WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 2)

Nuneham. “Dulce est desipere in loco.” Where is now the merry party I was with a month ago, At that jovial Nuneham picnic, Where the ladies flirted so? On that balmy summer evening Chaperons behind did stay; All the rest dispersed and wandered In the woods, far away. Some of us in paths secluded. With the girls we loved did roam, Mothers’ knew their pretty daughters Soon would find another home; So they like indulgent mothers Were content to let them stay, With us as we strolled in silence Far away, far away. Some unwed are still remaining,— Will remain so to the last; Some have changed their names, and like their New names better than their past. And they bless with all their little Hearts that balmy summer day, When in Nuneham’s woods they wandered Far away, far away. From Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon. (London, Chapman and Hall, 1874).

Of all the girls that are so smart, There’s none like pretty Sally, She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. * * * * * Henry Carey.

Solly in our Alley. (By a grateful Cadger.) Of all the flats with blunt that part, There’s none so green as Solly; He’s got a kind benevolent ’art, And is know’d in our Alley. Oh, don’t I like the blessed day As comes afore the Monday! Cause why, it is old Solly’s way To go to church on Sunday. And there a-watching nigh the door, We beggars waits for Solly; He takes sitch pity on the poor— My eye, wot precious folly! In mud and wet I slops about Without a shoe or stockin,’ And all in rags, there’s not a doubt But what my looks is shockin’. But wet and dirt I never minds: A hobjec’ melancholy, I bears it all, because I finds Thereby a friend in Solly. I’m bound I’d get a underd pounds, By cadgin’ out of Solly, His wealth and riches so abounds, And he’s a muff so jolly. Punch. September 18, 1852.

A Sally in Favour of Old Harry. Of all the Peers within the House, (And pretty well I know ’em), There isn’t one with half the nouse Of gallant Henry Brougham. * * * * * We for his equals look in vain, ’Twill take some time to grow ’em: So let us hope we shall retain Some long time yet—old Brougham. Punch. June 23, 1855.

Of all the days that’s in the week, I ’umbly love but one day, 22 To which I give a Jewish name, But heathens call a Sunday; For then between three sermon-times, I sit in my dark alley, And think upon the wickedness, Of this here worldly Walley. Punch. March 29, 1856:

Ballad for John Bull. Of all the folks in purse that smart I best know money’s valley; My pocket lies so near my heart— I do hate that Shere Ali! I ne’er enjoy a mind serene On any blesséd one day; Not e’en on that which comes between The Saturday and Monday. Those telegraphs, they break my rest; From one ere I can rally, Another comes about that pest Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali! But, for a hundred million pounds, I must not shilly-shally: With Russia close behind his bounds, ’Twon’t do to stand Shere Ali. Punch. October 26, 1878.

Sally. (Sarah Bernhardt.) (From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.) Of all tragediennes so smart, There’s none like famous Sally; She’d be the darling of each heart If she would’nt shilly shally, There is no actress in the land Who knows so well her “valley;” No spoiled child of a noble art So paid and puffed as Sally. Of all the pets of the Francaise There was but one the fashion, And that’s when Sarah had to play In scene of love and passion; And then decked out in fine array, With Hollingshead to rally, They cared not what they had to pay If they could witness Sally. They thought of Sarah when at church, And for her voice of honey They left poor Irving in the lurch To spend unbounded money Upon this famous Gallic wench, Who spoke so musically; And those who knew the least of French. Were loudest praising Sally. ’Tis true that many an English star Was prone to rail at Sally, And say the slaves of fashion are Like slaves who row a galley. Since, therefore, at the Gaiety She can no longer dally, How happy they—and we—shall be To hear no more of Sally. Funny Folks. July 19, 1879.

Bully in our Alley. Of all the brutes I loathe to meet, One lives in our alley; He leaves his wife with nought to eat When he for drink doth sally. Of all the days within the week He only loves but one day, And that’s the day that comes between The Saturday and Monday. For then, until his cash is gone, He fills a flowing measure, And ere he goes to bed at dawn, He kicks his wife for pleasure. Poor soul! she drinks a little too, And gets in debt with “Tally,” For which he beats her black and blue— That Bully in our Alley. She locks him up, but lets him free By answering shilly-shally, And he half kills her in his glee, That Bully in our Alley. May Justice, lately something slack, And much inclined to dally, Soon leave her mark upon his back— That Bully in our Alley! Funny Folks.

The Last Days of Sally and Our Alley. (A Sanitary Comic Song by S. Brett.) Of all the girls in our town There was none that suffered like Sally; For Sal and her parents got broken down, And with them, our alley. Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats, Round Holborn Hill and its valley; And Sal sold mats and bought old hats, When out she chose to sally. Chorus. One unlucky night, the cats did afright, And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally; Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats That kicked up a row in the alley. Repeat 1st verse for Chorus. The very next night, the cats out of spite, Stole a first-class door mat from Sally, Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats That stole all the lost goods in the alley. Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats, That belonged to the mother of Sally; Then Sal let loose her father’s rats, That destroyed all the cats in the alley. Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got, And he tarried to bully poor Sally, And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog, And destroyed all the rats in the alley. Then the neighbours joined the cat’s meat men, To have their revenge upon Sally, And they set all their dogs at her, and then Sal slew all the dogs in the alley. The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame? The neighbours said, ’twas Sally! But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm, And never mind the alley. 23 Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot, And Sal’s neighbours and parents, and Sally, And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done, The School Board took the alley.

The Gaiety Bar. Of all the days that’s in the week, Your actor loves but one day; And that’s the day that comes betwixt The Friday and the Sunday. For then he’s dressed all in his best, At Spiers and Pond’s he’ll dally; The ghost has walked, and he doth “part” Like a Prince in Prosser’s Alley.

Shilly-Shally. Of all the follies on our part There’s none like Shilly Shally, A weakness that the Liberal cart Upsets continually. There’s not a cry,—Home-Rule, Church, Land,— To which I will not rally, But there’s one thing I cannot stand, That’s foreign Shilly-Shally. Of policies absurd and weak The worst is Shilly-Shally. If Office we’re about to seek, I fear that principally. Put to the test, I’ll do my best Enthusiastically, And follow Gladstone like the rest, But oh! don’t Shilly-Shally! Let “Pussy”[3] be allowed to purr, As Leader, musically; But not as Foreign Minister, To play at Shilly-Shally! If at the F. O. we may see True nerve and nous, O Halle- Lujah! how happy we shall be Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally! Punch. February 6, 1886.

She’s all my fancy painted her, she’s lovely, she’s divine, But her heart it is another’s, it never can be mine; Yet I have lov’d as man ne’er lov’d, a love without decay, Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Alice Gray. * * * * *

It’s all my fancy painted it, It’s lovely, it’s divine; But, alas! it is another’s, It never can be mine. Yet strove I as he never strove, Efforts without decay; Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking, For the place of premier Grey. His table now is loaded, With notes in black and white, And his salary so liberal, He clutches with delight. The cash, alas! is not for me, The money’s turned away; Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking For the place of premier Grey. For that I’d take the liberal side, For that the bill call good, For that I’d dare the rabble strife, Though it cost a sea of blood. By night I’d take no slumbers, Whate’er e’en Praed might say, But scorn’d is the heart that’s breaking, For the place of premier Grey. I’ve sunk beneath Reform’s bright sun, I’ve shook ’neath Brougham’s blast; But my pilgrimage is nearly done, The heavy conflict’s pass’d. And when the great Act digs my grave, Party will haply say, “Oh! his heart, his heart was broken, For the place of premier Grey.” Figaro in London. August 11, 1832.

