WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 9)

Caveat Venditor. Joe Podgers, the farmer, he keeps a rare store Of sheep, as his neighbours can see, And oxen, and I can’t tell how many more, For a well-to-do fellow is he. Of beef and of mutton he never doth fail, And craftily qualified is his milk-pail; But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say, As his meat goes to London on each market day. But oh! oh! oh! his books do show Where many a cow of his worst doth go. Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room, For a butcher discreet is he: But oft from his premises comes a queer fume, He says it is “only his tea.” But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair, And folks say they see some strange carcases there; But Choppers he says, and he looks very bold, That the meat which he sells is the best ever sold. But oh! oh! oh! Joe Podgers doth know Where many a calf of his worst doth go. Joe Podgers reclines in his easy chair Without ever dreaming of strife: But the dead-meat inspector is heard to declare That the time for a summons is rife. And the magistrate has a most critical tongue, And condemns Podgers’ meat to the dogs to be flung. So somehow Joe Podgers don’t go home to bed, But finds himself lodged in a prison instead. And oh! oh! oh! doth he chuckle and crow As he tramps on the treadmill? Oh! no! no! Fun. March 17, 1869.

“Old Tim the Teetotaller.” Old Tim the Teetotaller keeps a rare store, Of black and strong green tea, Of Souchong—and who can tell how many more, For a thirsty old Soul is he-e! A thirsty old Soul is he. Of Pekoe and Twankay he never doth fail, Which all the day long he drinks out of a pail. For he never ale-th, he quaintly doth say, While he sticks to his fifty-two cups in a day— For ho! ho! ho! Old Tim can’t know How much of birch-broom there is in Pekoe. Chorus—“For ho! ho! ho!” &c. His Landlady sits in her own still-room, Alone with the cat sits she; Except when she asks in the maid or the groom, To join her in taking tea-e, To join her in taking tea. Now, Tim has a tea-chest, but isn’t aware, That his Landlady helps herself freely from there. Tho’ the maid and the groom of the Landlady told, Yet Tim held his tongue,—it was no use to scold. For ho! ho! ho! He now doth know, Where all his Bohea and Souchong doth go. Chorus—“For ho! ho! ho!” &c. Old Tim he reclines in his high-backed chair, And plays a few tunes on a fife; He blows it for joy for he doesn’t care, Since he puzzled her out of her life. Yes! his landlady out of her life, For he’s got a lock on his tea-chest so strong, And the Landlady tried it for ever so long With hammer and tongs till she fainted away, And was then handed over to P’liceman 1 A. And ho! ho! ho! Old Tim will show His Landlady up in the Court of Bow. Chorus of Teetotallers in their Cups— For ho! ho! ho! Old Tim will show His Landlady up in the Court of Bow! Punch. February 4, 1871.

Taurus the Cellarer. (During the Russian War scare.) Old Taurus our cellarer keeps a rare store Of Malmsey and Malvoisie, Of Cyprus, and who shall say how many more? For a chary old soul is he! With sacks of canaries he never can fail And all the year round he is hearty and hale, And those who once cavilled are now heard to say, “We are all of us proud of old Taurus to-day.” And ho! ho! ho! Things seem to show That England’s not like to the dogs to go! 177 Dame Ursa she sits in her cold, bare room, A Christian dame is she, From thence oft at curfew she steals in the gloom, On errands of charity. Now there’s half a turkey that’s not gone as yet, Which folks say that Ursa would much like to get, And Dame Ursa she says she is hungry and cold; But old Taurus he wakes, and he thunders forth “Hold!” With ho! ho! ho! that game is no go! Caught napping by Ursa, no, no, no, no! Judy. July 24, 1878.

Simmonds, the Bellower. Old Simmonds, the Bellower, keeps a coal store, Of “Clinkers,” and “Slates” nub-bel-y, And light weights, and who can say what he does more? For a pious old cock is he. The sack to have holes in, he never does fail, And all the day long he keeps “slanging” the scale; Yet they’ll never nail him, he bluntly does say, While he makes a ton out of six waggons a day. And oh, dear! oh, his nose does show, How oft the “three-out” to his lips does go. * * * * *

William the Clôturer. Old William the Clôturer sets great store By his hard-won majoritee, And he wants it in good working order once more, For an ardent old toiler is he— A tremendous old toiler is he. Of business and progress the Commoners fail, For all the year round they do nothing but rail; But William declares he this shindy will stay, And stick to his Clôture—his gag as some say. And ho! ho! ho! His demeanour would show That he on this point to the country would go. Chorus (heartily)—But ho! ho! ho! &c. Old William the Clôturer weareth the air Of one who is weary of strife, And Salisbury oft has been heard to declare He would have his—political—life, His—strictly political—life. And Salisbury hath a most terrible tongue; But William is warlike, though no longer young; And to prove that he isn’t—in politics—dead, He his Clôture-gage hurls at sour Salisbury’s head. While ho! ho! ho! He’ll chuckle and crow, What, cave in to Salisbury? No, no, no! Chorus (lustily)—While ho! ho! ho! &c. Punch. April 22, 1882.

From the Opera of “Merry Sherwood.” I am a Friar of orders grey, And down in the valleys I take my way, I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip, Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead roll I merrily chaunt, Wherever I walk no money I want; And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell— Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar. After supper of Heaven I dream, But that is fat pullet and clouted cream, Myself, by denial, I mortify— With a dainty bit of a warden pie; I’m cloth’d in sack-cloth, for my sin; With old sackwine I’m lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding, dong. What baron or ’squire, &c. J. O’Keeffe.

A Bradlaugh Ballad. I am the Demagogue of the day, And down ’mongst the mob I make my way, It’s years since of poverty I felt a nip Good store of the Sovereigns I love fill my scrip Republican patter I merrily chant Wherever I stump no money I want; And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell— Who fattens on martyrdom’s sure to live well: No bishop or squire Can hope to aspire To the glorious height of the law defier. After orating, of fame I dream, And Cromwell-cum-Wilkes-cum Washington seem, Myself as a model I mortify With a thumping cupful of wine when dry; I wear best broadcloth, black as sin, My breeches pockets are lined with “tin;” I’m Liberal with a strong Radical dash, But I’m strictly Conservative of my cash. No lord of the shire Nor prince is higher In my esteem than C. B., Esquire. My dusk performances are my best While working men work, I take my rest, I bid my disciples prevent new lives, Reading “Fruits of Philosophy” with their wives. And to save their pence, as they’ve got no soul To help me to win at Northampton poll, For the House is the only Heaven I know Though they say I make it a Hell below, Where I’ll play the lyre And kindle its ire, Till oblivion swallows the law defier. From Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet. By Ion. London. Houlston & Sons.

Gently touch the warbling lyre, Chloe seems inclin’d to rest; Fill her soul with fond desire, Softest notes will soothe her breast: Pleasing dreams assist in love, Let them all propitious prove. On the mossy bank she lies (Nature’s verdant velvet bed), Beauteous flowers meet her eyes, Forming pillows for her head; Zephyrs waft their odours round, And indulging whispers sound. A. Bradley.

How shall I Dine. Gently blow and stir the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast, Dress it nicely I desire, In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove: Mutton is the meat I love. On the dresser see it lie, Oh! the charming white and red! Finer meat ne’er met my eye, On the sweetest grass it fed: Let the jack go swiftly round, Let me have it nicely browned. On the table spread the cloth, Let the knives be sharp and clean: Pickles get and salad both,[39] Let them each be fresh and green: With small beer, good ale, and wine, O ye gods! how I shall dine. Attributed to Dean Swift.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do’t? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her, The devil take her. Sir John Suckling.

An Imitation of the Above. I. Why so sad and pale, fond lover? Pr’ythee, why so dull? How can tears the cause discover Why these eyes are full? Pr’ythee why so dull? Shall a hopeful maiden take A baby to her arms? Oh, prove a man, and for her sake, Caress, not grieve her charms. II. Thou hast no heart, fearful wooer, And love ye give, not gain; Then, with the heart that ye gave to her, Why give her not its pain? Cease to murmur, hapless whiner, Sigh that sob away, Think, if caring much won’t win her, Caring little may; Then scorn, with scorning pay. R. J. From Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. May, 1819.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And very hard is my fare; But that which troubles me most is The unkindness of my dear; Yet still I cry, O turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that I long for, And alack! what remedy! I’ll crown thee with a garland of straw then, And I’ll marry thee with a rush ring, My frozen hopes shall thaw then, And merrily we will sing; O turn to me my dear love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man who alone canst Procure my liberty. But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, And be deaf to my pitiful moan! Then I must endure the smart still, And lie in my straw all alone; Yet still I cry, O turn love, And I prithee, love, turn to me, For thou art the man that alone art The cause of my misery.

Song by Fusbos. My lodging is in Leather-lane, A parlour that’s next to the sky; ’Tis exposed to the wind and the rain, But the wind and the rain I defy: Such love warms the coldest of spots, As I feel for Scrubinda the fair, Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots, In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square. Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill, To be scrubb’d by her delicate hands; Let others possess what they will, Of learning, and houses and lands; My parlour that’s next to the sky I’d quit her blest mansions to share; So happy to live and to die In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square. And, oh! would this damsel be mine! No other provision I’d seek; On a look I could breakfast and dine, And feast on a smile for a week. But ah! should she false-hearted prove, Suspended, I’d dangle in air; A victim to delicate love, In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square. From Bombastes Furioso, by William Barnes Rhodes.

At the peaceful midnight hour, Every sense and every power Fetter’d lies in downy sleep, Then our careful watch we keep. When the wolf, in nightly prowl, Bays the moon with hideous howl; Gates are barr’d, a vain resistance; Females shriek, but no assistance. “Silence or you’ll meet your fate— Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!” Locks, bolts, and bars, soon fly asunder, Then to rifle, rob and plunder! J. O’Keeffe.

A Parody. At the peaceful midnight hour, When by love and hunger’s power, I am kept from downy sleep, Nightly I to Molly creep; Whilst the cats upon the tiles Mew their loves for many miles, O’er the gutters lightly hopping, Thro’ the garret window dropping. Silence! or my master wakes, Lay the cloth and broil the steaks; Beef-steaks and onions crown our blisses; Bread and cheese and balmy kisses.

The light of other days is faded And all their glory’s past; For grief with heavy wing hath shaded The hopes too bright to last. The world with morning’s mantle clouded, Shines forth with purer rays; But the heart ne’er feels in sorrow shrouded, The light of other days. The leaf which Autumn’s tempests wither, The bird which then take wing, When Winter’s blasts are past, come hither, To welcome back the Spring. The very ivy on the ruin, In Spring new life displays; But the heart alone sees no renewing Of the light of other days. Alfred Bunn.

The Coat of Other Days. The coat of other days is faded, And all its beauty past: My shoes no longer look as they did, But, like it, are fading fast! When first I sported it, a new one, My uncles cash ’twould raise, But now no longer ’tis a new one, The coat of other days. The cuffs and collar now are greasy, Not a bit of nap is there; ’Twas tight, but now it fits me easy, ’Twill soon be at Rag-fair! My four-and-nine look rather rummy, Expos’d to Sol’s bright rays, And ’tis too late for renovating The coat of other days!

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good-will; I’d crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. * * * * *

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass Who on a bright May morn, By sweeps of sewage mud must pass, On Thames’s waters borne. 180 What does she meet? Spring breezes sweet? No, muck is master still. “Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make The Lass of Richmond ill! How happy might that maiden be If sweet Thames-tide might run. But no; Conservators agree That “Nothing can be done.” Lips she must close, must nip her nose,— The Stench-fiend lords it still, And laughs with glee—grim ghoul—to see The Lass of Richmond ill!

William’s Bill. Of William’s bill we’ll see the last, No more it holds the field; We’ve nailed our standard to the mast, The harp we’ll never yield. The Irish fry in vain may try To gild the Home Rule pill, But soon we’ll see, ’twixt you and me, The last of William’s bill. ’Tis past dispute, the kingdoms three Together stand or fall, And measures of autonomy Should be the same for all; But this that tends to part old friends Shall ne’er have our goodwill; No, no, friend Pat, we’ll veto that By “chucking” William’s bill. Darjew. The Weekly Dispatch. July 4, 1886.

A Song to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who hath ruled in the green wood long, Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There’s fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout. Then here’s to the Oak, the brave old Oak, Who stands in his pride alone, And still flourish he a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone. * * * * * H. F. Chorley.

A Bit of a Parody. A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes, That have rul’d in the land so long; With small renown to the Ducal crown, By dint of legal wrong. There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down, And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out; And they show him their spite in the Lords each night That the subject is talk’d about. Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes, Who live for themselves alone; And still live they, though no more to prey On the country’s blood and bone. They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear; And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore, With old English beef and beer. That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough; It won’t even hoax an ass; And don’t we know, they who tell us so, The New Poor Law allow’d to pass? Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes, Who live for themselves alone; And still live they, though no more to prey On the country’s blood and bone. Punch. April 11, 1846.

Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The Youth who fondly sits by thee; And hears and sees thee, all the while, Softly speak, and sweetly smile. ’Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais’d such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport tossed, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glow’d the subtle flame Ran quickly thro’ my vital frame; O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d, My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away. Ambrose Philips.

A Parody of the Foregoing. Drunk as a dragon sure is he, The youth who sups or dines with thee; And sees and hears thee, full of fun, Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun. ’Twas this first made me love my dose, And rais’d such pimples on my nose; For while I fill’d to every toast, My health was gone, my senses lost. I found the claret and champagne Inflame my blood, and mad my brain; The toast fell falt’ring from my tongue, I hardly heard the catch I sung. I felt my gorge and sickness rise; The candle danc’d before my eyes; My sight grew dim, the room turn’d round, I tumbled senseless to the ground. Henry Erskine.

Dear Betty, come give me sweet kisses, For sweeter no girl ever gave; But why, in the midst of our blisses, Do you ask me how many I’d have? 181 I’m not to be stinted in pleasure; Then prithee, dear Betty be kind; For as I love thee beyond measure, To numbers I’ll not be confined. Count the bees that on Hybla are straying, Count the flowers that enamel the fields, Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing, Or the grains that each Sicily yields; Count how many stars are in Heaven; Go reckon the sands on the shore, And when so many kisses you’ve given, I still will be asking for more. To a heart full of love let me hold thee, A heart, that dear Betty is thine; In my arms I’ll for ever enfold thee, And curl round thy neck like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is? My life on thy lips shall be spent; But those who can number their kisses, Will always with few be content. Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.

The Numbering of the Clergy. Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do you ask us how many we crave? Oh, there can’t be too many rich livings, For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Cocker’s misgivings, To numbers can ne’er be confin’d. Count the cormorants hovering about, At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin. Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest’s in play, And not minding the farmer’s distresses, Like devils in grain peck away. Go, number the locusts in heaven, On their way to some titheable shore; And when so many parsons you’ve given, We still shall be craving for more. Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment, For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content. Thomas Moore.

Lines to an Editor. (On sending a Book for Review.) After Ben Jonson. Print for me only just one word, And I will pledge thee mine, If thou wilt give a wholesome “puff,” That I will not repine. I think my work should be preferr’d (’Tis very large and fine), Though dullards may not like my stuff, I would not change a line.

From the Same to the Same. (On the non-appearance of a Notice.) I sent thee late my able book, Not so much honouring thee, As hoping something would appear That might bring L. S. D. But thou thereon did’st neither look Nor sent’st it back to me, Since when I feel inclined to swear Both at myself and thee.

A fine frank roughness in the dress, Is better than La Mode’s excess; Flannel about the shoulders thrown, A stayless bodice and loose zone; Stout clogs or highlows and a pair Of coarse hose much the worse for wear; A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby, Wild locks that flow confusedly; A dual garb deserving note, As more—or less—than petticoat; A leathern shoe-string in whose tie The slattern speaks to every eye, Do more bewitch me, for my part, Than Regent Street with all its Art. Punch, May 28, 1887.

Herrick in the House. After Herrick’s Lines to Ben Jonson. (By a Troubled Tory.) Ah, Ben![41] Say how or when Shall we, thy sheep, Less scattered order keep? Or have such fun As when you led us on, When we such musters had As made us with great joy half mad? Ah, sure one speech of thine Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine. My Ben! Oh, come again, Or send to us Thy wit’s great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it. Lest we that talent spend, And, having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more! Punch. February 5, 1887.

(Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering.) “Sleep, Mr. Speaker, ’tis surely fair, If you mayn’t in your bed that you should in your chair; Louder and longer now they grow, Tory and Radical, Aye and No, Talking by night, and talking by day, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may. Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes. Fielden or Finn in a minute or two Some disorderly thing will do; Riot will chase repose away, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may. “Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men Is the sleep that cometh but now and then, Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, Sweet to the children that work in the mill; You have more need of repose than they, Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may. “Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon Move to abolish the sun and the moon; Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense Of the House on a question of sixteen pence; Statesmen will howl and patriots bray: Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may. “Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time When loyalty was not yet quite a crime, When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school, And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool. Lord! how principles pass away! Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.” W. M. Praed.

I give thee all,—I can no more,— Though poor the offering be: My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee: A lute whose gentle heart reveals The soul of love full well, And better far a heart who feels Much more than lute can tell. Though love and song may fail, alas! To keep life’s clouds away, At least ’twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay: If ever care his discord flings O’er life’s enchanted strain. Let love but gently touch the strings,— ’Twill all be sweet again. I give thee all, &c.

Stewed Duck and Peas. I give thee all, I can no more, Though poor the dinner be; Stew’d Duck and Peas are all the store That I can offer thee. A Duck, whose tender breast reveals It’s early youth full well; And better still, a Pea that peels From fresh transparent shell. Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas! One’s hunger to allay; At least for luncheon they may pass, The appetite to stay. If seasoned Duck an odour bring From which one would abstain, The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring, Set all to rights again. I give thee all my kitchen lore, Though poor the offering be; I’ll tell thee how ’tis cook’d, before You come to dine with me: The Duck is truss’d from head to heels, Then stew’d with butter well; And streaky bacon, which reveals A most delicious smell. When Duck and Bacon in a mass You in the stew-pan lay, A spoon around the vessel pass, And gently stir away: A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring, Then in it twenty onions fling, And gently stir again. A bunch of parsley, and a leaf Of ever-verdant bay, Two cloves—I make my language brief, Then add your Peas you may! And let it simmer till it sings In a delicious strain, Then take your Duck, nor let the strings For trussing it remain. The parsley fail not to remove, Also the leaf of bay; Dish up your Duck—the sauce improve In the accustom’d way, With pepper, salt, and other things, I need not here explain And if the dish contentment brings, You’ll dine with me again. Punch.

Earnest Remonstrance. Addressed to the Young Lady World, on the “Fringes” now in Fashion. Air.—“Long, Long Ago.” Twine me the curls I delighted to see Long, long ago—long, long ago; Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me Of long ago, long ago! Since they are gone, all my grief has begun; Those queer “waving fronts” do not please me, for one I pine for the hair as it used to be done Long, long ago, long ago! Don’t you remember the ringlets that flow’d Long, long ago—long, long ago; The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode, Long, long ago, long ago? Some called them “corkscrews”—a gross malaprop, Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop, Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop, Long, long ago, long ago! 183 Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew, (Quite rococo—quite rococo) And rival the glories of Brian Boroo, Long, long ago, long ago. Let them but give us, our thanks to secure, Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor, A Bill for removing the shady coiffure Now all the go, all the go! Punch.

The Beautiful Maid. A Parody of Liston’s “Beautiful Maid.” My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear, I trembled to hear what he said; For salmon and shrimps ’twas the wrong time of year, So I pitched on a beautiful maid; I brought home my beautiful maid: “Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid; Go boil it,—don’t spoil it, But see it well done, And I’ll dine on my beautiful maid!” But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief, My delicate tit-bit waylaid, The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief Ran off with my beautiful maid; She clawed up my beautiful maid; She swore o’er my beautiful maid; Oh, pussy, you hussey, Oh, what have you done? You have eaten up my beautiful maid!

From the Opera of “Clari, the Maid of Milan.” Oh! say not woman’s heart is bought With vain and empty treasure. Oh! say not woman’s heart is caught By every idle pleasure. When first her gentle bosom knows Love’s flame, it wanders never, Deep in her heart the passion glows, She loves, and loves for ever. Oh! say not woman’s false as fair, That like the bee she ranges! Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, As fickle fancy changes. Ah! no, the love that first can warm, Will leave her bosom never; No second passion e’er can charm, She loves, and loves for ever. T. L. Pocock.

Oh, Say Not that my Heart is Caught. Oh, say not that my heart is caught, By Mary’s face bewitching; For other charms my love has bought, Those charms her mind enriching; Unfriendly fate may soon us part And fickle fortune sever, But she who holds this throbbing heart I’ll love and love for ever. And must I then those charms resign, All I esteem a treasure, And give up what I hoped was mine To fix a rival’s pleasure? The stars may fall, the sun decay, The earth’s whole fabric waver, But firm as heaven my love shall stay, Unquenched, unceasing never. Montague.

He Drinks, and Drinks for Ever. Oh, say not life is dearly bought By him who seeks for pleasure; Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought When whiskey’s thought a treasure! When first a youthful toper knows Its fumes he wanders never; He gladdens at his rosy nose, He drinks and drinks for ever. Oh, say not whiskey does impair, Nor like a poison rages; Still seeking ev’ry vein to tear, Nor cause such deadly changes! Oh, no! the draught that first can warm Will leave his stomach never, Though all his friends may rant and storm, He’ll drink, and drink for ever. Anonymous.

It was Dunois the young and brave, Was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons Before St. Mary’s shrine! “Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,” Was still the soldier’s prayer, “That I may prove the bravest knight And love the fairest fair.” His oath of honour on the shrine, He graved it with his sword, And followed to the holy land The banner of his Lord. Where, faithful to his noble vow, His war-cry filled the air: Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair. They owed the conquest to his arm, And then his liege-lord said, “The heart that has with honour beat, By bliss must be repaid. My daughter Isabel and thou Shall be a wedded pair; For thou art bravest of the brave,— She, fairest of the fair.” And then they bound the holy knot, Before St. Mary’s shrine, That makes a Paradise on earth, If hearts and hands combine. And every lord and lady bright, That were in chapel there, Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair.”

Partant Pour la Rue Baker.[42] It was Bill Noyes, the yeoman brave, Was in the tillage line, But first he set his heart upon His stock of beeves and swine; His mind to cattle most was given, And “darn,” he swore, “my wig! But I will breed the hugest ox, And rear the fattest pig.” This point of honour, weight of swine, And ox as highly scored, He proved it at the Smithfield Club, Before both squire and lord, And cried as to the judges’ view He bore the monsters big, “Now bain’t this here the hugest ox? That there the fattest pig?” They owned his victory—due the palm— And then the chairman said: “The ox that is for honour grown, On oilcake must be fed; On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow, And tubs of wash to swig; That’s how you cram the hugest ox, And stuff the fattest pig.” So round his neck the prize was tied, And then they went to dine, Which makes a farmer’s heaven on earth, When beef and beer combine; And every yeoman, lord, and ’squire, Conservative and Whig, Drank “Honour to the hugest ox, Be praised the fattest pig!” Punch. December 17, 1859.

It was Dunupp, the hard beset, Was bound to far Boulogne; But first a hansom he must get, And money he had none! “Alas,” he cried, “they’re safe to nab, No time have I to spare; If I can find the fastest cab I’ll prove the fairest fare.”

