VOLUME V. (continued 10)

Satan Reformer. Part I. Satan laugh’d loud, when he heard that peace Was sign’d by the Ruling Powers: He was sipping his coffee with Talleyrand, And he put down his cup, and he slapp’d his hand, And cried, Now then the field is ours! He pack’d his portmanteau—for England, ho!— Reach’d Calais—and sailing over Look’d back upon France; for he sympathized With a nation so thoroughly Satanized— Till he landed him safe at Dover. He had sported his tail and his horns in a land Of blasphemy, vice, and treason, The vast admiration of Monsieur Frog; But in England, quoth he, I must travel incog. At least till the “Age of Reason.” So his tail he tuck’d into his pantaloons, With a Brutus, all stivering and hairy, He hid his pared horns, or rather the roots; And he look’d, with his hoofs in Wellington boots, Like a Minister’s Secretary. As he travell’d to London, he star’d about, And it caused him some vexation To see matters looking so very well, But he went the first night to a noted Hell, And it gave him consolation. The Whigs left their cards as a matter of course, For he’d letters of introduction; And a very learned Gentleman Devil was he, In Political Whig-Economy, And gave them the best instruction. They feasted him often at Holland House; But he found so little to teach ’em, They were such adepts in the art of misrule, That he left them to lecture the Radical School, Lest the Whigs should overreach ’em. For that, quoth Satan, yet must not be, And I hold it my chiefest glory, If I make Whig and Radical coalesce— And thus bring affairs to a damnable mess— Then adieu to the reign of Tory. * * * * *

The Devil’s Drive; An Unfinished Rhapsody. The Devil returned to hell by two, And he stay’d at home till five; When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew— And bethought himself what next to do, “And,” quoth he, “I’ll take a drive. I walk’d in the morning, I’ll ride to night; In darkness my children take most delight, And I’ll see how my favourites thrive. “And what shall I ride in?” quoth Lucifer, then— “If I followed my taste, indeed, I should mount in a waggon of wounded men, And smile to see them bleed. But these will be furnish’d again and again, And at present my purpose is speed; To see my manor as much as I may, And watch that no souls shall be poach’d away. “I have a state-coach at Carlton House,[113] A chariot in Seymour Place; But they’re lent to two friends, who make me amends, By driving my favourite pace: And they handle their reins with such a grace. I have something for both at the end of their race, “So now for the earth to take my chance:” Then up to the earth sprung he; And making a jump from Moscow to France, He stepped across the sea, And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, No very great way from a bishop’s abode. But first as he flew, I forgot to say That he hover’d a moment upon his way, To look upon Leipsic plain; And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, That he perched on a mountain of slain; And he gazed with delight from its growing height, Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, Nor his work done half as well: For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, That it blushed liked the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he: “Methinks they have here little need of me!” * * * * * But the softest note that soothed his ear Was the sound of a widow sighing; 192 And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, Which horror froze in the blue eye clear Of a maid by her lover lying— As round her fell her long fair hair; And she looked to heaven with that frenzied air, Which seem’d to ask if a God were there! And, stretch’d by the wall of a ruined hut, With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, A child of famine dying: And the carnage begun, when resistance is done And the fall of the vainly flying. But the Devil has reached our cliffs so white, And what did he there, I pray? If his eyes were good, he but saw by night What we see every day: But he made a tour, and kept a journal Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,[114] Who bid pretty well—but they cheated him though! The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, Its coachman and his coat; So instead of a pistol he cock’d his tail, And seized him by the throat: “Aha!” quoth he, “what have we here? ’Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer.” So he sat him on his box again, And bade him have no fear, But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein, His brothel, and his beer; “Next to seeing a lord at the council board, I would rather see him here.” * * * * * The Devil gat next to Westminster, And he turn’d to “the room” of the Commons; But he heard as he purposed to enter in there, That “the Lords” had received a summons; And he thought as a “quondam aristocrat” He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat; And he walk’d up the house so like one of our own, That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. He saw the Lord Liverpool[115] seemingly wise, The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, And Johnny of Norfolk—a man of some size— And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon’s eyes, Because the Catholics would not rise, In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; And he heard, which set Satan himself a staring— A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. And the Devil was shock’d—and quoth he, “I must go, For I find we have much better manners below: If thus he harangues, when he passes my border, I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.” Lord Byron.

Death’s Walk. Death rose from off his tombstone bed, With joy and agitation, For he had had Malthusian dreams Of an overcharged population. And first he ’gan to don his clothes, His bony ribs to hide; Of a couple of palls he made his smalls, For his shanks they were somewhat wide. For a kerchief around his neck he tied A winding sheet in a noose, And he slipt his feet in the coffins of twins, Which made him a pair of shoes. From fifty coffins the cloth he tore, (The owners were dead as mutton) And a gay coat made—for on it he wore, A death plate for every button. As to what he had to cover his skull I really cannot speak poz, But he made of his dart a walking stick, And went forth like a Plague as he was. First he called on a brewer of high renown, And begged of him to taste his own swig, But scarce had he time to twig the hop Ere Death made him hop the twig. He saw a parson, like many there are, Much fonder of taking than giving, So Death for once played the Bishop’s part, And deprived him of his living. He made a lawyer (who was first in the law) And disclaimed all interference With the courts on earth—on those below, Soon enter his appearance. He caught a thief with purse in hand— The halter stopped his breath— For, as if by the sudden tidings killed, The noose it was his death. A bellows maker at his work Death saw, and seeing, grinned, And he who made the bellows blow, Right soon did slip the wind. Unto a cobbler in his stall No better fate befell, Death quickly made him leave his awl, And bid his last farewell. A gardener—one of old Adam’s trade— Who rose before Aurora, Death saw and straight his power displayed By proving the florist’s Floorer. But Death at last met with his match, An annuitant eighty and eight, Death knew that his life would be death to a score, (For nought kills like envy and hate), So, because he should thereby get victims galore, He bade the old gentleman wait. Anonymous.

The Printer’s Devil’s Work. To Printing-house Square at close of day The young Printer’s Devil is bound To set up the Paper that circulates most, Or the paper that most turns round. 193 And over the leader, and over the news He skimm’d, and over the speeches; And the lines in the leader stood wide apart, Like W——l’s waistcoat and breeches. And pray what did the Devil do? Oh! he was expert at the art; At first just to keep his hand in play, In a “Horrible Murder” took part. But the Devil he very soon finish’d the job, And came to a regular stand; When, for the want of some better employment In a “Robbery” he had a hand. He set up a joke by W——l; But, thinking it couldn’t be meant, The Devil smil’d, for he headed it “A Serious Accident.” A speech of the Marquis of L——’s came next But it was beyond endurance; So the Devil took pity and headed it “A Melancholy Occurence.” But then the young Devil bethought himself, He might in an error fall; For a speech such as that, he clearly saw, Requir’d no head at all. He then had a speech of H——t’s to do, Where, mirabile dictu! a word or Two of his Latin Mr. H. recollected; And he called that a “Horrible Murder.” A Joke, too, by C——r, came into his hands, But it was too witty a brevity To be C——r’s own; so he headed it “Extraordinary Longevity.” However, he thought at a heading like that, Some persons might kick up a bobbery; And, as the joke was a decided Joe Miller, He called it a “Daring Robbery.” He set up a leading article on The advantage ’twould be to the nation— If Lord Grey would but make a new batch of peers, Which he called “Beauties of the Creation.” A speech on Reform, too, by W——l, he did So full of disjointed inelegance, And so far from the purpose, he headed it With the title of “Foreign Intelligence.” The debate on Pluralities next he compos’d; But, finding the incomes so large And the duty so little, he headed it “Extraordinary Charge.” An extract from Satan Montgomery’s poems Is the next thing the Devil commences; But he sees that it’s humbug, and, when it’s composed He puts it among the “Offences.” A speech of St. P——l was his next job; But it was too much for the elf. And he was unable to set up the speech, For he could’nt set up himself. So into a corner the Devil sneaks, O’ercome by so prosy a sample, