WALTER HAMILTON,

I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; But I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to rest. To rest in the far bright heaven, Oh, so far away from here; It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear. * * * * * And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate; So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.

The Message. I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loves best, For I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to the west, To our pretty suburban villa, At least five miles from here, And my dear affectionate darling Will be very anxious, I fear. I wrote a letter to send her, So tender, and loving, and sweet, I longed for a seraph to bear it, And lay it down at her feet. I gave it the clerk in the morning, And the post was only next door, But the stupid, forgetful fellow Didn’t post it till half-past four. I cried in my passionate longing, “Has the earth no angel friend Who will carry my love the message My heart desires to send!” The message at last was sent her, And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove, The telegraph boy brought my warning— “Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.” Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

The Message. (Of the Future.) I had a message to send her, To her whom my soul loves best, But I had some letters to finish, And it couldn’t go out with the rest— With the rest to the first post-office, Oh, so far away from here; It was vain to call back the porter, He was deaf and could not hear. I had a message to send her: Some friends I intended to treat, And I longed for a hansom to bear it, But there wasn’t a cab in the street. I placed it (that summer noontide) In the pocket which lay on my breast, But when I went out for my luncheon I had on a different vest. I gave it a boy, with a copper, And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er, But his fingers were faint and weary And it fluttered to earth once more. And I cried, midst my passionate swearing, “Have I got no bosom friend Who will kindly deliver the message, That I am so anxious to send?” Then I heard a strain of music, And I wondered all cats weren’t dead, But I found ’twas the wind that was passing Through the telephone wires overhead. It rose in harmonious rushings Like a fiddle-bow over the strings, And I thought I would send my message, By one of those new-fangled things. And I heard it float farther and farther, In sound it resembled my speech, Farther than I could travel, Farther than eye could reach. And I knew that at last my message Had been telephoned down to my wife, And my mind was no longer uneasy For I knew she’d expect us at five. Funny Folks. October 19, 1878.

I had a message to give her, But she too early had fled; I thought of it since we parted, And she had gone home to bed 3 To rest in the highest attic, Far up near the starry sky: And she never could hear me calling— Her window was much too high. I had a message to give her (A line which I here repeat), But I thought it would not be proper To shout it from out the street; So I tried to attract attention By flinging aloft a stone, But I only broke a window, And left her—in haste—alone. I gave it to “milk” next morning, And I watched if she took it in. But ’twas somebody else who did it (I’d to stand the “milk” some gin). And I cried in my passionate longing, “Oh! is there no other way I can get to my love the message, And say what I have to say?” Then I heard a sweet voice singing Up high in the morning air; She was cleaning the first-floor windows, And I beckoned her down the stair. And she came to the front door quickly— For her mistress was not yet up— And she said I must come that ev’ning (For the cook was going out) to sup. So I hastened home to my breakfast (I had coffee and salted fish), And went to my work as happy As lover who’s got his wish; For I knew I should give my message— And I felt it was not too late— I should meet her that night at supper, So I was content to wait. Fun. October 17, 1883.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt, Sweet William wot chops treeses down? How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote And said he’d soon down with the Crown. Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt, Or a hactor hobscure and halone, He have positive shown in a letter so gay That he still have regard for the Throne. Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt? His tongue it would never keep still; And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack To the click of the Radical mill. Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt And I looks for their meaning around; For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince That he’s artful and werry profound! Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With its master, the Brummagem screw? And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?— A howling Republican crew! I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt, For that letter have made me feel dry: And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben, YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!! England, January 24, 1885.

Batting one day at the Oval, I was scoring and quite at ease, And I “placed” the bowling neatly, Piling up twos and threes. I know not whom we were playing Or what was my total then, But I struck one ball of Morley’s Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.” It fled in the golden sunlight Like the devil away from psalms, And swiftly, though long-leg fielded, It slipped like an eel through his palms. It quieted chaff and chatter Like loves overcoming dears, And raised a harmonious echo Of loud, discordant cheers. It left the perplexéd fieldmen, Simple as perfect geese, And rolled away in the distance As if it were loth to cease. I have sought and still seek vainly Of the lost ball a sign, That came from the shoulder of Morley And travelled away from mine. It may be some man from the gas-works Will find it on his domain; It may be that only next season I shall strike at that ball again.

The Lost Cord. (Words by an Organ-grinder. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.) Andante Moderato. Seated one day on the organ Was my monkey, but ill at ease, For his fingers wandered idly, Searching for—what you please. I know not what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming, quite, But I dropped his cord and, quickly, With a bound he was out of sight! With a bound he was out of sight! Then forth he came through a skylight, With some clothes on his outstretched arm; And the way that he sought to wear them Had a touch of infinite charm. While riot and shrieks of sorrow Above, from a plundered wife, 4 Recalled the harmonious echo Of my discordant life. The things perplexed the monkey, He spoilt them piece by piece:— Animato. I trembled away in my silence, In fear of the dread police! Agitato. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one last cord, and pine For him, for the soul of my organ— That vanished ape of mine! Grandioso. It may be my truant monkey Will come with that cord again; It may be he only decamps When he hears the organ-men (Repeat.) Judy, March 3, 1880.

The Lost Voice. Seated at Church in the winter I was frozen in every limb, And the village choir shrieked wildly Over a noisy hymn. I do not know what they were singing But while I was watching them Our Curate began his sermon With the sound of a slight “Ahem!” It frightened the female portion Like the storm which succeeds a calm, Both maidens and matrons heard it With a touch of inane alarm. It told them of pain and sorrow, Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, Bronchitis, and influenza All aimed at our Curate’s life. It linked all perplex’d diseases Into one precious frame; They trembled with rage if a sceptic Attempted to ask its name. They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, Stuffed him with food and wine, They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him With sympathy divine. It may be that other Curates Will preach in that church to them, Will there be every time, Good Heavens! Such fuss for a slight—Ahem! A. H. S.

The Correct Chord. Seated for years at the organ, Just trying the stops and keys, And wondering how the pedals Might be got to work with ease: By ear, with my notes in my pocket, Performing—as few men can, I struck such a chord that the organ Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.” It flooded the daily papers, Like the name of a comic song, And I felt several inches taller As I quietly bowled along. I think that it nettled Northcote, Polite as he can be in strife, Though it seemed a sensible echo From the din of my public life. But it brought down chaff by the cartload, That possibly may increase;— For till Churchill’s in with his Party, I never shall know any peace. But I take the whole thing calmly, For the cord has a swell that’s fine; And I’m glad the popular organ Has a touch that answers mine. And whether I stick to the Commons,— And I certainly will if I can,— Or go to the Peers,—no matter, I shall still hear “that Grand, Old Man!” Punch. March 10, 1883.

