WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 3)

The Bandit’s Fate. He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet; His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone. I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow. A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore, His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again. I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now— As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow. And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair: He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow. Punch, November 11, 1843.

He Dined at Bertholini’s. He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met, A pint of single stout was on the board before him set; His dinner had the lightness—his voice the humble tone Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known; I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now, In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow. A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore, The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before; And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs, Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares. I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still, At the café in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill! And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here; In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier! He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away. I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags, As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags. Albert Smith.

He Wore Grey Worsted Stockings. He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met, His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet; His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone, The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home. I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now, With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow. A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore, The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before; And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again; I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now, With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow. And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there: An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair; I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow. The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now, With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow. From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.

The Betting-office Frequenter’s Progress. He wore a suit of Moses, The night when first we met, And knowingly his hat was cocked Upon his curls of jet; Flash “Publics” he frequented, Where “Sporting cards” were seen; And many a Derby Sweep got up To ease them of their “tin.” I saw him in his glory— (The word seems doubtful now), When to his stable wisdom His admiring chums would bow. A betting-book he’d started, When next this youth I saw; And hourly he was lounging at Some Betting-office door; Or standing treat to stable-boys, With a “weed” between his lips, And listening to their sage discourse Of “great events” and “tips.” He told me then he stood to win A fi’ pun’ note or two, Upon a “certain” prophecy— I doubt if it came true. And once again I see this youth, No betting-book is there: The prison scissors close have cropped His once luxuriant hair. They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,” He closed his short career By bolting with his master’s till, When “settling” time drew near. I see him shipped—the Government His passage out will pay: And at some penal settlement, He’ll spend his Settling Day. Punch.

Three Visions of One Head. She wore a wreath of roses The night that first we met; Her lovely face was smiling, Beneath her curls of Jet. Her curls of jetty brightness, Were charmingly in tone, With the colour on her features, For the hue was Nature’s own. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now; With the hair that Nature gave her, Above her snowy brow. A head of Paris fashion When next we met, she wore; The expression of her features, Was sharper than before. And standing by her side was one, Who seemed to give her pain, As he rubbed the reddening fluid on What should have held a brain. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With the barber’s nasty liquid, Smeared on her snowy brow. And once again I met her, No radiant locks were there; An unmistaken wig she wore Instead of lovely hair. She weeps in silent solitude, Because she looks so queer! The barber’s poison has destroyed Her hair from ear to ear. I saw her but a moment, Nor want to see her now, With those ugly proofs of folly Above her snowy brow. Shirley Brooks. 1866.

He Wore a Pair of “Mittens.”[7] He wore a pair of “mittens,” That day when first we met, His stony face was smiling As on himself he bet; He stood with saucy firmness, Or danced upon his feet, In token of a confidence That had not known defeat. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, With his hands well up for boxing, All eager for the row. Two eyes, both black and swollen When next we met he wore, The expression of his features, Was less pleasant than before; And standing close beside was one, Who strove with might and main To make them still less beauteous, Nor did he strive in vain. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, As he diligently sought a tooth, He’d swallowed in the row. 44 And once again I saw that man, No joy at all was his; For many knocks had quite effaced Expression from his “phiz.” He wept as weeps a boy at school When beaten in the rear, Nor did he bless his second, Who sponged away the tear. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, As his length on earth he measured, Less eager for the row. From The Corkscrew Papers. London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row. 1876.

The Gravel Rash. He rode a tandem trycycle The day when first we met, He wore a pair of spectacles, Perhaps he has them yet! I saw him but a moment, But methinks I see him now With the same old cap upon his head And frown upon his brow. His face looked white as driven snow Against his bags of blue, His pedalling was marvellous As round the track he flew. I saw him but a moment, But methinks I see him now, Lying whole length o’er the track, And the frown still on his brow. The last I heard of that young man, Was through the weekly Wheeling; “Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his So full of kindly feeling. I saw them but a moment, But methinks I see them now With the author bending o’er them, And that frown yet on his brow. Moral. When people speak of others’ faults, It’s time they knew their own, So take a lesson, dear young man, And try ye to atone. Wheeling Annual, 1885.

I saw her but a moment, Yet, methinks, I see her still— ’Twas at Victoria Station, And she wanted “Notting Hill.” Comes a “Notting Hill Gate” quickly— Comes one more, then one more still; But they suit not our poor maiden, For she wants a “Notting Hill.” That face, so wan and weary, Was sure enough to fill With pity, heart of marble, In this case of Notting Hill. I saw her but a moment, Yet, perhaps, she’s waiting still— Or, better still, has given up All hopes of “Notting Hill.”

But a Moment. I saw her but a moment Beneath the apple tree; There was no one to listen, No eyes were there to see. I heard her soft voice singing, Her song was one of love; Her bright eyes seemed to borrow Light from the stars above. I saw her but a moment As ’neath the tree she sat; I threw at her the poker— (She was—my neighbour’s cat).

Oh! no, we never mention her, her name is never heard, My lips are now forbid to speak, that once familiar word; From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, And when they win a smile from me they think that I forget. They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see, But were I in a foreign land, they’d find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met, I do not see the hawthorn tree, but how can I forget? For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me, The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea; The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set, Aye, every leaf I look upon forbids that I forget. They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay, They hint that she forgets me too, but I heed not what they say; Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret, But if she loves as I have loved, she never can forget. Thomas Haynes Bayly.

Answer to “Oh! No, We Never Mention Her!” Oh! am I then remembered still, Remembered too by thee! Or am I quite forgot by one, Whom I no more shall see? Yet, say not so, for that would add Fresh anguish to my lot. I dare not hope to be recall’d, Yet would not be forgot. Had they who parted us but known How hearts like our’s can feel, They would have spared us both a pang, Beyond their power to heal. I know not if my heart retains, Its wonted warmth or not; 45 Though I’m forbid to think of thee, Thou’lt never be forgot. May’st thou enjoy that peace of mind, Which I can never know, If that’s denied my prayer shall be, That I may share thy woe. Where’er thou art my every wish, Will linger o’er that spot, My every thought will be of thee, Though I may be forgot. If we should meet in after years, Thou’lt find that I am changed; My eyes grow dim, my cheeks grow pale, But not my faith estrang’d: From mem’ry’s page the hand of death, Alone thy name shall blot, Forget, forsake me, if thou wilt, Thou’lt never be forgot.

Oh no! we’ll never mention him; We won’t, upon our word! “Decorum” now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard. From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to Our office with regret, And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!” We’ll say that We forget! We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,” And try his ancient strain; He’d better “be a butterfly” Than write a farce again. ’Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender chansonette; But if you ask us, “What beside”? Why, really, we forget. R. H. Barham, Author of The Ingoldsby Legends.

A Song. Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827. Oh! no we never mention him, His name is never heard, My lips are now so loth to speak That once familiar word; From street to street he followed me One evening thro’ the west, Then brought me to the Vice, which now He thinks that I forget. They bade me seek in rustic ease A quiet man to be, But when I come to Trin: again They’ll find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more The alley where we met, I do not see dear Mr. T. But still I shan’t forget. They tell me he is happy now, But each dog has his day, They tell me he forgets me now But he soon shall dearly pay; For when near me he struggles with A crowd of snobs beset, Then if I hit as I have hit, He never shall forget. M. The Gownsman. February 18, 1830, (or 1831?)

Oh no we never finger it, Its name we never say, My fingers are forbid to grasp The once familiar pay. From Bill to Bill they hurry me, To banish my regret, And when they win a speech from me, They think that I forget. They bid me seek by change of note The place where rivals be, But were I e’en to turn a Whig, There’d be no place for me. ’Tis true that I no more behold The council where we met, I do not see the Treasury, But how can I forget? They tell me Lyndhurst’s happy now, The gayest of the gay, They hint that he forgets, but pshaw! I heed not what they say. Perhaps th’ Exchequer brings him in A pretty penny yet, But if he grasp’d as I have grasp’d, He never can forget. Figaro in London. April 6, 1833.

The Notorious Unknown. “Oh! no! we never mention Her, Her name is never heard! And now the deuce to find it out, I know not, on my word. But tho’ I could not tell HER name, Her face I’d often seen, “She stood among the glittering throng,” with Jacky in the green. A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt box in the other; And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother. “I met HER at the Fancy fair,” with fancy lads around her, And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder. “I saw HER at the Beulah Spa,” along with Gipsy Joe, A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow vouldn’t go. I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun, For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur’d every one. 46 “I saw HER at the Masquerade,” along with Nimming Ned, Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the head. I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack’s in the west,) “’Twas in the crowd,”—her voice was loud: I must’nt tell the rest. I saw HER at the “Central Court,” (it gave me quite a shock), Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock. And then I heard a little man, with solemn voice proclaim, (’Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that Alias was her name. From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1836.

Oh! no I say; don’t mention it, ’Tis really too absurd; I don’t admit a single thing: I won’t believe a word. From all that Noble Lords have said, In toto I dissent; Why, doesn’t everybody know I’m always “Non-Content?” They tell me I’m an obstinate, Impracticable man; I’m open to conviction—but Convince me if you can. I blame your views, deny your facts, Dispute your argument; Then why the question put to me? Of course I’m “Non-Content.” Content indeed! I never was, From childhood’s dawn till now; And I should greatly like to see The statement I’d allow. To differ only I’ll agree; On that I’m firmly bent, I am, I will, I must, I shall, Be always “Non-Content.” Punch. 1844.

