WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 7)

On a battlefield gory a soldier was seen, Who sang “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow;” And I said to him “Warrior, what do you mean By your ‘Willow, jamwillow, jam willow’? Act at once, since the foe is approaching,” I cried, “You had better take aim, or they’ll humble our pride.” With a shake of his helmet, the fighter replied, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” He pulled at the trigger again and again, Singing, “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” But, alas! all his struggles were clearly in vain, Oh, “willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” He threw down the arm, and a “Drat it!” he gave; Then he turned and he ran, though undoubtedly brave, And he shouted, while striving his bacon to save, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” Now, I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow; That a cartridge defective had made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” And if something’s not done by the War Office—why, We shall suffer defeat in the sweet by-and-bye, And our soldiers will wail as they perish or fly, “Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!” Funny Folks. May 9, 1885.

The “Waterbury” Maids. Three little maids from school are we, Proper and good, as we ought to be; The reason why, you will shortly see, Three little maids from school. We were once “real wild,” we “took the bun” For mischievous pranks and daring fun, So they put a watch on us, every one, Three little maids from school. Three little maids so quick and wary. The best of all watches was necessary, That’s why they picked out the “Waterbury,” Three little maids at school. But now we are all “real nice,” you know, And always act as our watches go, Not the least bit “fast,” but by no means “slow,” Three little maids from school. From three little maids take these away, And three little maids would be all astray— For we’d never be up to the time of day, Three little maids from school. Three little maids, delightful very, Laughing always, so bright and merry, Everyone with a “Waterbury,” Three little maids from school.

Sewing. On a seat in the garden A sweet pretty maid Was sewing, so sewing, so sewing And I said to her, “Dearest one! Why thus so staid? So sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Is it stitching for somebody over the sea, Or a slipper you’re making for impudent me?” But without looking up she continued to be Sewing, so sewing, so sewing. And she sighed a deep sigh as She sat on that seat So sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And her forehead was flushed with A feverish heat, So sewing, so sewing, so sewing, 135 But she still maintained silence And answered me naught, Though a smile or a whisper was all that I sought. She was certainly angry at having been caught So sewing, so sewing, so sewing. But when Dick had come back from His voyage at sea, She was sewing, so sewing, so sewing; And the slippers were finished, As such work should be, By sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Now a wedding took place, But alas! ’twas not mine; And when Dick is away, if the weather be fine, She will sit on that seat and her fingers incline To sewing, so sewing, so sewing. Saml. Peel. From Gems.

Words for Music. The flowers that bloom in the pot, tra-la, Have the bulge on the flowers of Spring, For whether its cold or its hot, tra-la, They’re placed in temperate spot, tra-la, And in this have a very soft thing; So they don’t care a jot If it freezes or not, For they feel pretty certain that they have the pot, Tra-la-la la-la, tra-la-la-la-la. Oh, theirs is a fortunate lot. Rare Bits. February 5, 1887.

The Spring Cleaning. The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, You buy for the girl you adore, For a beautiful smile they bring, tra-la, And cause her your praises to sing, tra-la, Till you wish that you’d only bought more, And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is as welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring. The blushes that bloom on her cheek, tra la, Are painted the men to deceive; If you doubt, just notice this week, tra la, When her curls on your arm a rest seek, tra la, How the blushes will soil your coat-sleeve. And that’s what we mean when we angrily speak: A brush for the blushes that bloom on her cheek. The flour that blooms in the spring, tra la, We find in confectioner’s cakes The children unto ’em will cling, tra la, Though they’re spongy and tough as a string, tra la, And simply are leathery fakes! And that’s why we’re sad when they pass us a thing, Made out of the flour that blooms in the spring. The houses we clean in the spring, tra la, Give a blow to all social sunshine, And we profanely say as we sing, tra la, That we’d like to be hanged on a string, tra la, But we find that it’s useless to whine. And this is the refrain that we dolefully sing, Oh, bother the houses we clean in the spring. The Tuneful Liar. Quips (Liverpool.) March 4, 1887.

Verses Accidentally omitted at the Savoy Theatre. At this General Election some have met with their rejection, Who never will be missed, who never will be missed! At last they’ve been found out, although they’ve long escaped detection, And we’ve scratched them off the list, we’ve scratched them off the list, There’s the foul-mouthed Joseph Leicester sent to “studdy” at his ease, With Rogers, whose crude Billingsgate has somehow failed to please; And Joseph Arch the humbug, who against the labourers votes, Has leisure now to understand what’s meant by “hinds” and “goats;” And Gibb, and Firth, and plenty more, we’ve scratched them off the list, But they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed! But some there are who’ve scrambled through we well could do without; Though they’re still upon the list, they’re still upon the list! The traitors who have managed to escape the general rout, Though they never would be missed, they never would be missed! First, there’s the Grand Old Madman and his silly little son, And that “genial ruffian,” Labby, with his weak attempts at fun; There’s Bombastes Falstaff Harcourt, and J. Morley, prince of prigs, Flabby Childers, blatant Russell, half a dozen recreant Whigs, And all those empty Gladstone bags who’ve got upon the list; Oh, they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed! W. St. Stephen’s Review. July, 1886.

Song—by a Lady of Quality. As some day a washing soap that is harmless may be found, I’ve got a little list! I’ve got a little list Of gowns and things all stowed away, as safe as underground. Which have constantly been missed! How much they’ve all been missed! There’s my charming Dolly Varden, which, alas! is rather soiled, My parasol of once white lace, though dirty, it’s not spoiled. My chintzes and chinchillas, China crape, and cream brocade, My bombazines and silks of every style, and sort, and shade; That fetching little bonnet too, in which I first was kissed, They’ve all of them been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed. Chorus—She’s got ’em on her list! She’s got ’em on her list; And they’ve all of ’em been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed. One day a friend said Sunlight Soap I really ought to try, And as she did insist, I hunted up my list; 136 For, hearing her experience, I remembered with a sigh, How much they’d all been missed! How much they’d all been missed. So I sent at once for Sunlight Soap, and soon unpicked the lace, From that old discarded sunshade and I tacked it in its place; Round a muslin-covered bottle, as their little books direct, And used the Sunlight Soap with most astonishing effect, The lace washed quite as good as new—encouraged to persist, I wondered if it would restore the other things I’d missed. Chorus—She hunted up her list! She got her little list, And wondered if it would restore the other things she’d missed. So one by one I brought to light the things I’d laid aside For I’d got them on my list! They were all upon my list; The same success attended each experiment I tried, And they’ll never more be missed They’ll never more be missed! The finest fabrics were unharmed, the tints remained intact, You may think I’m romancing, I assure you it’s a fact; You try the Sunlight Soap, you’ll find your labour much reduced, I only wish that years ago it had been introduced! Henceforth no more soiled garments will appear upon my list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of them be missed. Chorus—She’s crossed ’em off her list! She’s crossed ’em off her list, For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of ’em be missed!

