WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 4)

A Word from Tom Tough. Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling winds have blown, And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is Is a thing—I says it proudly—as I’ve never, never known. No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content, And never gone in for a railer, But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent, Like a honest and brave British sailor! And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion. Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men; But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean. And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then. For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too, More sober and cautious to make me; For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do, If disaster and death overtake me. ’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten; I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see; And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten, And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir—not me! But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough, And no one to bother about him; And if he comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough That the world could get well on without him. But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses, Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam, Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts surpasses, Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home, For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me, Her heart, with the billows, time beating, Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee— A prayer for its father repeating. Yes, it is for Polly’s sake, and the bairns, I’ve been attending, To all that they’ve been saying of Shipowners and their craft, And been brooding o’er those wrongs, sir, which the Board o’ Trade means mending, And at which, when I was reckless, why, I only took and laughed. So you, please, mustn’t think that Tom Tough is a shirk, Nor in anyways flustered or frighted, If he should ask you, whilst he sticks to his work, To try if those wrongs can’t be righted. For you see I ain’t no spouter, and I’ve not the gift o’ patter, But all the same I knows full well that many things is wrong; 71 And drownding is for me and mine so serious a matter, That if the case is put for us, it can’t be put too strong. So whilst I continues my duty to do, Until my last trip is completed, I hope that the Board will do its dooty, too, And see that Tom’s properly treated. There’s such talk about insoorance and the likes, I’ve often wonder’d If there’s any human feeling in this great and Christian land, For all the while they’re chatt’ring, men is drownding by the hunderd, Through the acts o’ greedy owners, if I rightly understand. Aye, it’s this that is makin’ a coward of the best, And turning good hands into railers: It’s this that is crushing the pluck and the zest From the hearts o’ your brave British sailors. So it ain’t for no great favour that Tom Tough just now is praying, He wants to have fair chances in the struggle, that is all; And if Englishmen loves justice, why there’ll be no more delaying In list’ning and attending to his very urgent call. Or, leastways, if they at my language still sneer, And pass my petition unheeding, I knows very well they won’t turn a deaf ear To my wife and my little ones’ pleading! Truth. March 27, 1884.

A Sailor’s Plea for the “Yo, Heave Ho!” Yes, my name, d’ye know’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service, Where the waves roll mountains high, and the stormy winds do blow; But my heart’s as true as steel, and right taut my every nerve is, As when, in eighteen forty, I first sung out, “Yo, heave ho!” No, I’ve never yet been ailing, Since the time I went a-sailing; An’ though I’ve been around this world some twenty times or so; Aye, although I ain’t a stranger, To any kind o’ danger, Yet I’m ready still to meet ’em with a “Yo, heave ho!” But although I’m able-bodied, and still fit to furl a “topsel,” Or to reef a “maintop-gallant” in a stiff nor’-eastern gale: Though I’m sober and quick-handed, yet just like a hulk I’m stranded, And I cannot get a skipper for to answer to my hail. So as no one me engages, Why, of course, my bit o’ wages I’d saved up for a rainy day is bound to quickly go; And my hopes, I own, is sinking, For I somehow can’t help thinking That I shan’t get the chance again to sing out “Yo, heave ho!” Yes, the times is changed completely since I first sailed on the ocean, For then a British ship, you see, was worked by British tars, And every British skipper would have scoffed the very notion Of having lots of furriners to man the capstan bars. But now, I’ll take my davy, ’Cepting sometimes in the Navy, You will not find a British ship in which they do not stow Heaps o’ Danes, and Swedes, and Rooshians, Greeks, Malays, and Fins, and Prooshians, Who couldn’t, for to save their lives sing out a “Yo, heave ho!” Why, the crews I used to ship with were all chaps with bone and muscle, And with lots o’ pluck and courage, and with hearts to England true; But what some calls “competition” has so changed the whole position, That now to serve for sailors any furrin’ scum will do. And if a crew you muster, P’rhaps of English there’s a cluster, But there’s Chinamen and Lascars, and there’s Coolies in a row, All a-chattering in their lingo, ’Till it’s precious hard, by jingo, To hear aboard a British ship the good old “Yo, heave ho!” They say I shouldn’t grumble, seeing that which I complain of Is all owing, as they tell us, to, “a known commercial cause”; But it’s not much consolation to a chap what fears starvation To tell him that his suff’ring’s due to “economic laws,” With such things I cannot wrestle, But I know a British vessel Is very, very different to what ’twas years ago; Since its crew now as a rule is, Three parts furriners and Coolies With scarcely British tars enough to give a “Yo, heave ho!” Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the present, To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me; But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant, And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be. Say, for instance, there was fighting, And the time came for uniting The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe, Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians, And the Chinamen and Rooshians, Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”? Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country, Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas? No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry, Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese; Whilst the tars on whose assistance May depend the land’s existence In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know, Will be found prepared no longer England’s Navy to make stronger, Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!” Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire made? 72 Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean, And opened every corner of the world up to her trade? For the sake, then, of the story Of old England’s naval glory, You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show, And let British brain and sinew Still on British ships continue, Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!” Truth, April 15, 1886.

’Twas post meridian, half-past four, By signal I from Nancy parted, At six she linger’d on the shore, With uplift hands and broken hearted. At seven, while taughtening the forestay, I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy; At eight we all got under weigh, And bade a long adieu to Nancy! * * * * * At last,—’twas in the month of May,— The crew, it being lovely weather, At three A.M. discover’d day And England’s chalky cliffs together. At seven up Channel how we bore, While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy, At twelve I gaily jumped ashore, And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy. Charles Dibdin.

’Twas Prime Meridian, twelve at noon, By signal I from Nancy parted; At eight she watched the rising moon, With wringing hands, half broken-hearted. At nine, while tautening the fore-stay, I saw her faint, unless ’twas fancy: At ten we all got under weigh, And bade a long adieu to Nancy! Night came. The theme of every tongue Was the Meridian Conference. Weary Of that at last, we piped and sung, And chawed our quids in confab cheery; But something weighed upon my mind, The wildest dreams possessed my fancy, And fate seemed whispering on the wind, I ne’er again should meet my Nancy! And now arrived the happy time Which every true Tar’s spirit rouses, When safe at home (Meridian Prime) We hoped to meet sweethearts and spouses. But round and round the world went we, Seeking that Prime Meridian! Fancy! The darned thing wasn’t fixed, ye see, And I could not find home or Nancy! It was, of course, the beastliest bore. Those stupid Frenchmen had a notion That fixing it on England’s shore,— England, whose vessels scour the ocean, And who is owned to rule the waves,— Insulted France! A foolish fancy! The vanity to which they’re slaves Fooled them—and kept me from my Nancy. We sailed about, all round we steered, ’Midst sunshine’s gleam and tempest’s rattle. No Prime Meridian appeared! The Conference was still at battle. The Frenchman still maintained the strife To please his egotistic fancy, Kept many a Tar from his true wife, And me from my beloved Nancy! Alas! Confound the Frogs, I says! Though fair the wind and fine the weather, I cannot yet forecaste the day When Nance and I shall come together. That Prime Meridian serves to floor My fondest hopes, my warmest fancy. It’s still unfixed, and never more I fear shall I see it or Nancy. Punch. October 25, 1884.