The Lost Drink. Seated one day at a café, I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx, And my tongue went babbling idly Over the names of drinks. I knew not what I was saying, Nor what I had uttered then; But the garçon brought me a mixture Like a gift of the gods to men. Its colour was crimson foncé Like the tip of a toper’s nose, And it tickled my fever’d palate With a touch of infinite “goes.” It trickled down my gullet Like oil down a red-hot pipe; It seemed the harmonious echo From some supernal swipe. It linked vin rouge and choice liqueur Into one perfect drop, And guggled away down my gullet As if it were loth to stop. I have sought—but I seek it vainly— That one lost drink divine, Which was mixed by that garçon du café With curaçoa and red wine. It may be that some chance garçon May bring me that drink again; It may be that some day in Paris I may utter its name. But then I never could find that café, And lost to mortal ken Is that supernal boisson Like a gift of the gods to men! Judy. October 27, 1886.

A Parody of Lady Arthur Hill’s Song. In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor, When your ways are mean and low, And the sons of Alma Mater Loudly come and softly go; When you prowl around my college, With your Bull-dogs in a row, Will you watch for me and catch me As you did one term ago? In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor, Think not bitterly of me! Tho’ I tripped you up instanter, Left you prostrate, and was free. For my diggings were quite handy, Five bob more could never be; It was best to floor you thus, sir, Worst for you, but best for me! A. Haskett Smith. University College, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming;” or, The Wailings of a Disappointed Novice. In the gloaming, oh! my darling! Don’t I curse the thoughts of thee! Crowding ever like grim phantoms, Haunting me unceasingly. Oh! my heart is sad with longing, What I dreamed will never be: It were best to “chuck you up,” dear, Best for you and best for me. In the gloaming, oh! my darling! When thy light burns dim and low, And the vision of a bobby, Sets my ruby all aglow! When with pain my limbs are aching, As I “hook it” awful slow, Withering condemnations hearty Of thy maker often flow. In the gloaming, oh! my darling! I will mount thee not in vain; Take thee to a near relation, “Pop thee up the spout” for gain! Thus I’ll rid me of thy torments, Instrument of make insane! I have learned by sad experience, Cycling ain’t an easy game. “Ab Initio.” Icycles. 1880.

More Gloamingly. In the gloaming, O my darling, Now our credit’s very low, And the tax-collectors calling, Often come and unpaid go; Now the landlord’s asking quaintly For the rent you know we owe, Will you let me have some money, As you did—once—long ago? In the gloaming, O my darling, Think not bitterly on me, If we bolt away in silence, Bilk our duns, and thus be free! For their hearts are crushed with longing,— Paid their bills can never be; It is best to leave them thus, love, Best for you and best for me! It is best to leave them thus, love, Best for you and best for me! Judy. March 2, 1881.

An Oxford Shooting Expedition In the shooting, oh, my comrade, When the birds are flying low, And the hares and wily bunnies Swiftly come and swiftly go: When the beaters cry, “Mark over!” And a cock comes skimming low, Will you blaze away, and pot me, As you did once long ago? In the shooting, oh, my comrade, Think not bitterly of me, Though I shammed that you had killed me, And you rushed up pale to see. For I taught you then a lesson Which will ne’er forgotten be, It was best to teach it roughly, Best for all your friends and me! A Haskett Smith, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming.” (Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio, South Kensington.) In the gloaming, O my darlings, When our hearts are sinking low, When our mouths are wide with yawning, And our backs are aching so; When the thought of painting longer Fills us with an untold woe; How we think of tea, and love it, While the shadows deeper grow! In the gloaming, O my darlings, We think tenderly of tea, Till our hearts are crushed with longing Round our steaming cups to be. (It is only green in mem’ry, And at times—’twixt you and me— A malignant grocer sends us An inferior bohea.) In the gloaming, O my darlings, When our hearts are sinking low, When our mouths are wide with yawning, And our backs are aching so; Will the tea be weak? we wonder (What has been, again may be); But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears— Best for you and best for me. Helen Marion Burnside. The Girls’ Own Paper. February 23, 1884.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize, I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs, ’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. * * * * * Eliza Cook

My Old Arm Chair. I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair? It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight Into the dreams that I dream by night. When I look at its cover of outworn chintz, Where age and washing have blurred the tints, No earthly passion can well compare With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair. I loved with a love of the noblest kind;— Sensitive, delicate, most refined. But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow, And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now. I cannot forget, though I might forgive; My wrongs will follow me whilst I live. But this is the memory worst to bear;— She once took tea in that old arm-chair. I owned a creditor—(frightful man!) Who bored me as creditors only can. He vaguely talked of a small amount Which took the shape of an old account, Twice in the week, I remember well, He banged my knocker or twanged my bell. If he found me without any cash to spare, He called me names from that old arm-chair. Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls, Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls, Visit that seat, and around it swarm In every possible shape and form. My life is a torture, a perfect curse— My home is a dungeon, or something worse. I shall never be happy or freed from care Until I get rid of that old arm-chair.

On the New Arm Chair. (Presented to Mr. Gladstone.) The Pleased Premier Sings:— I love it, I love it; will Worms, now, dare To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair? I shall treasure it long, ’tis a genuine prize, Of cosy make, of convenient size. ’Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links, By memories pleasant of “forty winks.” Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair. I have sat in the Commons this many a day, Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey: Oh, the hours I have lounged, and—with trouble—smiled Whilst Churchill cheeked or the Pats ran wild; Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead, And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed. By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair! But Harcourt’s waiting, and I must go; He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know. Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side, My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide. Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek, I should very much like to talk on for a week. Now myself from your presence I really must tear, But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair. Punch. August 27, 1881.

“I loved it, I loved it; and who would dare To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair? When they chose me first to its seat to rise, I looked on it then as a precious prize, And my heart with joy and with pride was big When I put on my new full-bottomed wig. I was under a spell as I first sat there, And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair! “And all at first happened well for me, And my life was calm as calm could be; The ‘Ayes’ were gentle, the ‘Noes’ were kind, And rarely to sitting late inclined; Whilst night after night ’twas my happy fate To retire for my ‘chop’ at half-past eight; To retire and return, unvexed by care, To sit—aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair! “But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped, My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled: For there came o’er the scene a parlous change, As the new M.P.’s brought their manners strange; Till one night, alas! was ‘Obstruction’ born, And I knew what it was to sit till morn; Ah! I learned what a Speaker’s strength could bear, As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair. “’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering lips and with throbbing brow; For there full oft have I sat in vain, Till the day has peeped through the window pane; ’Twas there I was badgered; ’twas there I heard My solemn rulings declared absurd— But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair.”

“Ah, ’tis well, my new successor, Aye, ’tis meet you thus have found me Lingering here in semi-darkness, And addressing mournful lyrics To the furniture about me.” Truth. February 28, 1884.

I dread it, I dread it! and who shall dare To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair? I’ve treasured it long as an antique prize, But Science has suddenly opened my eyes; So now I say to my startled heart That ’twere better the chair and I should part. Would you know my reason?—a mother sat there, And became the prey of that old arm-chair. In childhood’s hour I lingered near That treacherous seat without a fear, And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew As she worked at her knitting the morning through, For German savants had yet to produce Their ghastly theory of “noxious juice,” And my parent guessed at no cause for scare In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair. The doctor watched her many a day, While she took her physic and pined away; And it failed to strike him that p’raps her cure Might be found in a smash of furniture. Time passed on, and I heard with glee That mater intended to try the sea; But though she recovered in Brighton air, I never suspected the old arm-chair. I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow, ’Twas there she sickened and almost died— Of chair—as professors sage decide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek; But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair. Funny Folks. May 29, 1886.

The Dentist’s Chair. I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair? I hated it first in my early youth, When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth. And many and keen are the pangs through my soul, And the terror I feel is beyond control; I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair, As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair. It has held me many and many a day, When I fain would have been in the fields at play And I hated the dentist when first I sat In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.” Years roll on and are quickly fled, And my teeth became shattered within my head: But I know how much the heart can bear, When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair. Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now, With affright in my soul and care on my brow; ’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled; ’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed. Say it is folly, and call me weak, While the raging nerves puff out my cheek, But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair, And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair. A. L. D. Modern Society. April 17, 1886.

Song of November. (Another parody of Eliza Cook,) That gridiron by the mantel-piece, Its look gives every nerve a thrill; That thing of home begrimed with grease, Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill. November—month to childhood dear, Old month of Civic feasts and sights, To see that gridiron so near, Fills my sad heart with home delights. November—I remember well The day when I to market hied, In search of one with sprats to sell— Sprats in which childhood might confide. I bought them, and the savoury fish On yonder gridiron then were broiled Experience is a bitter dish, I had it then—the sprats were spoiled! Punch’s Almanac, 1846.

Punch to the Woods and Forests. Lincoln, spare that tree, Touch not a single bough, Though in the way to be, Oh, stand up for it now. Still, let its shade expand, Where, round the social pot, The Hansom cabmen stand— Oh, Lincoln, harm it not! * * * * * Thy sire, great Clumber’s King, Thou’st certain to offend— His son do such a thing!— The world draws to an end Old Laws, old Dukes, old Trees, Delay, decay, dry-rot: Let Peel do as he please, But, Lincoln, harm them not! Punch. 1846.

The Hyde Park Corner Clock. Gasman, light that clock, The time I cannot see; It can’t be more than twelve, And yet it looks like three! Its hands are all confused, Its numbers none can trace: Say, is that humble clock Ashamed to show its face! It can’t be very late: True, I’ve been out to sup: But, ho! what says the clock? Come, Gasman, light it up. Say, can the mist be caused By fumes of generous wine? Is it three-quarters past eleven, Or is it only nine! Is it half after twelve, Or six, or eight, or two? That dismal rushlight kept inside No good on earth can do. When I go home to bed I’m quite afraid to knock, If I’ve no notion of the hour— So, Gasman light that clock. Punch. 1846.

The “Tree of Liberty.” Frenchman, spare that tree, Its roots lie very low; You’d better let it be— Elsewhere ’twill never grow * * * * * Vitality, to-day, Within it there may be, It perishes when moved away— So, Frenchman, spare that tree. Punch. 1848.

An Impassioned Appeal to the Premier. (By a very Common Councilman). Gladstone, spare that Tree! (Of course I means the Corporation.) Touch not a single bough; (That is, neither the Court of Aldermen or the Court of Common Council.) In youth it sheltered me, When I was bound a Prentice.) And I’ll protect it now. (Now that I’m a full-blown Common Councilman.) ’Twas my forefather’s hand (A jolly long time ago, when the Saxons and Danes was here.) That placed it near this spot; (At the bottom of King Street, Cheapside.) Then, Gladstone, let it stand, (Till it’s blowed down as well as blowed up.) Thy Ax should harm it not. (Ax of Parlement, of course.) Oft, when a careless child, (Summut about 17,) Beneath its shades I heard, (Guildhall, of course,) The woodnotes sweet and wild, (But rather expensive,) Of many a foreign bird. (From the Italian Opera.) My Mother kissed me there, (In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom.) My Father pressed my hand (With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:) I ask then, with a tear, (Of course, that’s all my eye,) To let the old Oak stand! (Too obvious to require explanation.) I’ve crossed the foaming wave; (Dover to Calais—oh, Steward!) I’ve braved the cannon-shot! (Figuratively, at the Tower;) While I’ve a hand to save, (That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,) Thy Ax shall harm it not! (Ax of Parlement, as before.) Punch. February 11, 1882.

Spencer, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! For years you’ve let it be:— Why set upon it now? I know not whose the hand That placed it on that spot; But, Spencer, let it stand, Or else you’ll get it hot! The old familiar plane That decks this end of town:— Why, those are scarcely sane Who want to cut it down. South Kensington secures Its end with many a joke; But if you must have yours,— O Spencer, spare this stroke! When, in my childhood’s joy, T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed; Charles Matthews still a boy, Grew young beneath its shade. And later, it was here, Ere Brompton saw its close,— Forgive this foolish tear, The dear old boilers rose! So, if you’ve work in view, Cut down—I’ll not repine— A salary or two, But not this tree of mine! And though in wild dismay Your underlings complain,— O Spencer, cut away, But don’t cut down my plane! Punch. July 23, 1881.

Childers, spare that coin, Historically grand, Thou wouldst its tenth purloin, But, prithee, stay thy hand. It aye has held for me A pure ten-shilling joy. So, Childers, let it be, Nor mix it with alloy. That old familiar piece, Whose glory and renown Would straightway sink and cease, If thou shouldst chip it down! Childers, forbear this stroke, ’Gainst which we all protest; Oh, say that when you spoke, You only spoke in jest. Oft, when a careless lad, The golden chink I heard, For I an uncle had Who tipped me “like a bird.” On sweetstuff, apt to smear One’s clothes, the coin was spent; I ask thee with a tear, Oh, drop thy ten per cent. My heartstrings round thee cling Close as thy rim, old friend— Remain a handy thing To borrow or to lend. Old piece, still circulate, And, Childers, of thy grace, Think well and hesitate, Ere thou our coin debase. Funny Folks. May 10, 1884.

