? When the waves are tossing gently, ’Tis a sudden unknown woe Prompts me once again to ask you, Would you like to go below? In the gloaming, oh, my darling, Cling not tenderly to me, For I oft with shortened warning Rush to view the deep blue sea; And I feel all choked with something Longing, struggling to be free; It were best to leave me thus, dear, Best for you, and best for me.

Ten Liberal Unionists. (By Sir Wilfrid Lawson.) Ten Liberal Unionists, kicking up a shine, One went to Burnley, and then there were but nine. Nine little Unionists, weeping o’er his fate, Another went to Ilkeston, and then there were eight. Eight little Unionists, trusting still in Heaven, Fought a fight in Cornwall, and then there were seven. Seven little Unionists, still up to tricks, Had a fling at Spalding, and then there were six. Six little Unionists, fresh and all alive, Sent a man to Coventry, and then there were five. Five little Unionists, valiant as before, Tried their luck at Glasgow, and then there were four. Four little Unionists, bumptious as could be, Had a shot at Northwich, and then there were three. Three little Unionists, looking rather blue, Thomas Russell left them, and then there were two. Two little Unionists, feeling rather done, Joe cut a summersault, and then there was one. One little Hartington, sitting all alone, He joined the Tories, and then there were none. Pall Mall Gazette. 1887.

The Lost Discord. Standing one day at his organ, The grinder seemed quite at ease, With his monkey idly chasing The far too-industrious fleas. I know not what he was playing (For I was composing then), But I heard someone curse that organ, And I murmured a great “Amen!” That discord, it filled the silence With a sound as of tom-cats lorn; It racked my brain like a nightmare, It was worse than an oil-cloth torn. It was like inharmonious yelling; It made all the street-dogs whine, It seems that the soul of that organ Had spitefully gone for mine. So I made for that organ-grinder, And swore that I’d break each limb; And his monkey his fleas ceased chasing, When he saw I meant chasing him. It may be in some other quarter He’s playing that air—and then, If someone is smashing his organ, I fervently say, “Amen!” Judy. May 26, 1886.

Ye Bicyclists of England. Ye Bicyclists of England Who stride your wheels with ease, How little do you think upon What Mr. Sturmey[83] sees. The Wheelman’s standard rises high With every year that goes, Wheels sweep, fast and cheap, Whereof Sturmey’s trumpet blows— Our cycles range more swift and strong, And Sturmey’s trumpet blows— * * * * * The “meteor” wheels of England Shall yet terrific turn; ’Tis true that France gave us a start— Now she has much to learn. To you, our brave wheel-warriors, Our song and glass shall flow; To the fame of your name Mr. Sturmey’s trumpets blow— Cycles or Cyclists, ours are best, So why should we not blow? Punch. October 1, 1887

The Song of Billiawatha.[84] Should you ask me whence these Indians? Whence these cowboys, whence these riders, Whence these Red Shirts and these shootists, With their tomahawks and war-paint, With their mustangs and buck jumpers, With their lassoes, with their rifles, With the savour of the prairies, With a smack of Reid and Cooper, And of melodrama on them? I should answer—I should tell you Buffalo, the great Bill, found them, Brought them from their camps and wigwams, From their lodges on the prairies In the great Show land of Barnum, In the clime of Minnie Palmer; Brought them here to Earl’s Court, Brompton, Where the Lohndahner, the Cochneh, Will throughout the Lohndahn season Flock in troops to gaze and wonder At their prowess with the bronchoes, At their dextrous use of lasso, At their deadly skill with rifle; Wonder how the deuce they do it, Wonder what the men are made of, How on earth they learned such dodges. If still further you should ask me What’s the use of all these cowboys? What’s the good of these wild Red men? What’s to us this coach of Deadwood, Or this railroad, the Switchback? I should answer your conundrums In the straitest tips as follow: In the wilds of Kensingtonia, In the land of Exhibitions, Where the Fisheries, the Health’ries, The Invent’ries, the Colindries Drew their thousands, drew the masses, Drew the town for four past seasons, Something new to-day is wanted, Something to revive the glories Of those sights and shows now played out; Something fresh must be provided, So the Lohndahner, the Cochneh, The Prohvinshial, the Yohkehl Still may find congenial pastime, Still may revel through the summer Nights, and puff the penny Piquewique; Feast his eyes with coloured lanterns, And his inner man with “cocktails,” Soothe his soul with “corpse revivers,” Steep himself in “maiden’s blushes,” List the strains of martial music, Mash the merry maids of Bertram. Hence these Yank’ries, these Cowboyries, Hence these Westeries, these Wigwamries, With the customs of the prairies, With their buffaloes and mustangs, With their skilful shooting maidens, With the squaws and their papooses, With the plundered coach of Deadwood, And the toboggin and Switchback, And the drinks of Yankee Doodle. Judy. June 1, 1887.

Air—Policemen’s Chorus (“Pirates of Penzance.”) When the window “prising” burglar’s not a-burgling—not a-burgling, He doesn’t rush to some mere rural spot, And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling—’let a-gurgling, But skims along the ocean in his yacht. When his “lay” has been of “Ooftish” most productive—most productive, And he finds the land is getting rather “hot,” Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive—and instructive, For he bounds across the billows in his yacht. When no “swag” is for the present to be got—to be got, He loves to go and navigate his yacht—’gate his yacht. When the cracksman rests awhile from his employment—his employment, With his “jemmy” and his skeletonian key, Then he feels as how he ought to seek enjoyment—seek enjoyment, By inhaling of the breezes of the sea. When officious “slops” and “’tecs” would dare pursue him—dare pursue him, And his whereabouts they’re likely for to “spot,” Then in search of recreation you may view him—yes, you’ll view him, Large as life enjoying otium in his yacht. For a-lurking on the land is “Tommy-Rot”—“Tommy Rot,” So off he goes a-sailin’ in his yacht—in his yacht. Fun. June 1, 1887.

It Really Doesn’t Matter! Trevelyan. My eyes were fully open to my awful situation— So I went at once to Gladstone, and I made him an oration. I explained to him that I once more was in my proper senses, And was willing to back up Home Rule and take the consequences; That I did not want to perish by desertion of my party, To descend into oblivion like Goschen had, and Harty. He accepted my apologies with pleasure that did flatter, As he said I’d been mistaken, and it really didn’t matter! Cham.—And it really didn’t matter! That it really didn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter! Chamberlain. If I were not so deeply pledged to mingle with the Tories, I should like once more to join in my former leader’s glories; For I’m very much afraid that I have got into a mire, And lowered my position, sirs, instead of rising higher; My brain is getting weaker, I was once considered clever, I have voted for Coercion that’s to linger on for ever; To act like this I must have been as mad as any hatter, But as I can’t retrace my steps, it really doesn’t matter! Trev.—It really doesn’t matter! It really doesn’t matter, matter, matter, matter, matter! Pall Mall Gazette. August 15, 1887.

The Model American Girl. A practical, plain young girl; Not afraid-of-the-rain young girl; A poetical posy, A ruddy and rosy, A helper-of-self young girl. At home-in-her-place young girl; A never-will-lace young girl; A toiler serene, A life pure and clean. A princess-of-peace young girl. A wear-her-own-hair young girl; A free-from-a-stare young girl; Improves every hour, No sickly sunflower, A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl; Plenty-room-in-her-shoes young girl; No indulger-in-blues young girl; Not a bang on her brow, To fraud not a bow, She’s a just-what-she-seems young girl. Not a reader-of-trash young girl; Not a cheap-jewelled-flash young girl; Not a sipper of rum Nor a chewer of gum, A marvel-of-sense young girl. An early-retiring young girl; An active, aspiring young girl; A morning ariser, A dandy-despiser, A progressive, American girl. A lover-of-prose young girl; Not a turn-up-your-nose young girl; Not given to splutter, Nor “utterly utter.” But a-matter-of-fact young girl. A rightly-ambitious young girl; Red-lips-most-delicious young girl; A sparkling clear eye That says “I will try,” A sure-to-succeed young girl. An honestly-courting young girl; A never-seen-flirting young girl; A quiet and pure, A modest, demure, A fit-for-a-wife young girl. A sought-everywhere young girl; A future-most-fair young girl; An ever-discreet We too seldom meet This queen-among-queens young girl. Anonymous.

Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the Times, I vow I’ll investigate daily; For ignorance crass, like I showed to Miss Cass, Makes life go by not at all gaily; No kudos receiving for Lipski’s reprieving, The Salvation Army disgraces, The child-mother sentence, my tardy repentance, And numerous similar cases. To have me in the Cabinet’s awfully nice, But I fear I shall cost them a terrible price! The new special pleaders, the writers of leaders, Come down on my faults like a hammer, To teach me the beauty of doing my duty, Yet I falter, and struggle, and stammer. Oh, Balfour and Goschen! you have not a notion, What a terrible life I am leading; For my faults blazoned get in the Pall Mall Gazette, While they mock at my manners and breeding. To give me a place was exceedingly nice, But I fear I shall cost you a terrible price. Each day when I rise, lo, another surprise I feel will o’erwhelm me with wonder; If I walk through the street, I am certain to meet With placards denouncing some blunder; The position I’ve got is uncomfort’bly hot, For the public is getting so touchy, Next time there’s a race for the prize of a place I shall try to jump into the Duchy; For to be in the Cabinet’s awfully nice, But the honour is rather too much for the price. Pall Mall Gazette. September 13, 1887.

Thy choicest curse in store, On George be pleased to pour, The traitor King! He has abused the laws, Slighted the Brunswick cause, Then hail with loud applause, Cumberland, King! Oh, may the Duke of Wel- Lington and Peel to Hell Go hand in hand; While Clarence and his crew, Popish O’Connell too, Homage are forced to do To Cumberland!

God save great George our King, Long live our noble King, God save the King. Send us roast beef a store, If it’s gone send us more, And the key of the cellar door, That we may drink.