As pensive one night in my garret I sate, My last shilling produced on the table, That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate, If to think and to speak it were able. Whether fancy or magic ’twas played me the freak, The face seemed with life to be filling; And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak, “Pay attention to me, thy last shilling!” * * * * * Charles Dibdin.

The Old Oak Table. I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night, Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping; The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,— I felt neither waking nor sleeping; When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near, You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable, Directed towards me, said, audibly clear, “List, list, list to me, thy oak table.” “I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold, “Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble; “And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old “Would under my branches assemble: “Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,— “Those rites to unfold I am able, “But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree, “And now I am but an oak table. “When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough, “And to form a ship I was converted, “Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough, “And by victory never deserted. 73 “But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck, “Bereft of my anchor and cable, “A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck, “Made what you see me now—an oak table. “Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,— “But I fear I your patience am tiring. “I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day, “To be broke up and used for your firing.” “No never,” cried I, as I started awake, “I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able “And each friend that my humble cheer will partake, “Shall be welcome around my oak table.”

Deserted by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round; And should a footstep haply stray, Where caution marks the guarded way, “Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.” “A friend”—“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.” Or sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep, The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck; And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear— “What cheer? Brother, quickly tell; Above—below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.” Thomas Dibdin

The Empty Purse. Deserted by the waning purse, When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse, On garret’s high poetic ground, The poor man walks his lonely round. And should some bailiff chance to stray, Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay, Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell, Pay this I can’t; to jail—All’s well! Or gliding through this busy life, With doctors, nurses, babies, wife; The careful wight patrols the shop, And guards the house from toe to top. And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer, Some well-known voice salutes his ear, What cheer, old friend, old playmate tell? Cash low, child sick, wife cross—All’s well! From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

Another Parody. Deserted by declining day, When weary wights benighted stray; From bush, or cavern, we appear, And scare the traveller’s frighted ear With—“Stand or die, good night. All’s well.” Or riding home from fair or feast, Some farmer plodding o’er his beast; His wit o’erstopped by humming ale, While thus the joskins we assail; “Down every stiver, quickly tell, Your watch, your purse, good night. All’s well!” Anonymous.

All’s Well. Hot from the guard-room’s reeking stew, His spongy great-coat sodden through, His head with senseless shako crowned, The sentry walks rheumatic round. And should civilian querist stray, And question in his saucy way, “What cheer, oh! Sentry, quickly tell.” “In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!” From guard-bed comrades’ steaming heap, Turned out all standing, half-asleep, Great-coat on back and stock on neck, His perspiration gets a check; And while, half-starved, he dreams of beer, Could civil question catch his ear, “What cheer, ho! Sentry, quickly tell.” “In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!” Punch. March 13, 1858.

Since the first dawn of reason that beam’d on my mind And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot, To share that good fortune, I still was inclined, And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not. ’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him, And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says, “May we ne’er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.” The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent, Or by poverty bow’d, tho’ of evils the least, The smiles of a friend may invite to content, And we all know content is an excellent feast; ’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise, When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him. And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says, “May we ne’er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him. Thomas Dibdin.

A New Version. (Addressed to the shades of Dibdin.) Since the first dawn of reason on—Dibdin—your mind. Very little experience, it seems, that you got: If you—after your fortune was shared—did not find That those you had shared it with, wanted you not It’s a maxim of mine, if a friend you’d sift out From the crowd, do not test with too searching a sieve him, And this motto you then may adopt past a doubt— 74 “I shall not want a friend, while I’ve lots I can give him!” But a grateful return of a farthing per cent When by poverty bowed, don’t expect in the least: With the fact, that you’ve proved you’re an ass be content, And we all know content is as good as a feast; Yet it makes one a little inclined to dispraise To know from experience, as sure as you live, you Of this motto the truth will learn, some of these days, “May you ne’er want a friend—for no jot’ll he give you!” Tom Hood, the Younger.

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold— Huzza for the Arethusa! She is a frigate tight and brave As ever stemm’d the dashing wave; Her men are staunch To their fav’rite launch; And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire On board of the Arethusa. ’Twas with the spring fleet she went out The English Channel to cruise about, When four French sail, in shore so about, Bore down on the Arethusa. The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie— The Arethusa seem’d to fly: Not a sheet or a tack, Or a brace did she slack; Though the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff; But they knew not the handful of men how tough On board of the Arethusa. On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, “Ho!” The Frenchman then cried out, “Hollo!” “Bear down, d’ye see, To our admiral’s lee.” “No, no!” says the Frenchman, “that can’t be” “Then I must lug you along with me,” Says the saucy Arethusa. The fight was off the Frenchman’s land; We forced them back upon the strand; For we fought till not a stick would stand Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we’ve driven the foe ashore, Never to fight the Britons more, Let each fill a glass To his fav’rite lass, A health to the captains and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa.

The Ariel’s Crew, Sir. Come every jolly rower bold, Whose heart is cast in honour’s mould, While Nuneham’s glories I unfold, Huzza for the Ariel’s crew, Sir. She is a vessel tight and brave As ever skimm’d the ruffled wave; Her lads are staunch to their fav’rite launch, And when the race shall try our fire, Sooner than yield we’ll all expire, The dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir. ’Twas in the Regatta she went out In Nuneham’s reach to cruise about, Three rival boats, in show so stout, Bore down on the “Ariel” crew, Sir; The “Isis” bold straight ahead did ply, The sprightly “Ariel” seemed to fly; Not an arm, nor a back, nor a nerve did she slack; Though the foemen laugh’d, and thought it was stuff, Knowing not the handful of lads how tough Were the dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir. Eight strong-arm’d men on their oars did bend, The stoutest Oxford Town could send; We eight bold youngsters did contend, The plucky “Ariel” crew, Sir. Our cockswain hail’d the “Isis,” “Ho,” The Isis-men roared out “Hallo!” “You’ll ne’er win the cup, so you’d better give it up;” “No, no,” cries the “Ariel,” “that can’t be, For I mean to lug it along with me, For the use of the ‘Ariel’ crew, Sir.” The race was off the Nuneham shore, (Such a race as ne’er was seen before,) We pressed them hard, and beat them sore, The youthful “Ariel” crew, Sir. And now we’ve beat the rival crew, And shown what skill and pluck can do, Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass: Here’s a health to Maclean and conservatives all, And may success and honour befall The lads of the “Ariel” crew, Sir,! G. V. Cox. August, 1839.

Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold, Whilst I this story do unfold— 75 (A better tale is seldom told) The Man who Mended the Boiler! An Engineer as deft as brave, With a name that smacks of the salt sea wave, And a heart as staunch As the hull of his launch; And whenever Britons must meet the foe, May they have such fellows as brave Benbow, The Man who Mended the Boiler! ’Twas with the Nile fleet he set out, With Lord Charles Beresford, gay and stout, Midst the cataract’s roar, and the Arabs’ shout, The Man who Mended the Boiler. Khartoum and Gordon ahead did lie, When a plate in the boiler did start and fly, With a puff and a crack, And the pace did slack, And the Arabs howled at that bang and that puff, But they knew not that handful of tars so tough, Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler! Whilst the jubilant Arabs did howl and dance, He surveyed the smash with a workman’s glance, And saw at once that they couldn’t advance, With a big blank hole in the boiler. Did he turn up the job like a muff? Oh, no! That wasn’t the fashion of brave Benbow, Midstream and still He worked with a will Through a dark Nile night and by morning’s light, He had patched up everything right and tight The Man who Mended the Boiler! The Arabs looked from the sandy strand, And thought that the Britons were brought to a stand; But those Britons they did not understand, Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler. Up steam once more! Midst a roar from the shore, Away up the Nile the steamer bore. Let each brim a glass, Whether lad or lass, In a health to Lord Charles and his gallant crew, With a bumper to Benbow stout and true, The Man who Mended the Boiler! Punch. April 25, 1885.

Loud roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning’s vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay, O! * * * * * Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent. When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers, Now we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O! Andrew Cherry. (Comedian. 1762-1812.)

The New-Built Playhouse, O! Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle, Dust-bells began the din, Announc’d the hour of battle! ’Twas half-price rushing in: Whilst o’er the rascal crew, Vast consternation flew At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O! The catcalls next shrill sounding ’Midst O. P.’s vocal strain; The magic dance, resounding, Near rent the walls in twain! Our victors strengthen’d grew, O’er turned the Bow Street crew, At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O! Then, must’ring up our forces, Attack’d the thieves again; But numbered in our losses A few brave O. P. men. The victory was ours, Brave O. P. loudly roars, At the fight, On that night, In the new-built playhouse, O!

The Bay of Chelsea, Oh! Loud roar’d the smoking funnel, The blacks came down in showers; The steam-pipe coughs like one ill, The smoke above us lowers; The mud both thick and dark Impedes our wretched bark: There we lay, Half a day, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh! Now dashed against the gravel, We crumble, crash, and creak; At this rate we shan’t travel A mile within a week Cries of “Return the fare!” Now rend the startled air: “Did we pay, Here to stay, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!” At length a wished-for wherry ’Long side of us drew nigh; The prospect made us merry, The laugh rose loud and high; But when, alas! we knew, ’Twould not hold half our crew, None were gay, As they lay In the Bay of Chelsea, oh! A little ease to give her (To make her float we meant), 76 At once into the river Her heavy chimney sent. To swim she now appears, We give three hearty cheers, As we scud Off the mud, In the Bay of Chelsea, oh! Punch 1847.

Air, “The Bay of Biscay.” “I cut the ball right under At least an inch or more; It was a fatal blunder, For forty was his score. I gave him in the dark Fifteen, so did remark, ’Odds I’ll lay Any day, If he’ll give me a bisque, heigh ho!” * * * * * From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London: Field and Tuer, 1884.

Come, cheer up, my lads! ’tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year; To honour we call you, not press you like slaves; For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Hearts of oak are our ships, Hearts of oak are our men, We always are ready: Steady, boys, steady! We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away: If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore; For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. Hearts of oak, &c. They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes! They frighten our women, our children, and beaux; But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o’er, Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore. Hearts of oak, &c. Britannia, triumphant, her ships sweep the sea, Her standard is Justice—her watchword, “Be free;” Then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing, “Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and king.” Hearts of oak, &c. David Garrick.

A New Song. Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to Freedom we steer; No tyrant dictators shall manage us here; No more shall they send vile dependents on Court, The birthright of Britons they ne’er will support. United by Freedom, in freedom remain; See Fox still is ready, To our cause ever steady; Huzza! we’ll elect him again and again. Since first we adopted The Fox,[12] as our choice, To injure the nation he ne’er lent his voice: His unshaken heart, stout, manly, and bold, Could ne’er be corrupted our cause to have sold. United by Freedom &c. * * * * * From The History of the Westminster Election. 1784.

Come, Cheer up, My Lads, Merry Christmas is Near. Come, cheer up, my lads, merry Christmas is near, And I hope we shall all have a Happy New Year! Then eat your plum-pudding and drink your strong ale, And may plenty and peace, in old England ne’er fail; O, still may our flag be with lustre unfurl’d! Let’s ever be ready, steady boys, steady, And true to ourselves we defy all the world. Oh, still may our flag, &c. * * * * *

Another New Song. Come, cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something new to this wonderful year. We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill, And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will. Chorus.—Then firm, my hearts of oak, Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, With hearts always ready, To fight and to conquer, Again and again. M’Kerrell declares when the times have proved good, The people of England have three times too much food; And Gladstone, his friend—deserter of our cause— The King’s Jester has named, to help t’make our laws. Then firm, my hearts of oak. Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, You’ll always be ready To keep out a Canning, Again and again. Then Tarleton comes forth with his vote-winning smile, “If I have turned my coat, my heart’s yours all the while; “Besides, my good friends, by constantly turning “I must keep your interest on all sides from burning. “Then listen to my ditty, “And send me up once more, “To changing sides steady, “I always am ready “To come to the side “I deserted before,” Our wise Corporation, poor Gascoyne descry— His back one sad wound, and tearful his eye— 77 The flogging they gave him, his hopes had quite damped, And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped. Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne, “Don’t take it so to heart. “Indeed we didn’t mean it, “Let Hollingshead clean it, “And then, my dear fellow, “You’ll soon lose the smart.” Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, To add something new to this wonderful year, We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill, And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will. Then firm, my hearts of oak, Your votes give like Freemen, To Liberty steady, With hearts always ready, To fight and to conquer, Again and again.

Down with the Lords. Unfurl the old flag once again to the fore, While firmly we march as our fathers of yore; Our war-cry is “Freedom,” our cause is our right, Our well-trusted leaders are Gladstone and Bright. Chorus. Then down with the Lords! our duty is plain; For the fray we are ready; Steady, men, steady; We have conquered before, and we’ll conquer again. The flouts and the sneers of these senators born, And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn, Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view, For we are the million, and they are the few. What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride? Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside? Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite, When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their right? Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim, And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name; Then let them beware in their tinselled array, Ere a blast of our anger shall sweep them away! James Tilson Wright. The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884.

Truth and Right. The day dawns upon us, the fight is at hand, When the voice of the people shall ring through the land; Peace, Progress, Reform and Retrenchment—our guide— Shall be the man’s watchword in whom we confide. Chorus. Truth and Right are our weapons, untarnished with stain; Our forces are ready, trusty and steady— We’ll vote for the men who can lead the campaign. Deserted, forgotten, our rights, long ignored, Have been tossed to the winds for coercion and sword— The yoke of taxation has burdened our isle. Our trades and our industries ne’er seem to smile. We will send forth the men who will zealously toil To improve the condition of “sons of the soil,” Whose hearts beat with ours, who know what we feel— The labouring masses who grind at the wheel. And men who are staunch to the cause they profess, Who will grapple each task to relieve our distress, Who can write on their banner—for ever unfurled— “A prosperous country, at peace with the world!” Jesse H. Wheeler. The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

Gladstone’s Policy. Arouse, men of England, the strife’s drawing near, Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere, ’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves: Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves. Chorus. A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men; They fear us already, Steady, boys, steady, For Ireland and Gladstone again and again! Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed, And boast how the game of the Tory they played; Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store, Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more. Chorus. We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men; They fear us already, Steady, boys, steady, For Ireland and Gladstone again and again! D. Evans. The Weekly Dispatch. June 27, 1886.

Gladstone’s Mistake. Awake, sons of Britain, don’t let it be said When comes the election that Reason was dead. ’Tis important to all that a measure so rash As Gladstone’s should speedily fall with a crash. Chorus. He’s made a mistake, though the greatest of men; The bill’s doomed already, Then, Will, pray be steady, You know you’ll be sorry again and again. Admirers of William, who cling to him strong, All seem to imagine he cannot do wrong; By sticking to him through this “mad-headed” plan Gives rise to the thought that they worship the “man,” Chorus. He’s made a mistake, so be honest, be men, The bill’s doomed already, Be up and ready; If not, you’ll repent it again and again. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

The Skipper’s Song. (Air—Obvious.) A death on the ocean wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, For the Skipper whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap! I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek, Swede, Fin, and Portugee— And all the lingoes they speak Are heathen Greek to me! So a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, When I’m knived or knocked on the head, Some night, when no watch I keep. For they all of ’em wear long knives, And some have got pistols too, And mine and my mates’ dear lives Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw! They will take us unawares. Like stuck pigs we shall die, With no time to say our prayers, And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.” For a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, Is the Skipper’s whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap! Punch. May 27, 1876.

A Life on the Ocean Waive. (Composed by Mr. Twitters, after a rough passage from Boulogne.) A life on the ocean waive, Don’t try for a home on the deep— For your scattered senses rave, If well you expect to keep. Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine, For the fresh and wholesome shore. Or, heaving upon the brine, For a “Basin, steward,” roar. Then a life, &c. On deck I tried to stand, But I could not, with all my craft; I asked them to let me land, But the feelingless sailors laughed. For to me was the sparkling foam Ipecacuanah tea. Oh! the tartar emetic’s home Is certainly on the sea. So a life, &c. The sky turned to black from blue, And didn’t the rain come down! “You’d be better below,” said the crew. I only replied by a frown! But my counsel now shall be, Unless you, a madman, rave, Don’t live on the tossing sea— A home on the billows waive. Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c. From The Man in the Moon. Vol. 3.

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide. In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride. Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea, I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free. I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw, They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;” For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal. Quick, quick, stoke her fires, and come calm or come wind, I will warrant we’ll soon leave land worries behind. Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea, I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free. Though that growler should carp, and this snarler be heard, The steamer, unheeding, skims on like a bird. What to us is the shout of Conservative pain? As we’re well out of hearing, it’s uttered in vain. The enemy’s strokes ineffectively fall, Be they never so smart they’ve no power to appal, As with fresh air on deck, and snug comfort below, Through the holiday waters right onward we go. Hurrah! then my mates, we may lounge, we may sleep, Party rancour is hushed, we’re alone on the deep; Our flag of defiance still waves o’er the sea— We’re afloat!—we’re afloat! and the Old Man is free. Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.

Song of the Pickpocket. There’s a flat, there’s a flat, on the opposite side, The country’s his home, and his nose is his guide, Quick, quick, trip him up, knock his hat o’er his eyes, And we’ll take out his wipe on the ground as he lies. I heed not the beaks, I fear not their claws; My object I’ll compass in spite of the laws; I ne’er will give up to a tyrant of Peel’s, Nor yield to a soul while I still have my heels. The Puppet Show. April 1, 1848.

I’m a Shot. I’m a shot, I’m a shot, I’m my Company’s pride, The range is my home, and my rifle my bride, Up, up with the flag, let it wave o’er the plain, I’ve hit the bull’s eye, and I’ll hit it again. I fear not the serjeant, I heed not the cells, I’ve a ball in my pouch on the target that tells; And ne’er as a slave, but a soldier I’ll kneel With a most inconvenient seat on my heel. I’m a shot, I’m a shot, &c.

The Song of the Float. I’m a float! I’m a float; on the deep rolling tide, I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride; The bright crystal flood is my natural home, Be it smooth as a mirror, or flashing with foam. 79 My body’s of cork, of an olive green hue, And my tip as the needle magnetic is true. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest, I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast; And I think all the time how hot it must be Over there where my master lies under the tree, A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground, Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around! I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray, And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way, I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee, As a ducking I get when they top over me. And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel, With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint, At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint; And then, if I see a big scaly’un look With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook, A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill, And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait, To my master the news in a crack I relate— Yes!—no!—eh?—bravo?—“bob!”—right under I go! But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so. Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make, A big golden carp pulling well in my wake! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide, I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride! I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream, No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream. So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care, For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! The Angler’s Journal. April 3, 1886.

Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt, At the cook-shop a little up town, How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass, For the pannum you sent rolling down?

Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt, Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown? How she danced all the night, and drank with delight, Just to keep up her fame and renown.

When “Bolt.” Oh! dont you remember the days when “Bolt” Was the dodge that did landlords so “brown,” When on quarter day morns we have oft “shot the moon,” And been off to a new part of town? The old watchman always would let us then bolt, Of our actions no knowledge would own; But policeman are so wide awake now-adays, We should surely be caught ere we’d flown. Oh! don’t you remember our tradesmen, when “Bolt” Was the way to stop duns for small bills— When they knew that to claim their demands would entail Declarations, court-fees, and such ills? The system has gone to decay, and when “Bolt” Is the rule, or some game of the sort, They straight bring an action, and us they can take For contempt of a vile County Court. Oh! don’t you remember the days when “Bolt” Was the word that the billmen overthrew— When we left our acceptance, ne’er fearing a writ, And at Boulogne moustaches we grew? The sea is thought nothing, and now when “Bolt” We do, we the law can’t defy; For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue The debtor where’er he may fly. Diogenes. Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854.

Cease, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer! List, ye landsmen, all to me! Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea; From bounding billows, first in motion, When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest troubled ocean, Where the seas contend with skies! * * * * * The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys, See all clear to reef each course; Let the fore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get, Reef the mizen, see all clear, Hands up, each preventure brace set, Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer! G. A. Stevens (died 1784.)

Cease, Rude Boreas. (By a worried Editor.) Cease to bore us, and assail us, Writers! with your pens so free! List the tale—though’t won’t avail us, And our troubles you shall see! 80 While around us roars the thunder, Of the Postman’s double knocks; Till our Housemaid stares with wonder, And our Tiger’s nerves it shocks. We have things oft sent that fright us, And regard them all with scorn, Pieces too that oft delight us, And our breasts with rapture warm! For the first—why we reject ’em Or affront our readers sense, For the second—we accept ’em, Or we drive Subscribers hence! Do not then too harsly judge us, When we cast your trash aside; Or of feelings good begrudge us The exercise, both broad and wide! We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us, And to each give merit due; Full as honest—though you flout us, As the mass of Stockings Blue! The Monthly Belle Assemblée. September, 1836.

Song for the Douche. Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean, Neptune’s is an easy couch, Listen while a fellow patient Sings the dangers of the Douche; Stripped and shivering—quite defenceless— Stunned by its terrific roar— Now you’re shouting—now you’re senseless— Now you’re dashed upon the floor. Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,— “Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;” Still in vain for mercy calling,— “Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.” Now ’tis over, rub and dress you; Now the nerves are in full play, “Bathman I’m all glowing—bless you, Can’t I have one every day?” Now all you in sick beds lying, Victims to each false alarm; Pill and potion vainly trying Only doing further harm. Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors Are but fancies of the brain, They must smile at vulgar errors, Who would health and strength regain. Would you climb the rugged mountain, Would you hear sweet warblers sing, Come and taste the crystal fountain,— Nature’s pure life-giving spring; Breathe the tainted air no longer, Leave your sickly painful couch, Every bath shall make you stronger, Nervous sufferers try the Douche.

Do you want to know the ugliest craft That ever put from port? Well that’s the Poly, the steel ram’d Poly, And she’s a rare rum sort. Open your peepers and look my lads, She’s lobbing agen the quay, The sootiest craft afore and abaft That ever shamed the sea. Afloat, afloat, d’ye call her a boat? Black deck, no white sails furled! Poly, grim Poly, Tame as “loblolly,’ The ugliest craft in the world! Do you want to know the latest thing To make a true tar dull? Well, that’s the Poly, this precious Poly, And darn her dirty hull! Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there, Like a porpoise heavy with grog; Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns, Her hull like a lifeless log. Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat, Low down, no sail unfurled; Poly, grim Poly, Our nautical folly, The ugliest craft in the world! Do you want a toast to-night, my lads, Afore we says good-bye? Well, here’s short life to the lumbering Poly, And blarm her hulk, says I. Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads, Drink in sepulchral tones: “May a storm soon send this confounded Poly To supper with David Jones.” Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat, When the waves in heaps are hurled? Poly, black Poly, Fraud melancholy, The ugliest craft in the world! Punch. July 23, 1881.

From the Opera of “The Americans.” RECITATIVE O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed, Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest; But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years, Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears. AIR. Twas in Trafalgar’s bay We saw the Frenchmen lay; Each heart was bounding then. We scorn’d the foreign yoke, Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave, Three cheers our gallant seamen gave, Nor thought of home and beauty. Along the line this signal ran— “England expects that every man This day will do his duty.” * * * * * England confess’d that every man That day had done his duty. S. J. Arnold.

The Battle of Spithead. Recitative. O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest, Britannia weeps,—that face with bandage dress’d, But that bright nose shall never fade with years, Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears. ’Twas in the Spithead Bay We saw Bill Swiggins lay, He loudly swearing, then; We owed him for a joke Which at the British Oak, He levell’d at our men— Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave, Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave, Nor thought of home or duty; Before the shine this signal ran, “We owe a grudge to that ’ere man; This day we’ll spoil his beauty.” And now we ply the oar, And stretching from the shore, Our Thompson clove the spray; His ship the Sarah named, Long Sarah had been famed For squabbles night and day; But dearly was our victory bought, Our hero’s nose a stinger caught, For Sarah, home, and duty; He cried, as to his foe he ran, “We owe a grudge to that ’ere man, This day we’ll spoil his beauty.” But, oh! the dreadful wound, Which sent the “claret” round, The hero’s nose received. Then, sinking on his side, “Our boat’s going o’er,” he cried; “But long enough I’ve lived, I’ve black’d his other eye at last, Have had revenge for insults pass’d On Sarah, home, and duty!” Thus ends the row as it began— Portsmouth confess’d that each brave man Had spoilt the other’s beauty! Diogenes. July, 1853.

The Great Unemployed. (A Song for Scotland Yard. Air—“The Death of Nelson.”) ’Twas in Trafalgar Square We heard Sedition blare; Each heart was sickened then. We’d scorned the foreign Reds Who cracked each other’s heads, But here were madder men. Henderson marked them howl and rave, But little heed that hero gave. Let Roughdom smash and loot, he Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan. And London owned at least one man That day that shirked his duty. And now the rabble roar, And plunder as they pour; No Bobbies stop the way. London, for order famed, Is startled, shocked, and shamed By this disgraceful day! Right dearly is experience bought, The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought, Unchecked, for drink and booty. From mouth to mouth the murmur ran, “London has found a trusted man This day has shirked his duty.” Pride feels a painful wound, Dismay is spread around; Our trust has been deceived. But shirkers must be tried, If need be, thrust aside, Our credit be retrieved. Policedom’s honour is at stake, Policedom from its drowse must wake, It guards home, wealth, age, beauty, From Chief to youngest guardian, London must know that every man Is equal to his duty! Punch. February, 1886.

Paddy’s Grave. ’Twas at the Pig and Cat Where Judy met her Pat, With his big nose so red: “Oh!” says she, “you are untrue; And faith, I’ll punish you,” And then she broke his head! Her brother Ted was standing by, Who nately black’d her father’s eye, For he was bold and frisky; Yet through the bogs this was the cry, Ireland expects you won’t be shy, But fight for love and whiskey! (Two verses omitted.)