Trio of Sunlight Soap Tablets. Three little aids to health are we, Powerful aids in tablets three, Harbingers all of purity, Three little aids to health! Everyone will our virtues own, Everywhere is our value known, Everything that is foul hath flown, From three little aids to health! Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling— Three little aids to health! Three little foes to dire decay, Driving disease and dirt away, Pleased to disperse their dread array— Three little aids to health! All that is foul we render fair, No earthly boon can with us compare, Life is a burden few could bear But for three little aids to health! Three little tablets, all expelling Germs of disease from dress and dwelling, Purity’s advent e’er foretelling— Three little aids to health!

The Reason Why. The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Breathe promise of merry Sunlight— As we merrily dance and we sing, Tra la, We welcome the hope that they bring, Tra la, Of a summer of roses so bright; And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring. Tra la la la la la, &c. Lever’s Sunlight Soap’s a thing, Tra la, That brings sunshine wherever it goes If you ask us to which we should cling, Tra la, It won’t be the flowers of spring, Tra la, For they’re useless for washing of clothes; And that’s what we mean when we say, or we sing, “It’s better than flowers that bloom in the spring!” Tra la la la la la, &c.

A Pathetic Ballad. In a cot by a river a lady forlorn Sang “willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to her, “pretty one, why do you mourn, Singing ‘willow, titwillow, titwillow?’ Your love will return ere the sun will have set, Your honeymoon scarce is completed, and yet With a shake of your head you reply in a pet, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!” But alas! she had wedded for love, not for pelf, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! So she had to get through all the washing herself, Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow! She sobbed and she sighed, and a gurgle she gave, Then she threw herself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave— “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!” Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t willow, titwillow, titwillow, ’Twas inferior soap that thus made her exclaim, “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!” If Lever’s Sunlight Soap she’d happened to buy, Her work had been done without trouble, and I Should never have heard that most desolate cry— “Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

An Appeal, after E. A. Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary, Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for, When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing, As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door; “It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door, Merely this, and nothing more.” Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December, Gilbert said, “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore, Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever, How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore;’ Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’ Just that once, but nevermore.” “For the feeling sad uncertain, at the rising of the curtain. Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore, And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated, I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before, There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before, Now to do so nevermore.” Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal, Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before; Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he, And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door, And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door, Only this, and nothing more. Mr.Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly, Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for? Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn, Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore! Tell me what its funny name is—tell, O tell me, I implore!” Answered Gilbert—“Ruddygore!” Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded, For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore; And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er; Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score; Therefore change it, I implore.” Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking; I have never found a title that I liked so much before, For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er; Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er; Therefore be it Ruddygore,” And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor; And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing, Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grossmith an encore, Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title, ‘Ruddygore.’ Not in spelling—we want more.” E. B. V. Pall Mall Gazette. February 12, 1887.

The Playwright’s Lament. With Chorus of Professional Supers from “Ready Goer.” (Note.—The long lines are by the Playwright; the short lines are by the Chorus of Supers.) Oh, why am I gloomy and sad? Can’t guess. And why am I wicked and bad? Confess. Because I am thoroughly mad! Oh, yes. You may tell by the rage in my face. Do you know that I’ve written a play? Don’t say! And it was produced yesterday? Hurrah! Do the papers a single word say? Not they! Now I think that’s a very hard case. ’F I were Gilbert or Sully-vi-an— Oh, ho! Bronson Howard, the Ah-merry-khan— Ah, no! H. A. Jones, or his partner Hermann— Just so! George R. Sims or Henry Pet-tett. If I were the author of “Jan”— Who’s he! Or a thoroughly noted young man— Dear me! Or Verdi at distant Mil-an— I see! I’d get half a column, you bet! But being at present unknown— Oh, dear! No preference for me is shown— No fear! So I have to play it alone— Hear! Hear!! But I’ll even up with them yet. Luke Sharp. The Detroit Free Press. March 19, 1887.

Coercion Coming. Duet—Lord Londonderry (Despard) and Sir M. Hicks-Beach (Mad Margaret). Lond. I once was a very abandoned person— Beach. Spoiling the hard-up landlords’ chances; Lond. Such people couldn’t conceive a worse ’un— Beach. Or one more subject to sickly fancies. Lond. I blush for my mild extravagances; But be so kind To bear in mind Beach. We were the victims of circumstances! [Dance This is one of our contrite dances. Beach. I was as soft as a sweet young lady— Lond. Troubled by Nationalistic vapours. Beach. The squires declared that my ways were shady— Lond. They hinted at penitential tapers. Beach. The Plan of “Pressure” amused the gapers. My ways were strange Beyond all range— Lond. And grumbles got into Tory papers! [Dance. Here goes to cut coercionist capers. Lond. I’m sorry now for each weak proceeding—” Beach. My taste for a merciful method’s waning. Lond. It’s gag and shackle that Erin’s needing— Beach. We can’t have the Unionists complaining. Lond. Our party’s praises we’d be obtaining. We’ll try a rule Of the Iron School. Beach. It won’t be nice, but we’ll stop Campaigning! [Dance. Our steps will mend when we’ve had some training. Funny Folks. March 5, 1887.