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Charles Dickens.

The Daily News. Oh! a dreary print is The Daily News, And its life is a wonder to all. It puts in advertisements others refuse, But sooner or later must fall. Its leaders are heavy, confused its page, And dismal its general tone. In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage Is, when it is offered, shown. Sent for nothing to all who choose, A losing game is The Daily News. Oh! The Daily News began with a bang, And was going to shut up The Times. And twaddled that murderers never should hang, And printed “large sympathy” rhymes. But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed: And still did “The People” refuse, To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed, In the sheets of The Daily News. What large sums they have learnt to lose, Who first embarked in The Daily News. Oh! The Daily News never publishes “wants” Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks. Nor many announcements of ships or of sales, But only the Whitefriars books; Which pretty well shows what everyone knows, By no one it ever is seen, And soon shall we, when it ceases to be, Forget that it ever has been. Let it abuse or praise if it choose, There’s nobody minds The Daily News. The Man in the Moon. Vol. III. 1848.

Green Pea Soup. Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green, I for it often call; And up it comes in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. 10 When a leg of mutton at home is boiled, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d) A peck of peas I steep. When boil’d till tender they have been, I rub through a sieve the peas so green. Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power; And having returned them to the stock, I stew them for more than an hour; Then of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before, The soup from the fire I move, Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green. Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm. Smoking hot in a smart tureen, A rare old soup is the true Pea Green! Punch. 1852.

“Official Routine.” (A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office.) Oh, a dainty growth is Official Routine, That crawleth o’er systems old: With red-tape tendrils clasping keen, And choking where they fold! What stores have rotted, what ships decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim! How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head, So terrible and so trim! For knaves and fools a sheltering screen, Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine. He worketh his way, with men and things, Alike by land and sea; And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings By the vis inertiæ. You may see him trailing along the ground, O’er an army’s new-made graves; Or barring their way that stand around To save wrecked stores from waves. At Balaklava all serene— A flourishing growth is Official Routine! Let men and ministers have their day, And be as they had not been, Official routine still holdeth sway, In its mingled gray and green. The brave old creeper, in these our days, Still fattens, as in the past, And the noblest host a nation could raise, Hath fallen, its prey at last! Creeping still where life has been— A terrible plant is Official Routine! Punch. February 10, 1855.

The Cabbage Green. Oh, a dainty plant is the cabbage green Wot grows in a garden bold; With a gammon of bacon, half fat and lean, He’s good either hot or cold. His heart must be tender and not decay’d, To please your dainty whim; And the chap as loves cabbage, I’ll tell the blade It’s a precious meal for him. Sprouting out of the ground is seen, A rare old plant is the cabbage green; Sprouting out of the ground is seen, A rare old plant is the cabbage green. Fast he sprouts, for he’s food for kings, And a nice white heart has he; How close he sticks and how tight he clings To the stump, till he’s quite stumpy; In a waggon he’s jolted along the town, And his leaves no longer waves, For he’s pack’d like a conwict, and quite done brown, As his way to Common Garden he paves. Sprouting out, &c. Full wages have fled, hard work’s ill paid, And grub werry scarce has been; But the rare old cabbage shall never fade From being a chap wots green. The hearty old plant in future days Shall fatten you up so fast; For the best of wegables man can raise, Is a cabbage, my boys, at last, Sprouting out, &c. J. Labern. From Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book.

The Yard of Clay. A fine old thing is the yard of clay, The zest of a social throng, It driveth the clouds of grief away, From the old as well as the young. The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care, Or with joyous mirth be crown’d But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear, In a yard of clay is found, Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay. God Bacchus hath many a trophy won, From the pipe for his glorious shrine, And till his career on the earth is done, It ever must be divine. It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor, It beareth no factions sway, And where is a friend in the world so sure As this fine old yard of clay? Puffing, &c. The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine Or famous Principee, To fashion’s strange follies may still incline, They never will do for me. The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame, And barter his peace away, But while life still throbs in this mortal frame I’ll cling to the yard of clay. Puffing, &c. Our fathers who loved the pipe, have died. Their vacant seats we find, And we cling with steadfast pride, To the faith they left behind. 11 And when from the spot where we now appear, Our spirits are called away, May those who are sent to succeed us here, Still honour the yard of clay. Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay. Anonymous.

I. V. Green. (“I. V.” is short for John Villiam.) Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. Green, With his nose so fiery and bold; ’Twas redden’d by dips in the tankard, I ween, That had grown in his service old. Drunk, when he should not have been, A rare old toper was I. V. Green! Though I. V. Green he pull’d so hard, ’Twas mostly at something “short;” He was half-seas over within the bar, And yet never got into port. Sober never was he seen: A rare old toper was I. V. Green! He needed no bier to carry his bones, For he carried his beer in his head; And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found “Three sheets in the wind,” when dead. Dead? dead drunk is what I mean: A rare old toper was I. V. Green! Judy. April 19, 1876.

Man’s Place in Nature. (Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley.) They told him gently he was made Of nicely tempered mud, That man no lengthened part had played Anterior to the Flood. ’Twas all in vain; he heeded not, Referring plant and worm, Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, To one primordial germ. They asked him whether he could bear To think his kind allied To all those brutal forms which were In structure Pithecoid; Whether he thought the apes and us Homologous in form: He said, “Homo and Pithecus Come from one common germ.” They called him “atheistical,” “Sceptic,” and “infidel.” They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell. But he with proofs in no way lame, Made this deduction firm, That all organic beings came From one primordial germ. That as for the Noàchian flood, ’Twas long ago disproved, That as for man being made of mud, All by whom truth is loved. Accept as fact what, malgré strife, Research tends to confirm— That man, and everything with life, Came from one common germ. Tinsley’s Magazine. 1868.

Faithless Nelly. They told him gently she was gone To the station house, and smil’d; They led him to a dark back cell, Where laid his squalling child. For gin she had sold everything, And spent all she could borrow; “In the station house she sleeps,” says he, “She’ll be out again to-morrow.” Six policemen bore her to the cell, Next day before the beak, And for blacking a big policeman’s eye She was sent up for a week. Outside the Court the old man watch’d Her into the van with sorrow; Says he, “If I take you home to day, You will be here again to morrow.” They took her straight to Tothill Fields, To grind wind on the mill, But she scream’d aloud for a drop of gin, They gave her an extra drill. Six days after the old man saw Her through the bars with sorrow; Says she, “Old boy, I’m lock’d in now, I shall be out again to-morrow.”