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these; But of all the world’s brave heroes, there’s none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadier. Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon-ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadiers. Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car, And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres, Behold with admiration the British grenadiers. Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades; 82 We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman’s ears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers. And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,— Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears. Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers. Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes. May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers! Anonymous. (Written about 1760.)

The British Grenadiers. Upon the plains of Flanders, Our fathers long ago, They fought like Alexanders Beneath old Marlborough; And still in fields of conquest, Our valour bright has shown, With Wolfe and Abercrombie, And Moore and Wellington. Our plumes have waved in combats, That ne’er shall be forgot, Where many a mighty squadron Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet, We led our bold compeers; But Frenchmen like to stay not For British Grenadiers. Once bravely at Vimiera They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira, To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks, We gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs To the British Grenadiers. At St. Sebastiano, And Badajos’s town, Though raging like volcanoes The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing, We scaled the ramparts high, And waved the British ensign In glorious victory. And what could Bonaparte, With all his cuirassiers, In battle do, at Waterloo, With British Grenadiers? Then ever sweet the drum shall beat That march unto our ears, Whose martial roll awake the soul Of British Grenadiers. Thomas Campbell.

Brook Green Volunteer. Some talk of Alexander, And some of Wellington, Of Blucher and Lysander, And of Napoleon. But of all the gallant heroes, There’s none for to compare, With his Quick march! to the right about! Face! To the Brook Green Volunteer. Without the least occasion, He rushes to the field, From peril of invasion Old Hammersmith to shield. The geese loud cackling round him, The donkies braying near, Appal not the truly British heart Of the Brook Green Volunteer. Retreating do not mention, Nor talk of War’s alarms, When Duty cries, Attention! And Valour, Shoulder Arms! The soul despises danger, The bosom knows no fear Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man, The Brook Green Volunteer. In spite of vilest weather Erect, and proud of mien, Each night, for hours together, He guards his native Green; Catarrh and cough defying, No matter how severe; What a downright, thorough-going trump Is the Brook Green Volunteer! At this inclement season The hero must be bold, For no particular reason To brave a death of cold. Then yield the palm of glory, And stand a drop of beer To that gay, gallant, promising recruit, The Brook Green Volunteer. Punch. February 28, 1846.

“Most regiments have some varlet, Some rascal mean and base, A stain upon their scarlet, Their scandal and disgrace.”

They may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red, They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue; 83 They may boast if they please, of such troops as these, And of all the exploits they’d do. But London town acknowledges, That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals, They’re not up to the mark, in the street or the park, Of the gallant Spe-ci-als. The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade, And partial to kitchen stuff; The Detectives, too, are by no means a do, But perfectly up to snuff, For what are they, I should like to know, When the voice of duty calls, To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als? Oh! ’tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob, Who thought insurrection to hatch; And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold, But funk’d when it came to the scratch. Who swore that they did not care one whit, For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls; But who cut right away, with the devil to pay, At the sight of the Spe-ci-als. The Man in the Moon, Vol. III.

The Thievish Privateer. Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard; Bill Sikes a hero call; And some speak of a worthy, Whose name it is Sam Hall; But there’s a thief in our belief Whose crimes e’en worse appear, Who in war’s dark hour doth the ocean scour— ’Tis the thievish Privateer. While nations are contending— While principles at stake, Upon the strife depending, The world’s foundation shake. No thought has he of liberty, No hopes of glory cheer; But alone for the pelf, To enrich himself, Fights the thievish Privateer. * * * * * Then shall we suffer longer, That letters called “of Marque,” Shall save from England’s vengeance, Each cut-throat pirate bark? Oh, no! let’s hope henceforth a rope Shall be knotted ’neath the ear, As pirates to hang Every man of the gang Of each thievish Privateer. Diogenes, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854.

The Order of Valour (The V. C.) Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules, And many a great commander As glorious as these; But if you want a hero Of genuine pluck and pith, It’s perfectly clear there’s none comes near To full British Private Smith. Its easy to fight, with glory At hand to gild your name, And stick it up in story, Among the sons of fame. But Smith, full British private, Is expected to be brave, With the cold “cold shade” above his head, At his feet a nameless grave. For Generals there’s the peerage, With grant of public tin; There’s regiments for Colonels, For Captains steps to win. But for Private Smith the utmost, (If he avoided beer) Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth Some fifteen pounds a-year. Till now the stars and garters, Were for birth’s or fortune’s son, And as oft in snug home-quarters, As in fields of fight were won. But at length a star arises, Which as glorious will shine On Smith’s red serge vest as upon the breast Of Smyth’s scarlet superfine. Though carpet-knights may grumble, Routine turn up its nose, Though Cardigans and Lucans, And Aireys may oppose, Yet shall the star of valour Defy their scoffs and jeers— As its bronze rays shine on plain Smith of the Line, And plain Smith of the Grenadiers. Too long mere food for powder We’ve deem’d our rank and file, Now higher hopes and prouder. Upon the soldier smile. And if no Marshal’s bâton Private Smith in his knapsack bears, At least in the War, the chance of the star With his General he shares. Punch. February 23, 1856.

Through Fire and Water; or, The London Volunteers. Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules,— The Chief whose martial dander, Asked worlds to stand at ease— The Sayers of the prize ring, In high Olympian spheres,— 84 But both, I’ll be bound, now-a-days would be found Enrolled in the Volunteers. Our soldiers they are heroes, We know, in facing fire; Our tars reduce to zeros All fears the seas inspire. But for going through fire and water, —To say nothing of small boys’ jeers— There’s no service, I swear, that can compare With the London Volunteers. In June we’re now parading, Last month was merry May, But for Volunteer brigading We’ve not had one dry day! The aforesaid Alexander, As a hero of Greece appears Of our kin to be, for dripping are we Poor London Volunteers! Umbrellas and alpacas We scorn, and oil-skin capes; And the rain-drops from our shakos May trickle down our napes. We may continue drilling, And manœvuring about for years, But “Wetter’uns” some needn’t hope to become In the London Volunteers. But yet there’s no complaining; Rheumatics we defy, And though cats and dogs it’s raining, We keep our powder dry. Little think the small boys shouting “Who shot the dog?” in our ears, What an inward fire flares up to inspire Us London Volunteers. Then a fig for showers and sneerers, Let’s show Sir Robert yet; We can laugh at fire and fleerers, As we’ve laughed at heavy wet. And we hope to teach the foeman, Who on our shore appears, If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn, As London Volunteers. Three cheers for all who’re willing To be wetted through and through! For those who stick to drilling Till all is damp and blue. May none of us blow our heads off, Whether privates or brigadiers, And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day, For reviewing the Volunteers. Punch. June 16, 1860.

