WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 14)

You, the Patriot poet, Shape a statelier poem; Leave out “regally gorgeous,” Cut the Imperial Institute, Or we, weary, uncomforted, And we needy unbanqueted, Seeing how maimed are your verses, Joy not this year of the Jubilee.

“Tenny the Baron’s” Jubilee Ode. I. Fifty times my poor nose you have broken, Fifty times my gore you have spilled, Since I stood with you in corded ring. II. He was trained by an ancient bruiser, Learned in art of self-defence, Slugger champion of England, Owner of a silver belt, Never worn by a worthier, Now with murderous auguries Comes at last to spoil my beauty, In this blooming year of Jubilee. III. Nothing of the common, of the magsman, Nothing of the vulgar or vainglorious, All is cruel, slogging, hard and manly. IV. You hit me savagely—yes, you did! Brought my claret as you struck My eyes and nose and cheeks, And from each let quarts pour Red and gory down my battered chest. One full blow aimed at proboscis Hurled me clean to mother earth In this the year of Jubilee. V. Stars as large as Spanish onions Dazzling in my peepers came, Tingling through me from my conk to hoof. VI. You, that wanton in your sparring, Spare me! Do not now be bountiful. Take your mawleys from my optics, Do not knock them both in one, Keep me safely from hospital, Let my weary frame be comforted, Let my aching pegs rejoice, In this the year of Jubilee. VII. Sayers’s blows are all in shadow, Gray with distance Greenfield’s sloggers, Even Mace’s left forgotten. VIII. You, the champion architect, Shape memorial of your skill, Make my nose so grandly gorgeous, Like some great Imperial Institute, Rich in colour, and of size Which seems like growth of centuries; All the centuries that come after us, In this the year of Jubilee. IX. Fifty times of ever-pounding business! Fifty times of ever-striking science! Fifty times of ever-widening gashes! X. You, the mighty and the bruiser, You the slashing lord of blows, You the bump-manufacturer, You the hardy-fisted one, Busiest child of Albion, You, the thumper, scruncher, Mug-demolisher, and puncher, All your blows have hit me hard, All my blows you countered well, Saying, “Go to grass, you duffer, In this the year of Jubilee!” XI. Are there seconds moving in my corner? They seem spectres in the darkness! Wash the blood from out my peepers, So I may some little see. Smith is victor, toss the sponge up, In this year of Jubilee. Ithuriel. The Topical Times. June 18, 1887.

Another Version. I. Fifty years your verses have been fading, Fifty years your golden harvest rising, And now you publish stuff not fit to wrap butter in. II. This drivel of an agèd driveller Is dear at any price,—not readable, Such prosy rubbish takes up 280 Good space that others might Have filled more profitably, Macmillan ought to be ashamed To print such abject rot. III. Nothing of the Poet of the Idylls; Nothing but Prose, the very commonest All for disgraceful greed and most unseemly. Anonymous.

An Ode-ous Parody. I. Fifty times we’ve planted kail and used it, Fifty times we’ve dug our own potatoes, Since our Queen came into luck uncommon. II. She, beloved for a negative Virtue quite neutral to history. Queen of realms she ne’er looked upon. Holding fast to the dignities None e’er clung to more jealously, Now is looking for perquisites, Sends her son with the hat for them Round this year of her Jubilee. III. She knows well her “neck has got a lith in’t,” In her manners she’s genteel, and not too loud, Does not boss too much about her shanty. IV. Trim your lamps every one of you, Or put dips in your window panes. Don’t grudge candles or paraffin, And be sure you make noise enough, Make all deaf with your loyalty, Shout your shoutingest shoutingly, Hold high-jink’d Saturnalia In this year of her Jubilee. V. Queen as true to motherhood as Queenhood. Giving many Princes to her people, With Princesses that she weds to Germans. VI. You, with many full money-bags, Slit a hole in the side of one, Give a square meal to Lazarus. Give three acres and cow to him, Put your names on subscription lists, Follow fashion in charity, Help the fadders to fad a bit, Give all round, and be sure to give Well to help on her Jubilee. VII. Hal’s half-hundred years are nigh forgotten, Nobody now prates of Ned’s long ruling, Ev’n the Farmer’s record’s hardly mentioned. VIII. You, who get the big job to do, Do your best with your stone and lime, Use no gingerbread artifice, Raise a pile that can stand a look, Something all will can wonder at, Which may stand for a year or two, Tho’ our children may laugh at us For our Juggernaut Jubilee. IX. Fifty years of pretty heavy taxes Fifty years of not too much to pay them, Fifty years of learning how to do it. X. You, the Swell by heredity, You, the Landlord all talk about, You, the Master men strike against, You, of soil horny-handed sons, Burdened brood of Britannia, You, whatever your country be, You, or white, black or copper-head, All your hands in your pockets put, Or your pockets’ equivalent, Give, altho’ you should starve for it, Gold to help on her Jubilee. XI. Are then those that mutter, discontented, That to give were little short of madness? Trust the Prince to lighten all their purses With a juggler pass that makes coin vanish, And Victoria Victrix shall be honoured With a gift unequalled in the ages. William A. Sloan.