WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 8)

New Lamps for Old Ones. In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history, A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery; And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold ones. The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.” Buy—Buy—Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” Buy—Buy—Buy. Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity, He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity; That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one, And he thought a sounding one of brass might bring him in a gold one. Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. So, even in the present day, in almost every nation, Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation, They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings hovering, And many are so fond of change, they cannot keep a Sovereign. Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.” “The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election; With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones, But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.” Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;” They put the Whig small candles out, and introduced their mould ones; But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the business, They only splutter, and waste away, with a dismal, dizzy dizziness. Buy—Buy—Buy, “New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy—buy.” In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging, So they threw away a Louis[30] for a brass one from a dungeon. But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring, It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for Cooking and for Firing. Buy—Buy—Buy, The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die. In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and Pious Nino goosed, too; The wily Pontiff said such a mass he wasn’t used to; He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite glittering, But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit again. Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying, “New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying; But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir, You’re ruined Muttons after all, all through the Golden fleece, Sir. Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re in, They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were in hearing (Erin); They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished. But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished. Buy—Buy—Buy, &c. Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for glitter, But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter, And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one? So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old one. Don’t—Buy—Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy. J. A. Hardwick. About 1852.

The Unconscious Guy Fawkes; or, in the Wrong Cellar. (On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.) I sing a song of foolishness, of Guy Faux, chief of sinisters, Who fain would blow the Commons up, the Premier and his Ministers: That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it; Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it. A sort of Guido Faux pour rire he seems for all his swaggering, Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering, That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile, But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile. Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility, At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility. That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie. If you should call him Guy Faux, he’d deny it quite indignantly. None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly. That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive About them he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive. 157 But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous, Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious. That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates, Though everybody—more or less—his rigid rule abominates. His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure, Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure. That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation, At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation. And so—and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him, Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him. That is, the game is worth a try, and—well—if not a bit of him. Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him. The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.” That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar, But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got into the wrong cellar! It is the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under, And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder, That is, they may in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter; But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter. Punch. November 8, 1884.

A Bradlaugh Ballad. I sing a comic-tragedy, Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist, Who once dethroned Victoria, And stamped out every loyalist; That is, he would have changed our rule, That folks might ne’er forget him, His will was good to do the deed, That is—if they’d have let him. With his bow, wow, wow, B. the Bashful at the helm, The Queen B. at the prow. He marched his mob to Palace Yard, Stalked right up to the Speaker, Prostrated all the Treasury Bench, Turned Brand into a squeaker; That is, he fully meant to make This brilliant coup de grace, sir, But Bobbies don’t like rowdies, So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir, With his row, row, row. He laid about him with the mace, Sent statesmen sprawling left and right, Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne A ha’pennyworth of dynamite; That is, he would have blown ’em up (In metaphor, I mean, sir) If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick, But he wasn’t quite so green, sir. Not just now—ow—ow. When he’d made the Peerage disappear, The Queen an abdicator, He made the Chanc’llor his cashier, And dubbed himself Dictator; Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain, Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,” There’s something in’t,—but hopelessness Of winning made him funky. Bow—ow—ow. He gave himself the Church’s spoils, Crown lands to the Residuum, Re-named our loved Victorian Realm, The Republic of Besantium; That is, he would this tribute pay, To woman’s worth and station, But the People’s will did sore confound This moral combination. Somehow—ow—ow. And as for those Allegiance Oaths, Let them remain he wouldn’t; The poor must have no children, Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;— That is, he thought it just as well The Statute Books to wipe out, But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him, And Juries put his pipe out, And his yow—ow—ow. He confiscated all the wealth, That spoiled the upper classes, But did not share it with his mob, Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;” That is, he feared that lucre might Pollute the people’s mind, sir, But then he never got the power, Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir. Bow—ow—ow. And so, of ill-got property, The rich he’d disencumber, To secure the greatest benefit For the greatest number; That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk, If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!” For they guessed his greatest number might Perhaps, be Number One, sir, With his bow, wow, wow, sirs. You can’t make silken purses from The best ears of a sow, sirs.

A Damp Water Party. I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir, All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir, That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to get, sir; But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet, sir! Oh! dear, oh! Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row? At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables, The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables; 158 That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir, But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in your glass, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c. Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard, And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered; That is, there would have been had they been laid within the house, sir, But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir! Oh! dear, oh &c. Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was there, And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there; That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to get, sir, But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c. And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was ended, They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s splendid!” That is, they would have said so, but—to use a vulgar name, sir— The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same, sir! Oh! dear, oh! &c. * * * * * (Three verses omitted.) And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the night, sir, And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining bright, sir; So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather, sir, To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir, So, be it so, For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row! From Medley; by Cuthbert Bede, author of Verdant Green. London: J. Blackwood.

Home Rule all Round. The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers, ’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the Sinisters, A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical. Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical. Bow-wow-wow, &c. Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national, The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety, By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society. Bow-wow-wow, &c. Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation, Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation; ’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet ’em, And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em. Bow-wow-wow, &c. Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity, For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community. Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call; But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical. Bow-wow-wow, &c. Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is The only thing to care about—therein our sole affiance is. None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option. Bow-wow-wow, &c. Punch. July 10, 1886.

The G.O.M. Fox. I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir, Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes, sir; That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority, But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority. Bow, wow, wow! What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now? He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation, His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the nation; That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are ’cute, sir, Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir. Bow, wow, wow, &c. Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir, And England—it is she who pays—there’s not the slightest doubt, sir; That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it, But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it. Bow, wow, wow, &c. And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power, All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower; That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the starting won But for his lack of openness—and Chamberlain and Hartington. Bow, wow, wow, &c. John Lowress. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

Recitative. Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain! Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again, A mimic voice repeats the name around, And with Orynthia all the rocks resound. Air. A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me, As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d; The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me, And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love, For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes, Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head; The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses, And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread. Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love, No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

Blowsabel. Recitative. Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain, Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again; Her horrid voice repeats my name around, And with her bawling all the streets resound. Air. A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me, As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed; The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me, And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest. Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,— No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse. Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes, The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head; My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses, If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed; No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,— No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse. From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.

The Victim of Love. Recitative. Angelina, my chickabiddy! I calls upon Angelina! Angelina! A bobby hears, and says “Move on!” His comic voice repeats the name around, And with “Angelina” all the streets resound! Air. A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney, In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest, This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me, Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest! Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied, “This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.” So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love. Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen, You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls, You shall ever wear the thingamys and your dear crinoline Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls; “Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool, I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love. Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes, My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,” But all that she did was to turn up her nose, And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court. Like a blighted young flower expire I shall, For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.

The Song of the Seedy Common-Councillor after a Week’s Festivities. A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me, As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed; The able man paused on his way to accost me, And proffered advice that would give me some rest. “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.” “Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes; I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head. The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses, And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.” “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.” Punch. July 3, 1886.

Paddy Flinn! Recitative. Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain The dirty children mock me all around And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound! Air. Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking, I met near the bog at the end of the town; He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking, He was after knocking me up, but I knocked the varmint down. ’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at? Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye flat, And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again, There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn. 160 So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling, And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:— Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling, In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you. But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in, Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn. J. W. Burden.

Recitative. Chamberlain, my beloved!—he calls in vain. Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again. A grand old voice repeats the name around, And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound. Air. A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me, As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed; The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me, And offered—a sell!—in his Cabinet rest. “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait; No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.” “Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes; Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head. You’ll not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes? Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.” “Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with that bait. No rest under you for the Pilgrim of Hate.” Punch. April 30, 1887.

In good King Charles’s golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high Churchman I was, And so I got preferment: To teach my flock I never miss’d, Kings are by God appointed, And damn’d are those that do resist, Or touch the Lord’s anointed. And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. When royal James obtain’d the crown, And Popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration: The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, &c. When William was our king declared, To ease the nation’s grievance, With this new wind about I steer’d, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, &c. When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England’s glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory: Occasional conformists base, I damned their moderation, Although the Church in danger was By such prevarication. And this is law, &c. When George in pudding-time came o’er, And moderate men look’d big, sir, I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith’s defender; And almost every day abjured, The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, &c. Th’ illustrious House of Hanover, And Protestant Succession; To these I do allegiance swear— While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty; I never more will falter, And George my lawful king shall be— Until the times do alter. And this is law, &c.

The Court Chaplain. When Pitt array’d the British arms, To check the Gallic ferment, I spread the regicide alarms, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss’d, “Reform is revolution, “And damn’d are those that do assist “To mend a Constitution.” And this is law, I will aver, Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir, Whoe’er may be the Minister, I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir. When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown And peace came into fashion, The lust of war I hooted down, And puff’d pacification. I vow’d the papists were agreed To burn all honest men, sir: And Methodism had been my creed— But Pitt came in again, sir, And this is law, &c. When Grey and Grenville made the laws For Britain’s tol’rant nation, I took the cudgels for the cause Of transubstantiation. The Articles I made a joke, (Finding I should not need ’em:) And, Afric’s fetters being broke, E’en grew a friend to Freedom. And this is law, &c. When Perceval advised our King, (The Church of England’s glory) My conscience was another thing, For I had turn’d a Tory: I cursed the Whigs, no more in place; I damn’d their moderation, And swore they shook the Church’s base, By sinful toleration. And this is law, &c. Now that the Ministry relent, And Erin’s sons look big, sir, I feel a soft’ning sentiment, Which makes me half a Whig, sir. And thus preferment I procure, In each new doctrine hearty— Alike extol, neglect, abjure, Pope, King, or Bonaparte. At least ’tis law, &c. The now prevailing politics, The now administration, On these allegiance do I fix— While they can keep their station: For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, To Liverpool and Castlereagh, Until the times shall alter. For thus I safely may aver, However fools may sneer, sir, That whoso be the Minister, I must be Chaplain here, sir. From Posthumous Parodies. London: John Miller. 1814.

Who’s Your Ratter?[32] In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days, When Tories were a faction, We used his every word to praise, And glorify each action. To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d, Their William was perfection, And traitors those who dared resist, Or move his bill’s rejection! But this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir! The People’s William lost his place, And Dizzy was victorious; The Tories we had called so base Replaced the Liberals glorious. But soon we found ’twould never do To still support the latter; We’d vow’d to do so, it is true, But still that did not matter. For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir! And see how well our “ratting” pays, For Ministers are grateful, And from their table drop some scraps Enough to fill a plateful. And when we up back stair-ways creep, To Salisbury see, or Dizzy, They rarely kick us down again, Unless they’re very busy. So this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir! Another fight will soon begin, And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir, The Liberals will th’ elections win, In that case we must hedge, sir. For should the Tories have to yield, They would no further use be; Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield Rare subject for abuse be! For this the law is we’ll maintain, Until it cease to pay, sir, That whatsoever party reign, We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir! Truth Christmas Number. 1879.

Bradlaugh’s Bray. In good Victoria’s palmy days, When Chartism was prating, I joined the Democratic craze, And practised stump orating. To teach my mob I never missed That King-made law is bad law, And damn’d be all who dare resist The rise of righteous Bradlaugh. For this is law, I will maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That over Parliament I’ll reign, Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir. 162 When first my stump career began, Rank heresy I spouted, Belief in God as Lord of man, As lunacy I scouted. Disguised as great “Iconoclast,” In wrangling I waxed foxy, Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast, And started my new ’doxy. For this is The true faith, I swear, Nor dare to say me nay, sir, Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir, And for his triumph bray, sir. But finding Atheists weak and thin, I sought a higher mission, And found much greater profit in The vending of sedition. Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore, They love a bright variety, Which proved to me my forte was more For politics than piety. So this is law I do declare, In this my trying day, sir, That none shall judge me by my acts, Nor yet by what I say, sir. So down with Kings and Queens and Priests, And Church and State and Pensions, And up with Dilke’s Republic, and My grand Freethought Conventions; Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant—these Are lights this dark world’s needing, So up with population checks, And down with all good breeding. For if this had but been the law In my good father’s day, sir, One nuisance less of print and jaw, Had not now blocked the way, sir. Sometimes a nation’s destiny By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir, I found myself an M. P. by M.P. rical harangues, sir, And though my “lay” was strong and bold, (For “takings” flowed in thereby) The Crown I’d cursed—I’ll now uphold, The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by! For this should be the law, I say, And shall do to my grave, sir, A man may swear his soul away, His path to power to pave, sir. Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir, And Protestant succession. To each I will allegiance swear (While they can keep possession), So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer, Have pity on my grievin’, Please let me on that Bible swear By Him I don’t believe in. And when I’m Lord Protector, sir, I’ll make the law to be, sir, That whatsoe’er a man shall swear, His conscience shall be free, sir. From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, By Ion. London, Houlston & Sons.

The House of Lords. When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate, And sued for his divorce, sir, He cast about, and found in us His willing tools, of course, sir. What for her grief? We laughed at that, And left her in the lurch, sir, While every one of us grew fat By plunder of the Church, sir. To hold a candle to Old Nick Has ever been our way, sir, And still we’ll play the self-same trick, So long as it will pay, sir. Two other queens that underwent “The long divorce of steel,” sir— Do you suppose that e’er we wept, Or for their fate did feel, sir? We only sought to please the King, And his worst wishes further; And gaily did our order join In each judicial murther. For us no trick was e’er too base, No crime too foul to shock, sir, Nor innocence availed to save E’en women from the block, sir. When Mary came with fire and stake Poor pious folks to kill, sir, No single protest did we make, But let her work her will, sir; But when the Church reclaimed her lands, And looked for smooth compliance, We quickly raised our armèd bands And gave her bold defiance. Thus did the Queen her error learn, To think (how gross the blunder!) That, though we let her rack and burn, We’d e’er restore our plunder. Elizabeth, the mighty Queen, We quailed beneath her frown, sir, With nought but fear and hate for one So worthy of the crown, sir. As abject traitors round her throne We fulsome homage paid her, Though more than half of us were known To plot with the invader. To her for ducal coronets We never were beholden; To us the days of “Good Queen Bess” Were anything but “golden.” When slobbering James of coin was short, He baronets invented, And to creating lords for gold Right gladly he consented; A handsome “tip” was all he asked To make you duke or lord, sir— No question ever of your worth, ’Twas what you could afford, sir. To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,” O, Lord! how fine it sounded! And thus, by shelling out of cash, Were noblest houses founded. When Charles the First, the public right To crush but now applies him, And willing help he gets from us; As friends we stand beside him. 163 His acts of tyranny and fraud Scarce one of us opposes— The fine, the prison, or the whip, Or slitting people’s noses. To curb the tyrant of his will Was no way in our line, sir, All human rights were forfeited, And merged in “Right Divine,” sir. The Second Charles just suited us, We joined his lewd carouses, And concubines became the source Of many ducal houses. And, as reward of services That history rarely mentions, You still enjoy the privilege Of paying us the pensions; And this we swear, by all that’s blue, Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!” That whatsoever we may do You’ll never find us blush, sir. In James’s Court we flourished still; Like sycophants we vied, sir; To be a royal mistress formed Our daughters’ highest pride, sir; For Whigs though tortures were devised, Their legs with wedges broke, sir, We ate and drank, and laughed and played, But ne’er a word we spoke, sir. For mingled cruelty and wrong We never did upbraid him; But when a paying chance came round, Right quickly we betrayed him. When William came, with righteous rule, We proved but glum consenters; The King we deemed was but a fool, To tolerate Dissenters; Whilst on his part his Majesty Distrusted us with reason, For ’gainst our chosen lord and king We still kept plotting treason. And so against all righteous things We’ve struggled from the first, sir, To vex and thwart the better kings, And sided with the worst, sir. In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33] Gave notice to the foe, sir, Against his port and arsenal We aimed a warlike blow, sir; And thus were lost, in dire defeat, Eight hundred sailors bold, sir— But what of that, when France’s bribe Our “noble duke” consoled, sir? Betrayal of the State’s designs By this colossal traitor— What wonder now the lordlings praise His humble imitator! With George the Third it was essayed To purge our code from blood, sir, But we the arm of mercy stayed, Its efforts all withstood, sir; To hang for e’en a paltry theft— Though tempted sore by hunger— Was God’s own justice, so it seemed To every boroughmonger. And so poor wretches, one or more, At every fair or wake, sir, Performed “the dance without a floor,” Our thirst for blood to slake, sir. Yet had the self-same laws been tried On us without distinction, Their action surely had implied The peerage’s extinction. But while the gallows we upheld, “Offence’s gilded hand,” sir, Had all our lordly acres swelled With thefts of common land, sir. While wicked prizes thus we claw, And justice shove aside, sir “Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,” Has ever been our guide, sir. When Pitt the Irish Parliament Resolved to bring to London, He had to buy their peer’s consent Or else his scheme was undone, So English coronets galore Were scattered through their tribe, sir, Besides a million pounds or more— Their stipulated bribe, sir. And by this opportunity They drove their dirty trade, sir, To show to all posterity How lords and dukes are made, sir. When Wesleyans and Baptists, too, For right of education, At public universities Did press their application, ’Twas we their just demand refused— Denied their common right, sir, And all our special powers abused To gratify our spite, sir. When Jews to sit in Parliament Had duly been elected, ’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door, Their right to vote rejected. On Railway Bills our conduct calls For no detailed narration; No line could pass our lands without Outrageous compensation. Like gorging vultures at the feast, Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir, Our blackmail figured, at the least, One hundred million pounds, sir. Of pay-triotism we’ll never tire, For it we’ll live and die, sir, And, if the reason you inquire. We spell it with a y, sir. In reason’s name or righteousness, You vainly may reprove us, For scorn, contempt, and threats possess The only power to move us. To mutilate, reject, delay, Obstruct whene’er we dare it, We’ll persevere in our old way So long as you will bear it. Of this be sure, until that day Such things shall ne’er be mended, Till million voices join to say, “The House of Lords is ended!” C. F. The Weekly Dispatch. December 7, 1884.

“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end In signal dissolution.”

The New Vicar of Bray. (Mr. Gladstone Loquitur.) In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant, A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment; To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed. And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir, That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay, sir. When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in fashion, Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation. The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution; And there I first began to air my matchless elocution. And this is law, &c. When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance, With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance, Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance. And this is law, &c. When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory, A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory. The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation, And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication. And this is law, &c. When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic, I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic. Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation; Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation. And this is law, &c. When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir, That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir; So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution, And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution. And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir— That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir. S. H. The Globe. March 24, 1886.

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn: Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Hark! hark! tantivy! This day a stag must die. The cordial takes its merry round, The laugh and joke prevail, The huntsman blows a jovial sound, The dogs snuff up the gale; The upland wilds they sweep along, O’er fields, through brakes they fly, The game is roused, too true the song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore, The tears run down thy face, The huntsman’s pleasure is no more, His joys were in the chase; Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns, To win the blooming fair, But yet he honours each by turns, They each become his care. With a hey, ho, &c. Anonymous.

This Day a Stag must Die. (An imitation of “Old Towler.”) The op’ning morn dispels the night, Her beauties to display, The sun breaks forth, in glory bright, And hails the new-born day; Diana like, behold me then The silver arrow wield, And call on horses, dogs, and men, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, Hark forward tantivy! Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise, This day a stag must die. O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales, The fleet-foot coursers fly, Nor heed whate’er the sport assails, Resolved a stag shall die! Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move, Such joys does hunting yield; While Health a handmaid deigns to prove, When huntsmen take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c. Thus virgins are by man pursued, And beauty made his aim, ’Till, by his wily craft subdued, He hunts for other game; And since e’en life is but a race We run till forced to yield; Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase, Arise, and take the field. With a hey ho chivy, &c.

Song of the Matchmaking Mamma. Bright chandeliers the room adorn, Each thing’s arranged with care, And gayest smiles and silks are worn This night to catch the Heir. With a heigho! Letty! Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty, To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r— To-night we hunt the Heir! Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore, We read it in your face; If you’ll propose to one—no more You’ll find us give you chase. With a sigh from Letty! Or forward, too forward Miss Betty! No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir— No more we’ll hunt the Heir! From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.

A Hunting Song. (Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee.) Our chance at Eyre we claim this dawn— Our witnesses are sworn— A new indictment we have drawn, Despite the public’s scorn. Dogged hither by a yelping throng, The Governor draws nigh— So raise the burden of our song— “Peccavi” he must cry! Chorus—With a hey, oh, levy Subscriptions our victim to chevy. Law charges heavy! (Here comes a yelping of hounds.) “Peccavi” he must cry. * * * * * Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er, The judge has spoilt our case; “A colony preserved” no more Can we pronounce disgrace. The jury no true bill returns,— To cheer the public dare! No gratitude our labour earns— We can’t hunt down our (H)Eyre. Chorus.—With a heigho, heavy The legal expenses to levy! Vain our chevy! (Here the yelping grows faint), “Peccavimus,” we cry! Fun. June 13, 1868.

We’re going to have a glorious run, This murk and mizzling morn. Our Hunt inferior is to none, Except not even the Quorn. A substitute will, scent as strong As Reynard’s own, supply. Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die! Chorus— With a hey, ho, chivy; Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Excuse the burden of my song; This day a Drag must die! Because, although a herring red May, like a fox, be tracked, The Drag is absolutely dead In point of literal fact. Yet hounds and horses after go, With huntsmen’s horns, and cry Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!” This day a Drag must die! Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c. A Drag’s as good to ride behind As ever a fox’s tail, Well drawn about, with turn and wind, O’er many a hill and dale. Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate, The rider’s pluck will try, As much as though ’twere true to state, This day a Drag must die! Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c. Each man as much risks life or limb As when a fox is slain; The sport is all the same to him, And we give no animal pain. Humane excitement whilst we seek, No victim in our eye; Except as now, when so to speak, This day a Drag must die! Chorus—With a hey, ho, &c.

(Air: “Old King Cole.”) I. Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “I’ll move the world,” quoth he; “My England’s high, and rich, and great, But greater she shall be!” And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade, And he call’d for his miners bold; “And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth; You’ll find my treasures better worth Than mines of Indian gold!” II. Old King Coal was a merry old soul, Yet not content was he; And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired, Though ’tis but one of three.” And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire, For smiths and workmen true: “Come, build me engines great and strong; We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long; We’ll try what Steam can do.” III. Old King Coal was a merry old soul: “’Tis fairly done,” quoth he, When he saw the myriad wheels at work O’er all the land and sea. 166 They spared the bones and strength of men, They hammer’d, wove, and spun; There was nought too great, too mean, or small, The giant Steam had power for all;— His task was never done. IV. Old King Coal was a merry old soul: Quoth he, “We travel slow; I should like to roam the wide world round, As fast as the wild winds blow.” And he call’d for his skilful engineers; And soon through hills and vales, O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast, The flying trains like lightning pass’d, On the ribs of the mighty Rails. V. Old King Coal was a merry old soul, A merry old soul is he; May he never fail in the land we love, Who has made us great and free! While his miners mine, and his engines work, Through all our happy land, We shall flourish fair in the morning light, And our name and our fame, and our might and our right, In the front of the world shall stand! Charles Mackay.

Queen Cole. Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul As any in this company; And she loved the King more than anything Else—but a green monkey. So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,— As in truth, very oft did he,— If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars, Why, a sly little drop took she, Why, a sly, &c. But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul, Strange though the fact may be) She scolded the King like anything, For smoking of tobaccy! Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe, She hated it mortally; And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out, Oh! most confoundedly. Oh! most confoundedly. Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul, So she sent for her pianists three; When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping, Such a very nimble chap was he. While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist, As no mortal e’er did see; And never till now was there heard such a row On one poor piano-forte. On one poor piano-forte. Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul, And she sent for her singers three, And she liked the notes from the musical throats Of Grisi and Persiani. But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit, ’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.” Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown; So very soon snubb’d was he. Oh, very soon, &c. This was all very well, but I must also tell That she hated the secretary; For he always would look in the royal cash-book; Such an aggravating chap was he. “Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters Three pounds; bless me! Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound Tuppence-ha’penny!” “Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!” Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll, Fulfilled her destiny; That is to say, in a genteel kind of way, She had a large family. So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul, And with a deep sigh said he, “Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em, For to fill my treasury.” “For to fill, &c.” But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul, As you’d find on a summer’s day; So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.” “We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they. “For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes, Vich is longer than it ought for to be!” But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle, And her subjects they went tax free. And her subjects, &c. But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named, How she mangled for the whole family; So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the “browns,” Just in time for their old country. For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low, And a very fierce attack made he; And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows quite), If he’d gain’d the victory. If he’d gained, &c. From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book. No date.

Old King Coal. Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he; And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl, In green fat, callipash, callipee. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people, What a wrong that this should be! And there’s none whate’er that can compare To the sons of gluttony. Old King Coal paid a very high toll, And a very high toll paid he: And the City of London eat up the whole, By consent of the Powers that be. This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people; This must not, shall not be; And we now declare we’ll no longer bear Such a monstrous robbery! Punch. November 29, 1851.

The Coming “Strife.” Old King Cole was a savage old soul, And a savage old soul was he; Captain Coles was his intimate friend, And almost as savage as he. Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be, “My friend you must lend me a turret ship In which I can put to sea?” Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see, “For what do you want a turret ship, And why sail o’er the sea?” Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash, The Ed. of the Tomahawkie?” Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls, As savage as ever you see; “I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound, Of the finest gunpowder tea!” Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul, As savage as ever could be; “If you’ll only lend me a turret ship, I’ll soon annihilate he!” The Tomahawk. September 7, 1867.

Young King Coal.[35] New Version of an Old Song. Young King Coal was a merry young soul, And a merry young soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. There was Chamberlainini, and Hartingtonini, And, Goscheni to make up the three; For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o, Very fond of a trio was he. Young King Coal left his rivals in the hole, When he took the Chancelle-rie Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker, They slanged him unmercifull-y. So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad Part-y, Young King Coal their old mantle stole, And a very smart Rad made he. Young King Coal loved “smoking” in his soul, And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye, And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try. And our young King C., and his fiddlers three, Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume, Mr. Irving’s worst witch-riot in a Faust-scene’s clear and quiet, To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom. Young King Coal he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three, And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin, And they all played a symphonee. Chamberlainini and Goscheni played like Strauss and like Zerbini, And then Harting-ton-i-ni Played “God Save the Queen!” and the others all joined in, In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye. Young King Coal he laid down his bowl, And a dickens of a speech made he; And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd, And broke up the symphonee. At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “This music can’t be for us,” But as for those fiddlers three, Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically fiddled, And muttered “O, fiddlededee!” Young King Coal still waves his pipe and bowl, Though they reek of Rad flavour still. Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light, And blow up like a gunpowder-mill. But as for the whole of the “principles” of Coal, When he was a true Toree, If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum, Or the writings of Lord Salisburee. Punch. December 4, 1886.

When this old cap was new— ’Tis since two hundred year— No malice then we knew, But all things plenty were: All friendship now decays, (Believe me, this is true) Which was not in those days, When this old cap was new. 168 The nobles of our land Were much delighted then To have at their command A crew of lusty men; Which by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue, With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new. Now pride hath banish’d all, Unto our lands reproach, When he whose means are small Maintains both horse and coach: Instead of an hundred men, The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new. Anonymous, about 1666.

A Change of Style. When this old hat was new The railroad was a stage; And a six-mile team Made plenty of steam, For the broadest kind of gauge. You caught a goose when you wanted a pen, The ink you used was blue; And the women you loved didn’t want to be men When this old hat was new. A Spade was only a spade, And Jennie was just plain “Jane” For his impudent lip A boy would skip At the end of a rattan cane. There were sixteen ounces in every pound, Four quarts made a gallon true; But things don’t seem as they used to be When this old hat was new. But we’ve shortened the time since then, And we’re running a faster heat, And the boys of ten Are full-blown men, Who run the store and the street. We blush to giggle and we should smile; We’re cute and we never say die; We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile; And we’re just too awfully fly; And father is governor, old man, dad, And his old day is gone; We run things fast and a little bad, Since we put this new hat on. Robert Jones Burdette. The Cincinnati Inquirer.

When This Old Joke was New. When this old joke was new, This time worn heritage, The monkey-man its points did scan On pre-historic page. His footmark was the only print; His leaves were leaves that grew; The only tint was Nature’s tint When this old joke was new. When this old joke was new, Our literature was scant, And literateurs had no reviewers With hearts of adamant; No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring” We had our tails it’s true, But novels were’nt a general thing When this old joke was new. When this old joke was new, We drew an easier breath; For we had then no funny men To make us long for death; There was no Punch austere and flat, To paint our faces blue; They wouldn’t have tolerated that When this old joke was new. When this old joke was new, We somehow hadn’t hit That loss of shame which builds a “name” On other people’s wit. Perhaps folks were more honest then; Had consciences a few, And different from our race of men, When this old joke was new. Hal Berte, The Detroit Free Press.

Said a Smile to a Tear, On the cheek of my dear, And beamed like the sun in spring weather, In sooth, lovely Tear, It strange must appear, That we should be both here together. I came from the heart, A soft balm to impart, To yonder sad daughter of grief: And I, said the Smile, That heart now beguile, Since you gave the poor mourner relief. Oh! then, said the Tear, Sweet Smile, it is clear, We are twins, and soft Pity our mother: And how lovely that face Which together we grace, For the woe and the bliss of another! James Kenney.

The Steak and the Chop. Said a steak to a chop, On a hook in a shop, In the dog-days, and very hot weather, “Dear chop, it is clear, If we long tarry here, We shall certainly melt both together.” 169 Said the chop from the chump, To the steak from the rump, “Unless there’s a change in the weather, Lovely steak, I agree, In a mess we shall be, And be kitchen-stuff made both together.” “Oh!” then, with a sigh, Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!” Said the steak to the chop with emotion, “A long or short six, In some save-all to fix, Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”

Said a Fox to a Goose. Said a fox to a goose, (From a farm-house let loose) And chanced to be pluming a feather, “Dear goose, how d’ye do? ’Tis strange, and yet true, That you and I meet here together! Said the goose (with a stare), “Mr. Fox, are you there? And to see you indeed is a pleasure! In truth I must say, That your visit to-day, Is really delight beyond measure!” Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk, And like friends so dear talk, And never was seen finer weather.” Says the goose, “Gander Grange Has forbade me to range Or else we would travel together. Said the fox, “Let him be, Take an airing with me, And hear both the goldfinch and linnet! On the love of a friend, You can, goosy, depend, And”—snapt off her head in a minute.

(By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733.) Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart: I, a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o’er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm’d in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia’s brows, Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown’d. Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

“Slighted love the soul subduing Silent sorrow chills the heart, Treach’rous fancy still pursuing, Still repels the poisoned dart. Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure Pictur’d in the glowing breast, Lavish of her sweetest treasure, Anxious fear is charm’d to rest. Fearless o’er the whiten’d billows, Proudly rise, sweet bird of night, Safely through the bending willows Gently wing thy aery flight.”

Drury’s Dirge. BY LAURA MATILDA.[36] “You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse: We want their strength, agreed; but we atone For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.”—Gifford.

I. Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus’ summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing. II. Softly slept the dome of Drury, O’er the empyreal crest, When Alecto’s sister-fury, Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest. III. Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire. IV. Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness; Mercy holds the veil to Truth. V. See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana’s fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d, Clouds envelope Drury Lane. VI. Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance: While the God fulfils his mission, Chivalry resign thy lance. VII. Hark! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry. VIII. See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine’s peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak. IX. Juno saw, and mad with malice, Lost the prize that Paris gave: Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice, Mantling pours the orient wave. X. Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn’d; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn’d. XI. Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory, Levell’d with the shuddering stones; Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans. XII. Hark! what soft Eolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn. XIII. Ha! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole; Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting soul. XIV. Where is Cupid’s crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow. XV. Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart; See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part! Horace Smith. From The Rejected Addresses, 1812.

Album Verses. By a Fond Lover. Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these verses meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling, Vacant memory heaves a sigh. As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave! Though another’s smiles requited, Envious fate my doom should be: Joy for ever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me! Oft amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill— There when echo’s voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty’s chain. Oft in slumbers deep recesses, I thy mirror’d image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses, I would lavish like a bee! But how vain is glittering sadness! Hark, I hear distraction’s knell! Torture gilds my heart with madness! Now for ever fare thee well!

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, Combing his milk-white steed, When up came Lady Nancy Bell, To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed, Wishing her lover good speed. “Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said), Oh, where are you going?” said she; “I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell, Strange countries for to see, see, see, Strange countries for to see.” “When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she) Oh, when will you come back?” said she. “In a year or two, or three at most, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy, I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.” But he had not been gone a year and a day, Strange countries for to see, When languishing thoughts came into his head, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see, Lady Nancy Bell he would go see. So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse, Till he came to London town, When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring, And the people all mourning around, round, round, And the people all mourning around. “Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said, “Oh, what is the matter?” said he. “A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said, “And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy, And some call her Lady Nancy.” So he ordered the grave to be opened wide, And the shroud to be turned down; And there he kissed her clay-cold lips, Till the tears came trickling down, down, down, Till the tears came trickling down. Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow; Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard, Lord Lovel was laid in the choir, And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier, And out of her lover’s a brier. It grew and it grew to the church steeple top, And then it could grow no higher; So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot, For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire, For true lovers all to admire.

Fragment of a Bradlaughable Ballad. He strode and he strode till he reached the landing, And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher, And there he saw Mister Inspector Denning, Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire. Suggesting that he should retire. He tackled the Sergeant and his deputee, A Messenger too in the Lobby, When in came a lot of Constabularee,— Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby—’obby—’obby; But was collared too by that Bobby. They fought and they tussled away down the stairs, With many a gasp and a guggle, And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers, Lost his collar and tails in the struggle—’uggle—’uggle. Lost his temper and tails in the struggle. Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote, Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler, But as Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat, ’Tis a capital thing for his tailor—’ailor—’ailor, A very good thing for the tailor. Punch. August 13, 1881.

The Tale of Lord Lovell. Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door, Seeking the hole for the key; His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore A rent across either knee, When down came the beauteous Lady Jane In fair white draperee. “Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said: “Oh, where have you been?” said she: “I have not closed an eye in bed, And the clock has just struck three. Who has been standing you on your head In the ash-barrel, perdee?” “I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said: “And so late it cannot be; The clock struck one as I enter-ed— I heard it two times or three; It must be the salmon on which I fed Has been too many for me.” “Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said: “To the maritime cavalree, To your grandam of the hoary head— To any one but me. The door is not used to be open-ed With a cigarette for a key.” The Tuneful Liar. “Quips.” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.

Joe Muggins and Sally Bell. Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door, A-brushing down his black moke, When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell, And thus to her lovier she spoke—oke—oke— And thus to her lovier she spoke. Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said, Oh! where are you going? said she. I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt, To Smith’ll to sell my donkey—key—key— To Smith’ll to sell my donkey. When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said, When will you come back to me? In an hour or two, or three at the most, So get me a herring for tea—tea—tea— So get me a herring for tea. 172 Now he had not been gone an hour or more, To Smithfield, and sold his donkey, When a thought of the herring came into his head I hope it’s a soft roe, said he—he—he— I hope it’s a soft roe, said he. * * * * * (Three coarse verses omitted.)

Lord Faddle’s Election for Bosh. Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a, And being tired of town and ennui He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere, A Parliament Member to be-e-e, An honorable M.P. to be. Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,” Of his Tory friend, “W.B.” It required, to get in for the City of Bosh, And what the expenses might be-e-e, And what the expenses would be. Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,” “You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly, With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two, Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree, Or perhaps he may want, &c.” Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend, That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y; Oh, dear, not at all!—not a shilling he’d spend, But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry, But what was quite, &c. Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress Pervading the coun-ter-y; And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less, Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree, Than help the Electors so free. Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide, The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,” And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied, A few onion tears to roll down-own-own, The crocodile tears to roll down. He suddenly took a great interest in pigs, The crops, and all kinds of manure; Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs, But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor, That he was the real friend, &c. Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow, All got in the sun mer-ri-ly; For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,” They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly, They kept up the game merrily. ’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots, On a sudden, the Voters displayed; And incredible, what a great number of suits They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid, They wore, for which, &c. * * * * * Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals beat, But soon comes up petitions, to see Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat, For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y, For treating, &c. The Committee declare that corruption prevails, But Lord Fitz didn’t know it—oh, no! It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,” That his four or five thousand did go-o-o, That his four or five, &c. Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day, But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow; And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray, He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow, He knows very well, &c. So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails, Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,” And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails, There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh, That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.

Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale (Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale), Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl. In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell. It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt. His body, when long in the ground it had lain, And Time into clay had resolved it again, A potter found out in its covert so snug, And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug, Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale, So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

“Dear Bill, This Stone-Jug.” (Being an Epistle from Toby Cracksman, in Newgate, to Bill Sykes.) Dear Bill, this stone-jug,[a] at which flats dare to rail, (From which till the next Central sittings I hail) Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole, Where Macheath met his blowens,[b] and Wylde floor’d his bowl. In a ward with one’s pals,[c] not locked up in a cell, To an old hand like me it’s a fam-ly[d]-hotel. In the day-rooms the cuffins[e] we queer at our ease, And at Darkman’s[f] we run the rig just as we please; There’s your peck[g] and your lush, hot and reg’lar, each day. All the same if you work, all the same if you play. But the lark’s when a goney[h] up with us they shut, As ain’t up to our lurks,[i] our flash-putter,[j] and smut; But soon in his eye nothing green will remain, He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again. And the next time he’s quodded,[k] so downy and snug, He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[l] But here comes a cuffin—which cuts short my tale, It’s agin rules is screevin’[m] to pals out o’ goal.

For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed Lord Mayor, Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners,[n] I swear: That long over Newgit their Worships may rule, As the High-toby, mob, crack and screeve[o] model school; For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench, Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “the Pent” or “the Tench.”[p]

Fancy Portrait of a Bishop Fill-pots.[37] Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall, Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall, Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal, In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel, And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell. It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease, In want of preferment, as hot as you please, With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away, That Wellington made him a Bishop one day; In the Lords, as his mouth he could never keep shut, He lied till he soon was the Chancellor’s butt. Yes, ’gainst Catholics long time he had laboured for gain, Till pay set his principle all on the wane, When the Duke found him out in incognito snug, And contrived to a Bishoprick Toby to lug, Who sacred in office, but damned in himself, Now is wholly divided ’twixt venom and pelf. Figaro in London. July 14, 1832.

The White Mug. “Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot’s, as jovial a sot, As e’er drew a spigot, or drain’d a full pot. In drinking, all round ’twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg’d of his glass.” “One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, ‘Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;’ We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.” W. M. Thackeray.

’Tis I am the Gipsy King, And where is the king like me? No troubles my dignities bring; No other is half so free. In my kingdom there is but one table, All my subjects partake in my cheer; We would all have champagne were we able, As it is, we have plenty of beer; And ’tis I am the gipsy king. A king, and a true one, am I; No courtiers nor ministers here! I see everything with my own eye, And hear everything with my own ear. No conspiracies I apprehend, Among brothers and equals I rule; We all help both to gain and to spend, And get drunk when the treasury’s full; And ’tis I am the gipsy king. * * * * *

Song of the Gipsies. Come, my dainty doxies, My dells, my dells most dear; We have neither house nor land, Yet never want good cheer. We never want good cheer. We take no care for candle rents, We lie, we snort, we sport in tents, Then rouse betimes and steal our dinners. Our store is never taken Without pigs, hens, or bacon, And that’s good meat for sinners: At wakes and fairs we cozen Poor country folk by dozen. If one have money, he disburses; Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick purses? Rather than be out of use, We’ll steal garters, hose, or shoes, Boots, or spurs, with gingling rowels, Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels. Come live with us, come live with us. * * * * *

Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine, Show tricks and lofty capers; At threading-needles we repine, And leaping over rapiers: Pindy pandy rascal toys! We scorn cutting purses; Though we live by making noise, For cheating none can curse us.