Sally May. She’s naught my fancy painted her, She’s not at all divine; I wish she was another’s But fate has made her mine: I’m used as man was never used; I never have my way— My peace, my peace is broken, By cruel Sally May! Her sandy hair is scattered o’er A face of dingy white, Her goggle eye now sleepy looks, Now flashes fierce with spite! Her sandy hair I hate to see— Her eyes are set awry, My rest, my rest is broken, By cruel Sally May. From her I’ve climb’d the mountain’s side, From her have braved the flood! With her I’ve felt the battle’s strife, For she has shed my blood— By night she breaks my slumbers, And watches me by day, My rest, my rest is broken, By ugly Sally May. I’ve sung beneath that noisy tongue, And trembled as she passed, 24 But, now my business is done, She’s broke my head at last, And when the doctor binds my wound, In pity he will say, His head, his heart was broken By wicked Sally May! From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Captain Gray. He’s all his agent painted him, A captain in the line; But his pay he spent on others, And none has e’er been mine. I work’d as ne’er a tailor work’d For him without delay; And I became a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray. In dark blue coat all braided o’er, In ducks of spotless white, In bright velvet waistcoat, He flashes out at night, That coat was braided all by me; Those ducks and waistcoat gay I made, and am a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray. I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch, I’ve into gaol been cast; But my imprisonment is done, And I’m white-washed at last. Oh, when the court my schedule had, My lawyer there did say, Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt, Through trusting Captain Gray. Anonymous.

Alick Grey. He’s all my fancy painted him, He’s all I thought divine; But his heart it is decoy’d away, He never can be mine: Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d, A love without decay: Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking For the love of Alick Grey. I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun, And tremble in the blast, But now my course is nearly run, The weary conflict’s past; And when the turf lies o’er my grave, May pity haply say, Oh! her heart, her heart was broken, For the love of Alick Grey. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Song of the Humbugged Husband. She’s not what fancy painted her— I’m sadly taken in; If some one else had won her heart, I Should not have cared a pin. I thought that she was mild and good As maiden e’er could be; I wonder how she ever could Have so much humbugged me. They cluster round and shake my hand— They tell me I am blest: My case they do not understand, I think that I know best. They say she’s fairest of the fair— They drive me mad and madder, What do they want by it? I swear, I only wish they had her. ’Tis true that she has lovely locks, That on her shoulders fall: What would they say to see the box In which she keeps them all? Her taper fingers it is true, ’Twere difficult to match; What would they say if they but knew How terribly they scratch? Punch. 1842.

Kitty Brown. She’s all the chimney sweep described, She’s eats as much as nine, But her appetite it is her own, And never can be mine; Yet eat I more than any man, In country or in town. Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown. Her false and crooked teeth fix in A mouth both grim and wide, Her pig like eyes squint now and then, And sometimes leer aside. She did not buy those teeth for me But food to gobble down— Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown. For her I’d keep an eating-house If she provided cash, For her if she would send a haunch, I’d make some venison hash; Charms which I never saw I’d praise, Change to a smile her frown— Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown. I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain, And suffered hunger dread, But the cursed cat has run away, With my bonny baked sheep’s head; And as I rove, some wag may say, That fool without a crown. His head lost, while he warmed his heart, For the lunch of Kitty Brown. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Her Hair is Turning Grey. No wonder that they’ve painted her, With rouge and carmine high, And made her look so beautiful, I guess the reason why: She long has pass’d her prime of life, Her flesh now falls away, 25 And, few men ever choose a wife, Whose hair is turning grey! She dresses fine and very smart, She buys the best of lace; She uses Rowland’s Kalydor, To wash her hands and face. Her dress becomes her very well, Her bonnet looks quite gay, But I’m awake—yes, I can smell, Her hair is turning grey She’s sunk, at least an inch in height, She does not walk so fast, But, her virgin state is not yet done, Her single life’s not past; For when the men have ogled her, I’ve heard them whispering say She must be old, and so I’ve thought For her hair is turning grey! From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Words and Music by Claribel. I cannot sing the old songs I sung long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow; For bygone hours come o’er my heart, With each familiar strain. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. * * * * *

We met—’twas on the rink, And I feared he’d upset me; He curved—I tried to think Who he was, and he let me! She wore a “pull back” costume That night when first we met; As flat as any pancake, Her tablier worked with jet. Her footsteps had no lightness (Though high her heels were shown) How could they, with a tightness To sprightliness unknown? I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With a cloud of lace à sortir About her sunny brow. “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe,” I cry, “Fresh and fair ones”—when no Bobby’s nigh. Funny Folks.

I Cannot Eat the Old Horse. (Written during the agitation in Paris in favor of eating horse flesh). I cannot eat the old horse, I rode long years ago; I’m sure my teeth would fail me, And foolish tears might flow. For bygone hunts come o’er my heart, With cuts from round and side; I cannot eat the old horse, On which I used to ride. I cannot eat the old horse, For visions come again; Of bygone meets departed, And runs in soaking rain. But perhaps when raging hunger, Has set his hand on me; Then I may eat the old horse, And hope t’will tender be.

The mistletoe hung on the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall, And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay; And keeping their Christmas holiday: The baron beheld with a father’s pride, His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride; While she, with her bright eyes, seem’d to be The star of that goodly company. Oh! the mistletoe bough. “I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried; “Here tarry a moment—I’ll hide—I’ll hide; And Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace The clue to my secret hiding place.” Away she ran—and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide, I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.” Oh! the mistletoe bough. * * * * *

The Michaelmas Goose. The Michaelmas goose lay in Leadenhall, On the outside of a poulterer’s stall; The poulterer’s boys were blithe and gay, Keeping of Leadenhall Market-day: The poulterer, though his stock profuse, Kept twigging with pride the Michaelmas goose; Whilst she with her neck broke, seem’d to be The best of all gooses that could be. Oh! the Michaelmas goose, Oh! the Michaelmas goose. “I’m tired of walking,” an old maid did cry, “I’ve walk’d to the market a goose for to buy: And poulterer be sure that you give me, I pray; The best of your gooses for Michaelmas day!” Then a thief ran by, and straight began, To finger the goose, and away he ran: And he the poulterer out loud did call, “Oh! I’ve lost the best goose in all Leadenhall!” Oh! my Michaelmas goose, &c. They sought it that hour, they sought it all day, They sought it in vain till the night passed away! “The cleanest—the dirtiest—the filthiest spot, The old maid sought wildly but found it not; At length, as onward she did roam, She looked far the goose all the way she went home; When the old maid appeared, oh! the children did cry, “Twig the old woman that went a large goose to buy!” Oh! the Michaelmas goose, &c. 26 The thief was caught at morning’s light, They searched his pockets, when oh; what a sight; For a bit of a goose lay hidden there, In the breeches pocket, the thief did wear: The thief laugh’d aloud, and swore it was fun; To the Beak who heard how the trick was done, Who decided against him, so now laugh your fill! For three months he was sent to step at the mill. All through prigging a goose, Oh! the Michaelmas goose.

The Vorkhouse Boy. The cloth vos laid in the Vorkhouse hall, And the greatcoats hung on the vhite-vashed vall; The paupers all were blithe and gay, Keeping their Christmas holiday; Vhen the master he cried, with a roguish leer, You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer; And one by his looks he seemed to say, I’ll have more soup on this Christmas day. Oh, the poor Vorkhouse boy, &c. At length all of us to bed vos sent, The boy vos missing in search ve vent; Ve sought him above, ve sought him below, Ve sought him with faces of grief and voe: Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night, Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright, Vhen a young pauper cried “I know ve shall Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pall.” Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c. Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew, Ve sought down the yard, and ve sought up the flue; Ve sought in each saucepan, each kettle each pot, In the vorter butt looked, but found him not; And veeks rolled on, ve vere all of us told, That somebody said he’d been burked and sold; Vhen our master goes out the parishioners vild, Cries, “there goes the cove that burked the poor child.” Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy, &c. At length the soup-coppers repairs did need, The copper-smith came, and there he seed; A dollop of bones lay grizzling there, In the legs of the breeches the boy did vear; To gain his fill the boy did stoop, And, dreadful to tell, he vos boiled in the soup! And ve all of us say it, and say with a sneer, That he vos pushed in by the overseer! Oh, the poor vorkhouse boy &c. From The Victoria Minstrel. Published by James Duffy, Dublin.

The Family Ghost. At the Old Manor House and ancestral Hall, Where the ivy climbs over the gable-end wall, A Rookery lends the domain a charm, And the rats and the mice within-door swarm; And, time out of mind, as the talk hath been, There’s a spectral Thing to be heard and seen. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost! A sound, as it were, of a rustling train, That sweeps into the chambers, and out again, And anon there appeareth an ancient Dame, Like a figure stept out of a picture-frame, In a stomacher, frill, and farthingale, And her eyes glimmer through an antique lace-veil. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost! There’s a room where the Ghost is given to keep So in that one apartment that none dare sleep, No man-servant, maid servant, girl, or groom, Will adventure a night in the Haunted Room. Should the Host any Stranger away there stow, The Ghost of the Family lets him know. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost! A something in sooth it may be to boast, That a fellow hath gotten a Family Ghost, For a Family Ghost to a Family Name Is a sort of appurtenance much the same As a coat-of-arms, or a Family Tree; No such Ghost but for persons of pedigree. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost! In your stuccoed Villas it scorns to dwell; Stands only the hold of your high-born Swell. It disdains to appear—having too much pride— To the family circle at Christmastide, Where, if ghost-stories then be but truly told, It could, an it listed, a tale unfold. O, the Family Ghost! O, the Family Ghost! Punch. December 29, 1883.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. Home! home, sweet home! There’s no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call:— Give me these and the peace of mind, dearer than all! Home! home, &c.

To us, in despite of the absence of years, How sweet the remembrance of home still appears From allurements abroad, which but flatter the eye, The unsatisfied heart turns, and says with a sigh Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home! Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow, But mine has been checkered with many a woe! 27 Yet, though different our fortunes, our thoughts are the same And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim, Home, home, sweet, sweet home, &c.

The court of my sovereign, though I may grace, Be it ever so stormy there’s nothing like place, A vapour from hell seems to shield us when there, Which seek through the world you’ll ne’er meet with elsewhere. Place! place! sweet, sweet, place. There’s nothing like place, No! there’s nothing like place. An exile from place levees dazzle in vain. Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again, The subs slaving daily that came at my call, Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all. Place! place! sweet, sweet, place. There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place. Figaro in London. Sept. 22. 1832.

Beignet de Pomme. ’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme. A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme! Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores—if you’ll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme Anonymous.

“’Mid Westminster’s palace, while Reid still shall roam The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home; If Barry e’er tries the new house to prepare, His efforts by Reid are all blown into air. Reid, Reid, Doctor Reid! Of all great mistakes, there is not one like Reid. “While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain; Oh give me my old House of Commons again. The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all, Reid, Reid,” &c. Punch. April 14, 1846.

Parody for Puseyites. Though crosses and candles we play with at home, To go the whole gander, there’s no place like Rome; We’ve statues and relics to hallow us there, Which, save in museums, you’ll not find elsewhere, Rome, Rome, sweet, sweet Rome! For all us Tractarians there’s no place like Rome Punch. 1850.

The Policeman’s Home. Up courts and round palaces long may they roam, But ancient policemen have no sort of home To offer them shelter, and comfort, and care, The curbstone no more when their highlows can wear. Home! home! they’ve no home: For poor old Policemen there’s no place like home! * * * * * Then let a snug station await Life’s decline, When once sturdy fists must their truncheons resign; And ere his worn frame is consign’d to the loam, Oh, grant the Policemen a few years of home! Home! home! short, short home! Let worn out Policemen have some place like home Punch. December 6, 1851.

Songs of the Circuit. From Circuit to Circuit although we may roam, Be it ever so briefless, there’s none like the Home; A fee from the skies p’rhaps may follow us there, Which, seek through the Courts is ne’er met with elsewhere Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home. 28 When out on the Home, lodgings tempt you in vain, The railroad brings you back to your chambers again: On the Home the expenses for posting are small; Give me that—’tis the Circuit, the cheapest of all. Home, Home, sweet sweet Home, There’s none of the Circuits can equal the Home. Punch. March 23, 1884.

Home, Sweet Home! Modern Version. ’Midst mansions and palaces worthy of Rome, How pleasant, great Bumble, is Poverty’s home! Gehenna-like gloom seems to circle us there, Which, seek through the world, is scarce met with elsewhere. Foul fume as from Styx seems to hang o’er the spot, Its gutters that reek and its rafters that rot, Its rain-sodden dwellings that threaten to fall, And its squalid, sad denizens, drearer than all. Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home! An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain, The shivering prey of the frost and the rain, The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell, ’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell. Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum, Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come, Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves; Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves. Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home! Close-stacked, crazy rookeries, rotting and rank, Pest-pregnant, plague-foul in each timber and plank, Rear thick-huddled frontages, row upon row, The smoke-pall above, and the swamp-ooze below. Each garret-roof covers its horde—though it leaks, Each cellar slough hides its pale crowd—though it reeks. Dumb thralls, voiceless victims, none heeds their mute call; But Dirt and Disease are the masters of all. Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home! Hence Mammon draws tithe, and here Moloch takes toll; Here conscienceless wealth, of the spiderish soul, Sucks fatness from foulness in fœtid beast-lairs; Whilst somnolent Bumble, as deaf to all pray’rs As a drowsing King Log, all his powers lets fall, And skulks in prone impotence. What though they crawl From their dens to his knees, the poor souls, in appeal? His brains are of wool, and his heart is of steel. Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home! Deaf, blind to all pleas sense or feeling can urge, Till King Pest, with his fierce, indiscriminate scourge, Sallies forth from the loathsome, the horrible lair, That himself and his imps with our pariahs share. Then, who so affrighted, so helpless as he, King Log, brainless Bumble? Ah! when shall we see Some stout modern ghoul-slaying Champion come To teach our poor outcasts the meaning of Home? Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home! As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home! Punch. November 12, 1881.

Song of the Professional Beauty’s Husband. ’Midst mansions and palaces so much I roam, That it’s useless to long for an evening at home; The charm from the heavens that falls on us there I’ve never a chance to experience or share. Home, home, sweet sweet home, Be it ever so humble, There’s no place like home! An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain, O give me my villa at Tooting again; My pipe at the fireside; the lawn where I bowled; And that sweet peace of mind, far more precious than gold! Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so quiet, There’s no place like home! But parties perpetual now are my lot. I’ve a home,—but I never enjoy it one jot; It is only a place where I put on white ties— Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies. Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so humdrum, There’s no place like home! O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain, I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane; It was only a carte—but with anger I foam When I think how it’s carted us both from our home. Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so “homey” There’s no place like home! Truth Christmas Number, 1882.

The Weekly Dispatch. (Prize Parody. January 28, 1883.) ’Mid hardships and hovels Though we may roam, From Dan to Beersheba, There’s no place like home. A fiend from below Seems to worry us there, Which, search through the world, Is not met elsewhere. Home, home! vile, vile home! There’s no place like home; There’s no place like home. How hateful the squalling Of children and wife! While doctors and duns Make a limbo of life. Of all human dwellings Beneath heaven’s dome, Be they ever so shocking, There’s no place like home. Home, home! vile, vile home! There’s no place like home; There’s no place like home. David Reid.

“Place, Sweet Place.” (Sung by an Old Whip). Though clubdoms’s fair palaces Welcome my face, 29 I cannot but grumble There’s nothing like place. A chance may arise For a fellow who’s there, But he’ll travel the world Ere he meets it elsewhere. An exile from “place,” Fashion dazzles in vain, Oh, give me my showy Appointment again! With members who tremble And come at my call, Give me this—or a pension, More valued than all! Exe.

The Barrister’s Lament on Leaving the Old Courts, and going into the New Courts. ’Mid new courts and chambers, Where’er I may roam, There no place familiar— I don’t feel at home. A shade from the old hall Has followed me here, As a friend that’s departed, Whose mem’ry is dear. An exile from home, Splendour dazzles in vain; Oh, give me my dirty Old Law Courts again! I can’t say a word here, My brief I let fall, When the old place I think of, And that dear, grimy Hall. C. W. Scott.

A Verse to Home Rule. In Westminster Palaces We bluster and foam, And say, if its bumble, There’s no Rule like Home. St. Stephen’s is charming, St. Stephen’s is fair, But it’s not the St. Stephen’s We long for elsewhere. Home, Home, sweet Rule of Home! There’s no Rule like Home Rule, No Rule like Home! Anonymous.

Original and third Verses to “Home Sweet Home.” Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end, The power of home will attractiveness lend; Then dearest and fairest of memories all, Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Cuyuni.

Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea, It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be; Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain, Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Picaflor.

In the Soudan desert, ’neath Afric’s fierce sun, After butchering Arabs, no honour being won; Worn out by hard marches, we lay on the sand, And longed for sweet home and our lov’d native land. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Tommy Atkins.

Though far from dear England our lot may be cast Our love and allegiance she’ll hold till the last, New ties we contract, and affections we gain, But Britain we mean when we sing the refrain: Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Daleth.

In joy or in sadness, in care or in grief, We fly to its bosom, and there find relief; There love reigns supremely, and on till life’s wane Our hearts shall re-echo that sweetest refrain: Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home! Picaptor.

Tho’ rich be our portion, or poor be our lot, Tho’ years flying swiftly all else be forgot; Tho’ fortune disdain us and friendship should veer, Home’s mem’ry our hearts in their loneness shall cheer, Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Picaptor.

I pray that I reach the old homestead once more, And see the loved faces around, as of yore; Of all fortune’s gifts, methinks this were the best, At home, at life’s close, thus to peacefully rest. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! W. P. (Teneriffe).

How many in dreams only shadow the bliss Of home, where, alas, a mother’s last kiss Is all that sustains them o’er life’s weary strand Away from sweet home, and their dear native land. Home, home, sweet, sweet home, There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! A. Atwood.

Like bird to its nest, or like sheep to the fold, I turn to my home from the world’s bitter cold; For true, faithful hearts beckon me from afar, 30 And the flame of my ingle is my guiding star. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home! Winstead. Truth. June 4, 1885.

Law, Cheap Law. ’Mid falsehood and fallacies, jingle and jaw, Though often we stumble, there’s nothing like law! There’s a charm in the wig, there’s a grace in the gown, And say what they will, ’tis the best trade in town. Law, law, cheap, cheap law, There’s no trade like law; there’s no trade like law. For counsel-at-law clients whistle in vain, “Oh, give us our wasted retainers again; The bright, golden guineas we paid at your call, Give us these, and the ‘Fees on Brief,’ greater than all.” Law, law, cheap, cheap law, &c. Lex. Beef, Roast Beef. ’Mid soup, fish, and entrées our stay will be brief, Be it ever so gristly, there’s no meat like beef; A true English taste seems to hallow this fare, Which, eat what we will, is not met with elsewhere. Beef, beef, roast, roast beef, There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef. Debarred from my beef, kickshaws tempt me in vain, Oh, give me my plainly-cooked sirloin again; The greens, piping hot, to be brought to my call, Give me them with the under-cut, dearer than all. Beef, beef, roast, roast beef, There’s no meat like beef; there’s no meat like beef. Friar Tuck. Tea, Sweet Tea. ’Midst mansions or cottages, where’er we may be, Be it ever so feeble, there’s nothing like tea. A balm that restores seems to perfume the air, Which, seek through all comforts, is not met elsewhere. Tea, tea, sweet, sweet tea! There’s nothing like tea! there’s nothing like tea! Forbidden my tea, all else tempts me in vain, Oh, give me my Chinese infusion again. The urn, singing gladly, responds to my call, And brings back the soothing draught, cheering to all. Ediora. The London Poor’s Lament. ’Mid gin-shops or “palaces” though I may roam, ’Tis better than starving and freezing at home! No food, fire, or candle is ever found there, Such comforts, alas! must be sought for elsewhere. Home, home, bleak, bleak home! For sorrow and want there’s no place like home! As exiles from home I and mine would be fain, We pine for a log-hut or cottage in vain. In a land where the poor are not forced “to the wall.” Give us this and some “pieces” down—better than all! Home, home, bleak, bleak home! There’s no place in England, there’s no place called home. Crystal Palace. (“Men are merriest when they are from home.—Shakespeare.) ’Mid pleasures and palaces fain would I roam, Be it ever so stately there’s no peace at home; All bores ’neath the sky seem to follow us there, Which, seek thro’ the world, may not meet us elsewhere. Roam, roam, sweet to roam! There’s no peace at home! there’s no peace at home! A captive at home, comfort’s sought for in vain; Oh, give me my bachelor freedom again; The little club dinners, they came at my call; Give me them, with the “pipe of peace,” dearest than all. Roam, roam, sweet to roam! &c. Moonshine. ’Mid worry and bustle, where’er you may roam, There is nothing can beat the Spring cleaning of home; There’s a fuss and confusion then reigns in the air, That, search where you will, is not met with elsewhere. When Spring cleaning times come, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. Exiled from my room, I must grumble in vain, For they’re cleaning my lowly thatched cottage again; Those sweetbirds, the charwomen, chatter and bawl, ’Till I give them a “piece of mind” louder than all. When Spring cleaning time’s come, &c. Anon. Rum, good Rum. Of all the strong drinks that are loved in the slum, Be they ever so fiery, there’s none like good rum; Its quickness in levelling a man with the ground In no other liquor will ever be found. Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, There’s nothing like rum; there’s nothing like rum. Though it’s hastening my ruin and my life is a stain, Fill up the fire-water, I’ll drink it again; Speak not of the pleasures I lose by my fall, I tell you good rum is the dearest of all. Rum, rum, good rum, good rum, &c. Mona. Jones still Jones. In islands or continents, this parodist depones, Wherein he has wandered he’s always met Jones In steamboats or trains, or balloons in the air. If he sought for a change, Jones was sure to be there! Jones, Jones, still, still Jones, There’s no shirking Jones, there’s no shirking Jones. In prairies and deserts again and again, I have striven to dodge him, but always in vain; On the top of Mount Blanc, and the Great Chinese Wall When I paused to take breath, there was Jones after all! Jones, Jones, still, still Jones, There’s no dodging Jones, there’s no dodging Jones! Prima Donna. Home Ruler’s Song. ’Neath measures and policies though we may groan, Be we ever so humble we long for our own. ’Tis liberty’s charm bids us “Home Rule” declare, And we’ll stir all the world if we don’t get our share. Home Rule, rule at home! There’s no rule like “Home,” there’s no rule like “Home!” 31 An exile from home is both cruel and vain, So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again, With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall; And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all, Home Rule, rule at home! &c. Roggee Shurt. When worries and creditors force you to groan, For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne, In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there, Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne! There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne. I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain, By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again. By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball, To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c. Nutshell. Rome, sweet Rome. ’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam, Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome; No Forty-nine articles harass one there, No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome! There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome! A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain, Oh, give me my stole and my incense again; The maids sighing daily who came to my call, The piece of mind then that I gave to them all. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome! Clericus. A New Version of an Old Song. “She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:— “Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome, Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb, H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer, Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!” ——there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without ever guessing it.” American Paper. ——:o:——

(From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637.) Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It would not wither’d be, But thou thereon did’st only breathe, And sent it back to me; Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

A Parody. Drink to me only from a jug, And I will pledge in mine; So fill my glass with whisky punch, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that in my throat doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, That honour I’d resign. * * * * * (The Editor felicitously adds that the second verse is not worth parodying.) Blackwood’s Magazine. July, 1823.

Wink at me only with glass eye, And I’ll respond with mine, And smile not when the harmless fly Goes crawling over thine. I care not for the colour there, Dark brown, or black, or blue, Or even if you wink, ma chère, With eyes of different hue. I sent thee late a new glass eye, Impervious to the tear, Tinged with some new æsthetic dye, And quite “too utter” dear. You’ll wear it, won’t you, when you think How faithful it must be, For it is warranted to wink At nobody but me? Punch. April, 1881.

Bring to me only, if you’re wise, The ale that’s clear and fine; Place but a quart within the cup, I’ll call that quart divine.

1. Drink wine only with thy Drugs And I will drink with mine,— Or leave a “peg” within the cup, And I’ll not seek Quinine! 2. O some may praise John Barleycorn, And some the juice of Cadiz, But I will sing of Chlorodyne, That keeps me out of Hades. 32 3. Boast not thyself in Sherries gold, Or Claret’s crimson river, There’s nothing like Taraxacum To spur a sluggish liver! 4. Ah hapless youth, life’s honey-sweets Too deeply you beguile! Soon must you quaff its bitter cup, Quassia and Camomile! 5. Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine To comfort thy spirit sore, To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork As you never have played before 6. Hey nonny, nonny, Champagne is bonny, At summer pic-nic or wedding feast; But more for your weal, Is Citrate of Steel, Effervescing like German Yeast! 7. On an Iron Age we fall— Iron steeds, and Iron rail, Iron ships and, worst of all, Iron drinks instead of Ale! 8. Life is cruel, false, and cold, Steel thy heart against the scorner, Steel it with the Tincture sold At the Chemist’s round the corner! 9. Iron drops such conquerors be Over death, that hoary croaker, That you’ll quite immortal be When you’ve swallowed all your porter. Will-o-the-Wisp. July 10, 1869.

The Rinker’s Song. Rink to me only with thine ice, And I will sledge with mine; Or heave a hiss but inly up, And I’ll not look for whine. The thirst that from a sole doth rise, Doth ask a rink divine, But might I on Jove’s necktie slip, I would not change for thine. I went to thee, late, a rosy youth, Not so much honoring thee As in the hope that, taking care, I should not “Spiller’d” be. But thou me send’st, in groanly truth, Plump on back, ah me! Since when my “ditto” suit I swear, Smells asphaltely of thee! The Figaro. June 10, 1876.

The Language of Love. Talk to me only with thine eyes, And I will hear with mine; Turn hither all the light that lies In those twin orbs of thine. I shall not miss an H or two, Nor find as many slips Of grammar as I daily do From these bewitching lips. In such a deep impassioned glance Could any eye suspect A double negative, perchance;— Which never ain’t correct. Could any dazzled gaze descry, In stars thus blue and bright, A tendency to say, “Says I;”— Which, I says, can’t be right. Nay, Love and Prosody combined Sit smiling evermore. Within those eyes that speak a mind Above grammatic lore. Those lips may err—they often do; But why should that surprise? My love has nothing of the Blue About her but her eyes.

Phillis is my only joy, Faithless as the wind or seas; Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please. If with a frown I am cast down Phillis smiling And beguiling, Makes me happier than before. Though, alas! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix; Yet the moment she is kind, I forgive her all her tricks; Which though I see, I can’t get free; She deceiving, I believing, What need lovers wish for more? Charles Sedley.

A Rhyme of the Hoax. Fillies is my only joy— Slippery jades as e’er one sees, Sometimes forward, sometimes coy, Sometimes game to win with ease. If I’ve ill luck, And back the ruck, Yet disaster Makes me faster. Bet each year upon the Oaks. Though, alas! I always find There’s no guessing all their tricks, Yet I still with constant mind Risk my monkey’s, five or six; This year may be A case for me 33 Of cash—bereavement; O Achievement. Win! or ’tis a frightful Hoax. Echoes from the Clubs. May 22, 1867.

Fillies is my only joy! Faithless though the jades oft be Transient ever such annoy. ’Tis but so much £ s. d.; Done are we brown On Epsom Down, Fillies shying, Shiners flying, Spooners sappier than before! Though, alas! too late I find, Fails the goal my fancy picks; Since she’s not of womankind, Freely I forgive her tricks. Fortune’s slippy, ah! Get on Hippia,[4] I believing, Ne’er misgiving, Mean to risk my “tin” once more. Echoes from the Clubs. May 29, 1867.

The Sot Bowed Down. The sot bowed down by too much drink, To nearest post will cling; Or in the gutter p’rhaps will sink, Which can no comfort bring; For all exciting spirits tend The senses having flown, To make a fool the only friend That drink can call its own. The sot will in his muddy lair, Still ponder o’er the last Strong glass he took, and could’nt bear, But which he swallowed fast. Till the police assistance lend, And in a cell of stone; Lock up all night the only friend That drink can call its own. Anonymous.

Song of January. When other months amid the range Of time’s revolving year, Exhibit symptoms of a change From what they should appear; Though April fails to bring her showers; Though March is mild and tame; Though May forgets her buds and flowers, You’ll find me still the same. They say that Janus sways my lot, That I two faces wear; But, let me ask them, who does not? In this false world of care. Oh! I’m a month that’s always cold, And who shall dare to blame, If they’re at such a moment told That I am still the same. Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

Self-Evident. When other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You’ve heard from many a swell; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You’d give the world to see, A friend, whose love you know will wash, Oh, then remember me! When Signor Solo goes his tours, And Captain Craft’s at Ryde, And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors, And Lord knows who beside; When to exist you feel a task Without a friend at tea, At such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me. J. R. Planche.

A Yule-tide Parody. When other wits and other bards, Their tales at Christmas tell, Or praise on cheap and coloured cards, The time they love so well; Secure from scorn and ridicule I hope my verse may be, If I can still remember Yule, And Yule remember me. The days are dark, the days are drear, When dull December dies; But, while we mourn an ended year, Another’s star will rise, I hail the season formed by rule For merriment and glee; So let me still remember Yule, And Yule remember me. The rich plum-pudding I enjoy, I greet the pie of mince; And loving both while yet a boy, Have loved them ever since, More dull were I than any mule That eyes did ever see, If I should not remember Yule, And Yule remember me. Anonymous. From London Society. Christmas Number for 1881.

Song for the Hall Porter. I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, With tradesmen and duns outside, And a large assembly of morning calls, In carriage pomp and pride. There were crowds too great to count, and most For Bills unsettled came; But I also dreamt that at my post I sat dozing all the same. 34 I dreamt that footmen raised their hand, And knock’d to a high degree, With a noise few porters’ ears could withstand, But they wasted it all on me, I dreamt that one of the noisy host Came forth and bawl’d my name; But I also dreamt that fast as a post I slept there all the same. I slept there all the same.

The Alarmist’s Dream about the Great Exhibition. I dreamt that I stood in the Crystal Halls, With Chartists and Reds at my side, And that all who assembled in those glass walls, Came there the contents to divide. Of riches too great to count it could boast, And jewels of world-wide fame; But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most, They remained there all the same. I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band With thieves of every degree, And with skill that no police could withstand, They picked all the pockets of we. And I dreamt that one of the scampish host To grab the Koh-i-Noor came; But I found when I woke, which surprised me most, It was safe there all the same. Punch. June 14, 1851.

I dreamt that I dined in Conservative halls, With Peel and the Duke at my side; That I went like their shadow, to morning calls, To concerts, the club, or the ride. And seldom or never to meet, did I seem, With a Whig or a Radical name; And yet—the most curious part of my dream— My opinions were still the same! And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course, For my senses were running a rig,) Who said that “Persuasion was better than force,” As he dazzled my eyes with his wig. “Oh, beautiful wig!” thought I, “could I for thee Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?” And yet—the most wonderful matter to me— My opinions were still the same! Punch. April 13, 1844.

Ballad. I dreamt that I sat in the House of Lords, As Monteagle spoke at my side, And into that sleep which his tone affords I did imperceptibly glide. There were lions too many to count—a host Of creatures I knew not by name; And I also dreamt—which puzzled me most— That the figures were all the same. I dreamt that huge monsters—a fearful band— Were staring to such a degree That the sight was more than I could withstand, For they turn’d all their eyes upon me. And I dreamt that King John’s unearthly ghost Stepped forth my homage to claim, When I woke and I found ’twas my bedstead’s post, But it frightened me all the same.

(RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.) (Sung confidentially by the Old “Bohemian Boy.”) I dreamt that I danced at Mabille balls— That again at the Cancan I shied: But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls, I had far best have Cancan’d outside! For, spite Jules’s antics, once good as a feast— Spite Music, Nymphs, flare—still the same. I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least, That the whole thing seemed horribly tame, Oh, so tame! So depressingly, horribly tame! Punch. March 4, 1882.

I dreamt that I dined on Marbled Beef, And found it the best I had tried; And of all its good points I held this the chief,— The figure at which ’twas supplied. But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice You tried on the same old game, And though every carcass cost you half the price, You charged me still the same! You charged me still the same! Punch. April 18, 1885.

Beautiful star! on each opera night, Watching with wonder your diamonds bright, And hearing your cadences echo afar, I envy your fortune, fair opera star— Star of the evening, beautiful star. I hear sad Amina’s cantabile ring, I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling; Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole, And weep when Medea entrances my soul— Star of the evening, beautiful star. I love thee in Norma and fair Marguerite, And Lohengrin even thy tones can make sweet: But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night— Star of the evening, beautiful star. Funny Folks.

Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls, For treatment kind thy memory calls; Who could fail to thy use admit, Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit! In fancy’s eyes you seem to say, Think of the Drama’s bright hey-day; When first-night critics would views emit From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit! To your cheap seats the people come In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum; And where is the manager who’d permit One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit? Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit! The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer At the warm applause to actors dear; And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit, Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit. Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit! So, Pit, last on! and hold your own, Whatever else may be overthrown; And let fond hands your each seat refit, Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit! Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit! Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

Beautiful soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup! Beau—ootiful Soo-oop! Beau—ootiful Soo-oop! Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beautiful soup! Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two- pennyworth only of beautiful soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful soup? Beau-ootiful Soo-oop! Beau-ootiful Soo-oop! Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beauti—FULL SOUP!

Grandioso. It may be my truant monkey, Will come with that cord again; It may be he only skedaddles When he hears the organ-men! It may be my truant monkey Will come with that cord again; It may be he only SKEDADDLES When he hears the organ men!!

The Lost Ape. Seated one day on an organ, A monkey was ill at ease, When his fingers wandered idly, In search of the busy fleas. I know not what he was slaying, Or what he was dreaming then, But a sound burst forth from that organ, Not at all like a grand Amen. It came through the evening twilight Like the close of the feline psalm, But the melody raised by their voices, Compared to this noise, was balm! It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow With their band of drum and fife, And cut, like an evening “Echo,” The Tit-Bits out of “Life.” I upset my table and tea things, And left not one perfect piece; I gazed at the wreck in silence, Not loth, but unable to speak! Then I sought him, alas! all vainly, The source of that terrible whine, With his cracked and tuneless organ, And its melodies undivine. Of course there was no policeman To move him away,—and men Who grind organs smile demurely At your curses, and smile again. It may be that I could choke him— Could kill him—but organ men If you kill a dozen to-day, To-morrow will come again! J. W. G. W. December, 1879.

Seated one day at the window, I was weary and ill at ease, And my coat I handled lightly, As I tried to extract the grease. I had no hopes of a dinner; My stomach was aching then, 36 When a knock at the door of my chamber. Like the sound of the broker men! It may be they thought I would open; But I stepped through the window then, Leaving one chair and a shirt front, To amuse the broker men.

Seated one day in her carriage, She was lounging well back at her ease, And her fingers wandered idly, In her pocket for her keys. She thought—as the bunch was missing, In her wardrobe it must be, So she struck one note of discord, Like the sound of a big, big D. Like the sound of a big, big D. She thought of the sweet little trinkets, Whose loss she would sadly mourn, Then she thought of her frocks and mantles, Some of which she had not yet worn. She thought of her precious diamonds, She thought of the square plate-chest, For at home, in that large old wardrobe, She kept everything she possess’d. Then she thought of the sweet love letters, Received with many a ruse, Then she suddenly thought that the servants Those letters would surely peruse. Then she thought, with a feeling of horror! That the neighbours would surely be shown, A piece of black hair neatly plaited, Which was not exactly her own. So she dived to the bottom of her carriage, Turned the matting all upside down, Then she dived beneath the cushions, And the lining of her green silk gown. She dived in the depths of her mantle, And into her muff dived she, But only at home in her wardrobe, Would be found that lost, lost key!

’Twas Only a Year ago, Love. (Music by F. Paolo Tosti.) It came with the merry May, love, That neat little billet doux, And I much regret to say, love, The measles and rates came too: The passion may fade away, love, But the rates I shall always owe. ’Twas only a year ago, love, Only a year ago! It came with the merry May, love, That tip for the big event; I shall ne’er forget the day, love, I plank’d on my ev’ry cent. But the animal stopped to sneeze, love, Which much increas’d my woe, ’Twas absolutely last, love, Only a year ago! It came with the merry May, love, That big furniture van, It took all my goods away, love, It thwarted my fondest plan. I thought I could shoot the moon, love, But destiny grunted “No”; They were there a bit too soon, love, Only a year ago! It came with the merry May, love. That beautiful big black eye, The kick I received for aye, love, Will live in my memory, And oh! I have got such a bruise, love, I regret I’m unable to show, I have to stand up to my meals, love, Though it’s over a year ago. It came with the merry May, love, It looked about forty three, And much to my dismay, love, It fixed itself on to me. I know that it foolish sounds, love, I promised and breached, you know. It cost me five hundred pounds, love, Just over a year ago! Frederick Bowyer.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, The woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroidered o’er with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat,[5] As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. 37 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. Christopher Marlowe.

The Nymph’s Reply. If all the World and Love were young, And truth on every Shepherd’s tongue, These pleasures might my passion move, To live with thee, and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold,[5] When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. But fading flowers in every field, To winter floods their treasures yield; A honey’d tongue, a heart of gall, Is Fancy’s spring, but Sorrow’s fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Are all soon wither’d, broke, forgotten, In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, Can me with no enticements move, To live with thee, and be thy love. What should we talk of dainties, then,[5] Of better meat than’s fit for men? These are but vain; that’s only good Which God hath blessed and sent for food. But could Youth last, could Love still breed, Had Joy no date, had Age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh.

The Milkmaid’s Song. Come live with me, and be my Love, And we wil all the pleasures prove That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields, Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds. Where we will sit upon the Rocks, And see the Shepherds feed our flocks, By shallow Rivers, to whose falls Mellodious birds sing madrigals. And I wil make thee beds of Roses, And then a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a Kirtle, Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle. A Gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull, Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivie buds, With Coral clasps, and Amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my Love. The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight, each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my Love.

The Milkmaid’s Mother’s Answer. If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue? These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy Love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The Rest complains of cares to come. The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivie buds, Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy Love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove, Of golden sands, and Christal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks, There will the River wispering run, Warm’d by thy eyes more then the Sun; And there th’ inamel’d fish wil stay, Begging themselves they may betray. 38 When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath Most amorously to thee will swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou, to be so seen, beest loth, By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both: And, if mine eyes have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with Angling Reeds, And cut their legs with shels and weeds. Or treacherously poor fish beset; With strangling snares, or windowy net. Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest, The bedded fish in banks outwrest; Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies, To ’witch poor wandring fishes eyes. For thee, thou needst no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait; That fish that is not catch’d thereby, Is wiser far, alas! then I.

The Milkmaid’s Song. Come live with me, and be my spouse, We’ll keep a cottage, pigs and cows; And I will dress in lace and silk, While you shall pig, and dig, and milk. There you will work and hoe all day, While I enjoy myself, away. If this you’ll do, we’ll have no rows, Come live with me, and be my spouse. From The Incomplete Angler, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That facts and figures can supply Unto the Statist’s ravished eye. And we will sit ’midst faction’s shocks And calculate the price of Stocks, The music of whose rise and fall Beats most melodious madrigal. We’ll learn how the last Census closes And the art of counting noses; And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn, Of abstract brief, and lengthy column. We’ll tot the figures fair and full Relating to the price of wool, The annual range of heat and cold, The death-rate, and the price of gold. Per-centages shall stir our blood Analyses as clear as mud. Oh, if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The marriage rate, the price of meat, Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet; And analytic “Tables” be Prepared each day to give us glee. Economists our praise shall sing, The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. Punch. March 21, 1885.

The Rinker’s Song. Come, rink with me, and be my love! And we will all the pleasures prove, That better far than hills or fields The slippery floor of asphalte yields. Of skates with rubber ties a pair, Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come, rink with me, and be my love!

The Rinkmaid’s Answer. If all the world and love were young, And truth on every rinker’s tongue, These asphalte pleasures might me move To rink with thee and be thy love. Talk to me not of flowers and posies; Suppose we fall and break our noses? Thou’lt not prevail on me at all; In truth, it is no joke to fall! Judy. April 12, 1876.

Several Scoffers. Sing, sir! sing! Mr. W. Well, if you like, I have a little thing: It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse, My own sad feelings put in ballad verse. Song: Mr. Whalley. Tune: “Won’t you tell me why, Robin?” Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor, You are so stern and strange? Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor, What ’tis has made you change! You never come to see me now, As once you used to do; I miss you at the Tichborne fetes, Where once I went with you. Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Won’t you tell me why; Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Oh, won’t you tell me why? 39 I’m very sad at heart, doctor, To think you hate me so; And why you call me names, doctor, I really do not know. You shouldn’t use such naughty words About your once dear friend; Oh! why not, for dear Tichborne’s sake, Let this sad difference end? Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c. We’ve both pressed Roger’s hand, doctor, More times than I can tell; We both have loved that man, doctor, Not wisely, but too well. And now the Englishman declares I’m more than three-parts mad; I did not think you’d do it, Vaughan, It really is too bad! Chorus. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, &c., &c. From Finis.