(Composed by Dolores.) Wings! to bear me over Mountain and vale away; Wings! to bathe my spirit In morning’s sunny ray. Wings! that I may hover At morn above the sea; Wings! thro’ life to bear me And death triumphantly. Wings! like youth’s fleet moments Which swiftly o’er me pass’d, Wings! like my early visions, Too bright, too fair, to last: Wings! that I might re-call them The lov’d, the lost, the dead; Wings! that I might fly after The past long vanished. 12 Wings! to lift me upward, Soaring with eagle flight, Wings! to waft me heav’nward And back in realms of light. Wings! to be no more wearied, Lull’d in eternal rest. Wings! to be sweetly folded Where faith and love are bless’d. From the German by Percy Boyd.

Curls. (A Parody by a Flirt.) Curls, that I might roll them In paper coils at night; Curls that I might hide them, Away till morning light. Curls, to hang in clusters, Of silken texture fair; Curls, to kiss me gently, In evening’s balmy air. Curls, that I might sever For my own lover true; Curls, perhaps to give one, To other lovers too. Curls, that all may see them, Curls, reaching to my knee; Curls, that men might press them To hearts that beat for me. Curls of jet or golden, I care not which they be; Curls, to waft me lovers In shoals triumphantly. Curls, that girls may gaze on With longing, wond’ring eyes; Curls, to flit before them And draw their envious sighs. Curls, that men might hover Around me lovingly; Curls, that I might conquer Mankind, and yet be free. Harper. The Cheltonian. June, 1873.

A Parody by the G. O. M. (Solo). It came with the joyful June, love, That vote against taxing beer; And your William resigned eft soon, love, The place that he held so dear. To the nation it seemed like a boon, love, But to me it was bitter woe; Only a year ago love, Only a year ago. It came with the joyful June, love, The smash of my Irish Bill, And again as a poor gone coon, love You wept for your fallen Will. The majority it was more, love, Than that which struck the blow, And made me so very sore, love, Only a year ago. Solo resumed It came with the joyful June, love, My need for the Irish vote; I was not such a witless loon, love; But I knew how to turn my coat; So I vowed that the men of reason Were Mr. Parnell and Co., Though I thought they were steeped in treason. Only a year ago. It came with the joyful June, love. My love for the National League. And morning and noon and night, love, I revelled in dark intrigue. The worth of their vote had risen, So I felt my affection glow For the men I’d have clapt in prison Only a year ago. It came with the joyful June, love,— The General election came; And the persons who light the moon, love, Were my partners in the game. But the voters were rude and cruel— They called me the Empire’s foe, Though they deemed me a priceless jewel Only a year ago. St. Stephen’s Review. June 12 & 19, 1886.

The Momentous Question (Answered with great wisdom by a Black-haired Beauty.) My mother bids me dye my hair The fashionable hue, Which women now so often wear, And Nature never grew. She bids me at their chignons peep, And see how fair are they: But will dyed hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey? I see girls in the gay saloon, Or on the grand parade, And wonder in my heart how soon Their hair’s light hue will fade. Each night before they go to sleep They dye it, I dare say: But will dyed hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey? My hair is like the raven’s wing, So jet black are its curls: What if away my fears I fling, And dye, like other girls? In potash if my head I steep, I may be fair as they: But will died hair its colour keep? And won’t it soon turn grey. And then, who knows? “Revenge!” may be Soon outraged Nature’s call, And, haply, on fair heads you’ll see The blight of baldness fall! While such dread thoughts upon me creep, O ne’er say Dye; Ma, pray! ’Twere best my own black hair to keep, Till old age turns it grey. Punch. January 6, 1866.

My mother bids me dye my hair The fashionable hue; And change my chataigne locks with care To red—through green, or blue! “You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less— Or what will people say?” But, ah! I only wish that Piesse And Lubin were away! [An interval of two years is supposed to elapse.] ’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone. That men have called so dear; I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone, But sigh for my head-gear! How I shall look, I dare not guess. Perhaps quite white or grey! And folks will laugh aloud when Piesse And Lubin are away. Fun. May 30, 1868.

The Lancet bids me be a Peer, With robes of gorgeous hue, Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act on Beaky’s cue— Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act, and act on Beaky’s cue. For why, it hints, sit still and bear The tease of Tories gay? Alas! I own it has me there, And long to get away— Alas! I own it has me there. And long, and long to get away. ’Tis sad to think how Randies clown, And Wolffs and Wartons jeer; I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh when none can hear— I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh, and sigh when none can hear. And while the gargle I apply, Which really isn’t nice. “The counsel’s good,” I almost cry To Lancet-framed advice— “The counsel’s good,” I almost cry To Lan, to Lancet-framed advice. Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.

Song.—Cinderella. My mother bids me pinch my waist Another inch or two, For, though already tightly laced, She says it will not do! And, oh! she says that I must wear A body cut so low— My cheeks will flame with honest shame As through the streets I go! She says I must expose my charms, And cause the roughs rare sport. And leave quite bare my neck and arms, Because we’re going to Court; But I have heard our Court is pure— I know our Queen is so— She cannot, then, require, I’m sure, Poor me half-dressed to go! Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay; Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs— Things that are made to fade and fall away. When they have blossom’d but a few short hours. Love not, love not. Love not, love not: the thing you love may die— May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not. Love not, love not: the thing you love may change, The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not. Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said, In present years, as in the years gone by; Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head; Faultless, immortal-till they change or die. Love not, love not. Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Smoke Not. Smoke not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay, Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers; Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay, Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours. Smoke not! smoke not! Smoke not! smoke not! the weed you smoke may change, The healthiness of your stomachic tone; Things to the eye grow queer, and passing strange, All thought seems undefined—save one—to be alone. Smoke not! smoke not! Smoke not! the tradesman whose weeds you smoke may die, May perish from the cabbage bearing earth; The sordid dun may to your chamber hie Sent by the Trustees in their tinless dearth. Smoke not! smoke not! 14 Smoke not! smoke not! O warning vainly said, Cane and cap-paper since we first did try; Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head, And all in vain do anxious mothers cry Smoke not! smoke not! (Popular in Oxford in 1861).

“Stay” Not! THE SURGEON’S SONG TO THE SEX. (Sung by Dr. Richardson.) “Stay” not! No longer don Tight cincture to your hurt, Trust Lady Harberton, Try the divided skirt. Most parlous is your state, Your only hope of cure Lies—try it ere too late— In dual garmenture. “Stay” not! “Stay” not! “Stay” not! The torturing steel, The rib-compressing lace, Will mar the human weal, Will wreck the human race. What profits waist of wasp. Shape on the hour-glass model, When you don’t breathe, but gasp, When you don’t walk, but waddle? “Stay” not! “Stay” not! [And they stay not—to listen. Punch. February 17, 1883.