The Railway King. Oh! ’tis I am the Railway King, And where’s there a king like me, No trouble my shareholders bring, No monarch is half so free; 174 In my kingdom there’s but one table, And that is the time-table here, We all go as fast as we’re able, And steam is our charioteer! For ’tis I am the Railway King! Ha! ha! ’Tis I am the Railway King! * * * * * (Three verses omitted). Joe Miller the younger. October 25, 1845.

Oh! ’Tis I am a Frisky King. (As sung by his Majesty of Bavaria with the greatest applause, at Munich.) Oh! ’tis I am a frisky King And where is the King like me? Into trouble myself I shall bring, For I am so easy and free. My kingdom’s affairs are unstable; My subjects suspect I am queer; Lola Montez I’d wed were I able, As it is, she’s my sweetheart so dear. For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King. A King, and a rum one am I, No Jesuit nor minister fear; Their counsels I think all my eye, And give them a flea in their ear. No conspiracy I apprehend, To Lola I’ve given the rule, She helps me to gain and to spend, And in fact, she has got quite the pull. For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King. I confess that I am but a man, My failings, who pleases, may know; I’m fond of my girl, and I can, If she likes, let her kick up a row, My subjects are kind unto me, They don’t mind my being an ass; Nor yet that I hold on my knee, At this moment, the prettiest lass, For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha! For I am the Frisky King. The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.

The Gipsy “King.” (A Caveat from the Dulwich Encampment.) Oh, ’tis I am a gipsy king, And where is there king like me? From my freehold land defiance I fling, And scoff at the powers that be; For my court is my caravan, Where in dozens my subjects “pig,” And drink and fight like a riotous clan, And for nobody trouble a fig. They say that a nuisance am I To the householders far and near, That my ribald rabble make women fly, And our raids fill tenants with fear. We’re a pest, a disturbance, a curse (So I hear that the gentlefolks say), But they’d find it hard were we ten times worse To frighten the gipsies away. They may talk of the Vagrant Act, And the Nuisance Inspector send (My dog the medical officer pack’d), And the School Board its aid may lend; The Vestry its powers may bring, And the Courts and the Parleyment, But they’re only amusing the gipsy king, And his court in the van and tent. Funny Folks, June 22, 1878.

In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago, The lads and lasses in their best, Were drest from top to toe. We danc’d and sung the jocund song, Upon the forest green, And nought but mirth and jollity, Around us could be seen. And thus we pass’d the merry time, Nor thought of care or woe, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago. All hearts were light, and eyes were bright, And nature’s face was gay, The trees their leafy branches spread, And perfume filled the May; ’Twas there we heard the cuckoo’s note, Steal softly through the air, While every scene around us look’d, Most beautiful and fair, And thus we pass’d, &c. * * * * *

The Days when we went Gipsying. Oh, the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago, Though meant to be amusing trips, Proved nothing else but woe. The fire-place would never draw, The wood was always green, And naught but flies and creeping things Were in the milkpot seen. And thus we passed the hours away, In pastime very slow, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago. The tea was always very bad, The water never boiled; 175 We wore the smartest things we had, And they were always spoiled. And if along the meadows damp We felt inclined to roam, It usually began to rain, Before we got safe home. And thus we passed the hours away, In pastime very slow, In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago. We never mean to pay again A visit to the scene, And seat ourselves on emmets’ nests— We are not now so green. We do not love it overmuch, But when we want our tea, We’ll take it on a table, where It always ought to be. And thus we’ll drink it properly, Provided ’tis not sloe, Much better than the gipsying A long time ago! From A Bowl of Punch, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.

An Oxford Song. Oh, the days we read those musty books, a short time ago, Were certainly the seediest a man could ever know. We filled no glass, we kissed no lass, our hacks grew fat and sleek, We thought it dissipation if we rode them twice a week. We rose up early in the morn, we sat up late at e’en, And nought but horrid lexicons about us could be seen! Unheeded lay our meerchaums then, our “Lopez” bound in green; The undisturbed blue-bottle was on our team-whip seen; The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux, But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “Great go.” We rose up early, &c. We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed, How harrowed all would be at home, if we perchance were ploughed: And what was worse, those sordid duns an early payment wished, ’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely “fish’d.” We rose up, &c. ’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves; We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves; And envious Under-graduates sigh forth as we draw near, “O, crickey! how I wish I was a ‘new-made Bacalere.’ They rise up when they like at morn, they sit up late at e’en, And hunt and quaff, and smoke and laugh, the whole Term thro’, I ween.” From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.

The Lay of the Lover’s Friend. I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o’er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I’m touched myself, For that I do not fear: No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But ’tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago. When e’er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply’s a burning sigh, And “What a mind it is!” O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago. I’ve heard her thoroughly described, A hundred times, I’m sure; And all the while I’ve tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o’er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way “Why, you’re a lucky dog!” But oh! it is the heaviest bore Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago. I really wish he’d do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood, That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o’er the sea. For ’tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know. To have a friend who’s lost his heart A short time ago. William E. Aytoun.

Old Simon, the cellarer, keeps a rare store— Of malmsey and malvoisie, And cyprus, and who can say how many more, For a chary old soul is he, Of sack and canary he never doth fail, And all the year round there is brewing of ale; Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day; But ho, ho, ho, his nose doth show, How oft the black-jack to his lips doth go. Dame Margery sits in her own still room, And a matron sage is she; From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume. She says it is rosemary. But there’s a small cupboard, behind the back stair, And the maids say they often see Margery there— Now Margery says she grows very old, And must take a something to keep out the cold; But ho, ho, ho, old Simon doth know— Where many a flask of his best doth go. Old Simon reclines in his high-backed chair, And talks of taking a wife, And Margery oft has been heard to declare, She ought to be settled for life. Now, Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue; She’s not very handsome, nor yet very young; So, somehow, it ends with a shake of the head, And Simon he brews him a tankard instead— With ho, ho, ho, he’ll chuckle and crow What, marry old Margery! no, no, no.” J. L. Hatton.[38]