Good for Goschen. (Owed by a De-lighted Pipe.) Come hither, ye slaves of the weed, And read; All ye of fumiferous breed Take heed; Through minimised taxing, The prices they’re axing For fragrant tobaccos—recede With speed! You say that the Budget’s not strong?— You’re wrong. You say it contents not the throng?— Go ’long! Good smokes it arranges, And rings in the changes, And rings out the old with a song— Ding-dong! What, say you it’s all for a puff? That’s rough: Here Goschen deserves no rebuff— Enough! Indulgers will glory In Whig or in Tory Who’ll give them in ’baccy or snuff Good stuff! High duty on weeds they revoke— Smart stroke— It’s certain to finish in smoke (Good joke!) We welcome, in brief, sir, Less liquid, more leaf, sir! When ’baccy in water they soak— We choke! When Goschen Pride’s high pyramid Bestrid, We openly own that we chid The kid. But he gained by this action The thanks of each faction That loveth the succulent quid— He did! Funny Folks. April 30, 1887.

Ko-Ko on “The Cow and Three Acres.” (The Mikado.) The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la! Gave promise of land and a cow. They argued, “They’re all half-insane, tra la! “Majority we shall obtain, tra la! By the help of the sons of the plough.” And that’s what they meant, as you’ll quite understand, When they promised a cow and three acres of land, And told-’em-a-lie-or-two, told-’em-a-lie-or-two— Promised a cow and some land. They’ve voted for them, and so now, tra la! My advice to the “clods” is “Away! And tell ’em you’re sick of the plough,” tra la! That you’ve come for your acres and cow, tra la! And they’ll turn round to you and they’ll say, “My friends, we would give you the acres and cow, But, alas! we’ve not got them—at least, not just now. But we’ve told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two— Live by the sweat of your brow!” The Sporting Times. 1886.

Ode to a London Fog. Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through each familiar way Roll on! What though I must go out to-day? What though my lungs are rather queer? What though asthmatic ills I fear? What though my wheeziness is clear? Never you mind! Roll on! Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through street and square and lane Roll on! It’s true I cough and cough again; It’s true I gasp and puff and blow; It’s true my trip may lay me low— But that’s not your affair, you know. Never you mind! Roll on! Funny Folks Annual. 1885.

Or, The First Lord’s Daughter. A tar but poorly prized Long, shambling, and unsightly, Thrashed, bullied, and despised, Was wretched Joe Golightly. He bore a workhouse brand, No pa or ma had claimed him, The Beadle found him, and The Board of Guardians named him P’raps some princess’s son— A beggar p’raps his mother! He rather thought the one, I rather think the other. He liked his ship at sea, He loved the salt sea-water; He worshipped junk, and he Adored the First Lord’s daughter. The First Lord’s daughter proud, Snubbed earls and viscounts nightly— She sneered at barts aloud, And spurned poor Joe Golightly. Whene’er he sailed afar Upon a Channel cruise, he Unpacked his light guitar And sang this ballad (Boosey). Ballad. The moon is on the sea, Willow! The wind blows towards the lee, Willow! But though I sigh and sob and cry, No Lady Jane for me, Willow! She says, “Twere folly quite, Willow! 140 For me to wed a wight, Willow! Whose lot is cast before the mast;” And possibly she’s light, Willow![26] His skipper (Captain Joyce) He gave him many a rating, And almost lost his voice From thus expostulating: “Lay out, you lubber, do! What’s come to that young man, Joe? Belay!—’vast heaving! you! Do kindly stop that banjo!” “I wish, I do—oh, lor! You’d shipped aboard a trader: Are you a sailor, or A negro serenader?” But still the stricken cad, Aloft or on his pillow, Howled forth in accents sad His aggravating “Willow!” Stern love of duty had Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty— Says he, “I love that lad, But duty, damme! duty!” “Twelve years blackhole, I say, Where daylight never flashes; And always twice a day Five hundred thousand lashes!” But Joseph had a mate. A sailor stout and lusty, A man of low estate, But singularly trusty. Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe! I’ll tell you what I’m arter, To that Fust Lord I’ll go And ax him for his darter. “To that Fust Lord I’ll go And say you love her dearly.” And Joe said (weeping low), “I wish you would, sincerely!” That sailor to that Lord Went, soon as he had landed, And of his own accord An interview demanded. Says he, with seaman’s roll, “My captain (wot’s a Tartar), Guv Joe twelve years’ black hole, For lovering your darter. “He loves Miss Lady Jane (I own she is his betters), But if you’ll jine them twain, They’ll free him from his fetters. “And if so be as how You’ll let her come a-boardship, I’ll take her with me now”— “Get out!” remarked his Lordship. That honest tar repaired To Joe upon the billow, And told him how he’d fared: Joe only whispered, “Willow!” And for that dreadful crime (Young sailors learn to shun it) He’s working out his time: In ten years he’ll have done it. Fun. October 12, 1867.

First Prize. (Model: “Sir Guy the Crusader.”) Theebaw was a potentate mighty, “The Magnificent One, Grandchild of the Sun,” To put foreign armies to flight he Shook his magical spear—it was done. John Bull was his special objection, A contemptible cad, An upstart who had Not a single celestial connection, And whose form altogether was bad. Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance, Sent a party named Shaw To the court of Theebaw To remonstrate—O cheek past endurance!— When he strangled his brothers-in-law. Says Theebaw, “Shall this prig of a Briton Be allowed to object— Such a want of respect!— When I’ve got a man-torturing fit on? It’s hard lines if my fun be thus checked!” So he tried of that prying external His kingdom to rid, Which he finally did, Having scared him to death; but a colonel Named Browne to replace him was bid. Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention, Had very strong views On the subject of shoes; At an afternoon call their retention Was a slip that he could not excuse. The colonel thought this very cruel, Took cold in his head, And before going to bed 141 Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel, Packed up the next morning and fled. Said Bull to Theebaw, “I’m disgusted; If my delegates are Thus exposed to catarrh, With a colonel you shall not be trusted.” Whereto Theebaw answered with “Yah-r!” So St. Barbe was left there to be worried, Till he’d reason to dread, Being relieved of his head In a manner less pleasant than hurried; Then he, too, packed baggage and fled. So Theebaw was alone in his glory. He drowned everybody In the deep Irrawaddy, And then, as an end to the story, He finished himself with rum-toddy. Odd Fish.