Song of the Election. Vote not, vote not for me, I pray, There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers, My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away Soon as they hear that you are one of ours. Vote not! Vote not! Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild, ’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke, I knew the value of your hate, and smiled, But, oh! to have you for me is no joke! Vote not! Vote not! Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given; Oh, why be generous at another’s cost? Against your vote alone I might have striven, But when you used your influence all was lost. He votes! all’s lost! From Poems of a Life, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

(Music by Milton Wellings.) A Parody. We know not when the day shall be; We know not how the cost to meet; What sites to choose, should all agree; Or will our plans work when complete. It may not be till years have passed, Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away. Debate is long—but, poor, at last Our wordy wars may end—Someday. Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you, Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how; Tories first, Tories first—first have said they’d house you; Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now. We cared not once your woes to hear, Nor how you died, nor how you live; But now election time grows near, Your votes to us we’d have you give; And when we’re in, Someday, Someday, Streets wider grown, well built, you’ll see; And ev’ry man, new quartered, may Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free. Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you, Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how; Tories first, Tories first—first have said they’d house you; Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now. Repealer. Truth. November 15, 1883.

Strangers Now. (After “Strangers yet” by R. Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton.) Set to Music by Claribel. Years of chequered life together, Days of fair and stormy weather, Hours of toil and weary pain, Moments of eternal gain— All are gone—we know not how And have left us strangers now! Words that flowed to lighten care, Thoughts which others could not share Hopes too bright for mortal eyes, Prayers for wisdom from the skies,— All have ceased—we know not how And have left us strangers now! Will it evermore be thus? Shall the past be lost to us Can the souls united here Never once again be near? Must we to the sentence bow “Strangers ever—Strangers now!” Thorns amid the roses press Earth is but a wilderness; Flitting o’er a fallen race Love can find no resting place. Where his flowers immortal grow Shall we strangers be as now? Once a Week. 1869.

“The Beating of my own Wife.” (Air—“The beating of my own heart,” by Lord Houghton). I’d melted all my wages, Ere of beer I had my fill, 15 For a bob I asked the Missus —There’s a way where there’s a will. She refused, I took the poker, The neighbours never stirred, For the beating of my own wife Was the only sound they heard. A sneak blowed to the Crushers, I was lugged afore the Beak— But I know’d that it was nothing: The old gal had her squeak: They fined me forty shillings, I paid it like a bird, And the beating of my own wife, Perhaps, that night was heard. But rights is rights no longer; Cross swears he’ll eat his hat, Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals, Shall suffer from the Cat. If that brutal measure passes, Take William Sikes, his word, That the beating of his own wife Will not again be heard. Punch. November 21, 1874.

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; The Sphygmophon was fixed there, Its wires ran past the hill. I heeded not the grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird, For the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. To test this apparatus, One end I closely press’d, The other, at a distance, I hoped was next his chest. I listened for his footfall, I listened for his word, Still the bumping of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not, no, he came not— The night came on alone; And thinking he had tricked me, I loosed the Sphygmophon. The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr’d, When—the thumping of his own heart Was all the sound I heard. With joy I grasped the magnet, When some one stood behind, His hand was on my shoulder (But that I did not mind). Each spoke then—nearer—nearer, We shouted every word; But the booming of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. Funny Folks. March 29, 1879.

My King. (After “My Queen.” Music by Blumenthal.) When and how shall I meet him, if ever? What are the words he first will say? How will the barriers now that sever Our kindred spirits be rolled away? This self-same daylight on him is shining, Shining somewhere the while I sing— The only one who, my will resigning, Could I acknowledge my King, my King! Whether his hair be golden or raven, Whether his eye be dark or blue, I know not now, but ’twould be engraven Some day hence as the loveliest hue. Many a face I have liked for a minute, Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring But ever and aye there was something in it, Something that could not be his, my King! I will not dream of him, handsome and strong, My ideal love may be weak and slight; It matters not to what class he belong, He would be noble enough in my sight. He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord, Or he may be learned in everything, But if ever he comes he will touch the chord Whose melody waits for the hand of its King! But he must be courteous towards the lowly, To the weak and sorrowful, loving too; He must be courageous, refined, holy, By nature exalted, and firm, and true. To such I might fearlessly give the keeping Of love that would never out-grow its spring: There would be few tears of a woman’s weeping If they loved such men as my King, my King! London Society.

Whether her hair be golden or raven, Whether her eyes be hazel or blue, I know not now but ’twill be engraven, On that white day as my perfect hue. Many a girl I have loved for a minute, Worshipped many a face I have seen; But ever and aye there was something in it, Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

My Scheme. (As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r). Why and when were we driven to moot it? Was it knocked off in an afternoon? Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it? Have we set it afloat too late?—too soon? Did we try it because we feared a flounder? No matter.—Since still we reign supreme, Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder, Have we ever turned out than, “My Scheme, my Scheme!” * * * * * Punch. July, 12, 1879.

Only a Lock of His Hair. (Companion to the popular song, “Only a lock of Her Hair.”) Only a lock of his hair, Last of some twenty and seven; Souvenirs all to the fair, In the heyday of ecstacy given. Lost in the frolics of youth— In the time to which thought has recalled one; To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth, That the lover for them’s not a bald one. Only a lock of his hair, Last of the twenty and seven; And then the bald pate, which the wag Has wittily likened to heaven (And whatever we think of the taste, The wit there can be no denying)— As a place bright and shining above, Where there’s never more parting nor dye-ing.

Only. Only a common door yard Back of a common flat; Only a kitchen doorstep. And an old J. Thos. cat Lazily in the sunshine Dozing on the mat. Only an open window Directly overhead; Only a fiendish boarder, His face with grins o’erspread (All of which implies a big surprise For that sleeping quadruped). Only a pitcher of water Dumped with precision square Icy down upon that J. T. C. So calmly sleeping there— And a frenzied chunk of cat-meat Jumps six ft. in the air. Anonymous.

Only a hair on his shoulder, Long, and wavy, and brown, Only a cock-and-bull story In exchange for his wife’s deep frown. Only a broken broomstick Wildly waved in the air; Only a strip of court-plaster— His wife had discovered the hair. The Evening Gazette. [Aberdeen], February 5, 1886.

A CAT-astrophe. Only a cyclist gigantic, Astride on a sixty-inch wheel, Eyeing sidewise a maiden romantic, As he drives on his swift steed of steel. Only a poor little tabby, Slinking slyly across the smooth street, Her mottled fur dirty and shabby, Out she darts from beneath the girl’s feet. Only a sky-rocket header, While the maiden just stands still and stares; A poor feline, who couldn’t be deader, And a whopping old bill for repairs. Once a Week. June, 1886.