Oh! No, I Never Name My Wife. Oh no, I never name my wife But let her lie at rest; Although she used to pull my nose, Now I am truly blest. Each morn for cash she’d worry me, To purchase heavy-wet; And how she stagger’d home at eve I never shall forget. I strove to find in change of scene, A tranquil hour or two, But if, alas, she found me out She’d thump me black and blue. ’Tis true, I now appear no more With eyes as black as jet; But how the poker she could wield, I never can forget. They hint that she is happy now, In sooth, and so am I, And, as she can return no more ’Twere wrong in me to sigh. When I prepared to bury her And friends and neighbours met, The sort of sorrow I then felt I never can forget. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet, Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d never languish for wealth or for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d be a butterfly, &c. Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy, I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings, Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings; Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings. I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings. I’d be a butterfly, &c. What though you tell me each gay little rover, Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely ’tis better when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away: Some in life’s winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay. I’d be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away, I’d be a butterfly, &c. Thomas Haynes Bayly.

Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent; Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent! Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo, Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent— Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Osculans gemmas quae suave olent! Magicam si possem virgam furari, Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu! Æstivis actis diebus in aëre, Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu. Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare; Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu! Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre, Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu! 47 Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore Frigora Automni ferire suo; Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori, Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro. Bramae qui capiunt captent labore Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto— Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore, Concidamque omni cadente pulchro. January, 1828.

An Answer to Mr. Bayly. I would not be a butterfly, Nay, Mr. Bayly nay, Although you rhyme to ear and eye In such a dainty way. Those pretty words, that pretty air Admit but this reply, It strikes me I should hardly care To be a butterfly. A charm there is in being born Within a rosy bower, Where sunshine and a summer morn Should grace my natal hour. But I was born a cockney, sir, A cockney I shall die, Pray why on earth should I prefer To be a butterfly? The plants that in a garden grow Are fresh and very sweet, But more befitting for a show Than proper things to eat. I love my soup, I love my fish, My joint and apple-pie, My menu never makes me wish To be a butterfly. ’Tis only just a month or so The things can keep alive, One year’s career they never know, And mine are forty-five. I hope to earn a little fame Ere many more go by, It would not be a paying game To be a butterfly. I tell you frankly Mr. B. I would not if I could, In fact so far as I can see I could not if I would. To many things we all aspire, For many things we sigh, But why should mortal man desire To be a butterfly? Henry S. Leigh.

I’d be a Parody. I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny Or some little song with a popular tune, Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny, (Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?) I’d be a parody made by a ninny, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza, I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings Turning his rhymes into extravaganza, Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings! When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings! Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza, Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings! What though you tell me each metrical puppy May make of such parodies two pair a day; Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:— Ladder of fame! if man can’t reach thy top, he Is right to sing just as high up as he may; I’d be a parody made by a puppy, Who makes of such parodies two pair a day. From Sharpe’s Magazine, 1829.

Song of a Rifleman. I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Longest and last at the banquet or ball; Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. True to the opera, concert, or play, I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall; I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. * * * * * What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun? Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at, For he’ll safely return when the battle is done. Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun, But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet, Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done. I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman, Flirting in peace-time when battle is done. From The Bentley Ballads. (London. Richard Bentley.)

Song of the College Bedmaker. I make the butter fly all in an hour; I put aside the preserves and cold meats, Telling my master his cream has turned sour, Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets. I never languish for husband or dower; I never sigh to see gyps at my feet; I make the butter fly, all in an hour, Taking it home for my Saturday treat. From Horace at Athens, by G. O. Trevelyan.

I’d be a Rothschild. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains, Having a heart drunk with visions of glory, When fifty per cent, on my table remains; I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me, A fig for the head that such nonsense contains. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains. 48 Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies To foolishly trifle with time as they do, Give me the music of soul-witching guineas, While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!” What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies, At sixpence per line in each London review? I’d be a Rothschild! and laugh at the ninnies, Whose brains such absurd undertakings pursue. Commerce shall wave her proud flag o’er the ocean, When the wreath and the minstrel have vanished from hence, Rhymes may give to the muse their devotion, But mine is concentred in consols and rents Of Tempe and Castaly I have no notion Oh! they give song the importance of sense; I’d be a Rothschild! with every emotion Awake at the tune of pounds, shillings, and pence! Reginald Augustine. From The Mirror, 1830.

Negro Liberty. Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel, What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine, Me learn to dig wid de spade and de shovel, Me learn to hoe up de cane in a line. Me drink my rum, in de calabash oval, Me neber sigh for de brandy and wine; Me be a nigger boy, born in de hovel, What plantain da shade from de sun wha da shine. Me be a nigger boy, When me live happy, wha for me repine? Me neber run from my massa’s plantation, Wha for me run? me no want to get lick; He gib me house, and me pay no taxation— Food when me famish, and nurse when me sick. Willy-force[8] nigger, he belly be empty, He hab the freedom, dat no good for me; My massa good man, he gib me plenty Me no lobe Willy-force[8] better dan he. Me be de nigger boy, Me happy fellow, den why me want free? From Fraser’s Magazine, 1830.

Song by the Duke of Wellington. I’d be a Minister born into power, Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet, Making fine speeches to last for an hour. At night when the Members of Parliament meet I’d never care for the Whigs looking sour, I should have plenty of slaves at my feet. I’d be a Minister born into power, Grasping the pay and the patronage sweet. Then could I pilfer the office of Grey now I’d get a share of those nice little things, Giving the patronage, drawing the pay now And making the most of whatever it brings. Those that are out, great complaints have to say now Office around them complacency flings. I’d be a Minister, like I see Grey now I’d get a share of those snug little things. Figaro in London, April 13, 1833.

I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete, Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower, Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet. Think of the glory obtained by my breeder— Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won— Think of the credit borne off by my feeder, For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon! In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage, And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me, Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage, Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea. While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest, Are stored upon board for my use on the way, A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest Regard for my water-supply, day by day. As for the passenger bipeds—poor devils, Herring-like packed in the dark hold below! Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils— Hatches all down—when it comes on to blow! My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool, Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank! Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull And an emigrant labourer differ in rank! Punch. August 23, 1856.

We met—’twas in a crowd, And I thought he would shun me, He came—I could not breathe, For his eyes were upon me; He spoke—his words were cold, And his smile was unaltered; I knew how much he felt, For his deep-toned voice falter’d. I wore my bridal robe, And I rivall’d its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair, How I hated their brightness. He called me by my name— As the bride of another— Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish my mother! And once again we met,— And a fair girl was near him, He smiled, and whispered low, As I once used to hear him; She leant upon his arm— Once ’twas mine, and mine only I wept—for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely. And she will be his bride! At the altar he’ll give her The love that was too pure For a heartless deceiver. 49 The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smother,— Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother! Thomas Haynes Bayly.

Parody on the Above. We met, ’twas in a mob, and we looked at each other; He came—I said to him, “That you have got another. You know I saw you come out of yonder dark alley, Along with that ere gal they call one-eyed Sally.” And she wore her bridal dress,—’twas a sailor’s blue jacket; Her face, it smiled at me, how I longed for to smack it, I said that you was false when you gave me a milling! Oh! thou hast been the cause of these black eyes, you villain! I saw him once again, with that ’ere same gal walking; She grinn’d, and so did he; how I envied their talking. My heart it burst with rage, when her smart cap I tore off, And a piece of her black hair in triumph I bore off; He made a rush at me to give me a feller, But he missed his savage aim, and fell into a cellar: I laughed—I said to him, “You remember the milling You last did give to me, and those black eyes, you villain!”

We met! ’twas in your shop, And I thought you would shun me; But you came—your words were sweet, And your yellow-boys won me. You bade me write a book, And they damn’d it in Holborn:— Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, Hal Colburn! You cut off half my price When I went to another; And I hate you for it well, Though my feelings I smother. God send you may be burked, Some dark night in High Holborn— And the puffs may bear your corpse To the doctors, Hal Colburn! From The National Omnibus. November 25, 1831.

We Met—’Twas in St. Giles. We met, ’twas in St. Giles, Ah my poor bosom flutter’d— He spoke, so full of smiles—though a little he stutter’d. He said, “Ah, how d’ye do,” but I could not say “Thank’ee!” I looked so very blue, and he look’d so lankey. I wore my new pelisse all satin and whiteness, A new five shilling piece had never such brightness I should have ta’en his arm, but there was another— O, thou hast been the cause of this anguish—my mother. And once again we met that dashing young fellow, It rain’d heavy wet, he’d a green umbrella; He said, a worthy Jew, for nine-pence did mend it, He said, ’twas good as new, and offer’d to lend it. I thought there was no harm—I was going to take it; My mother pull’d my arm, ’till I thought she would break it! Don’t you think that cut direct, all his loving must smother. Ah! thou hast been the cause of this anguish my mamma. From The London Singer’s Magazine.

The Duel.—No. 1. We met,—’twas on the ground— And I thought he would fight me; He came his looks were bold, And his pistols did fright me. He frown’d, and he whispered low A dead shot he is reckoned; Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel, my second! He trod the paces out, With a deal of expertness; His legs were very short, How I hated their shortness. He loaded, primed, and cocked, To his friend then he beckon’d; Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel, my second! From The National Omnibus, June 10, 1831.

The Duel. No. 2. We met, ’twas in a field, And I thought he would wing me; He came, I made cock sure That down he would bring me. He spoke, his words were cool; His smile was unalter’d; I knew he did not fear, For his hand never falter’d. I wore my Russia ducks, And I rivall’d their whiteness; Two slight friends were there, How I envied their slightness! I call’d the fellow out, And there could be no shrinkings: Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this duel—Miss Jinkins! (Two verses omitted.) The Comic Magazine, Second Series, 1833.

They met, ’twas in a storm, On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke—at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turn’d his face aside, And his deep-ton’d voice faltered. She gazed upon the wave, Sublime she declared it; 50 But no reply he gave— He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south, Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth, And out he thought ’twas leaping. “O, then, steward,” he cried, With the deepest emotion; Then totter’d to the side, And leant o’er the ocean. The world may think him cold, But they’ll pardon him with quickness, When the fact they shall be told, That he suffered from sea-sickness. Punch. 1845.

We met, ’twas in the House, And I hoped he would shun me; He came, I could not breathe, For his tube was upon me. He puff’d, the air was cold, The thermometer alter’d: I knew ’twas freezing point, For my voice with shivering falter’d. I wore my Russia ducks, In their beautiful whiteness; Cold gusts ran through the House— How I hated their lightness! I call’d for warmer air, But the pipes never cock’d are— Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this humbug, my Doctor! And once again we met, And a workman was near him; He smiled and whisper’d low, And I waited to hear him. He gave a gentle breeze; I confessed it was pleasing: But then there came a rush Of air that was freezing. Is no one at my side, Poor Brougham to deliver; Or must he die shut in An exhausted receiver? The world may think him wise, But the House he will smother; Or blow it all away On some day or other. Punch. June, 1846.

The Lost Watch. We met—’twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me— I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me; He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unaltered, I too, longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter’d. I wore my brand new boots—and unrivalled their brightness, They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! And once again we met—and an old pal was near him, He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him. I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept, as he deserved —to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried—but I shall ne’er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay—heart and feet ache together, Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! Tom Hood.

The Imposition. We met in upper school, And I thought he would “draw” me; He came, his words were stern, And much did he jaw me. He asked me for my task, Which I could not to him show. Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.” And once again we met. And his black book was near him He pored and mumbled low, As often you may hear him; He said that I seem’d In my duty towards him slow. Oh! thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.” I wore a clean white shirt, And revelled in its whiteness, Bright studs were in it too, How I envied their brightness; For they made my face look pale, But I did not let him know That thou wert the cause Of this anguish, my “Impo.” W. V. From The Charterhouse School Collection of Poems.

Upon the hill he turn’d To take a last fond look, Of the valley and the village church, And the cottage by the brook; He listen’d to the sounds So familiar to his ear; And the soldier lean’d upon his sword, And wip’d away a tear. Beside the cottage porch A girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf Which flutter’d in the breeze: 51 She breath’d a prayer for him, A prayer he could not hear, But he paus’d to bless her as she knelt, And wip’d away a tear. He turn’d, and left the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak, For dauntless was the soldier’s heart, Tho’ tears were on his cheek. Go, watch the foremost ranks In danger’s dark career, Be sure the hand most daring there Has wip’d away a tear. Thomas Haynes Bayly.

The Rector’s Tear. (Supposed to be sung by the Rev. George Croly.) Beside the church he stood, To take a last fond look Of the pulpit and the vestry-room, And the red morocco book. He heard the beadle’s voice, So familiar to his ear, And he raised his surplice to his eyes, And wiped away a tear. Within the old church door, The clerk was on his knees, Groping about in the wooden box, In which he kept his fees. The parson heard the dub-ups chink Said he to himself, oh! dear, If I had those, I do not think I’d wipe away a tear! That fine old humbug turned To leave the chapel door; He’d pocketted a fortune there, But now he longed for more. Go watch the vacant bishoprics, In the chancellor’s career; If he pops into one of them He’ll wipe away no tear! From The National Omnibus, November 25, 1831.

Upon his heel he turned, To take a last fond look, Of their lordships and the ministers, And the premier’s pleasant nook. He listened to the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier on his protest leant. To wipe away a tear. Upon the sack of wool, Brougham was on his knees; He held aloft the snow-white Bill, That caused so many a breeze. He breathed a prayer to him— A prayer he could not hear; But he paused to damn him as he went, And wiped away a tear. He turned to quit the House— Oh, do not deem him weak; For bloody were the soldier’s thoughts, Though tears were on his cheek. Go watch the broken panes, Of Apsley, dark and drear, For there the soldier now must go, To wipe away his tear. Figaro in London, May 26, 1832.

The Blues Again. Upon the ground he stood, To take a last fond look At the troopers as he entered them In Mister Dixon’s book. He listened to the neigh So familiar to his ear; But the soldier thought of bills to pay, And wiped away a tear. The soldier blew his nose, Oh, do not deem him weak! To meet his creditors he knows He’s not sufficient cheek. Go read the writ-book through, And mid the names, I fear You’re sure to find the very Blue Who wiped away the tear. Punch. 1845.

The Footman’s Nose. In the street he turn’d to take a last long look, Of the palings and the garden wall, where he the carpets shook: He saw the kitchen fire where oft he’d warm’d his toes, The footman bent upon his stick, and stood to wipe his nose. Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees, The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze. She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose, He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his nose. He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week, Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his cheek; Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux, For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Policeman’s Tear. Against the rails he leant, To take a last fond look, At the kitchen he was petted in, And the open-handed cook. He heard the pretty housemaid read— “The Guards will soon be here,” And the Peeler turned his bracelet round, And wiped away a tear. He thought on beef and pickles, On the lobster and the crab, And other dainties that the Force So well knows how to grab. He thought of Susan’s sixpences, Of Sarah’s supper-beer, And the Peeler turned his bracelet round And wiped away a tear. For the Guards, the Guards are coming— A week, and we shall find His nose put not less out of joint Than our larder, when he’d dined, Cousins from the Crimea With his rights will interfere— No wonder that the peeler sighed, And wiped away a tear. But there is vengeance in his head, So do not deem him weak— There’s many a soldier will be watched And brought before the Beak. And of his rivals he will try To keep our kitchens clear, No sharper eye the steps can guard Than now lets fall the tear. Shirley Brooks, 1856.

Awful Position of Mr. Dunup at Boulogne. Upon the pier he turned To take a mental look Of his credit and his creditors, Whom basely he forsook. He conjured up the sound So familiar to his ear, Of “please to settle this account;” And answer’d with a sneer. He reached his lodging door, A trembling took his knees— He found in Paris there had been A most tremendous breeze. “A bas les Anglais!” roar’d Directly in his ear, Told him there was not time to pause— He sought again the pier. He look’d on board the boat, Oh! do not deem him weak; For desperate was Dunup’s game, The game of hide-and-seek. Go watch him at Boulogne, You’ll find him on the pier; He’d rather risk the bayonets there, Than brave the bailiffs here! Punch, 1848.

The Soldier’s Fear. He turn’d upon his heel, To take an angry look Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage As they came o’er the brook; He tried to lose the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier leant upon his sword His wife was in the rear. She sat upon the baggage. A child was on her knees: She looked just such a sort of one As loved to have a breeze; She breathed a threat for him, A threat he could not hear, Or else he would have soundly drubb’d His partner in the rear. He turned and cursed the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak; Bursting with fury was his heart, Tho’ pallid was his cheek. Go watch the foremost rank In danger’s dark career, And mark the man most des’prate there His wife is in the rear. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Stanzas. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.) The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit, And my hostess implores me to play; She would hear me accompany lines full of wit, In my truly musicianlike way. But my lyrics were made for the careless and free, When my heart and my spirits were light: Seek the lays of the lively from others, not me, Let my song be a sad one to-night. Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom In a corner far far from the throng; Let me carry some chair to the end of the room And retreat from the dance and the song, Let me hide my depression and veil my despair From the crowd of the brilliant and bright; Or in case you insist upon hearing an air, Let my song be a sad one to-night. I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps, In a plaintive and exquisite style: But I know I should simply and feebly collapse In my efforts to conjure a smile. The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace, Would be rather too painful a sight: With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face, Let my song be a sad one to-night. Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer Such a state of dejection as mine. It resists the seductive advances of beer, And refuses the solace of wine. No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust You regard my refusal aright. Well, of course, if you must have a ballad, you must, Let my song be a sad one to-night. Fun. November 18, 1871.

More Stanzas. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.) I have taken ten glasses of sherry; I hope they will ask me to sing; I am feeling uncommonly merry, And pine to go in for my fling. I would give them no die-away ditty; My lay should be jocund and light. Bother sentiment—let me be witty; Oh! let me be comic to-night. As I sit here alone in a corner— A slighted though eminent guest— I resemble poor little Jack Horner, Except that the pie is non est. Yet I fain would be awfully jolly, I fain would be gay if I might; I am ready for frolic and folly— Oh, let me be comic to-night. I was grieved when my opulent uncle Was taken so terribly ill. ’Tis a fearful affair, a carbuncle, And baffles all medical skill. He is gone, and has left me to suffer; But Time puts our sorrows to flight. He left me his money, poor buffer:— Oh, let me be comic to-night. Let me try; I am perfectly ready, I’ve sat in my corner too long, But my legs are a little unsteady— That wine was remarkably strong. Did you say I was tipsy? Oh gammon! Just lift me up gently. All right— I can sing, Sir. ’Twas only the salmon. Oh, let me be comic to-night. Fun. December 9, 1871.

Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John? If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John! Say I’m out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John! Say you’ve not the least idea when I shall come again, John! Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John! Say I’m courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John! Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John? If you don’t say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John! Run, John! run, John! there’s another dun, John; If it’s Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John! If he says he saw me at the window as he knocked, John! Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shocked, John! Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John! Say your master’s not the man to bid you tell a lie, John! Out, John! out John! &c. Oh, John! go, John! there’s Noodle’s knock, I know, John Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John! Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John! Say you think I’m only gone to pay his little bill, John! Then I think you’d better add, that if I miss to-day, John! You’re sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John! Out, John! out, John! &c. Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John! If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John! He will hear of no excuse, I’m sure he’ll search the house, John! Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John! Beg he’ll take a chair and wait, I know he won’t refuse, John! I’ll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John! Out, John! out, John! &c. Thomas Haynes Bayly.

Lord Brummagem, Late John Bright. Out, John! out, John! What have you been about, John, To thus oppose your Grand Old Chief, and try to cause his rout, John? We’d news of late which said your health was very much amiss, John; But, sick or well, we never thought that you would come to this, John! Fie, John! fie, John! We wish you’d tell us why, John, You’ve now become of selfish Whigs and Tories the ally, John? It can’t, of course, be from mere spite, or any such mean end, John, That you have, in an honoured age, thus turned upon your friend, John! Yet, John! yet, John! we very much regret, John, That better reason for your acts we’ve wholly failed to get, John. You hint that Mr. Gladstone’s mad, which is not very kind, John; But, come now, are you sure that you are in your own right mind, John? Come, John! come, John! Nay, nay, you can’t be dumb, John. You must speak out if we begin your past life’s deeds to sum, John; For hitherto you have been bold upon the side of right, John. What, then, has changed your principles, if it be not mere spite, John? Why, John! why, John! you in the days gone by, John, Full many a time have pleaded for the race you now defy, John; Freedom was sacred then to you, and justice very dear, John, But now, though, you attack them both, whilst stupid Tories cheer, John. Think, John, think, John! ere you much lower sink, John, That those who cheer you are the crew from whom you used to shrink, John; Yes; stupid Tories, grasping Whigs, and Jingoes wild for war, John, These are your brand-new friends—and we would ask again “What for, John?” 54 Yes, John! yes, John! Most sadly we confess, John We, for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne,” for explanation press, John. Had you wax’d weary of the right, and tired of being true, John, When you across a noble life this sombre shadow threw, John? Stay, John! stay, John! Hear all we have to say, John! Falls like to that of Chamberlain in no wise us dismay, John. Joseph is an ambitious man, and full of self-conceit, John; He’s shallow, too, like young men are, and vain and indiscreet, John! But oh, John! oh, John! it was a cruel blow, John, When, with desertion not content, you went and joined the foe, John! Aye, when at Gladstone his old friend, John Bright, propelled a stone, John! ’Twas not his son alone that gave a deep and heartfelt groan, John! Aye, John! aye John! you can’t yourself deny, John, That thousands who once loved your name begin to it decry, John; Whilst those too young your worthy deeds of past years to recall, John, Already ask in wonderment why it is loved at all, John! But, stay, John! stay, John! There yet remains a way, John, In which, though stubborn, you may still this tendency allay, John; Yes, you may keep the name of Bright un-slurred in any case, John. By simply taking, as a Peer, a title in its place, John! True, John! true John! you may this plan eschew, John, But, ere you do so, please recall the things you’ve stooped to do, John; You’ve shown yourself, though old in years, quite greedy of renown, John— You as an Oxford D.C.L. flaunt in a scarlet gown, John More, John! more, John! with feeling we deplore, John, You have most bitterly denounced the friends of heretofore, John! You’ve caused true Radicals to mourn—you’ve raised a Tory cheer, John: The climax, then, is natural—you mean to die a Peer, John! Yes, John! yes, John! your recent acts express, John, That you in your maturer years a curious craze possess, John; Which, having made you do the things you’ve all your life abhorr’d, John, Now fills you with a silly wish—’twould seem—to be a Lord, John! Eh, John! eh, John? “It isn’t so!” you say, John? Then let it be your aim henceforth, most earnestly we pray, John; Yes, please, as fitting climax to those Whig and Tories, cheers, John, To Bramwell, Lowe, and Brabourne join in our great House of Peers, John! Yes, John! yes, John! most urgently we press, John, That you should from the Upper House declaim your next address, John; So that “John Bright” may still remain a prized and honoured name, John, Whilst with “Lord Brummagem” instead we link your Tory fame, John! Truth. July 8, 1886.

Nay, John. (A Temperance Song,) “Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John, Wherever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John Say that though you are not old, Nor yet so very wise, John, Yet what is right and good and true, You’re old enough to prize, John. Let the people drink who will, But when they come to you, John, Boldly say, “I’ve signed the pledge, And mean to keep it too,” John. “Nay,” John, “Nay,” John, that’s what you must say John, Whenever you are asked to drink, or you’ll be led astray, John. Think, John, think, John, what a thing is drink, John, From bad to worse, it mostly leads to death and ruin’s brink, John. You know your uncle Robert had As nice a house as mine, John, But, years ago, you know, as well, He swallowed it in wine, John, His trade is dead, his shop is shut, ’Twas drink that made him fail, John; He started with a single glass, And now he’s in the gaol, John. Use, John, use, John, winks at this abuse, John, And when you recommend the pledge, will patch up some excuse, John. Many drink because they’re cold, And some because they’re hot, John Many drink because they’re old, And some because they’re not, John; Many drink because they’re thin, And some because they’re stout, John; Many drink because they’re in, And some because they’re out, John. “Nay,” John. “Nay,” John, whatever they may say, John. Never touch and never taste, but always answer “Nay,” John. If they ask you only just To taste a little drop, John, Say you would if you knew where The “little drop” would stop, John. Tell them by gin and rum, By wine and malt and hops, John, That life and health, and peace and fame, Are drowned in “little drops,” John. Oh, John, oh, John, I’ll tell you what I know, John: A drunken man o’er all the world, has most of grief and woe, John. Then on the land and on the sea, In seasons hot and cold, John, 55 Keep the pledge when you are young, And keep it when you’re old, John, Let the people drink who will, But when they come to you, John, Boldly say, “I’ve signed the pledge, and mean to keep it too, John.”

Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom? Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom! To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool, Tom! Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom! What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by right,” Tom? And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom? My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff, Tom! I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough, Tom! What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old crest,” Tom? For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom; While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom, For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom. But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom: Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom. If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom, But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom. Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom; And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom. You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom, That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom. Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt, When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page, Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age; My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam, Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home! ’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear, ’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near; O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined, And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind; Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home! But now the old house is no dwelling for me, The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be; And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest, O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed; Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home! Thomas Haynes Bayly.

A Contrast. Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt; For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age. Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome, Finds each place more gay than the old house at home! ’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear, But it wanted no end of repairs every year. From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead, And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head; And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam, Was the hall of my father,—the old house at home. But now the old house is no dwelling for me; I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be; And ne’er will return there, except as a guest, Just for two or three days,—if I do, I am blest! The dulness would kill me, and slumber would come, In the small dingy rooms of the old house at home. From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith, London: D. Bogue, 1848.

A Nursery Magician took All little children by the hand; And led them laughing through the book, Where Alice walks in Wonderland: Ours is the task with Elfin dance And song, to give to Childhood’s gaze That Wonderland; and should it chance To win a smile, be his the praise.

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might; He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done. “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun.” The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead— There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “It would be grand!” “If seven maids, with seven mops, Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, “That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. “Oh, Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beech; We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.” The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They had’nt any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four: And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more— All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages-and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.” “But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter: They thanked him much for that. “A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.” “But not on us,” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said. “Do you admire the view? “It was so kind of you to come, And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing, but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf— I’ve had to ask you twice!” “It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, “To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!” 57 “I weep for you,” the Walrus said: “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. “Oh, Oysters,” said the Carpenter, “You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one. Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass).

The rain was raining cheerfully, As if it had been May, The senate-house appeared inside Unusually gay; And this was strange, because it was A vivâ-voce day. The men were sitting sulkily, Their paper-work was done, They wanted much to go away To row, or ride, or run; “It’s very rude,” they said, “to keep Us here and spoil our fun.” The papers they had finished lay In piles of blue and white. They answered everything they could, And wrote with all their might; But though they wrote it all by rote They did not write it right. The Vulture and the Husbandman Beside these piles did stand, They wept like anything to see The work they had in hand; “If this were only finished up,” Said they “it would be grand. If seven D’s or seven C’s We give to all the crowd, Do you suppose,” the Vulture said, “That we could get them ploughed?” “I think so,” said the Husbandman, ‘But, pray, don’t talk so loud.’ “O undergraduates, come up!” The Vulture did beseech, “And let us see if you can learn As well as we can teach. We cannot do with more than two, To have a word with each.” Two undergraduates came up, And slowly took a seat, They knit their brows and bit their thumbs As if they found them sweet; And this was odd, because, you know, Thumbs are not good to eat. “The time has come,” the Vulture said “To talk of many things, Of accidence and adjectives, And names of Jewish kings, How many notes a sackbut has, And whether shawns have strings.” “Please sir,” the undergraduates said Turning a little blue, “We did not know that was the sort Of thing we had to do.” “We thank you much,” the Vulture said, “Send up another two.” Two more came up, and then two more And more, and more, and more, And some looked upwards at the roof Some down upon the floor; But none were any wiser than The pair that went before. “I weep for you,” the Vulture said “I deeply sympathize;” With sobs and tears he gave them all D’s of the largest size, While at the Husbandman he winked One of his streaming eyes. “I think,” observed the Husbandman, “We’re getting on too quick, Are we not putting down the D’s A little bit too thick?” The Vulture said, with much disgust, “Their answers make me sick!” “Now, undergraduates,” he cried, “Our fun is nearly done, Will anybody else come up?” But answer came there none, And this was scarcely odd, because They’d ploughed them every one. The Light Green. Cambridge, 1872.

The Nyum—Nyum. The Nyum Nyum chortled by the sea, And sipped the wavelets green: He wondered how the sky could be So very nice and clean; He wondered if the chamber-maid Had swept the dust away, And if the scrumptious Jabberwock Had mopped it up that day. And then in sadness to his love The Nyum Nyum weeping said, I know no reason why the sea Should not be white or red. I know no reason why the sea Should not be red, I say; And why the slithy Bandersnatch Has not been round to-day. He swore he’d call at two o’clock. And now its half-past four. “Stay,” said the Nyum Nyum’s love, “I think I hear him at the door.” In twenty minutes in there came A creature black as ink, 58 Which put its feet upon a chair And called for beer to drink. They gave him porter in a tub, But, “Give me more!” he cried; And then he drew a heavy sigh, And laid him down, and died. He died, and in the Nyum Nyum’s cave A cry of mourning rose; The Nyum Nyum sobbed a gentle sob, And slily blew his nose. The Nyum Nyum’s love, we need not state, Was overwhelmed, and sad: She said, “Oh, take the corpse away, Or you will drive me mad!” The Nyum Nyum in his supple arms Took up the gruesome weight, And, with a cry of bitter fear, He threw it at his mate. And then he wept, and tore his hair, And threw it in the sea, And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes That such a thing could be. The ox, that mumbled in his stall, Perspired and gently sighed, And then, in sympathy, it fell Upon its back and died. The hen that sat upon her eggs, With high ambition fired, Arose in simple majesty, And, with a cluck, expired. The jubejube bird, that carolled there, Sat down upon a post, And, with a reverential caw, Gave up its little ghost. And ere its kind and loving life Eternally had ceased, The donkey, in the ancient barn, In agony deceased. The raven, perched upon the elm. Gave forth a scraping note, And ere the sound had died away, Had cut its tuneful throat. The Nyum Nyum’s love, was sorrowful; And, after she had cried, She, with a brand-new carving knife, Committed suicide. “Alas!” the Nyum Nyum said, “alas! With thee I will not part;” And straightway seized a rolling-pin And drove it through his heart. The mourners came and gathered up The bits that lay about; But why the massacre had been, They could not quite make out. One said there was a mystery Connected with the deaths; But others thought the silent ones Perhaps had lost their breaths. The doctor soon arrived, and viewed The corpses as they lay: He could not give them life again; So he was heard to say. But, oh! It was a horrid sight It made the blood run cold, To see the bodies carried off And covered up with mould. The Toves across the briny sea Wept buckets-full of tears; They were relations of the dead, And had been friends for years. The Jabberwock upon the hill Gave forth a gloomy wail, When in his airy seat he sat, And told the awful tale. And who can wonder that it made That loving creature cry? For he had done the dreadful work, And caused the things to die. That Jabberwock was passing bad— That Jabberwock was wrong. And with this verdict, I conclude One portion of my song.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, ame whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came. One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass).

’Twas May time, and the lawyer coves Did jibe and jabber in the wabe, All menaced were the Tichborne groves, And their true lord, the Babe. “Beware the Waggawock, my son, The eyelid twitch, the knees’ incline, Beware the Baigent network, spun For gallant Ballantine.” He took his ton-weight brief in hand, Long time the hidden clue he sought, Then rested he by the Hawkins tree, And sat awhile in thought. And as in toughish thought he rocks, The Waggawock, sans truth or shame Came lumbering to the witness box, And perjured out his Claim. “Untrue! untrue!” Then, through and through The weary weeks he worked the rack; But March had youth, ere with the Truth He dealt the final whack. “And hast thou slain the Waggawock Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy! O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!” Punch chortled in his joy. Shirley Brooks, 1872.

The Cruise of the “P. C.” By A. T.[9] Across the swiffling waves they went, The gumly bark yoked to and fro; The jupple crew on pleasure bent, Galored, “This is a go!” Beside the poo’s’l stood the Gom, He chirked and murgled in his glee; While near him, in a grue jipom, The Bard was quite at sea. “Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard! Take pen (thy stylo) and endite A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard, And I will feast to-night.” That wansome Bard he took his pen, A flirgly look arnund he guv; He squoffled once, he squirled, and then He wrote what’s writ above. Hermon.

The Burglar. ’Twas grilling hot, the bloky cove Had burgled through the shop, When Bobbles caughtled him, and shove Him into quod flip-flop. He chore his hair right fistfully, He rowled his squinty eyne; He waggled, grovelling fitfully, His lithy form and lean. Then Bobbles sweart agin him straight, So off they chustled him To horrid Zone for seasons eight, And chortled at his din. So all ye pals, come gristle up Unto my doleful tale: Ne’er fake away, nor jumble sup, Though nix my Dolly fail. Alma.

Air.—“Will you walk into my parlour.” “Can you move a little faster?” said a tall man to a stout, “I’ve an enemy behind me, and I want to keep him out. See how eagerly the flatterers all throng round the great man; Now he is looking for their votes, can’t you spoil his little plan? Can you, can’t you, can you, can’t you spoil his little plan? Can you, can’t you, can you spoil his little plan? “You can really have no notion how delightful it would be, If you get into the House, you will have many a fee.” And the stout one said, “No! I’ve worked in vain, I’m beat, My opponent’s firmly settled, and I cannot take his seat. Will not, cannot, cannot, will not now take his seat. Will not, cannot, will not now take his seat.” “What matters it? you are not beat!” his tall friend to him said, “There’s another man to take your place, you know, when you are dead. If you’ll leave Ireland alone, you’ll then get on like fun, So don’t give up, but go and sup, and we will pay your dun. Won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you soon cry. Will you, won’t you, will you soon cry, ‘I’ve won!’” Miss Shaw. Truth. 15 July, 1886.

And, though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For happy summer days gone by, And vanish’d summer glory— It shall not touch with breath of bale The pleasance of that fairy-tale.

Meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale, Must be told by the moonlight alone, In the grove at the end of the vale. You must promise to come, for I said, I would show the night-flowers their queen; Nay, turn not away thy sweet head, ’Tis the loveliest ever was seen. Oh! meet me by moonlight alone. Daylight may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the heartless, the free; But there’s something about the moon’s ray, That is sweeter to you and to me. Oh! remember, be sure to be there, For though dearly the moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of your eyes. So meet me by moonlight alone. J. A. Wade.

Meet Me, Miss Molly Malone. Meet me, Miss Molly Malone, At the grove at the end of the vale; But be sure that you don’t come alone, Bring a pot of your master’s strong ale, With a nice bit of beef and some bread, Some pickled, or cucumbers green, Or a nice little dainty pig’s head, ’Tis the loveliest tit-bit e’er seen. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone. Pastry may do for the gay, Old maids may find comfort in tea; But there’s something about ham and beef That agrees a deal better with me. Remember my cupboard is bare, Then come, if my dear life you prize, I’d have lived the last fortnight on air, But you sent me two nice mutton pies. Then meet me, Miss Molly Malone.

Meet Me this Evening Alone. Meet me this evening alone, Friend Bite, and we’ll hatch up a tale; We’ll chat when the day’s work is done, O’er a pipe and a jug of good ale: A plate of cold meat and some bread, With salad or cucumbers green, And part of a sucking pig’s head ’Tis the loveliest of tit-bits e’er seen. Then meet me &c. Pastry may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the young, and the free, But there’s something in cold beef, they say, More tempting to you and to me; Then remember, be sure to be there, If good eating and drinking you prize, You’ve liv’d the last fortnight on air, I can tell by those hollow-sunk eyes. Then meet me, &c. From Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster. Dublin.

Red Herrings. Meet me at breakfast alone, And then I will give you a dish Which really deserves to be known, Though it’s not the genteelest of fish. You must promise to come, for I said A splendid red Herring I’d buy— Nay, turn not away your proud head; You’ll like it, I know, when you try. If moisture the Herring betray, Drain, till from moisture ’tis free; Warm it through in the usual way, Then serve it for you and for me. A piece of cold butter prepare, To rub it when ready it lies; Egg sauce and potatoes don’t spare, And the flavour will cause you surprise. Punch.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to lecture, sir,” she said. “And what is the subject, my pretty maid?” “Total extinction of man,” she said. “Then nobody’ll marry you, my pretty maid.” “Advanced women don’t marry, good sir,” she said. March 1, 1879.