Second Prize. The Tale of King Theebaw. Theebaw was the King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay, And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed, In a casual sort of way: “I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins; My connections are far too extensive; My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers, Though dear, yet are very expensive. I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa, And then, with due justice, I can’t But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces My grandmother’s aged aunt.” “No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,” Said the spirited British Envoy. “Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice, You exceedingly naughty boy!” “’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we— Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’— Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small Your grandmother’s aged aunt.” Then up rose the King of the golden toe, And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig. “You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee To answer this son of a pig? Now listen, you ugly preposterous man, You wretchedly lily-white cus I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet, And made such a deuce of a fuss! I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half; Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil; And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease, And fry all my uncles in oil. O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d— For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’ And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother, As well as her elderly aunt. For am I not King of the golden toe, And the monarch of Mandalay? And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe That England is far away. And your army I read in my Daily News— Three men and one little wee boy— Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo: Good morning, my dear Envoy! And please have the goodness to leave me alone, For my temper’s uncommonly quick. Don’t think me uncivil—but—go to the devil! And—send me some rum, there’s a brick!” Scoad.

A very Dry Tale. (To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’) A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why, With his sips and ‘nips’ For his parched-up lips, Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry, ’Twas useless to try To ‘wet t’other eye,’ Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry. ’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree, With his ‘Pour a drop more, Encore and encore,’ ’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B., As thirsty was he As a fish from the sea, As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be. His ministers tried to relieve him at first With coffee and tea And soda-and-b., But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst; They all did their worst For the King, who was curst From youth with a singular, singular thirst. Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply (With whisky and brandy, And other drinks handy), And wept that their monarch should still remain dry; But laugh when he’d try With his jester to vie, For even his jokes were exceedingly dry. They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain, On the banks of the Rhine, Many hogsheads of wine, Which were drunk (so was he), but he still cried ‘A drain!’ ’Twas perfectly plain All their labours were vain; He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’ Then a royal commission his Majesty sent, With his ‘Pass me a glass Of the bitter of Bass!’ To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent. But after they went He wasn’t content, Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent. It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose— He knew that his highness Was famed for his dryness, And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s! And history shows the fame of him rose— His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s! Pembroke. The World. October 29, 1879.

The Bishop and the Ballet. Postures antic Drove him frantic Seized he pen and paper— “Young men, stop it, Pray you, drop it, Watching damsels caper— ’Gainst this awful Vain, unlawful Folly set your faces; Though they charm ye, Girls will harm ye More than wine or races!” They replying, Answered, sighing— Hawing, hemming, humming— “Not for Joe, sir For you know, sir, Short skirts are becoming! Ballet dancing, Is entrancing, We enjoy it—rather!” But stern “London” Thought them undone— Spoke out like a father. “Dare ye dally With the ballet?” Said the bishop, coldly. “You may see, sir, More than we, sir,” Young men answered boldly. “Go along, boys, You are wrong, boys, I have years in plenty; Whilst these lasses, Through my glasses, All seem under twenty!” Dancer clever Hardly ever Finds a man who’ll scold her. Leant one fairy Light and airy, On his lordship’s shoulder; Bishop kissed her Like a sister, When he should have smacked her To delight her, Doffed his mitre, And became an Actor! F. B. Doveton.

The Jubilee of Queen Victoria. I. Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. II. She beloved for a kindliness Rare in Fable or History, Queen, and Empress of India, 143 Crown’d so long with a diadem Never worn by a worthier, Now with prosperous auguries Comes at last to the bounteous Crowning year of her Jubilee. * * * * * VI. You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call your poor to regale with you, Make their neighbourhood healthfuller, Give your gold to the Hospital, Let the weary be comforted, Let the needy be banqueted, Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice At this year of her Jubilee. * * * * * VIII. You, the Patriot Architect, Shape a stately memorial, Make it regally gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, Rich in symbol, in ornament, Which may speak to the centuries, All the centuries after us, Of this year of her Jubilee. IX. Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire! X. You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-territorial, You, the Lord-manufacturer, You, the hardy, laborious, Patient children of Albion, You, Canadian, Indian, Australasian, African, All your hearts be in harmony, All your voices in unison, Singing “Hail to the glorious Golden year of her Jubilee!” XI. Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people. Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot, Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’

Another Ode. Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil: Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary: Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether. He, the Patriot Laureate, He, the Lord-manufacturer, Shaped a stately memorial, Made it regally gorgeous After Walt Whitman’s pattern, Rich in blackness, in dullness, Which might speak to the centuries Through the Magazine Macmillan, Of this year of our Jubilee. * * * * * Fifty lines at last completed! Fifty more at least to make a century; Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from? But— Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage? Is that the ——? ——! There goes my lead pencil. Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses. The Globe. March 29, 1887.

For though I, know not anything, Yet must I not my lot upbraid; Since as the Laureate I am paid, And, being paid, am bound to sing.

You, the snubbed, the unfortunate You, the Lord-Undertaker, You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,

Another Jubilee Ode. I. Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted; Fifty times some golden lines have fallen Since this man—the poet—became the Laureate. II. He, renowned for a wordiness, Rare in fable or history, Poet—and Rhymster of England, Crowned at last by strawberry leaf, Never worn by a wordier. Now with numbers unmusical, Comes at last to the psalm-front, Singing the year of Jubilee. * * * * * VI. You whose bank balance is right side Spare not of cheques the distributing. Ask your labourers to dine with you, Make cleanlier their cottages, Double infirmary subscriptions, Let the ragged all be clothed, Let the hungry have bellies full, Let those one-legged have a wooden one At this year of the Jubilee. * * * * * Fifty years of ever-growing taxes; Fifty years of ever world-mending Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland. * * * * * You—the taxpayer unfortunate, You—the Lord Knows-who, and lady, You—the Lord, shoddy-mixer, You—the almighty working man, Patient grumblers of England. You—all sorts of men—and others, Irish, Yankee, dynamiters— All your hearts be in harmony, All your pockets open lib’rally To the numerous funds in progress, Gilding the year of Jubilee. * * * * * XI. Were there poets living in past ages? Are there poets writing still amongst us? Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back, And old sweet Poetry as the victor Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages. Scraps. April 16, 1887.

Owed to Lord Tennyson. (Carmen Sequel-airy.) I. Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted, Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen, Since, my Lord, we read your Ode—your metre. II. You, renowned for a stateliness Rare in Prose, or in Poetry, Keen with impress of Genius, Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath 145 Seldom worn by a worthier, Now with preposterous flummeries Come at last to this flatulent Droning Ode on the Jubilee! III. Nothing of the flawless—but the tin pot— Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious, All is fussy, feeble, flat—writ poorly. * * * * * VI. You that wanton in epithets, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call Tom Moore to regale with you, Make your sentiments mirthfuller, Send your spleen to the hospital, Let the reader be comforted, Let the seedy be junketed, Let MacM. in his purse rejoice At your Ode on the Jubilee. VII. Henry’s fifty truths are all in shadows, Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others, Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten. VIII. You, the Patriot Laureate, Write a better memorial!— Something really gorgeous ’Bout th’ Imperial Institute, Rich in jingle, in ornament, Which may fetch South Kensington, All South Kensington after us, In this year of the Jubilee. IX. Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook, Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise, Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning. X. You, the Flighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-in-Memoriam, You, the Word-manufacturer. * * * * * All your parts be in harmony, All your verses in unison, Singing—“There’ll be a glorious Golden harvest, this Jubilee!” XI. Are there blunders glooming in the Navy? Are inspectors moving in the darkness? Trust My Lords aright to guide the people Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish, And the Press is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the—Jubilee of the Pages. Moonshine. April 6, 1887.

The Home Rule Jubilation Ode. Fifty times seven days are past and ended, Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory, Since your William burned his boats, his bridges He renowned for a wordiness Rare in fable or history, King and God of the Radicals, Crowned with Papal diadem Never worn by a wordier, Now with splendid audacity Reigns the King of Obstructionists. Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots, Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious, Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like. You then noisily, all of you Stump the towns for Disunion. Let Misrule hold high festival; Everywhere let the multitude, Home Rule each to the heart of it, Raise the standard of Anarchy; Hail the monarch of egotism, Quod sic volo sic jubeo. Be as true to England as to Gordon, Glorying in the trials of her Rulers, Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal. You that, wanting in intellect, Spare not now to be boisterous, Call your thousands to demonstrate, Make it hot for your neighbourhood. Give your gold to Invincibles, Let the landlords be boycotted, Let the juries be browbeaten, Let the maimed make the best of it, Spread the gospel of Anarchy. Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings, Gray your ravings to report is burning, Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus. You, the Paddy-American, Shape a missile of Dynamite; Make it really dangerous, Some explosive material Like the missile of Clerkenwell, Which may frighten the Unionists, All the Unionists terrify, Frighten them into anarchy. Fifty times repeat the loud explosion, Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage, Till at length you rend the mighty empire. You, the ruler, the democrat; You, the serf territorial; You, the crime-manufacturer; You, the grimy, uproarious, Bastard children of Albion, You, Milesian, Hibernian, You, the Gael and the Cambrian, You, the Tyke and the Tynesider, All your hearts be in harmony, All your throats shout in unison, Singing, Hail to the godlike Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist! Are there Tories raving in the distance? Are there landlords moving in the darkness? Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people, Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish, And the League is victor, and the darkness Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland. The St. James’s Gazette. April 14, 1887.

X. You, the Laureate (O Fortunate), You, the Bard-territorial, You, the Verse-manufacturer, You, whose lines so laborious Patient children of Albion Have perused in bewilderment— List awhile to another “pote.” All your tones lack in harmony, All your verse is confusion, Sing in style less inglorious, Try these lines for the Jubilee:— XI. Hear the thunders moaning not far distant! See the spectre Want step out from darkness! Trust we that the Right will guide our people When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and these ages Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness! C. R. Ireland.

II. He revered for a genius Rare in annals of poesy, Poet Laureate of Albion, Crowned so long with the evergreens Never donned by a doughtier, Now with puerile versicles, Comes at last to inaugurate This last year of her Jubilee. VI. You, that joy in celebrity, Spare us now more inanities; Tell your Muse you have done with her, Make your countrymen happier. Give way now to the younger men, Let the critic be quieted, Let admirers be comforted, Let your Queen in her heart rejoice In this year of her Jubilee. F. B. Doveton.

“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,” Fifty times it would have bloomed without her— Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.” XI. Are there thunders moaning in the distance?— ’Tis the German band of near relations; Trust the mother Queen to guide her people Where they’ll live in plenty without labour, And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries, Families raise for Jubilees for ages. T. A. H.

I. Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered, Fifty times the royal pension’s risen Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. XI. Are there children starving in our alleys? Are there famine-stricken homes in cities? Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people; Till the nation rules no troubles vanish. When the Right is Victor, then the darkness Dawns into the liberty of the ages. Alfred Lovett.

On International Copyright. VI. Ye, who revel in authorship, Spare not now to be practical; Call your “chums” to discuss with you, Make their industry hopefuller, Give your works to the publisher. Let the printer be recompensed, Let the trader be profited, Let the scribe in his work rejoice At the prospect of copyright. X. You, the poet, th’ essayist, You, the faithful historian, You, the play manufacturer, You, the writer sensational, Patient newspaper editor, You, th’ obscure, the illustrious, Author, artist, and type-cutter— All your aims be in harmony, All your efforts in unison, Till you succeed in obtaining International copyright. J. Marshall.

My Landlady. II. She disliked for a craftiness Rare in kitchen or scullery, Queen, and slave in a lodging-house, Crowned so long with a widow’s cap Never worn by an artfuller, Now, with sanctified countenance, Comes to fleece us and plunder us, Growling, “Here is your weekly bill. VI. “You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful; Scan not what I regale you on, Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller, Leave your gold on your looking-glass, Let your beer and your tea be boned, Let the needy (that’s me) be fed, Let your landlady line her nest While she tinkers the weekly bill.” Shawrnlam. From The Weekly Dispatch. April 17, 1887.

Carmen Expostulatory. I. Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded Is my brain with trying to make out wherein Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare. II. He, who as Laureate attained a fame Rare and great in History, Babbles now in frothy talk, Unlike his wonted measure. And speaks of Empress Queen And Jubilee, like Whitman would With ruggedness of diction To crown this year of Jubilee. III. Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot, Who, with vulgar words bepraising, All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen. IV. You then mournfully, all of you Wear your sackcloth, your ashes, For the sad falling off of one Who wrote of Arthur Hallam, In the grand “In Memoriam.” So will you not with heart Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s Other than the twaddle tribute Spawned of this year of Jubilee. V. Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood, Glorying in the strength to fight all shams. Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs. VI. You that once in affluence Of diction, caught the ear of time, Call we now no longer ours With diadem, and much belorded. The people’s friend. Spoiled child With diadem, and much belorded. We cannot now be comforted, Our maimed heart for you doth bleed, At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee. VII. Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow, Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance, And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten? VIII. You, the Patriot Leader, Shape a stately Memorial. Record of wrongs not righted, Of Ireland’s cry not silenced: But still the symbol badge Of Saxon oppression, Which she has worn for centuries. How will fair Erin Hail this golden year of Jubilee? IX. Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation. Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy. Fifty years of Royal Pauperism. X. You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, Think of the poor who have fallen. You, the Lord-manufacturer, Made rich by the hard, laborious, Patient to suffer—but about to rise. XI. Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance. See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land. Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people, So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish, And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages. Anonymous.

THE QUESTION. 1887. Shall England consummate the crime That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves No surety for the trust of thieves? Time pleads against it—truth and time— And pity frowns and grieves. The hoary henchman of the gang, Lifts hands that never dew nor rain May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again, Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang Thrills his pure heart with pain. Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew, The good grey recreant quakes and weeps, To think that crime no longer creeps Safe toward its end: that murderers too, May die when mercy sleeps. While all the lives were innocent That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage, Bland virtue sighed, “A former age Taught murder: souls long discontent Can aught save blood assuage? “You blame not Russian hands that smite By fierce and secret ways the power, That leaves not life one chainless hour; Have these than they less natural right To claim life’s natural dower? “The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance: why should we, Whom equal laws acclaim as free, Think shame, if men too blindly brave Steal, murder, skulk, and flee? “At kings they strike in Russia: there Men take their life in hand who slay Kings: these, that have not heart to lay Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair Is made the patriot’s prey. “These, whom the sight of old men slain Makes bold to bid their children die, Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie, Claim loftier praise: could others deign To stand in shame so high? “Could others deign to dare such deeds As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay, But justice then makes plain our way: Be laws burnt up like burning weeds That vex the face of day. “Shall bloodmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold Bloodless and blameless: ever thus Have good men held of old. “Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies, Takes flight by night where murder lurks, And broods on murderous ways and works, Yet seems not hideous in our eyes As Austrians or as Turks. “Be it ours to undo a woful past, To bid the bells of concord chime, To break the bonds of suffering crime, Slack now, that some would make more fast; Such teaching comes of time.” So pleads the gentlest heart that lives, Whose pity, pitiless for all Whom darkling terror holds in thrall, Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives Alms of warm tears—and gall. Hear, England, and obey; for he Who claims thy trust again to-day, Is he who left thy sons a prey To shame whence only death sets free; Hear, England, and obey. Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch; Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave, To death forlorn and sure he gave; Nor now requires he overmuch Who bids thee dig thy grave. Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie; Put thought of aught save terror by, To strike and slay the slayer is sin; And Murder must not die. Bind fast the true man; loose the thief; Shamed were the land, the laws accursed, Were guilt, not innocence, amerced; And dark the wrong and sore the grief, Were tyrants too coerced. The fiercest cowards that ever skulked, The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped, And justice claimed their lives for mulct, Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped. Bow down for fear, then, England: bow, Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear That nought save pity, conscience, care For truth and mercy, moves thee now To call foul falsehood fair. So shalt thou live in shame, and hear The lips of all men laugh thee dead; The wide world’s mockery round thy head Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier Shall be thine honour’s bed. Algernon Charles Swinburne. The Daily Telegraph. April 29, 1887.

The Answer. 1887. Shall England shirk the task sublime That Justice to her honour leaves, Of blotting out a shame that grieves Her soul, because in raving rhyme Slander a songster weaves? The furious fugler of the gang His rabid epithets may rain On that grey head in vain, in vain, Though England’s heart may feel a pang, And England’s pride a stain. Great shrieker of the shrieking crew, The lyric recreant raves and rails At Justice, who adjusts her scales, At last, at last, for Erin too, His fire of freedom fails. When Italy was militant For liberty, his muse could rage In rolling rhetoric page on page, His poet bosom swell and pant With wrath—which songs assuage. But blame not British hands that smite Their brethren in fierce pride of power, Leave Ireland not one chainless hour. Is ruling not our native right, Our Heaven-appointed dower? “The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free In other lands may strike; but we Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave Our wrath, must cease to be. At kings they strike in Russia; there Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair, He is no patriot’s prey. Those whom the thought of fathers slain, Of roofless children doomed to die Starved, maddens by its memory— These poets pardon not, nor deign To lift a lyric sigh. A sigh of pity for such deeds As hapless Ireland harass? Nay, Justice shall not make straight our way Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds All who dare disobey. Shall soulmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold, Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus, Lest British Mammon scold. Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies, The tale of suffering blurs and burkes, Hides his own murderous ways and works. Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes— In Russians, or in Turks. What, prate about a shameful past? Ask who began the tale of crime? Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime? The patriot poet in full blast Shall brand you to all time. So raves the fieriest bard that lives, Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall, Set to rich music’s rise and fall, So nobly rang one half forgives This recreant mud and gall. Hear, England, and be sad; for he Who peals this palinode to-day, The oppressor once could scathe and flay. Shame that his muse no more is free When England blocks the way. 149 Our sore no patriot hand must touch Even for healing: song shall rave Against the Statesman old, but brave Who dares—where youth, craven o’ermuch, Shrinks—the sharp strokes that save. Beware that grave of shame wherein His fame, his honour—by a lie Put with false lyric fervency— You fain would thrust. His cause shall win, His glory shall not die. You voice their virulence—whose sheaf Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst, Fall blunt and harmless—you, the first Of lyric freemen, once the chief Of patriots? Fate accurst! Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked ’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped By patriot shams; you jingo-capped, Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped In chorus long; but will you bow To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear Her noblest champion? Have a care! The fading laurels round your brow Slander shall not make fair. At least you have our Answer. Hear! Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead, Nor your fierce mockery bow his head At whom fools shriek in hate and fear, And despots howl in dread. From The Daily News. April 30, 1887.