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak! ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary—I see the spire from here: But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest; For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. I’m very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends; But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:— There’s nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died! Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm’s young strength was gone: There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow; I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore; Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no more. I’m bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, But I’ll not forget you, darling, in the land I’m going to, They say there’s bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there; But I’ll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair! And often, in those grand old woods, I’ll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies; 17 And I’ll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride! Lady Dufferin.

The Tenant’s Farewell. (A Lay of the 24th of December.) I’m flitting in the style, Mary, Which each half year we’ve tried, At Michaelmas and Lady-day, Since first you were my bride. The quarters follow quickly on, And the rents mount up so high; But there’s brass upon my cheek, Mary, And there’s no green in my eye. The place is greatly changed, Mary, We’ve boned the fixtures all; We’ve torn the locks from off each door, The bell-pulls from each wall. And we’ll miss our soft warm beds to-night, To-morrow’s quarter day; And the landlord’s waiting for the rent I never mean to pay. I’m very busy now, Mary, The while yon cart attends, For I’m packing up our furniture, And all our odds and ends: For these goods are all we have, Mary Our household’s joy and pride; And there’s nothing left to seize on now, We’ve packed them all inside. We’re bidding now a long farewell, My Mary, to our den; And we’ll not forget next Quarter-day To do the same again. Folks say it is but fair to pay One’s landlord, I don’t care; For I ne’er intend to do so, Were it fifty times as fair. Diogenes. 1853.

The Lay of the Henpecked. By Lady Sufferin. I’m sitting in a style, Mary, Which doesn’t coincide With what I’ve been accustomed to Since you became my bride; The men are singing comic songs, The lark gets loud and high, For I’ve ask’d—since you’re from home, Mary— A party on the sly. The place is rather changed, Mary, Of smoke it slightly smells, And the table and the floor are strewn With heaps of oyster shells; And the men have marked your damask chairs With many a muddy streak, And they’ve drawn burnt cork moustaches on Your mother’s portrait’s cheek. I’m very jolly now, Mary, ’Midst old and valued friends, (Though they’ve in the carpet burnt some holes, With their Havannahs’ ends). For thou wert somewhat cross with me, And ever apt to chide, But there’s nothing left to care for now You’re gone to the sea-side. And yet I fear when all you’ve learnt, This ev’ning’s work I’ll rue; And I’ll not forget it, darling, for You won’t allow me to. In vain they sing “The Pope he leads,” Likewise “Begone dull Care;” For at thought of you, I vow I can’t Sit easy in my chair.

Song for the Sitz. I’m sitting in this style, Mary, The bathman by my side; And if you saw me now, Mary, You would not be my bride; They call this hatching health, Mary, I cannot tell you why; There’s water to my waist, Mary, And water in each eye.

Changed for the Worst. I’m sitting at my window, Jack, Where we’ve sat side by side, Many a bright ev’ning long ago, In life’s thoughtless, gay spring tide, When we thought more of pleasure, Jack, Than three per cents or four: Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy— But days we’ll see no more! This place is greatly changed, Jack, The fields are all “clean gone,” The shady lanes through which we strolled Have all been built upon: My house is flanked by a “Dun Cow,” A “Green Man,” and a “Duke,” A chandler’s shop is opposite— The owner’s name is Snook! “Solitude” is now “Victoria-street,” “The Hermitage” “Albert-square,” “The Fairies’ Haunt” a Music Hall, In which I’ve got a share. A cab-stand’s near “Our Lady’s Well,” A workhouse in “Love Lane,” A church and schools in “Lovers’ Walk” From near which starts the train! 18 We’re treated to all “London cries” From morn till dewy eve, And strong-lunged preachers in the streets Beseech us to “believe;” We’re taxed for water, streets, and gas, And “Bobbies” by the score— Ah, everything is changed, Jack, From the happy days of yore! But, worse than all, the weather, Jack, Has quite “gone to the dogs”— In May we’d sleet, in June we’ve frost, In July we’ll have fogs; I cannot leave the house, Jack, But I shiver with the cold— Ah, the weather’s not the same, boy, As in the days of old! And I am greatly changed, Jack, I do not walk so straight As when each day beheld us At pic-nic, race, or fête; My hair has grown quite thin, Jack, My lungs are far from right, I’ve rheumatism, lumbago, gout, I cannot sleep at night. I think if I’d a wife, Jack, She’d make me soon all right, By watching o’er my comfort, boy, Both morn, and eve, and night: I’ll take one,—if I find a girl Of beauty, youth, and wealth, Who wants a husband sound at heart, Though not quite sound in health! The Hornet. June 21, 1871.

The Churchyard Stile. (An Imitation). I left thee young and gay, Mary, When last the thorn was white; I went upon my way, Mary, And all the world seemed bright; For though my love had ne’er been told, Yet, yet I saw thy form Beside me in the midnight watch; Above me, in the storm. And many a blissful dream I had, That brought thy gentle smile, Just as it came when last we leaned Upon the Churchyard Stile. I’m here to seek thee now, Mary, As all I love the best; To fondly tell thee how, Mary, I’ve hid thee in my breast. I came to yield thee up my heart, With hope, and truth, and joy, And crown with Manhood’s honest faith The feelings of the Boy. I breathed thy name, but every pulse Grew still and cold the while For I was told thou wert asleep Just by the Churchyard Stile. * * * * * Eliza Cook.

When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’Twas on a market day, A low-back’d car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass, And deck’d with flowers of spring, No flow’r was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-back’d car— The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubb’d his old poll, And looked after the low-back’d car. * * * * *

The Low-Neck’d dress. When first I saw Miss Clara, A west-end ball ’twas at, A low-neck’d dress she wore, and near The open door she sat; But when that door was thriving oak, Exposed to tempests keen And biting air So much, ’twas ne’er As the blooming girl I mean, As she sat in her low-neck’d dress, Becoming I must confess; For of all the men round, Not one could be found, But looked after the low-neck’d dress. The polka’s tumult over, The fondest of mammas Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls; But scornful “hums” and “ha’s” From Clara (artful goddess!) The kind proposal meet— Quite faint she feels— She fairly reels— She never could bear the heat! So she sits in her low-neck’d dress; But the heat would have troubled her less, For long weeks will have roll’d Ere she’s rid of her cold, That she caught from the Low-neck’d dress. I’d rather see those shoulders ’Neath dowdy cloak of fur, Or pilot coat, and round that throat A ploughman’s comforter; For I’d know that tender bosom Was safe from climate’s ill, And the heart so sweet Would much longer beat Than I now feel sure it will While she clings to her low-neck’d dress I’ve proposed, and she answer’d “yes.” Next week it’s to be, But make sure I shall see That it’s not in a low-neck’d dress. Diogenes. October, 1853.