Venus and Adonis. “Men who suffer their wives’ photographs to be exhibited for sale in the shop-windows run the risk of being thought to get some profit by so doing, for they otherwise would hardly sanction such publicity.” Where are you going to, my pretty maid? I’m going to be Photographed, Sir, she said. May I go with you, my pretty maid? Yes, if you like it, she calmly said. What is your fortune, my pretty maid? My face is my fortune, Sir, she said. How do you live on’t, my pretty maid? By selling my photos, she promptly said. Then may I marry you, my pretty maid? If you’ve a title, perhaps—she said. Punch. June, 1878. 61 “Where are you going to, my Pretty Maid.” (New Reading.) With the pail for the milk hung over her arm, Across the green fields tripped Mary; The smiles on her face gave additional charm, And caused you to call her a fairy. Now a spruce young clerk was out for a ride, And happened to come across Mary; Said he to himself, “I will make her my bride, And make her keep me with her dairy.” But altho’ she was rustic, and simple as well, As proud as a queen was our Mary; Tho’ her bonny blue eyes of mischief could tell, The sequel will show she was wary. “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” Said this gay young spark from the neighb’ring town; “I am going a-milking, sir,” she said. A blush on her face, and her eyes cast down. “May I be your escort, my pretty maid? Nay turn not away those cheeks rosy red; To carry your pail I’ll not be afraid, And if you’ll consent, I’m willing to wed.” “What, sir, is your fortune?” cried the young maid, And around her lips a merry smile played. “My face is my fortune! my pretty maid.” “Then you’ve plenty of brass, kind sir,” she said. True. Oh, where are you going, my pretty maid?” “I’m going a chestnutting, sir,” she said. And she spoke sober truth, in sooth, for lo! She had a ticket for the minstrel show. Detroit Free Press. July 24, 1886. (Chestnuts—Americanism for stale jokes.) Where are you going to my pretty maid? “I’m going to publish, sir,” she said. Perhaps you’ve a fortune, my pretty maid? “My verse is my fortune, sir,” she said. Then you’d better not try it, my pretty maid, There’s an item for printing, and when it is paid, There’s “commission on sales,” oh, innocent maid! In your rural retreat have you heard of the Trade? Oh, where are you going to, my pretty maid? Ernest Radford. An Idyllic Duet. (A New Version, as Sung under the Gallery with the Greatest Success by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the Junior Member for Northampton, Mr. Charles Bradlaugh.) “Where are you going to, my stubborn head? Where are you going to, my stubborn head?” “I’m going a-swearing, Gosset,” he said; “I’m going a-swearing, Gosset,” he said. “Then I must come after you, my stubborn head; Then I must come after you, my stubborn head,” “You may come if you like, old Gosset,” he said; “You may come if you like, old Gosset,” he said. “Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head, Now you’re tempting your fortune, my stubborn head.” “Why,—my Oath is my fortune, Gosset,” he said; “Why,—my Oath is my fortune, Gosset,” he said. “Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head, Then, I don’t think much of you, my stubborn head.” “Nobody axed you to, Gosset,” he said; “Nobody axed you to, Gosset,” he said. (Dance up the middle, touch shoulder, and down again.) Punch, May 21, 1881. “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to Spelling Bee, sir,” she said, “Where is your lexicon, my pretty maid?” “I do not want one, sir,” she said. “What can you spell, pray, my pretty maid?” “I can spell prize, kind sir,” she said. “Let’s hear you spell it, my pretty maid!” “P-r-e-y-e-s, prize,” she said. “I wouldn’t give much for your ‘preyes,’ pretty maid!” “’Cause you ain’t got it to give, sir,” she said. [Exeunt ambo. “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to a lecture, sir,” she said. “May I come with you, my pretty maid?” “You won’t understand it, sir,” she said. “What is the subject, my pretty maid?” “The final extinction of man,” she said, “Then you won’t marry, my pretty maid?” “Superior girls never marry,” she said. Modern Society. September 12, 1885. “Whizz,” the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times, 1880, has a long parody, entitled “A Bicyclist’s Song,” after My Rattling Mare and I; also a parody on “My Pretty Maid,” entitled The Wheelman and the Maid, which concludes thus:— “Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid, “Shall I have any croppers?” asked my pretty maid, “You’ll often go over, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c. “Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid, “Then I cannot ride it,” said my pretty maid, “Then I’ll wish you good morning, sweet girl, I said, sweet girl I said,” &c. And still another, commencing:— “Will you come and see my Humber?” said the rider on the tri, ’Tis the scorchingest of trycycles that ever you did spy; You’ve only got to pop your leg the easy saddle o’er, 62 And you’ll go along at such a pace as ne’er was seen before; Will you, will you, will you, will you come and see my tri? There is also a prose imitation of Captain Mayne Reid, entitled, On the Prairie, by Jak Strauz Karsel. ——:o:—— I’VE BEEN ROAMING. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Where the meadow dew is sweet, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With its pearls upon my feet. I’ve been roaming, &c. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, O’er the rose and lily fair, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With their blossoms in my hair. I’ve been roaming, &c. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Where the honey-suckle sips, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With its kisses on my lips. I’ve been roaming, &c. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming Over hill and over plain, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, To my bower back again. I’ve been roaming, &c. Anonymous. 1832. I’ve been Shopping. I’ve been shopping—I’ve been shopping To John Brown’s in Regent Street, And I’m hopping—and I’m hopping With his shoes upon my feet. I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming, For rose oil and lily rare, And I’m coming—and I’m coming With a bottle for my hair. I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming To the pastrycook’s, old Phipps, And I’m coming—and I’m coming With some kisses for my lips. I’ve been roaming—I’ve been roaming Up Bond Street and down Park Lane And I’m coming—and I’m coming To my own house back again. The Wandering Jew. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Vid a merry, merry strain, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, Home to Rosemary Lane. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Through ev’ry street and square, And I’m coming, and I’m coming Vith the pargains I got there. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, I have upon my life, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, To my children and my vife. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming For to pargain I’ve the knack, And I’m coming, and I’m coming, Vith my pag upon my pack. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Quite hungry full of vo, But I’m a coming, I’m a coming, To eat fish and buckle yow. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming, Vere the people call out “Pork,” But I am coming, I am coming, To be rested from my vork. I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming But our shaboth it is nigh, So I’m coming, so I’m coming, To vish you all good-bye. Universal Songster, Vol. 3. I’ve been Eating. I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating, In the north and in the south And I’m coming, and I’m coming, With the crumbs about my mouth. I’ve been stuffing, I’ve been stuffing Plates of beef, of pork and veal; And my corporation’s puffing, With an out-and-out good meal. I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking, Heavy wet and Hodges’ gin, And I’m going, and I’m going, To my attic back again. I’ve been eating, I’ve been eating, In the north and in the south; From the shops I’m now retreating, With the crumbs about my mouth! Song by a Shifty Politician. (Not dedicated to Mr. Robert Lowe.) I’ve been turning—I’ve been turning, Tory, Radical, and Whig, And I’m earning, and I’m earning, Something handsome by the rig. I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning, Over politic’s wide range, But I’m earning, yes I’m earning, Money by each little change. I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning, Till I have been made a Peer, And I’m earning, oh, I’m earning, Several thousand pounds a year. I’ve been turning,—I’ve been turning, Almost every way ’tis plain, And I’m yearning, yes I’m yearning To be Chancellor again. Almost every way, ’tis plain, To be Chancellor again; 63 And I’m yearning, and I’m yearning, To be Chancellor again. ——:o:—— Afloat. In the steamer, O my darling! when the foghorns scream and blow, And the footsteps of the steward softly come and softly go. When the passengers are groaning with a deep and sincere woe, Will you think of me and love me, as you did not long ago? In the cabin, O my darling! think not bitterly of me, Though I rushed away and left you in the middle of our tea: I was seized with a sudden longing to gaze upon the damp, deep sea— It was best to leave you then, dear; best for you and best for me. Liverpool Weekly Post. January 1, 1887. ——:o:—— Some Day (To an Extortionate Tailor.) I know not when your bill I’ll see, I know not when that bill fell due What interest you will charge to me, Or will you take my I.O.U.? It may not be till years have passed, Till chubby children’s locks are grey; The tailor trusts us, but at last His reckoning we must meet some day Some day—some day—some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how; Only this—only this—this that once you did me— Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now— I’ll do you now. I know not are you far or near— Are you at rest? or cutting still? I know not who is held so dear! Or who’s to pay your “little bill!” But when it comes, some day—some day— These eyes an awful tote may see; And don’t you wish, my tailor gay, That you may get your £ s. d.? Some day—some day—some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how, Only this—only this—this that once you did me— Only this—I’ll do you now—I’ll do you now— I’ll do you now! From Sketches in Prose and Verse, by F. B. Doveton, author of Snatches of Song. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886. (This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Poe, and Swinburne.) ——:o:—— My Mother bids Me Find an Heir. My mother bids me find an heir And give up Cousin Hugh, Who came so often to the square, Poor cornet—Horse Guards Blue. “For why,” she cries, “a younger son, While plainer girls win peers, Alas! another season’s done, And still you’re all Miss Veres.” The Post announces he has gone To shoot and stalk the deer; I canter through the lanes alone, And wish it was next year: And as I draw the amber thread, His slippers to adorn, No novel that I ever read, Had heroine so forlorn. Punch September 22, 1866. Song. My mother bids me spend my smiles, On all who come and call me fair, As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles To all the sparrows of the air. But I’ve a darling of my own For whom I hoard my little stock,— What if I chirp him all alone And leave mamma to feed the flock? Thomas Hood. ——:o:—— O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE! O! ’Tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! From woman’s bright eye glancing, O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! Every heart entrancing. What claims the monarch’s duty? What soothes the peasant’s pain? What melts the haughty beauty, And conquers her disdain? O! ’tis love, &c. O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! The warrior doth inspire. O! ’tis love! ’tis love! ’tis love! That kindles soft desire. On rocks or lonely mountains, In palaces or vales, In gay saloons near fountains, ’Tis love alone prevails. O! ’tis love! &c. Oh ’Tis Beef! Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking), Oh, ’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking. Though many may doat upon mutton, And some prefer veal or lamb, Upon Beef I could feed like a glutton, Nor sigh for poultry and ham; Flank, brisket, or the sir-loin, I never could let alone, But nice tit-bits would I purloin From buttock, round, or edgebone. Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking). Oh,’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking. Though Mrs. Glass I daily look in, (No reflection on that cook, the chief), 64 Of all dishes her famous book in, There’s none can compare with Beef. How sweet when after my toiling, And cutting joints up, down, across, To behold on the gridiron broiling, A rump-steak for my oyster sauce, Oh, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, ’tis Beef, (’Pon my soul I’m not joking), Oh, ’tis Beef, Affords relief, When hunger’s most provoking. D. A. O’Meara. Oh! ’Tis Love! Oh! ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love, That makes the world go round; Ev’ry day, beneath his sway, Fools, old and young, abound; Love often turns young ladies’ brains, At which mamma will scold, So, in revenge, Love thinks it fair To shoot sometimes the old; With love some folks go mad, ’Tis love makes some quite thin, Some find themselves so bad, The sea they must jump in. Oh! ’tis love, &c. The Universal Songster. Oh! This Love! This Love! To me’s a Funny Thing. Oh! this love! this love! this love To me’s a funny thing, It smites the heart of every cove, From beggar up to king. It never is found absent, From the breast of any one, But, like a cruel stab sent, One touch and you’re undone! The cure, too, is so hard That very few will try, Then, girls, be on your guard When love approaches nigh. For this love! this love, &c. Oh! this love! this love! this love! It takes away one’s rest, So, after all, as I can prove, A single life is best, As, when once you’re married, You’ll find out to your cost, You’ll wish you’d longer tarried, Before your heart you’d lost, For then, too late, repentance Comes into your head, And, after Hymen’s sentence, A precious life is led, For this love! this love &c. The Universal Songster. ——:o:—— I KNOW A “HIGH.” (Parody on John Oxenford’s song, “I Know an Eye.”) I know a “High” so fair and bright, When glistening ’neath the moon’s pale light, Whence men, with many a glance behind, To dodge the lurking Dons unkind, Rush to the “Star,”[10] where, pure and clear, They quaff their mild and sparkling beer. Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your memories are. That “High,” where once, when violent blew The gale of war the whole night through, I fought the town with joyous glee, Though pain with joy possessed me; For whirled and kicked, ’mid scream and yell, With two black orbs at last I fell. Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your triumphs are. And when at last that radiant “High” shall be Untrod, for e’er untrod by me; When absence throws her dim pale light O’er distant scenes of past delight; That “High,” that “Star” shall ever shine In Memory’s eye, with power divine; Belovèd “High,” beloved “Star,” Dear to my heart your glories are. C. E. W. B. Worcester College, Oxford. From College Rhymes. 1866. ——:o:—— ANOTHER MESSAGE. I’d another message to send her, To her whom my heart knows best, But a twinge of gout came o’er me, And I was compelled to rest. And she was above—and dressing— A duty to her most dear: It was useless to shout to my darling, For I knew she would never hear. I’d another message to send her, To hungry folks most sweet, It was that the dinner was ready, And the fire was spoiling the meat. I tied it this summer’s evening To her lapdog’s bushy breast, But the canine rascal tore it, And ate it with wondrous zest. I gave it to baby next moment, And saw him climb and climb, But his little legs grew weary, And he fell in a little time. Then I yelled, in my hungry longing, Has an invalid no friend, Who will carry a wife a message Her ravenous spouse would send? Then I smelt a scent of cooking, So savory and so sweet, That my very heart stood silent, And my pulse refused to beat. It rose in enticing rushing From meats and soups and things, So I laid my anxious message On its appetising wings. Then I saw the steam rise higher, In smell more telling than speech, And I knew it would find her chamber, I knew her dear nose ’twould reach. Yes, I knew she would get my message, And I should not have to wait, So my soul grew calm and peaceful Though dinner, alas! was late. From The Corkscrew Papers, London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row, 1876. 65 WAPPING OLD STAIRS. Your Molly has never been false, she declares, Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; When I swore that I still would continue the same, And gave you the ’bacco-box mark’d with my name. When I pass’d a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e’er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay’d, For his trowsers I wash’d, and his grog, too, I made. Tho’ you promis’d last Sunday to walk in the mall, With Susan from Deptford, and likewise with Sall, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall or should Susan than me be more prized? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne’er be despis’d; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trowsers I’ll wash, and your grog too, I’ll make. The Knightly Guerdon. Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o’er: My faith then I plighted, my love I confess’d, As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your crest! When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with Thee at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your Banner and ’broider your crest. The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée. In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah! and that crest! But away with remembrance, no more will I pine, That others usurped for a time what was mine! There’s a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me: Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best, Shall I blazon his Banner and ’broider his crest. W. M. Thackeray. Ocean Melodies. (Refined from the original Sea Songs, for the use of the Yacht Clubs.) (The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.) Adelina has flirted—not once, she declares, Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears; Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became, And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name. When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you, Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true), With my Alfred for hours at ecarté I played, And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made. When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last bal, And—goodness knows why—you deserted the salle, I gave you a smile when you chose to appear, Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier. Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised? A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized— So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take, Or a nice piece of work that young person will make. Punch. September 17, 1853. The Almack’s Adieu. Your Fanny was never false-hearted And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette! We spent en province all December, And I ne’er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat! At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisais moi tapisserie), You danced every one of the dances And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set, And you gave, oh, mon Dieu! to revive her, My beautiful vinegarette. Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you’re forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from those Circes, Reviens, for a nice little chat; And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat! W. M. Thackeray. Advice to Old Women. (Of both sexes.) Your money will never be safe, Punch declares, While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares: It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain, Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name. Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground, But shows how directors keep robbing around; How the company’s funds to their own use they take, Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make. * * * * * Punch. March 21, 1857. ——:o:—— TOM BOWLING. Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach’d him to. 66 His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, But now he’s gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly, Ah! many’s the time and oft; But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he who all commands, Shall give (to call life’s crew together) The word to pipe all hands, Thus death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom’s life has doff’d; For tho’ his body’s under hatches His soul is gone aloft. Charles Dibdin. A Carol for Cricketers. Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling, We mourn a batsman true; No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling; He’s battered black and blue. Long at the stumps he did his duty, And puzzled many a scout, For though swift balls might spoil his beauty, They rarely put him out. Ne’er from the wicket he departed Without a decent score; And seldom were his timbers started Until his legs were sore. At pads and gloves, as things new-fangled, With pleasant scorn he’d laugh; But now so grievously he’s mangled, No more we’ll fear his chaff. Punch. September 22, 1855. An Elegy of the Admiralty. Here, on the floor stands famed Tom Brassey, The darling of his friends, He built the Arethusa saucy, But did not plate her ends! For Tom was faithful to his Party, (His virtues were so rare!) So economical and hearty, He seemed upon the square! His ships we took for things of beauty (Though Reed, and others, scoffed), And doubtless they would do their duty, But ah! their ends are soft! Yet still, comparatively little They cost, as Reed admits; Unlucky that they are so brittle, They’ll get blown into bits! And when the shot the foe dispatches Has raked them, oft and oft, The sea will pour beneath their hatches, Because—their ends are soft. Punch. March 21, 1885. Lord Tom Noddy. But, a sheer wreck, sits Lord Tom Noddy, The last made of our Peers, Who joins our legislative body Amidst a nation’s jeers. As M.P. he could not do duty, His brain had grown too soft; So—mark our Constitution’s beauty— He’s now been sent aloft!—aloft! He’s now-ow been—ah sen-n-n-n-t a-a-loft! Lord Tom for nothing good was noted, Of virtues he had none; But with his side he always voted, And was his father’s son. So, as upon his last appearance He publicly was scoff’d, The Premier, to effect a clearance, Has sent Lord Tom aloft!—aloft! Has sen-n-n-nt Lord Tom-o-om ma-aloft! Truth. Christmas Number, 1886. There is another parody on Tom Bowling, by L. M. Thornton, entitled Drunken Sally, but it is too vulgar to be inserted. It may occasionally be seen amongst the penny ballads on street walls. ——:o:—— THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN. And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply, And he feather’d his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye. He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily, The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare. What sights of fine folks he oft rowed in his wherry; ’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal; He was always first oars when the fine city ladies In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall; And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering; But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care, For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare. And yet, but to see how strange things happen, As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil’d, and so straight-way in love he did fall. And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow He’d wed her to-night—before to-morrow, And how should this waterman ever know care When he’s married, and never in want of a fare. Charles Dibdin. 67 The Jolly Young Barrister. And did you not hear of a jolly young Barrister, At the Old Bailey who used for to ply? He made out his case with such skill and dexterity, Twisting each fact, while he glozed o’er each lie. He stuck at nothing; and that so steadily, The felons all sought his aid so readily, And he saved from conviction so many a thief, That this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief. What sights of fine rogues he got off by his blarney; His tongue was so glib, and so specious withal: He was always retained by the great City forgers To Newgate from Mansion House sent, or Guildhall. And often the Press would be gibing and jeering, But ’twas all one to him, its carping and sneering; He’d swear black was white on behalf of a thief, So this barrister ne’er was in want of a brief. And yet, only think what strange morals have lawyers The Bar of such conduct think nothing at all; Whilst should any poor counsel report for a paper, “To Coventry with him!” that instant they call; From their mess they’ll expel him, he’ll find, to his sorrow; But they’ll dine with the housebreaker’s hireling to-morrow. Then hurrah!—though his client be swindler or thief,— For the barrister never in want of a brief. Punch. 1845. The late Albert Smith wrote a piece entitled “Novelty Fair, or hints for 1851,” which was produced at the Lyceum Theatre, on May 21, 1850. In this, Father Thames enters with a goblet of dirty water in his hand, and exclaims:— “Oh, did you e’er hear of such jolly bad water, man, As at Blackfriars Bridge comes out of I? No wonder they talk of my stream with severity, Sickening each nose, and disgusting each eye!” The Jolly Old Waterman. And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman Who at the cabstand used for to ply? He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies, Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye, He looked so drunk—yet stood so steadily, The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily; And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air, For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare. What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very, He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal, As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall. And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering, And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering: For laughing or chaffing he little did care, For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare. And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all, He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent, That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall. But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow, For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow; And should this old Waterman act with more care, He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare. Punch. July 30, 1853. The Handsome Young Clergyman. Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman, Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry? He handled his text with such seeming sincerity, Melting each heart and suffusing each eye. He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily, The ladies all flocked to his church so readily; And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air, That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair. His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian, So by both young and old he was made a great pet; What teapots and slippers this predestinarian, Young disciple of Calvin did constantly get! He had won such credit and fame for piety, That he had the run of the best society; And a girl with lots of tin did pair With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair. Punch. May 31, 1856. The Jolly Young Trilobite. Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite, That lived in Siluria once on a time, And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright, And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime; But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags, For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags. Some doubt as to what was the cause of his fright, Some say that the sea where he lived got too hot, Some say too cold, and some vanished quite, But one thing is certain, whatever is not, That harden’d and stony, his tail no more wags For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags. The jolly young fellow has had his day out, And doubtless once relished like others a spree, Made love to the Lingulas roaming about, Was lively and affable, funny and free, But hardened and slaty his tail no more wags, For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags. This parody refers to some rare specimens of trilobites contained in Dr. Grindrod’s Museum at Malvern. From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1865. The Luckless Young Gentleman. And did you not hear of that luckless “Young Gentleman,” Who at St. Stephen’s but lately did ply His pencil and paper with skill and dexterity? (Till his sly toil caught the Sullivan’s eye.) He looked so calm, and he worked so steadily, His Pitman’s Phonetics he marshalled so readily, And he eyed the debate with such business-like air, You’d have sworn his proceedings were all square and fair. 68 What sights of long speeches he heard in his gallery, So frothy, so fierce, and so foolish withal! How his ears must have ached when the Home-Rule Circassians Gave the rein to their penchant for shindy and squall; And oft times would they be snapping and sneering, But ’twas all one to him their jibing and jeering; Not a figs-end for party or brogue did he care, His task was reporting them all square and fair. And yet but to see now how strangely things happen! As he scribbled on, thinking of nothing at all, He was spotted by Sullivan, Power, and Callan, Who “protisted,” and straightway began such a brawl! “Obnoxious and unprecedented Reporther!” The Shindyites yelled, and a world of hot wather Was caused by that luckless “Young Gentleman” there, Mr. Speaker’s note-taker so square and so fair! Punch. July 26, 1879 The Jolly Old Woodcutter. Oh! did you ne’er hear of a jolly old woodcutter, Who at Hawarden Castle used for to stop; He handled his axe with such skill and dexterity, Treating his friends to a generous “chop.” He looked so grand, and chopped so steadily, That toadies all flocked to admire so readily; And he eyed the old geese with an ogle so sweet, That this woodcutter ne’er was in want of a seat. What sights of soft folks he cajol’d with his speeches, All polished so fair, and so “painted” withal; His partisans stuck to his side like leeches, And the G.O.M. lorded it over them all. Oft times were his enemies gibing and jeering, But ’twas all one to Bill, their groaning or cheering; For praise or for blame he but little did care, So long as he filled the Prime Minister’s chair. And yet, but to see how strangely things happen! As he chopped away, bowing and smiling as well, He was ply’d by an Irishman, caught by his blarney, One known by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell. And would this Parnell but keep him in power, He’d banish the clouds that o’er Erin did lower, Defying old Salisbury, and “Randy” so glib, E’en though it would cost him full many a fib. Truth. July 15. 1886. The Jolly Young Rifleman. (A Roundelay for Ranelagh.) Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young Rifleman, Who as Adonis his charms used to try? He curled his side-locks with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and enchanting each eye. He stood so straight, he marched so steadily, The Volunteers came at his call so readily, And he pranced at their head with so princely an air, That he had the good word of the Brave and the Fair. This Rifleman young never seemed to grow older, So trim was his mien, and so chirpy withal; He was always A 1 to each beauteous beholder, And youths mustered proudly at Ranelagh’s[11] call And though some folk might be chaffing or jeering, ’Twas all one to him their flouting and fleering, For how should our Rifleman ever know care, While he wins the good word of the Brave and the Fair? Punch. March 24, 1883. Too Jolly by Half. Did you ever hear tell of the jolly young waterman, Writ of by Dibdin and sung of by Reeves? He has gone up aloft, but his grandson surviving him, Though jollier still, no such homage receives. Said this jolly young sprig from a jolly old waterman, “Dear Mr. Bull, I can steer in a style Such as no foreigner ever could rival yet; Do let me manage your boats on the Nile. “I can shoot all the rapids and likewise your enemies, Oh! how for nautical glory I pant! Shall I be suffered to win it right jollily?” Quoth dear Mr. Bull, “You’re too jolly. You shant!” Judy. September 10, 1884. (Canadian boatmen were employed in the Soudan Expedition.) ——:o:—— THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. See, the course throng’d with gazers, the sports are begun, What confusion, but hear!—“I’ll bet you, Sir!”—“Done, done!” A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near, Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear; While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest, Pamper’d, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast, Scarcely snuffing the air, he’s so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Next Reynard’s turn’d out, and o’er hedge and ditch rush Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush; They run him at length, and they have him at bay, And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day; While alike born for sports in the field or the course, Always sure to come through—a staunch and fleet horse; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death. Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud, Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood; While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race; And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er, As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door; Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad, The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road. At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, Bow’d down by diseases, he bends to his fate; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill, Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still; And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew; Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds. Charles Dibdin. This, being a sporting song, would be quite out of place 69 here, but that Dibdin followed it up, by writing an imitation of it, on a naval topic. This is one of the somewhat rare cases of an author composing a parody on one of his own poems:— The Pride of the Ocean. See the shore lined with gazers, the tide comes in fast, The confusion, but hear! bear a hand there, avast! The blocks and the wedges the mallets obey, And the shores and the stanchions are all cut away: While with head like a lion, built tight fore and aft, Broad amidships, lean bows, and taper abaft In contempt of all danger from quicksands and rocks, The pride of the ocean is launched from the stocks. Now the signal is flying, and, fleet in her course, She chases a sail, far superior her force; And now the brisk broadside is merrily pour’d, And splinters, cut ropes, and masts go by the board; Next, yard-arm and yard-arm entangled they lie, The tars loudly swearing to conquer or die; ’Till hull’d and cut up, getting more than she likes, To the pride of the ocean the enemy strikes. The prize is sent home, and, alert in a trice, They make gaskets and points, and they knot and they splice; While knowing Jack tars of their gallantry talk, Tell who served well Boscawen, and Anson, and Hawke; ’Till, all of a sudden, a calm, then a scud, A tempest brings on that the face of the flood, The thunder and lightning, and wind, so deform, The pride of the ocean scarce lives out the storm. And now, having nobly defended the cause Of the nation, of freedom, religion, and laws, Her timbers all crazy, all open her seams, Torn and wounded her planks, and quite rotten her beams, To the last humbly fated her country to aid, Near the very same slip where her keel was first laid, No trace of her rate but her ports and her bulk, The pride of the ocean’s cut down a sheer hulk. Charles Dibdin. The High-mettled Politician. See, the house throng’d with members; debate is begun The confusion—“hear, hear,” cries of “spoke,” and “well done.” A hundred strange voices resound far and near, Whigs, Tories, and Radicals greet the tir’d ear, While with neck well cravatted, arranging his vest, Proud, pert, and a puppy with hand on his breast, Slightly turning his hair, with a dandyish grace, The young politician first starts for a place. Now the premier’s turn’d out, to succeed him they rush, Whigs and Tories both making a desperate push. They plot and intrigue, and by craft every day, Expect into office to find a quick way; While alike born for liberal or aristocrat, Always sure to come over, a regular rat. When the premier’s blown out by a party’s foul breath, The young politician is in at the death. Grown stale quite us’d up and turn’d out of the stud Of treasury protégés yet with some blood, While keen boroughmongers his pedigree trace, How he made this long speech, how he gained that good place, And what pensions he won his companions count o’er As they stand with lank purse at the treasury door; While disgrace sorely galls, with his remnant of nouse, The young politician’s a hack in the house. Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late, To divide for his party he bends to his fate, Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill, Brought in by the minister’s paramount will, And now blank and silent an object of scorn, On the very same bench he was used to adorn, While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs, The young politician is gone to the dogs. Figaro in London. October 13, 1832. The High-Mettled Razor. Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun, Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun, A thousand strange methods are found every year, And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear, When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest, Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed, Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate, The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate. The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush, For we have one at length, and we need not say nay, Should any one ask if we shave every day. While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course, Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse; When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith, The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death. Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud, Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood; While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace, Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;” And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er, As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore; When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad. The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road. At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late, And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate; And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill, If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still. For now, with its works nearly hid from our view, In the very same chair in which we must sit too, While a music-box plays like a musical elf, The High-mettled Razor doth shave us itself.” Cuthbert Bede. (This amusing parody, by the author of Verdant Green, originally appeared in Punch. It was afterwards included in Medley, a small shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856. The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst seated in an arm-chair.) The High Mettled Guardsman. See the pier throng’d with gazers! The War is begun! The soldiers are coming—“Let’s see them!” “Run, run!” A thousand loud voices resound far and near, With the hearty “huzza” and the soul-stirring “cheer.” While with mien like a hero—erecting his crest, Proud and pleas’d—with true courage inflaming his breast, 70 With the prospect of glory, his ardour increas’d, The High Mettled Guardsman embarks for the East. From the ship now turned out his way he must push, Through mud and through marshes, through rain, cold, and slush. They leave him to struggle as well as he may From the shore to the camp after leaving the bay. Sustained by the pluck that he shows in the field, He is sure to come through, for he never will yield; And though nearly worn-out, weary, hungry, and wet, The High Mettled Guardsman has life in him yet. Exposed to the cold, and turned out in the mud, Still ready to shed for his country his blood; While knowing officials—the precedents trace, Of what are the ancient traditions of place. What appointments were made—in what heads will reside The patronage Government has to divide. Thus the High Mettled Guardsman, ’tis easily seen, The victim becomes of official routine. At length ill and weak, working early and late, Bowed down by disease to a pitiful state; Expos’d to the wet—a continual drench, He feebly turns over the mud in the trench. And now, cold and lifeless, he silently lies On the soil where he hoped to win victory’s prize: Whilst official routine on contentedly jogs, And the High Mettled Guardsman has gone to the dogs. Punch. January, 1855. A parody, entitled The Village-Born Beauty, appeared in “The Universal Songster,” vol. 1, p. 356, and was also printed as a halfpenny ballad, by Taylor, of Brick Lane, Bethnal Green. This song described the adventures of the Village-born Beauty, (who had strayed from the paths of virtue) in language somewhat too free to be admitted in this collection. ——:o:—— THE BOATSWAIN CALLS. My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough, I’ve seen a little service, Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; I’ve sail’d with gallant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jervis, And in valiant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out yo, heave ho! Yet more ye shall be knowing, I was coxon to Boscawen, And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. Then put round the grog, So we’ve that and our prog, We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing yo heave ho! * * * * * And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe; But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission. Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho! So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs, My boys shall well revenge my wrongs, And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe; Then to country and king, Fate can no danger bring, While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho! Charles Dibdin.