The Soiree of the Civil Engineers. Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose, Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those, But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer! Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam, Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream; But ours are far more knowing:—their triumphs skill uprears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers! Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car— These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres, Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers! Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made, Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade; And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers! And when their Soirée’s given, to George Street they repair, And all the men most noted you’re sure to meet with there; The most distinguished people adorning modern years, Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers! Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these, Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please, For enterprise and genius we’ll gladly raise three cheers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers! Fun. June 9, 1866.

Haxell’s Volunteers. (Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps). Come all ye dilettanti bold Who fear not Gladstone’s frown, Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled (The fee is half a crown.) The uniform is cheap and bright, And ought to last for years, For it’s likely they’ll not have to fight In the Haxell’s Volunteers. To stem the Russian’s reeking tide We’ve pilots stout of limb; We’ve Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side, And Captain Bedford Pim! The Bard of Peterborough-court With odes our efforts cheers, And music-hall trouvères support The Haxell’s Volunteers. Think of old England’s righteous claims, Her noble-minded fils; Make haste and put down all your names— They’re just concluding peace! For craven Muscovite and Sclav Are quaking with their fears; Ah, what a muster we shall have Of the Haxell’s Volunteers! So seize a gun, the times are ripe For Englishmen to act; You’re bound to keep your names in type, And eke your skins intact. Perhaps there may be some brigade Worth ours in distant spheres, At least we’re mighty in parade, We Haxell’s Volunteers. Funny Folks. May, 1878.

Stanza by a Sergeant-Major. In Egypt there’s an old stream A long time known to fame; But now beside the Coldstream, The Nile must yield his name. For of all the finest fellahs There’s none for to compare (With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol) To the British Grenadier! Punch. September 16, 1882.

The British House of Peers. Some swear by Wilfred Lawson, And some by Labouchere, And some applaud Joe Chamberlain, While some by Bradlaugh swear. Down, down with cant and caucas, Let’s greet the right with cheers, And praise their pluck, and wish them luck, The British House of Peers. For when they were commanded To pass a Franchise Bill, They bade a tyrant Premier Inquire the nation’s will. John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh, And Rogers vent his sneers; Let’s praise their pluck, and wish them luck, The British House of Peers. The Morning Post. August, 1884.

The Aston Riot. (During the Birmingham Election in 1884.) Some talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules, But Chamberlain’s commander Far, bigger far than these; For he commands at his demands, A power rather tough; In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape The blackguard Brummy Rough! Chorus—With a blackguard Brum, And a Brummy black, And a blackguard Brummy Rough! The Radical of Brummagem Possesseth strength to bray, With his beery mouth and black pipe stem, In a beastly sort of way; But we’d never known how bad he’s grown, Had he not shown such stuff At the Aston storm, in his proper form, As the blackguard Brummy Rough! Chorus—With a blackguard Brum, And a Brummy black, And a blackguard Brummy Rough! * * * * * England. October, 1884.

“The Song of Mrs. Jenny Geddes. (Tune—’British Grenadiers.’) “Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess, And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles; But o’er all the world’s brave women there’s one that bears the rule, The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool! “’Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven, On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles’, the solemn peal was given; King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed rule: He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool. With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—there’s danger in a stool! “The Council and the Judges with ermined pomp elate, The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state, Fair-silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school, Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool. With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—there’s virtue in a stool! “The Bishop and the Dean came wi’ mickle gravity, Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e’e; Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny pool; They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a stool. With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—they’ll feel a four-legged stool! “The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look, He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book: In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full; Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool! With a row-dow—at them now!—firmly grasp the stool! “As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small, So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall; Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool? No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny fling the stool! “A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware! Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air, With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool! When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with a stool. With a row-dow—at them now!—there’s nothing like a stool! “The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear, The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear, The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool, 86 And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool! With a row-dow—at them now!—Jenny show the stool! “And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand, Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool, But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool! With a row-dow—yes, I trow!—she conquered by the stool!” By Professor John Stuart Blackie. The Inverness Courier. January 8, 1885.

Our British Premier. Some talk of Bright and Cobden, And some of Palmerston, Of Chamberlain and Goschen, And some of Hartington. But of all old England’s heroes, There’s none that can compare To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! Then up! for now he bids us To rout the renegades. Our Hawarden star is quenchless By “Harden Star-Grenades!” Up, up! with shouts and cheering We’ll stun the traitor’s ear, For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! So, fill, fill up a bumper, His health let none refuse; Who wears the high, high collar, Who wears the plaided trews. Long may he live—our jewel, Our stone without a peer; The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! Ambulator. Truth. July 15, 1886.

O, let me like a soldier fall, Upon some tented plain! This breast expanding for the ball, To blot out every stain. Brave manly hearts confer my doom, That gentler ones may tell, Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb, I like a soldier fell. I only ask, for that proud race, Which ends its blaze in me, To die the last, and not disgrace, Its ancient chivalry. Although no banners o’er me wave, trumpet requiem swell Enough, they murmur o’er my grave, He like a soldier fell.

Let Me like a Feather Fall. Yes, let me like a feather fall, If tumble then I must; Not I desire that vulgar sprawl To rudely kiss the dust. No, I’ll recline as gracefully As if ’twas by a spell, And they that stay and see shall say, “He like a feather fell.” Yes, from the pig skin I’ll descend. And on the dust recline So gently, that a smiling friend May claim it all sublime. But the pig skin I shall try to keep, For to part like that’s a sell, Yet they shall say, if we part that way, “He like a feather fell.” Yes, the vile cropper I despise, The gentle I admire, And all are free to criticise The spill that I desire. But when I tumble give the song, And true that song shall tell, How through what space, and with what grace “He like a feather fell.” Whizz; the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times. 1880.

The Girls they’ve Left Behind Them. Our gallant Guards have marched away, Each eye with pleasure flashing, On Eastern shores to join the fray, And give the Bear a thrashing. To Englishmen they still are dear, And absent ties shall bind them, Thus our first care shall be to cheer The girls they’ve left behind them. * * * * * (Two verses omitted). Diogenes, Vol. III., page 104. 1854.

The Wives they Left Behind Them. We cheer our soldiers on their way, We crowd and we huzza them, And as they go to seek the fray Effusively “Ta-ta” them. Then ere they’re safe upon the foam, And distance serves to blind them, We cry, “Turn out of house and home, The wives they’ve left behind them.” And so our fighters meet the foe, And bleed, should duty bid them; A thrust may come to lay them low, Of life a bullet rid them. Oh, gladly must these heroes face The dangers that may find them, Who know how we, to our disgrace, Treat those they’ve left behind them. We don’t think much of Tommy A.’s— Indeed, we rather scout them In times of peace—yet these are days When we can’t do without them. In future, let us recollect This fact, and oft remind them That England’s ready to protect The wives they’ve left behind them. Funny Folks. March 7, 1885.

When the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of strife, Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for his life; When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds and scars, There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars. They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and swoop, With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar from the troop; From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and pluck. They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good luck!” Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain, The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again. Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse! To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse! An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still, He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will; And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade, He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade; For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General’s praise, Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper Hayes; He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed, alone, And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his own. The General spoke out bravely as ever a soldier can— “The Army’s proud of your valour; the Regiment’s proud of their man!” Then across that lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise, Came a cheer, then a quick short tremble on the lips of Trooper Hayes. “Speak out,” said the kindly Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say; Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!” But the trooper gnawed his chin strap, then sheepishly hung his head; “Speak out, old chap!” said his comrades. With an effort, at last, he said— “There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to own! He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to groan; If I’ve done aught to deserve it,”—then the General smiled, “Of course!”— “Give back to the Tenth their Colonel—the Man on the old White Horse! “I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave old tars, I’ve fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth Hussars; 88 I’m proud, of the fine old regiment!”—then the Colonel shook his hand— “So I’ll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land! “If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck, And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed ill-luck— That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and scars, The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth Hussars!” Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the sand, And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native land, Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel Prince will praise The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayes! Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that live; For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word “Forgive!” Punch. March 15, 1884.

A Tale of the Tenth Hussars. (Not to-day, Baker.) When the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of strife Where the woman fought for her honour—far dearer to her than life; When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside the cars, It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars. He was “charged” in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal troop, With a “Follow me sharp!” from the “Bobby,” which made him tremble and droop; And his staff, as the “Peeler” shewed it in glory of pride and pluck, Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!” Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain, Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain. Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse! When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white horse. An alien, not a stranger, but yet ’twould be stranger still, Tho’ he’s borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good will; For when Teb’s battle was over, and thousands there were slayed, He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade; But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General’s praise, A thick and thin thoro’ Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze; He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone, He had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his own. The General spoke out bravely as ever a General can:— For once the swell and Private could speak as man to man; And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General’s praise, Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper Blaze. “Speak out,” said the splendid Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad, to say; Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done to-day!” But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his head; “Speak out, old man,” said his comrades, and here’s what he should have said— “There sits on your side by the Staff, sir, a man whom the world has known As not a protector of woman, when one’s by herself alone; And all he’s got he deserves it—the General smiled, “Of course;” And nobody thought the better of the man on the old White Horse! “I’ve fought very well for my pals here, along with the boys and tars, And I have never—no, never—dishonoured the Tenth Hussars; But one has done that for the regiment”—then the Colonel shook his hand— “So I’ll ask one simple favour from my Queen and my native land!” “If ever a man did wrong, sir, as a thing devoid of pluck, And fought with a poor, weak woman, and trusted then to luck— That man he sits before you, the hero of railway cars— Don’t let that man be e’er replaced to d—n the Tenth Hussars!” Then a cheer went up from the regiment, and echoed across the sand, And was borne on the wings of justice to a woman-loving land, When the Queen on her throne will heed it, and the Colonel Prince won’t dare To reinstate a man who tried a lady to ensnare. Let the aristocrats call “mercy,” but let England’s honour live— There are crimes to be forgotten—there is one we can’t forgive!

‘We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too.’

On the Warlike Newspapers. We don’t want to fight, But by Jingo! if you do, We’ve got the ink, we’ve got the pens, And we’ve got the papers too. Punch.

The Duke of Connaught with the Reserves. There’s Connaught does not want to fight, But, by Jingo, if he do; He has to be kept out of range, And out of danger too. He’s been to battle once, But if report be true, When he marched upon the field the fight was over! Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

See, the Conquering Hero Comes! (On the return of Lord Beaconsfield from Berlin with “Peace and Honour.”) See, the Conquering Jingo comes Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! Let all Jingodom rejoice, And raise to heaven its cheerful voice. Come and join the rabble rout; Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout! Britons! hail his glorious feats; Drag him, drag him through the streets! Safe from lowering Channel fog: Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog; Safe from tedious long discussions With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians. On his brow are leaves of laurel— Victor in the bloodless quarrel. Honour sits upon his crest, Secret treaties in his vest! All his foemen swiftly dwindling, Dished by most successful * * * Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! See, the Conquering Jingo comes! Lingo. The Echo. July 17, 1878.

T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp, And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp, Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp; And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can. But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man— His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze— He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze, So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease. Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied, It tortured him to see them eat, he couldn’t though he tried! Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed, At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took, Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look, And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book— “You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good! What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?” “It’s Hessays on the Crumpet, sir, as a harticle of food!” He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet, His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it, And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet. “How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells, Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells, While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’ And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought, The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought. With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught, Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, ’tis best shun All such tempting tasty things, tho’ nice beyond all question, Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion! One, who had ever made me long—a muffin man and old— I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold, And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled. I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I’d got, I gloated o’er them lying there elastic and all hot; I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot! I took them home, I toasted them, p’raps upwards of a score, And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before, ‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’ll go to bed, and dream of eating more.’ All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side, At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried; And then I dreamt I was a ’bus, and gurgled ‘Full inside!’ I was a ’bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest, Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop’d, and now compressed; I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest! I heard their bells—their horrid bells—in sound as loud as trumpets, Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets! I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets! Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam; I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream! You pauper brat, remember that—all this was but a dream!” The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were oozing, And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing, Made this remark, “Well, blow me tight, our Beadle’s been a-boozing!” That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly; He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly, And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly! Arthur Shirley.

Bob shave great George our King! Make him look just the thing! Bob shave the King! Razor and razor rag, Powder and powder bag, Hold up your chin, my Lad, Bob shave the King!

An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; Like an old courtier of the Queen’s, And the Queen’s old courtier. With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old study filled full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose. And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, &c. With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb; Like an old courtier, &c. With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; Like an old courtier, &c. But to his eldest son, his house and land he assign’d, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d; Like a young courtier of the King’s, And the King’s young courtier. Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land, And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care, Who buys gaudy-colour’d fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women’s hair; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne’er stood; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays. With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days; And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; Like a young courtier, &c. With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is compleat, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, &c. With new titles of honour[13] bought with his father’s old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold, Among the young courtiers of the King, Or the King’s young courtiers. Anonymous.

The Fine Old English Gentleman. I’ll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, Who had an old estate; And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate. Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time. His hall, so old, was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood against old foes; 91 ’Twas there “his worship” held his state, In doublet and trunk hose; And quaff’d his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose. Like a fine, &c. When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow, He open’d house to all; And though three score and ten his years, He fleetly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer, E’er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne’er forgot the small. Like a fine, &c. But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly by; And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d The old man—he must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life’s latest sigh; And mournful stillness reign’d around, And tears bedewed each eye. For this good, &c. Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade, Of Theatres and Fancy Balls, “At Home,” and Masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, &c. Anonymous.