The Cook’s Lament. A Pathetic Ballad of a Policeman’s Perfidy. Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? You never speaks when’er we meets, You always pass me by! You never takes me for a walk, As was the case afore; You never comes to have a talk, Nor see me to the door! Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Policeman X Y Zad? Why pass my airey by, Bobby? Your cookey’s awful sad? Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? When on your beat, you beats retreat, If o’er the gate I spy? The mutton cold and taties hot, As oft I’ve give to you! Likewise “cold fourp’ny” in a pot, And now you are not true. Oh, please to tell me why, Bobby? My heart’s a-breaking fast; My bosom’s one big sigh, Bobby— My figure, long, can’t last! Oh, won’t you tell me why, Bobby, Won’t you tell me why? The reason now, you’ve broke your vow, To your own Sophy-i? The “public” we was going to take Is fading from my view; And sadly from my dreams I wake— Deceitful wretch in blue! Oh, will you tell me why, Bobby, You’ve gone and broke your word? And left your love to die, Bobby— The facts shall all be heard! I’ve learnt the reason why, Bobby, I knows the reason why! I see ’tis plain that Mary Jane Is lurking in your eye— The wicked slut! perfidious man! I’ll go to law, of course! I’d sooner wed the buttons, Dan, Than all the blessed Force! You need not tell me why, Bobby, Policeman X Y Zad; For I shall never cry, Bobby— In fact I’m rather glad! S. J. A. F.

To Daffodils. Fair Daffodils we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hast’ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, like you: We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer’s rain; Or, as the pearls of morning’s dew Ne’er to be found again. Robert Herrick.

Unexpected Accounts; or, the Quarterly “Bill-est-due.” I. Dear little bills, we weep to see You come again so soon; Our dividends are not paid in, And yet, you crave this boon; “Pay, pay, On reckoning day, The Tin!” Thus, Christmas with its charms, And mirthful glow and glee, Hath also its alarms! II. We did not think that you were due Till some time in the spring: You grow, like toadstools, in a night, As quick as anything; And though we do Fight shy of you—and taxes too, In spite You fall like drops of summer rain, 40 Save you are many and they are few. And—still you come again! Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. Cambridge, Jones and Piggott, 1883.

Advice. (Freely adapted from Herrick). Order ye Wallsends while ye may, Though prices are surprising; For this same coal that’s high to day, To-morrow may be rising. The winter quarter has begun, The sun is sooner setting, Best coals are now two pounds a ton, And dearer will be getting. That man is blest whose cellar’s full, For days will not grow warmer; But what we want to see, John Bull, Is some great coal reformer. Then be not rash, but take advice— All ye who wish to marry! With coals and meat at such a price, You would be wise to tarry.

Love’s Reasons. (After Herrick.) Why do I love my love? Her eyes are deepest blue, Bluer than sky above, She’s pure, and sweet, and true. ’Tis not for every grace That sparkles in her face, Although each one of these My wayward fancy please, I love my love because I do. I’ll tell you of my love, She tender is and true, Kind as turtle dove, Too fair for mortal view. And if you fain would know Why I must love her so, I love my love, but I Could hardly tell you why, I love my love because I do. From The Figaro. October 28, 1874.

Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer there, Where my Julia’s lips do smile There’s the land, or cherry isle. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry Full and fair ones come and buy There plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. Cherry ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones, come and buy. Robert Herrick.

There is a Garden in Her Face. There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lillies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose, Of orient pearl a double row; Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose buds fell’d with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

“Water-pipes.” (Paterfamilias’s song of the frost.) “Water-pipes, water-pipes, pipes” I cry! “Been and busted!” Low and High. If I ask the housemaid. “Where?” She will answer, “Here, and there,— Here and there and everywhere.” Whence they come and where they go, Is just the thing I want to know! But I don’t, and that is why “Plumber! Plumber!” is the cry. Plumber! Plumber! left and right; Plumber! Plumber! day and night. Why are you and I such fools As submit to Builders’ rules? You and I, my friend, and all, High and Low, and great and small? One thing Builder understands— How to play in Plumber’s hands: And for one thing Builder cares To leave openings for “repairs:” So loose, tiles and slates defends, Drains that finish in “dead ends,” Tanks and boilers safe to leak, Chimneys warranted to reek; Doors and windows placed with craft, Still to catch you in a draught; Green-wood panels in the doors, Warping new deal in the floors; Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t, And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t! Punch. January 28, 1871.

Coffee Hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; But if so be you axes where I makes it hot? I answer there, Over the fire where hangs my pot, That’s where I make coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry, Full and fair cups, if you’re dry; Here the milk galore doth flow, Here is butter, bread, also, If you have the ready got, That’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; Here is milk and sugar nice; Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice: If you have the ready got Then’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. James Bruton.

Rosy Wine. Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip, Sweeter far than woman’s lip; If green-eyed grief assail the soul, Why, drown him in the flowing bowl; ’Twere folly now to grieve or pine, While seated near such rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c. Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry, Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie; Thou to the soul art more sincere, Her love is weaker than her tear; Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine While I quaff the rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c. James Bruton.

Heavy Wet. Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Full and fair pots when I’m dry, If so be, you ask me where, They are drawn, I answer there, Where our lips their thirst forget, That’s the place for heavy wet! Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I; To the Blue Posts let us go, There we’ll clouds of backey blow; And, while we our cares forget, All the year quaff heavy wet! W. T. Moncrieff.

Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Kentish cherries you may buy. If so be you ask me where To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!” In the dish your fruit must lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry Full and fair ones mind you buy Whereabouts the crust should go, Any fool, of course will know; In the midst a cup may lie When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c. Punch.

Mutton Chops. Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry, Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy; But if so be you’d have my coin You must cut them off the loin! When the cook for nothing stops, That’s the time for mutton chops! Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry, I as hungry am as dry; Let me have them nice and hot. With a murphy and shalot! Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,— All the year they’ve mutton chops!

Cherry Bounce. Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry, Fill a full glass on the sly; If so be you ask me where, To the wine-vaults we’ll repair, When we heavy wet renounce, That’s the time for cherry bounce! Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry, When my flame is standing nigh; When with love I’m quite beguiled, And I wish to draw it mild, Then, each vulgar fear to trounce, Then I call for cherry bounce!

Guinea-Pigs. Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,— As Directors qualify! At your feet your shares we lay,— Not a penny there’s to pay! ’Tis high-sounding names we want, As decoy-ducks for our plant: Names to draw the public in, Place our shares, and sack their tin. Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,— From the West-End, come and try! Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,— Of the City why fight shy? With shares for the taking, if you please, And, besides, Directors’ fees: Office work—an hour a day, Lots to get, and nought to pay… Flats agog to risk their tin. Giv’n good names to draw them in. So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,— As Directors Qualify! Punch. March 6, 1875.

Her pretty feet Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they playéd at bo-peep, Did soon draw in again.

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily, And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly; With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily, I buttered my bread,—heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly. With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly, Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly; Apollo,—though radiant his rays,—shines but palely, When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly. With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay, And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly; I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really, And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly; Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley, Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”

She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met, Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet; Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone, The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow. A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore, The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before, And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow. And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there, The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair; She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near, To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear! I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now, In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow. Thomas Haynes Bayly.