The Dining Car. When first I used the railway, ’Twas in Mugby Junction days, 19 With their sandwiches so salt and stale, Their buns with the fly-blown glaze, Their Melton pies of weight and size, Soup too hot down to fling, And sausage-rolls, if not men’s souls, Their stomachs made to wring. As you jumped from your first-class car, The minxes at Mugby Bar Your change tossed down, With a flounce and a frown, And a haughty, “There you are!” Five minutes, a frantic fixture, You strove with might and main To gulp some scalding mixture, While the bell rang—for the train! Your tea or soup you swallowed, As much as did not fly On your shirt-front or your waistcoat, From the dense crowd hustling by: While the minxes at Mugby Bar, Smiled, serene, upon the war, For they’d learnt the art, And looked the part— Of “We are your betters far.” But in Pullman’s dining-car, Sir, Now run on the Northern Line, You’ve a soup, and a roast and entrées, And your cheese and your pint of wine. At his table snug the passenger sits, Or to the smoke-room moves, While on either side the landscape flits, Like a world in well-greased grooves. Thanks to Pullman’s dining-car, No more Mugby Junction Bar— No more tough ham and chicken, Nor passenger-pickin’ For the minxes behind the Bar! Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir, With elbow-room allowed, And leisure to dine and sip your wine, And blow the digestive cloud. Punch takes off his hat to Pullman, And his sleeping and eating car, In the cause of British digestions, Against Mugby Junction Bar! Be the journey never so far, With his dining and sleeping-car, At our ease in our inn, Along we spin, Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar! Punch. November 1, 1879.

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade Who fought with us side by side? Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade, Fought till they fell and died! Who so ready and undismayed? Who so merry and true? Where are the boys of the Old Brigade; Where are the lads we knew? Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder Steadily blade by blade! Ready and strong, marching along, Like the boys of the Old Brigade. * * * * * F. E. Weatherly.

The Liberal Brigade. Sons of the old and staunch brigade, Who marched on side by side, Muster your forces of every grade, And scatter the foemen wide. Let us be ready and none dismayed, Let us be steady and true; As sons of the old and staunch brigade, The old pioneers we knew. Steadily shoulder to shoulder, Ready and none dismayed, Marching along, steady and strong, Like sons of the old brigade. Form in the streets of the busy town, Form in the rural lane, Form where the turreted mansions frown, And form on the open plain. Liberals all, give your cheerful aid, Manfully play your part; And, like your sires of the old brigade, You’ll live in your country’s heart. Steadily shoulder to shoulder, Ready and none dismayed; Marching along, steady and strong. Like sons of the old brigade. From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1886.

Professor Browne’s Wonderful Tonic Lotion. Rare were the joys when our hair decayed, We’d naught but to hide our pride: Older and older, shade did fade, Naught but to tell it died. Who so ready as Browne to aid With Tonic Lotion true? Try, and with joy see, undismayed, Hair where before none grew. Then steadily bolder and bolder, Steadily shade by shade, Healthy and strong, hairs come along, Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid. Over the sea far and wide they cry— “Browne’s Tonic Lotion we love; Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry, And fresh comes a crop above. Not weak and shabby, now they are made Strong, full of grace, and smart; So great our joy, thanks to Browne’s best aid. That deeply we’ll praise Browne’s art.” Then steadily bolder and bolder, Steadily shade by shade, Healthy and strong, hairs come along. Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Solo.—Mrs. Kendal. I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty five! And so to keep I shall contrive, Until I long enough have played An ample fortune to have made, Then I, with bitter scorn, intend The stage to fiercely reprehend, And publicly to set my face Against this national disgrace. Meanwhile, ’till I can this contrive, I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five! When I the age of forty see, No more the stage shall know of me; No more will I take leading parts With actresses who show their cartes; That is, I won’t unless, of course, Things unforeseen my hand should force. If all goes well, though, at that age I mean to gladly quit the stage! Meantime, until my time arrive, I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five! Truth Christmas Number. 1884.

A Song of Swindling Directors. Where is our last big coup? Far, far away! Where are our profits, too? Far, far away! ’Till, in our indigence, We think of getting hence, Perhaps clients have less sense, Far, far away! Far away! Far away! Where are those “specs” we made? Far, far away! Where is our quiet trade! Far, far away! Once we had mansions fine, Now lodgings are our line; In two-pair backs we pine— Far, far away! Far away! Far away! Gone are our prancing steeds, Far, far away! Gone those expensive weeds. Far, far away! Gone with our mashing suits, Gone with our varnished boots; Gone with our hothouse fruits— Far, far away! Far away, far away! Once there were “bogus” lines, Far, far away! Likewise much “salted” mines, Far, far away! O how we “bulled” their shares, Then how we turned to “bears,” None now such “sells” prepares, Far, far away! Far away, far away! P’rhaps folks can still be “done,” Far, far away! So we will cut and run, Far, far away! Here swindles now are vain, But, once across the main, We may pick up again, Far, far away! Far away, far away! Truth Christmas Number, 1884.

There is a fine old sow, Down Farn-boro’ way, She belongs to Brave Joe Stow. And people say, The Parson tried to sneak that sow In a dirty way. But Joe, he made the mud to fly, Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh, And made them from the village hie Far, far, away. Oh! where is the old Sow now? Safe Farn-boro’ way. And where is the Parson gone, Nobody can say. But Kentish Farmers all have swore To pay his monstrous tithes no more, And spite of Bailiffs by the score, The Farmers win the day. Let us lend Joe Stow a hand, Down Farn-boro’ way. To fight the Parson and his band Who will ruin him they say: Let’s fight against this cruel law, Which from our labours fill the maw Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw, Let’s sweep the curse away.

Far, Far Away. * * * * * Where is a bobby found, Far, far away! It’s ten to one he’s off his round, Far, far away! Should you do wrong and hold the pelf, And tip to some blue coated elf, Where does he take himself, Far, far away! 21 I sent off thirty stamps so meek, Far, far away! To learn to earn five pounds per week, Far, far away! It turned out a swindling plan, The answer came, and thus it ran, Start a baked potato can; Far, far away! Where are my Sunday clothes? Far, far away! Resting in sweet repose, Far, far away! Well looked after there’s no doubt, They are simply up the spout, But where’s the coin to get them out? Far, far away! The cry of outcast London’s known, Far, far away! All may hear their bitter moan, Far, far away! Homeless, starved, without a friend, While we to savages attend, All our Charity we send, Far, far away!