God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safetyes all; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall; To drive the deere with hound and horne, Erle Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborne, The hunting of that day. The stout Erle of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take; The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and beare away. The tydings to Erie Douglas came, In Scottland where he lay: Who sent Erle Percy present word, He would prevent his sport. The English Erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort With fifteen hundred bow-men bold; All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts arright. * * * * * Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter’d deere; Quoth he “Erle Douglas promised This day to meet me heere: But if I thought he would not come, Noe longer wold I stay.” With that, a brave young gentleman Thus to the Erle did say: “Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight.” * * * * * The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottland’s king did raigne, That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine. O heavy newes, King James did saye, Scottland may my witnesse bee, I have not any captaine more Of such account as hee. Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace: Now God be with him, said our king, Sith it will noe better bee; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred good as hee. Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take: I’ll be revenged on them all, For brave Erle Percye’s sake. This vow full well the king perform’d After, at Humbledowne; In one day, fifty knights were slaine; With lords of great renowne: And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands dye: 185 Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Erle Percy. God save our king, and bless this land With plentye, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foule debate ’Twixt noblemen may cease.

Chevy Chace.[43] God prosper long our noble King, Our lives and safeties all: A woeful story late there did In Britain’s Isle befall. Duke Smithson, of Northumberland,[44] A vow to God did make, The choicest gifts in fair England, For him and his to take. “Stand fast, my merry men all,” he cried, “By Moira’s Earl and me, And we will gain place, wealth, and pow’r, As arm’d neutrality. Excise and Customs, Church and Law, I’ve begged from Master Rose; The Garter too—but still the Blues I’ll have, or I’ll oppose.” “Now God be with him,” quoth the King, “Sith ’twill no better be; I trust we have within our realm, Five hundred good as he.” The Duke then join’d with Charley Fox A leader ware and tried, And Erskine, Sheridan, and Gray Fought stoutly by his side. Throughout our English Parliament They dealt full many a wound; But in his King’s and country’s cause, Pitt firmly stood his ground. And soon a law like arrow keen, Or spear, or curtal-axe, Struck poor Duke Smithson to the heart, In shape of Powder-tax.[45] Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried, “Crop, crop, my merry men all; No guinea for your heads I’ll pay, Though Church and State should fall.” Again the taxing-man appeared— No deadlier foe could be; A schedule of a cloth-yard long, Within his hands bore he. “Yield thee, Duke Smithson, and behold The assessment thou must pay; Dogs, horses, houses, coaches, clocks, And servants in array.” “Nay,” quoth the Duke, “in thy black scroll, Deductions I espye, For those who, poor, and mean, and low, With children burthen’d lie. And though full sixty thousand pounds My vassals pay to me, From Cornwall to Northumberland, Through many a fair countée; Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws, Its cause I value not, Compar’d with this, my constant text— A penny sav’d, is got. No drop of Princely Percy’s blood Through these cold veins doth run; With Hotspur’s castles, blazon, name, I still am poor Smithson. Let England’s youth unite in arms, And every liberal hand With honest zeal subscribe their mite To save the native land. I at St. Martin’s Vestry Board, To swear shall be content, That I have children eight, and claim Deductions, ten per cent.” God bless us all from factious foes, And French fraternal kiss; And grant the King may never make, Another Duke like this. From The Anti-Jacobin, March, 1798.

God prosper long our noble King, And guard our Statesmen all From foul mishaps of every sort, That vulgar folk enthral. Two orators, whose venom tongues Had left a point in doubt, With weapons of more deadly mould Resolv’d to fight it out. The one a squire, of manners blunt, A patriot staunch within; The other of a lordly breed, A courtier tall and thin. Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn; Ill luck such acts betide! 186 Was there no other to be found, Of all the days beside? * * * * *

The New Chevy Chace. (On the occasion of the O. P. Riots.) God prosper long our noble King, Our cash and comforts all, In Covent Garden, while I sing, The row that did befal. To chase the Cat with howl and horn John Bull went to the play; And though she laughed him to scorn, I trow he won the day. The Kembles, Harris, Son and Co. Did vow to God—God willing That for Grimalkin and their show They’d touch—the other shilling! For they a theatre had made, This famous Cat to squall in; With “Annual Boxes” for the trade No doubt of caterwalling; John’s native drama to undo, With foreign airs and vices— And so they e’en impos’d their New And banish’d his “Old Prices.” Their bowmen bold from Bow Street brought, All chosen men of might Resolv’d to stuff down Johnny’s throat, Their prices—wrong or right. But John whose skull with brains is cramn’d, Their schemes did soon unriddle, “And if I have, may I be damn’d, (Quoth he) your Cat and Fiddle! “What! think you me to tax and gull, “For building this here house! “Or thinks a Cat to catch John Bull “Just as she’d catch a mouse? “Your modesty, upon my soul, “Much with the ton increases, “That fain would cram each pigeon-hole “With seven-shilling pieces! “No, no—it will not do, Black Jack “It shall not do, by Jingo; “Old plays and prices we’ll have back, And no outlandish lingo!” The orchestra struck up in vain, Macbeth and wife were hiss’d! And “Birnham Wood to Dunsinane” Unnotic’d pass’d, I wist. For “banners on the outward wall” The tyrant had no use Their scrolls within so thick did fall, Though ne’er a flag of truce! On Monday first the row begun. Or call it what you may, ’Tis certain they kept up the fun Until the Saturday. The actors ran through every scene, As fast as they could go— As it a pantomime had been Or eke, a puppet show. And though the people that were there Most loud did roar and rage, Their backs they all, with special care, Did turn upon the stage. O Jove! it was a grief to see, For word you could not hear— (Except the speech of Mister Leigh) A tragedy so queer. To catgut, cat-call did reply, With bell and bugle brazen! And all the Gods, that sat on high, Help’d out the diapason. Yet bides Jack Kemble on the bent, A Don of thorough blood; With aitches though his head was rent, Firm as a mule he stood. “Show me,” said he, “what ’tis you want? “What want ye here?” he cried “We neither want your CAT or cant,” Our Englishmen replied. “Our notes, for her’s you shan’t command; “And for her pipe, perdie, “We trust we have within the land “Five hundred good as she!” With that there came a glorious roar, Of rattles and of row-sticks; As such there never did before Confound the catacousticks! Then look’d our manager, I trow, Like one in doleful dumps; His pride was humbled to a bow, Almost upon his stumps. As thus he said—“At length I yield, “You’ve got what you have wish’d; “You’ve won, John Bull, you’ve won the field, “And so—the cat is dish’d!” God save the King, and bless the land, Our liberties and laws, And thus may Britons ever stand, United in their cause. From The Morning Chronicle. September 30, 1809.

A Protectionist Parody. God prosper long our noble Queen, Our lands and purses all; A woeful ruin once there did In Parliament befall. The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,[46] A solemn vow did make, To scout the aristocracy, And make the farmers quake. The Landowners to terrify, The Corn-laws to repeal. These tidings to Lord Bentinck came, Who wished his country’s weal. He sent Sir Robert present word, He shouldn’t pass his bill; Sir Turnabout, not fearing this, Replied, “Indeed, I will.” For full three hundred backed him up, A force in numbers strong, Who knew full well in time of need To give their votes a-wrong. The “Turncoats” mustered in the “House,” Taunts able to endure; Their faces all that day were made Of brass, you may be sure. And long before midnight they had Their pledges rendered vain; And when they’d dined, the whipper-in Soon drove them back again. Sir Robert went—his speech complete— To view his friends so queer; Quoth he, “Lord Bentinck promised This night should cost me dear: Now, if I thought he would not come, I’d have my Com-mit-tee.” With that, says Bright, “Friend Turnabout, A sight you now may see. Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand, His friends replete with spite; Two hundred stout Protectionists, To cheer the live-long night; All sturdy agriculturists, True to their pledges still.” “Then leave your dinners,” Bobby said, “And Treasury benches fill, And now with me, my Turnabouts, Set forth fallacious words, For never was there statesman yet, In Commons House, or Lords, That e’er did with statistics come, But if he proved too strong, I durst cook up some others quick, To show that his were wrong.” Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse, Most like an honest man, Stood foremost of his company, And straightway thus began: “Show me,” said he, “What right have ye, The farmer’s gains to steal, To rob the agriculturists, The Corn-laws to Repeal?” The man who longest answer made, Was turn-coat Bobby, he Who said, “We have the right of power And of majority.” * * * * * Forth stept a manufacturer (Dick Cobden was his name) Who said, “I would not have it told Unto ‘The League’ for shame, That e’er this bill was fairly passed, To make our traffic free, And I took not that time t’abuse The Aristocracy. I’ll jaw as long as jaw I may, Although I’m proved quite wrong, Whilst I have place in Parliament I’ll never hold my tongue.” * * * * * The fight did last twelve live long nights, (The matter was so deep;) And when they cleared the gallery, The Speaker fell asleep! Two hundred men and seventy That day remained true; The rest did rat with Turnabout, And voted black was blue. Then tidings to Lord Stanley came, That Bentinck’s lord was beat, And that at last Protection’s cause Had suffered sore defeat. “Now heaven be with us,” Stanley said, “And Robert, what is he? I trust we have within this Isle, Leaders more trustworthy. Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say, But we will vengeance take: We’ll be revenged upon them all, For our good farmers’ sake. This vow full well the chief performed, As Irish bills explain, For Turnabout was then kicked out, And won’t come in again. Honour to you, Protectionists, Bob and his lot shall fall, For if they kept their places, you Have kept your pledges all!

Chevy Chase. New Version of the old Ballad of Chivalry, adapted to our unchivalric days. God prosper long our gracious Queen, And may no more befall, So foul a fight as that rude fray, Which Chevy[47] Chase we call. 188 To lead the House, with care and pain, Grey Gladstone did essay. The churl may shame that is unborn The manners of that day. The suave Sir Stafford[48] to oppose His devoir did with grace; A gentler pair of gallant foes Stood never face to face. But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire, Randolpho[49] was his name, Who cried, “You don’t call this a fight? Your style is much too tame! “You shall not fool about like this, And I stand looking on. You be too muffs,” Randolpho[49] said, “I’d lick the pair alone! “I’ll do the best that do I may, Although not Old or Grand. All this punctilio is rot; I’ll fight for my own hand!” Then straight arose a vulgar row, Shaming good hearts and true; Coarse words like poisoned arrows went, And smirched where they not slew. To still the storm, with broken voice, Grey Gladstone did his best; A Captain he of mickle might, Who never stooped his crest. But howls rose fast on every side, No courtesy was found; And yahoo yells of laughter rude, His struggling accents drowned. O Saints! it was great grief to see How pale he did appear, While flout and shout flew all about, Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer. This fight did last till Gladstone grey Shamed some of such coarse fun. Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell, That long-tried strength foredone. Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks,[50] A Knight of courtesie; On that black bench churl hearts might blench, And fail of their cad glee. For Randolpho needs must I wail As one in doleful dumps, Aping the rough who kicks his foe, And on his body jumps. Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight, Him pity ’tis to see Hounding rude clowns on, in despite Of gallant Chivalry. Let Irish churls of small account Thus play the unknightly lout; Let inarticulate Tory sumphs Thus rudely yell and shout; But one of brain and gentle blood Should deem it less disgrace To join some Cockney Epping Hunt Than lead a Chevy Chase! God save the Queen, and bless the land With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth that foul debate ’Twixt gentlemen may cease! Punch. May 30, 1885.

“Lord Bateman was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; He shipped himself on board a ship, He longed strange countries for to see.”

The New Ballad of Lord Bateman. Lord Bateman wos a noble Lord, Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee; So he up and he moved in the House of Peers, In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee! He maundered here, he meandered there, For a good two hours, or, some say, three, In the style of oration called roundaboutation, Until his hearers they wos wearee. For forty long years he had held the opinion, And still his belief in that same wos strong, That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely, Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong. We’d abandon’d our old lady-love, Protection, In favour of a minx wot wos far too free: We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries, Wich those foreign countries had failed to see. He would not go back to the old love wholly, He wosn’t quite a Dodo, he wosn’t—not he. The name of Protection he would rayther not mention, But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee. Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce. Wot man would marry an unloving bride? He failed to see wy it wos only in trading Reciprocity ought to be all o’ won side. Then up and answered another noble Lord,— Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,— And he “sat on” poor Lord Bateman in a scientific manner, Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee. 189 Says he,—“Reciprocity’s a hollow phantom, Though I swore ’twos a substance wonce, I know; But you won’t raise the dead with a dusty recital Of my musty phrases of forty years ago.” Then Free-Trade’s old lovyers they cheered and chuckled, And the gallant Granville he smiled for to see The Bogey young Dizzy so cleverly vamped up, So coolly torn to pieces by the old Lord B. But the crusted Lord Bateman, his sad face veiling From his country’s sorrows and his party’s crimes, Went homeward, and endeavoured to solace his sorrow, By buying a stuffed Dodo, and burning of the Times. Punch. May 10, 1879.

Ho! Broder Teague, dost hear de decree Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah. Dat we shall have a new deputie, Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah. Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah. (This refrain is to be repeated after each two lines.) Ho! by St. Tyburn, it is de Talbote: And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate. Lilli, &c. Dough by my shoul de English do praat, De law’s on dare side, and Chrish knows what, Lilli, &c. But if dispence do come from de Pope, We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope. For de good Talbote is made a lord, And with brave lads is coming aboard. Who all in France have taken a sware, Dat dey will have no Protestant heir. Arrah! but why does he stay behind? Ho! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind. But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore, And we shall have commissions gallore. And he dat will not go to de mass, Shall be turn out, and look like an ass. Now, now de hereticks all go down, By Crish and Saint Patrick, de nation’s our own. Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog, Ireland shall be ruled by an ass, and a dog. And now dis prophesy is come to pass, For Talbot’s de dog, and James is de ass. Lilli burlero, bullen-a-lah. Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.

“Very good song, very well sung, Jolly companions, every one.”

The New Lilla Bulero. Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree? Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha, United men we shall all of us be, Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha. Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha, Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha. Says England, since Union’s de ting dat you want, By Jasus I’ll give you a belly full on’t And if green is de colour you like, by de mass, You’ll be plas’d when all Dublin is cover’d wid grass. But, says Teague, now, by Union, what is it dey mane? Sure ’tis binding three nations all fast in one chain. ’Tis a shame which quite bodder’s one’s brain faith and troth, For ’tis worse for de one yet it’s better for both. Is not Johnny Fitzgibbon gone straight to de King? Oh! between ’em how nately dey’ll settle de ting! He’ll drive a rare job for us all, you may swear, And anoder as good for Lord Chancellor Clare. And since we’ve a parliament not to our mind, Sure to take it away now, is wonderful kind. Would a minister wish for his jobs better tools Dan a cargo of knaves, when exported by fools? And, by Christ, we’ll not send him such blundering elves, Who will tink of deir country and not of demselves. Oh! when Paddy in Westminster takes his own sate, By my shoul he’ll enliven de British debate. Should de Spaker call order, he’ll huff and look big, Till he makes ev’ry hair stand on an end on his wig. 190 Should a member prasume on his spache to remark Sure he’ll beg just to mate him next day in de Park. For a park like our Phanix in London dey’ve got, By jontlemen us’d for exchanging a shot. Won’t it be a vast benefit now to our trade, When all laws to promote it in England are made? You have seen, Teague, a cur, to whose draggled backside, Butcher boys have a broken old canister tied. Now, if England’s de dog whom French butchers assail, Will not we be de canister tied to her tail? Not a great while ago, sure, we heard a vast dale About renunciation and simple repale: But this schame now will strike ev’ry orator mute, And de Union will settle de simple dispute; And ’twill den to our fearce Orange yeomen be known, Dat in cutting our troats dey’ve been cutting deir own. Lilla Lero, &c. The Morning Chronicle. 1798.

The New “Lilli Burlero.” (To be sung by Nationalists to the old air.) Ho! Broder League, dost hear the decree? Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la, “Saunderson ought to be sub-Secretree.” Bully Bullero, Buller a-la.[51] Lero, Lero, Redvers Bullero, Lero, Lero, Buller o-la. Oranges come to us from foreign climes, Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la, Is the blood-orange a sign of the Times? Lilli Bullero Buller a-la. Lero, &c. Down with Moon-lighters and up with the Laws! Lillo Bullero, Buller a-la, And save us from Fire-and-Sworderson’s claws! Lilli Bullero, Buller a-la! Lero, &c. Punch. March 19, 1887.

The “Lay” of the Good Lord Rosebery. A Modern Ballad. It was the good Lord Rosebery And he sat at the Durdans fair, By the hour of noon in his heel-less shoon, And the ease of an easy-chair. “Come hither, come hither, my private scribe; Come hither and soothly say, What wild ducks fly, be it low, be it high, Over London town this day.” “O the talk flies high,” said the private scribe, “That to-day we cross the sea, To Calais and Brussels and fair Cologne, And the City upon the Spree. “And its O, but I know, when the loud winds blow And the sea climbs high on the strand, It is I that am wan as the wan water Or ever I win to land.” “Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried, “Till the actual qualms befall, And tell me, I pray, what men may say Of the mails which we travel withal.” “O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout, But and a Gladstone bag, With a bottle of blacking and brush inside Wrapped up in the British flag.” “But tell me, O tell me, my private scribe, Come tell me, and soothly say, How fared you with yon smart interviewèr Who interviewed you this day? “What learnt he of us and our secret plans? Sith he comes of a questing tribe, Did he ask what we’re at? hath he smelt of a rat? Say soothly, my private scribe.” “Now Heaven be good to thee, good my lord!” Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin, “Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk That his mother him bore yestreen? “O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known And many a one sent back With the saut, saut scent of the red herring Drawn featly across his track.” 191 “’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried, “’Tis well that the rogues should stray. But tell me, my scribe, what think they of us? What of our little game think they?” “O some there were who talked full wise Of the Germans beyond the sea, And the purposes dark of the grim Bismarck On the coast of New Guinea; “And who seemed cocksure you were seeking the Prince— ’Twas thus that the rumour ran— With additional swag in the Gladstone bag As a bribe from the grand old man.” “But said they nought,” said the Minister bold; Come tell me, my follower good, Of the Muscovite pranks on the Murghab’s banks, And the banks of the Heri Rud?” “O ay! O ay! there were some who deemed Of your mission to Germany thus: That you go to engage the honest brokèr To square the advancing Russ.” Full loud the good Lord Rosebery laughed, And his head went to and fro; Jack-fools are they who suppose that to-day One needs over sea to go. “A word flies fleet on the lightning’s feet, And ’twere best without ‘mission’ or fuss; Let the wire give hints to the broker-Prince To square the advancing Russ.” But the scribe look’d up from his newspapèr, And a white-faced scribe was he; “Too late may a man be, dear my lord, Though he wait not to cross the sea. “For the foot of a Fate that is bent on war May outstrip a surrendering wire; Our allies and our foes are already at blows, And the fat’s in the Afghan fire.” The Saturday Review. April 11, 1885.

December, 1885. (Some way after Drayton’s Ballad of Agincourt.) Fair stood the wind (we thought), Ere the great fight was fought, Much hoping, fearing nought, On marched our heroes. But when, whilst banners flew, First Orange closed with Blue, Our hopes soon tumbled to Chillest of zeros! When in his height of pride, Joe did the foe deride, And “Ransom” loudly cried, Many offending; When he forgot the while Rob Roy’s not English style, Cecil did darkly smile, Mischief portending. And, turning to his men, Quoth our sage William then, “Bearded in our own den? I am amazéd! But battles ill begun By pluck are often won. Close ranks, and fight like fun! Joe has gone craséd. “But for myself,” quoth he, This my last fight may be. England will mock at me, No more esteem me, If vanquished I remain, In this great fray fall slain; Close up and charge again Loss to redeem me! “’Eighty’ our foes may tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell, Not less our skill is Than when great Ben we beat; That conquest we’ll repeat If you but follow fleet One standard—Willie’s!” * * * * * (Five verses omitted.) Dilke held a stubborn pike, Harcourt as Thor did strike, Smiting down smashers like Hammer on anvil; Morley his axe did ply, Bright and young Rosebery Bore them right doughtily, Derby and Granville! All in December grey Fought was this wondrous fray, Brave Britons, as when they Lopped the French lillies! Acts these to fill a pen! Must not all Englishmen Hops we may breed again Hearts like Auld Willie’s? Punch. December 19, 1885.

The Battle of the Ballot. (Another imitation of Drayton’s Ballad,) See, where the hosts advance, As on their steeds they prance, Flashing the sword and lance, Eager for glory! Hear ye the battle din; Who will be “Out” or “In”— Which of the twain will win— Lib’ral or Tory? Salisbury, helmetless, On with his lance doth press Theat’ning with dire distress Will o’ the Collars! He, with uplifted axe, Never true valour lacks— Sore doth his vigour tax “Squire” G., who “follers.” 192 Randolph, the Slangy Knight, Joins in the furious fight— See, too, Free-Trader Bright— “Joe,” too, of Land-fame! See while the Tories “fake,” Lib’rals the cry awake— “Win, Gladstone, win, and make Grander your grand fame!” Fun. December 2, 1885.

God rest you merry, gentlemen! May nothing you dismay; Not even the dyspeptic plats Through which you’ll eat your way; Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills The season bids you pay; No, nor the ever tiresome need Of being to order gay; Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch If fog and slush hold sway; Nor yet the tumbles you must bear If frost should win the day; Nor sleepless nights—they’re sure to come— When “waits” attune their lay; Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness Might turn macassar grey; Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, And ravenous of play; Nor yet—in fact, the host of ills Which Christmases array. God rest you merry gentlemen, May none of these dismay! Funny Folks. January, 1880.

John Kemble he would an acting go, Heigho! says Kemble; He raised the price which he thought too low, Whether the public would let him or no; With his roly-poly, gammon and spinnage, And ho! say manager Kemble. The mob at the door made a mighty din, Heigho! says Kemble; They dashed like devils thro’ thick and thin, And over the benches came tumbling in, With their roly, &c. ’Twill do, says manager Kemble. Soon as they pass’d Will Shakespeare’s hall, Heigho! says Kemble; They thought the lobbies were much too small, So they gave a loud roar, and they gave a loud bawl, With roly, &c. Hollo! says manager Kemble. Pray what do you want? (in a sort of a huff) Heigho! says Kemble; Says Mr. Leigh—“Nonsensical stuff, Pho, none of your gammon, you know well enough. With your roly, &c. You do, great manager Kemble; He held by the tip his opera-hat, Heigho! says Kemble; “Indeed the concern’s as poor as a rat;” Says Bull, “No dam’me, we won’t stand that,” With our roly, &c. ’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble. He folded his arms, in a sad nonplus, Heigho! says Kemble; With Queen Anne’s prices he made a fuss, Says Bull, “what the devil’s Queen Anne to us,” With roly, &c. ’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble. He swore to himself an oath, by Styx, Heigho! says Kemble. Kind ladies and gentlemen, none of your tricks, I love seven shillings much better than six, With my roly, &c. I do, says manager Kemble. Then roar’d the gallery, gentle souls, Heigho! says Kemble; No private boxes, no pigeon-holes, We’ll dowse your glims, in a crack, by goles, With roly, &c. No, don’t, says manager Kemble. The Morning Chronicle. November, 7, 1809.

Hal Clifford would once a reforming go, Heigho! says Clifford; He swore by the mass, that he’d nonsuit his foe, And under his jerkin he hid his flambeau; With his roly, poly, gammon and spinage, “I’ll do it” roar’d patriot Clifford. He went to the pit, where he saw a great fray, Heigho! says Clifford; “We want” cried O.P. “those vile boxes away,” For if they don’t sin there, I’m sure that they may,” With a roly, poly, gammon and spinage, “They shall vanish” said patriot Clifford. * * * * * Now he swears reformation has got a new tune, Heigho! said Clifford; Lo! he and John Kemble, like loon scratching loon, Sip their dramatic broth with the very same spoon; With roly, poly, gammon and spinnage, “It’s over” said patriot Clifford.

The New Magazine. Campbell would a writing go, Heigh ho! said Colburn. Campbell would a writing go, Whether the people would let him or no, With a Cockrane, Pickersgill, gammon and spinage— Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn. Off he set with the “Pleasures of Hope,” Heigh ho! said Colburn. On the road he spouted from Pope, With his absent, thoughtless!—gammon and spinage— Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn. He soon arrived at the Union Club, Heigh ho! said Redding; And he knocked at the door with a rub-a-dub-dub, And an English, Irish—gammon and spinage— Heigh ho! said Cyrus Redding. Pray Mr. Redding, Are you within? Heigh ho! said Campbell; Yes, dear Tom, I’m drinking my gin, With a lemon, sugar—gammon and spinach— Heigh ho! said the longing Campbell. Well Mr. Redding, I’ll have some too, Heigh ho! said Campbell; Aye, if you pay for it, that you may do, With a spoon and tumbler—gammon and spinage— Heigh ho and the devil! said Campbell. Pray Mr. Campbell, what brought you here? Heigh ho said a Lady;— I’m making a new magazine, my dear, A Metropolitan—gammon and spinage— Heigh ho, indeed! said the Lady. I’ve left the “New Monthly” once and for all, Well done, said Redding; And now I’m determined to work for its fall, With its portraits, memoirs—gammon and spinage— I’m very glad of it, said Redding. Perhaps you’ll help me over the style; That I will, said Redding: So they sat down with a smirk and a smile, With pens and paper—gammon and spinage— Tom Campbell and Cyrus Redding. They had written prospectus—quaff’d their gin. I’m devilish tired, said Redding. When Picken and Roscoe came tumbling in With James and Marryatt—gammon and spinage— You’re the King’s Own, said Redding. Campbell rose, and with voice so sweet, Gentlemen all, said Campbell, I’ll give you fifteen guineas a sheet For your tales and politics—gammon and spinage So you ought to write well, said Campbell. I mean to be independent quite,— The devil you do? said Roscoe. I begin to think it’s nothing but right, And better than puffing, gammon and spinage, To be sure so it is, said Roscoe. They then retired, each and all, All alone was Campbell; And they finished their articles, great and small, Poems, advertisements, gammon and spinage, And sent them away to Campbell. Under a cover the numbers were bound, Heigh ho! said the reader: Cochrane and partner sent them round To the nobles, gentry, gammon and spinage, Heigh ho! said the gentle reader. The National Omnibus. May 13, 1831.

Froggy must a warring go— Heigh ho, so slowly! Froggy must a warring go, By the Emperor’s orders, like it or no, With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so slowly! So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue, Heigh ho, so growly, So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue, And there found John Bull with a soldier or two, With his good-natured Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan, Heigh ho, so scowly! When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run— Heigh ho, so easy! When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run, It was Froggy, of course took the one captured gun, With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet, and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so easy! When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue— Heigh ho, so foully! When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue, To John Bull, of course, the delay was due, With his easy Lord Raglan, Lucan and Cardigan, Heigh ho, so growlly! When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack”— Heigh ho, so slowly! When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack,” Of course, Froggy held left and right attack, With his bouncing Pelissier, Bosquet, and Canrobert, Heigh ho, so slowly! When six to one did at Inkermann fight— Heigh ho, so boldly! When six to one did at Inkermann fight, It was Froggy, of course, that defended the height, With his terrible Chasseurs, Zouaves, and Indigénes, Heigh ho, so boldly! When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse— Heigh ho, so quickly! When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse, The “thin red line” was Froggy’s of course, With his blundering Lucan, Campbell, and Highlanders, Heigh ho, so quickly! When the Allies’ assault was repulsed in June— Heigh ho, so foully! When the Allies’ attack was repulsed in June, 194 ’Twasn’t Froggy began the attack too soon, With his Duke of Malakhoff, Bosquet, and Company, Heigh ho, so foully! When at last Sebastopol city was ta’en— Heigh ho, so slowly It was Froggy did all—except lose the Redan, With his thundering D’Angely, Bosquet, and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so slowly! In short, the Siege of Sebastopol— Heigh ho, so wholly! In short, the Siege of Sebastopol, Was Froggy’s achievement, whole and sole, With his Admiral Hamelin, Bosquet, and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so wholly! Of what laurels there are to win and wear— Heigh ho, so seedy! Of what laurels there are to win and wear, Of course, Froggy claims the Lion’s share, With his Dukes and his Marshals, Bosquet and Malakhoff, Heigh ho, so greedy! Punch. January 31, 1857.

The Frog who would a-wooing Go. A Premier would a-wooing go, (“Boo! boo!” says Randy) Whether his Party liked it or no, With a Salisbury, Halsbury gammon and spinach. (“Pooh! pooh!” says pert little Randy.) So off he went in a terrible pet, (“Ta-ta!” says Randy) And a Whiggy Peer was the first he met, With a Hartington haughty tone gammon and spinach. (“Pooh! pooh!” says smart little Randy.) “Pray, Mr. Marquis, come with me?” (“Yah! yah!” says Randy) “And help us to govern our great countree, With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.” (“Pooh! pooh!” says little Lord Randy.) “You shall be Premier if you wish,” (“Heigho!” says Randy) “The principal spoon in the Tory dish Of Salisbury, Halsbury, gammon and spinach.” (“Boo! boo!” says cross little Randy.) “Our Tory colours we’ll change about,” (“Hurroo!” says Randy) “If you’ll help to keep old Gladstone out, With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.” (“Yah! yah!” says sharp little Randy.) “No! Mr. Sarum, I can’t go with you.” (“Neither could I,” says Randy) “If I did the bargain I quickly should rue, With your Marshall and Snelgrove gammon and spinach.” (“Just so!” says little Lord Randy.) “But on my support you may depend,” (“Oh, indeed!” says Randy) “In need I’ll always prove your friend, With my Liberal Unionist gammon and spinach,” (“Oh! oh!” says spry little Randy.) “There’s no one now but Goschen left,” (“Invertebrate!” sneers Randy) A chief of followers bereft,” With a Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach, (“Quite so!” says smart little Randy) So off he went to Mr. G. (“Silly Bob,” says Randy) Who said he’d accept the Chancell’rie, With a Northbrook, Lansdowne gammon and spinach, (“Pooh, pooh,” says bad little Randy.) But when he reached his home again, (“All in the dumps,” says Randy) Upon his head reproaches rain; With a hurly-burly gammon and spinach. (“Yo, ho!” sings chuckling Randy.) It was who’s to go and who’s to rise? (“That’s the rub!” says Randy) Each marked the other with jealous eyes, With a grumbling, rumbling gammon and spinach. (“What fun!” says mischievous Randy.) The kindest and the truest man, (“Go it, Bob!” says Randy) To turn him out they plot and plan, With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach. (“He’s old!” says cruel young Randy.) Upon one point they all agree— (“Only one,” adds Randy) To banish dear Lord Iddesleigh, With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach. (“Hurroo!” shouts little Lord Randy.) “But what’s to be the end of this?” (“Deuced queer!” says Randy) “Such a chance old Gladstone never will miss, With his Homer, Home Rule, gammon and spinach.” (“Heigho!” sighs sad little Randy.) The Premier was swimming along one day, (“What’ll come next?” says Randy) A grand old duck came and gobbled him up, With his Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen, and spinach. (“All up” says little Lord Randy.) Pall Mall Gazette. January 20, 1887.

Off they went to Osborne to play, (“Heigho!” say Rowley.) Off they went to Osborne to play; There were only Mrs. and Mr. K., With their Rowley Cathcart. (“Would it were Greenwich. Heigho!” sighs elderly Rowley.) 195 The first piece played was Uncle’s Will. (“Ho! Ho!” laughs Rowley.) They all three played in Uncle’s Will, And Sweethearts to follow completed the bill, Both with Rowley Cathcart. (“Glad to get finidg’d, Heigho!” growls elderly Rowley.) They greatly delighted Her Majestee, (“Hooray!” cries Rowley.) They highly delighted Her Majestee, Did Mister and Missus and little Rowlee, With their tact in actin’ Little space pack’d in. (“Heigho!” says elderly Rowley.) With a brooch did her Her Majesty Mrs. K. deck. (“Hooray!” shouts Rowley.) Crown diamonds shining in front of her neck; A cheque to her Hub; then the Queen drew a cheque For their Rowley, slowly, (“Solely and wholly For me!” cries elderly Rowley.) Postscript. Charles Wyndham on hearing it threw his hands up (“Hallo!” says Davy.) Charles Wyndham on hearing it threw his hands up, And into them H.R.H. chucked a gold cup, For command obeying, Sandringham playing, “Hooray!” cries Wyndham as Davy! Punch. February 26, 1887.

The Crafty Hawarden Fox and the Sour Unionist Grapes. A grey old fox sat under a vine (Heigho! says Morley), Ogling the grapes so plump and fine, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach (Heigho! says miserable Morley). “Oh, come and be gobbled up, grapes,” said he (Heigho! says Morley) “It’s really a treat to be swallowed by me, With my Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach (Heigho! says miserable Morley) But the grapes stuck fast to the parent stem (Heigho! says Morley) “We shan’t get much out of blarneying them, With our Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley) Then the old fox jumped, but ’twas all in vain (Heigho! says Morley). For he came bump on his haunches again, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley). The more he jumped the fiercer he grew (Heigho! says Morley) And he growled all the naughtiest growls he knew, With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, (Heigho! says miserable Morley). “The grapes are sour, and not fit to eat.” (Just so, says Morley); So the pair crawled off to their den dead beat, With their Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach, The grey old fox and his Morley. J. W. P. St. Stephen’s Review. June 18, 1887.

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here’s to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass. Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir: 196 Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir. Let the toast pass, &c. Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow; Now to her that’s as brown as a berry: Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry. Let the toast pass, &c. For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e’en toast them together. Let the toast pass, &c.

‘A health to the nut brown lass With the hazel eyes, let it pass, She that has good eyes, &c. Let it pass—let it pass. As much to the lively grey, ’Tis as good in the night as the day, She that hath good eyes, &c. Drink away—drink away. I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine, Here’s to thine—here’s to thine! The colours are divine; But ho! the black, the black, Give me as much again, and let ’t be sack; She that hath good eyes,’ &c.

Song by Sir Robert Peel. Here’s to each Tory and Radical too; Just only my Income Tax pass, boys, And you’ll see how completely John Bull I shall “do,” By taking the duty off glass, boys. Let the bill pass, John’s such an ass, I’ll warrant he’ll find an excuse in the glass. Here’s the debater whose speeches we prize, And here’s to the spouter of twaddle: To gentlemen gifted with brains, and likewise, To those who have none in their noddle. Let the bill pass, &c. Here’s unto Cobden, and here’s to Friend Bright, The farmers’ and landowners’ friend, too; To those who for Corn-Law monopoly fight, And those for Free Trade who contend, too. Here’s to the few for class interests who vote, With a view to the loaves and the fishes; Here’s to the many who strive to promote Their constituents objects and wishes. Here’s to young England and here’s unto old! For all parties I care not a feather: So long as you all are contented to hold, In support of my Budget, together. Let the Bill pass, &c. Punch. March 8, 1845.

Love, You must Own, is a Comical Thing. Love, you must own is a comical thing, ’Tis hoaxing, and coaxing, and teasing, Its power is so great it can conquer a king, Still its heaviest chains are oft pleasing. Its praise let us sound, For I will be bound, There are nine out of ten in love all the year round. Stoics may preach against love if they please, Still, still I’ll declare it a pleasure; For though a fair maiden may often times tease, Still the girl of my heart is a treasure. Its praise let us sound, &c. Husbands may say when they’re wed a few years, A wife’s a hard bargain to deal with; But I value not their lamentations and tears, For some lass I will soon sign and seal with, Its praise let us sound, &c. Let single or married rail as they will, Yet love is the sunshine of life, sirs. And I will stand forth as its advocate still, Nor stop till I get me a wife, sirs. Its praise let us sound, &c. I am in love, as before I have said, And no cynic my passion shall smother, I’ll marry a wife, and when she is dead, Why, then, I will marry another. Its praise let us sound, &c. Then come in our dreams, love, love it shall be, Our joy it shall sweeten our glasses; We’ll drink it by land, and we’ll drink it by sea, For without it we lose all our lasses. Its praise let us sound, &c. Bryant.

Election Song. Here’s to the Voter whose terms are fifteen; Here’s to the vote that costs fifty; Here’s to the Candidate shabby and mean, And here’s to the one that’s not thrifty. Let the Bill[52] pass; ’Tis but a farce; I warrant they’ll find an excuse for a glass. Here’s to the Voter whose freehold we prize, Here’s to the tenant with none, Sir; Here’s to the host who the liquor supplies, Here’s to the beer-taps that run, Sir. Let the Bill pass, &c. Here’s to the Candidate, pure as the snow, With an agent as black as a berry; Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And here’s to the bribe makes her merry. Let the Bill pass, &c. For let them be clumsy or cautiously trim, Snug or open, I care not a feather; So fill all the pewter-pots up to the brim, And let both sides get drunk altogether. Let the Bill pass, He’s but an ass, Who’s puzzled to find an excuse for a glass. Punch. April 3, 1852.

The Bookmaker’s Toast. Here’s to the Ringman that’s made a grand coup, And here’s to the loser, the duffer! And here’s to the Ringman that hasn’t a screw, And here’s to his dupes that all suffer! Yet, don’t scruple to spend, but pay to the end, And I’ll warrant you’ll find that the layer’s your friend. Here’s to the ninny backs all in the race, And here’s to the cautious beginner! Who’s surely, though quietly, learning the pace, While the old hands are spotting the winner. Then let the toast swing, and drink to the Ring, For I’ll warrant in time they’ll let outsiders in. The Globe.

Easter. Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen, Easter for lovers of fifty. Easter for all should be mild and serene, Not gusty and shifty and drifty. Easter (alas! Soon may it pass) I warrant ’twill prove an excuse for a glass. Easter might brighter be as to the skies, What has become of the sun, sirs? Easter our temper exceedingly tries, When Easter is not a fine one, sirs. Coughing Chorus—Easter, alas, &c. Easter is made up of drizzle and snow, Easter is changeable very, Easter’s unlike what it was years ago; But still let us all drink and be merry. Sneezing Chorus—Easter, alas. &c.

A Toast to Mankind. Here’s to the man with a balance in hand— Here’s to the party who’s minus, Here’s to the friend who’s unable to stand, And here’s to the swell that will dine us. Let the toast gee— Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be! Here’s to the swell with a landed estate, Here’s to the chap who has nil, sir, Here’s to the card who’s presented with plate, And, to him who’s presented a bill, sir, Let the toast gee— Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be. Here’s to the cove with the shirt-front of snow, Now to him who’s not even a dickey; Here’s to him on whom Fortune all gifts doth bestow, And to him now, with whom she is tricky. Let the toast gee— Drink to him, he, I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be. For whether they’re sinking, or whether they swim, Poor or wealthy, I care not a dump’s sum. Come fill up a bumper—nay, fill to the brim, And drink to mankind as a lump sum. Let the toast, pray, Pass, sir, for they Will prove an excuse for our moistening the clay. Fun.