The Fine Young English Gentleman. I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate, Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate, But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate, And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late, Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair, And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for wear, For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking there, And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t care; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell, Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some first-rate belle; Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel, 150 Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well; Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say, Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very gay; And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next day; And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away; For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten, He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then; And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely hold his pen; But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!” Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly, And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the reason why; And this good young man replies to him—for, he “scorns to tell a lie”— That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of his memory! Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else intervenes. And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as deans; And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like bricks and beans;” And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression means A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time. Anonymous (about 1845.)

The Old English Publican. I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before, About an English publican who lived in days of yore, The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door, His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store, The fine old English publican, who served in olden times. Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees, The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease; ’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to please, ’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like these. The fine, &c. They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack, And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack: Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track, And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack, The fine, &c. You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease, Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease; And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please, Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze. The fine, &c. You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free; Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee; No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see. No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea. The fine, &c. I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band, And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand. For the fine, &c. Anonymous (written about 1820.)

A Fine Old Heavy Villain. Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age, When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage; Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain, What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain, When a fine old heavy villain Of the Drama’s palmy days. Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years, The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears, Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore, He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore All the fine old heavy villains Of the Drama’s palmy days.

The Fine Old Common Councilman. I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late, Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state, Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great, But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate, Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time. His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows, Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows, And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes, 151 And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money goes?” Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time. And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall, And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and all. And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way about, And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him hout,’ Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time. Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to claim, But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same, And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne entrench Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French, Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time. But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called The Times, Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes; And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall, They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would fall, Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time. And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown, When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put down, Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown, And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown, These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time. The Month. August, 1851.

A Variety of Vicars. Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date, Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate, Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate, And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the great, Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time! He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed; His house was ever open wide to all that were in need; And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed; And little children by the hand with loving care to lead; Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time! He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave, Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave, To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave, And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time! But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see. He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree, And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be, Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry, Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time! Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete, And rarely do you see his form about the village street; His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet, And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time! But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind! And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined, To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined, Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time. He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes, And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows; But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes, To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose; Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time! The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim, Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name; And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became, Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame; Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time! Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent, And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent— That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event, For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent, Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time! * * * * * Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree: They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be; And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see, They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea, Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time! Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low, They all unite to hold their own against the common foe; Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse glow, Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow, From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time! * * * * * Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure, In order that the masses may its services secure. Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor, From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure, As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time! * * * * * (Seven verses omitted.) Truth. November 5, 1885.

My Nellie’s eyes are blue, Hair of bright and golden hue, Like her eyes, her heart is true, My Nellie my own! Never reigned a queen more fair, Who with Nellie could compare, By her side my life I’d share, My Nellie my own! Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower Half so sweet or rare a flower— With my Nellie hour by hour, My Nellie my own! Chorus. My Nellie’s blue eyes, My Nellie’s blue eyes, Bright as the stars that shine above, My Nellie’s blue eyes. * * * * *

Two Lovely Black Eyes; or, No more Politics for me. Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green, This gay youth you might have seen, Tompkins and I with his girl between; Oh, what a surprise! I praised the Conservatives frank and free, Tompkins got angry so speedilee, All in a moment he handed to me, Two lovely black eyes. Chorus. Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes. Next time I argued I thought it best, To give the Conservative side a rest, The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed, When oh, what a surprise! The chap I had met was a Tory true, Nothing the Liberals right could do, This was my share of that argument too, Two lovely black eyes! Chorus. Two lovely black eyes, Oh what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes. The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt, Never on politics rave and shout, Leave it to others to fight it out, If you would be wise. Better, far better, it is to let Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet, Unless you’re willing and anxious to get Two lovely black eyes! Chorus. Two lovely black eyes, Oh, what a surprise! Only for telling a man he was wrong, Two lovely black eyes.

“Deux beaux yeux noirs, Oh ciel! quel horreur, Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort Deux beaux yeux noirs.” “Zwei Augen so schwartz, Ach, ist dass ein Spass? Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt, Zwei Augen so schwartz!”

Air—“Two Lovely Black Eyes.” Down at the House, in the days that have been, This grave sage you might often have seen, Harcourt and I, and the Chief between, But oh, what a surprise! I joined the Conservatives frank and free; Gladstone got angry right speedilee, All in a jiff to see G. J. G. Rat to the To-ries. Chorus.—I join the To-ries? Oh, what a surprise! Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong To join the To-ries. When to resign Randolph thought it was best, The Chancellorship upon me was press’d. A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed. When oh, what a surprise! A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true, Less than a million, but what did I do? By a neat little dodge made it more than two! That opened their eyes! Chorus.—Revenue on the rise! Oh, what a surprise! Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished; Loud cheered the To-ries! Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout? Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt, But the Tories may leave me to fight it out; In that they’ll be wise. Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt; Penny off Income Tax—good bait, you bet, Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get That little surprise. Chorus.—Long it has been on the rise. Ah! what a surprise! Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong? This is penny-wise! Working men’s ’baccy tax—give that a wipe, Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe Friend of the “Masses,” put that in your pipe,— Ain’t that a surprise? Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art. Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart. ’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?—for a start, With my new allies. Chorus.—Give ’em a fall, not a rise! Oh! what a surprise! As for Retrenchment—well that in the sweetest Of “sweet By-and Byes!” Punch. April 30, 1887.

Gipsy Glee. The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wildfire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c. Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And waking tapers faintly peep High from my lady’s bower; Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken, Shrink on their murky way, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c. Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof, nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, And use it as you may. Uprouse ye, then, &c. Joanna Baillie.

A Seasonable Glee. (To be sung in bed on any Frosty day.) With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone, My boot is on the tree;[28] The weather out of doors this morn (With a shiver.) Is cold as charity. (With several shivers.) Is co-o-o-o-old as charity. The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen- -der with its steel array-ay-ay, -der-with its steel array, -der with it’s steel array. (Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.) Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day; Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day. Beneath the blankets full three deep All snuggled up I cower, All snuggled up I cower, Above the counter-pane I peep To see what is the hour, To see what is the hour. My watch I find says half-past ten, Then dow-ow-own myself I lay, Then down myself I lay, Then down myself I lay. (To the Footman.) Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day; Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day. 154 Some friends drop in to ask me “how I am” (pray shut the door); Drop in! Their frost is melting now, And deluging the floor, And de-lu-ging the floor! “Get up!” No! no! I trust them when They say ’tis an ice day, They say ’tis an ice day. They say ’tis an ice day. I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may; I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may! (Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time.) Punch. January 16, 1864.

Chant of Small Critics. In the Royal Academy. The Private Day and Feast are gone, The public comes to see, The poor Rejected grunt and groan. Nor speak with charity. The shillings flood the porter’s den, The Red Star sheds its ray,[29] Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day. Now for the witticisms cheap, That sting with knat-bite power: The sentence based on hasty peep, And visit of an hour: Bewildered boobies (nine in ten) Admire our sportive way: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, It is the Opening Day. Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow, The wolf he keeps from door, The pale wife’s timid trust that, now, His work shall swell their store? Let’s scare his hope and chance again, As boys pelt boys in play: Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen, And slang him as ye may. Shirley Brooks. 1867.

Our Opening Day. (Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen at St. Stephen’s.) The Ins and Outs from rest are back, The Speaker’s in his chair. The talk-mill now resumes its clack, As birds begin to pair. The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen, Wit’s bow is strung to slay. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day! Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c. Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake, Unclosed are Tory’s eyes; The morning papers now will make Less room for fads and lies. Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten Once more will plod their way; Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day. Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c. The Cloture’s power own we now To silence faction’s jaw; Pat shall not raise eternal row, In spite of taste and law. Home-legislation looms in ken, England shall have her day. Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men, And use it as ye may! Chorus:— Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men! Uprouse ye then, I say! Fill up your horns, and let the glen Resound with echoes gay! The hunt is up, Brim high the cup, Big game we’ll bring to bay. Uprouse ye then, My merry, merry men, It is our op’ning day! Punch. February 17, 1883.

Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song. Now I have been a warm ’un in my time, I have drank and been in rows by the score, But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge, And vowed that I would do so never more. ’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew, That never, hardly ever, say sware; The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice, So I know what it is to be there. When first I saw this very happy band, They were singing hymns and preaching in the street, A lady came and shook me by the hand, And whispered words of piety so sweet; I squeezed her little fingers rather tight, And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair, But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home, You will know what it is to be there. (Chorus.)—To be there, &c. I very soon began to preach and prate, And with the sisters played some funny pranks, I was so good at nobbing with the plate, They soon made me a Captain of the ranks; And often when our meetings were dispersed, With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer, I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea, For I knew what it was to be there. (Chorus.)—To be there, &c. I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife, And often sigh for liberty once more, She leads me such a very wretched life, And with the poker warms me on the floor; 155 She summoned me before the beak one day, Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair, Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell, So I know what it is to be there! (Chorus.)—To be there, &c. Encore Verses. I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed, Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs, I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t succeed, And so at last I took to sucking eggs; My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got, He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square, And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin, For I know what it is to be there! (Chorus.)—To be there, &c. To Epsom I went down one Derby day, And thought that I should have a jolly spree, When a fellow came and wanted me to pay, He said he backed the winning horse with me; I told him I had never made a bet, When a crowd got round and soon began to swear, And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose, Oh, I knew what it was to be there! (Chorus.)—To be there, &c.

A Parody of Jack’s Yarn. ’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn, On which he’d been a blowing all the way; He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan, A going to Rye House to spend the day. For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife, But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain, For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame, So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train. Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho! When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay. He showed us where his face and neck were scored; When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy, Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed! And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run, Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he; ’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell, I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea. (Chorus.)—Singing, &c. Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags, Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree, The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned, And so the poor old snip was free. So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife, And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee. All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again, That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea. Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe, Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary, When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip, Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!

I sing a doleful tragedy,— Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters, Who once blew up the House of Lords, The King, and all his Ministers; That is, he would have blown them up, (And folks will ne’er forget him,) His will was good to do the deed,— That is, if they’d have let him! Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row! He straightway came from Lambeth side, And wished the State was undone, And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge, That way came into London: That is, he would have come that way, To perpetrate his guilt, sirs, But a little thing prevented him—the bridge it wasn’t built, sirs! Then sneaking through the dreary vault, With portable gas light, sirs, About to touch the powder train At witching hour of night, sirs; That is, I mean, he would have used The gas, but was prevented, ’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time, It had not been invented! Now, James, you know, was always thought To be a very sly fox, So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault, And there they found poor Guy Fawkes; For that he meant to blow them up, I think there’s little doubt, sirs, That is, I mean, provided he Had not been found out, sirs. And when they caught him in the fact, So very near the Crown’s end, They straightway sent to Bow Street, For that brave old runner, Townsend; That is, they would have sent for him, For fear he was no starter at, But Townsend wasn’t living then— He wasn’t born till after that! So then they put poor Guy to death, For ages to remember, And boys now kill him once a year In dreary dark November; That is, I mean his effigy, For truth is strong and steady, Poor Guy, they cannot kill again, Because he’s dead already! Then bless her gracious Majesty And bless her royal son, sirs, And may he never get blown up (That is, if she gets one, sirs) 156 And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign, So prophecies my song, sirs, And if he don’t, why then he won’t, And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!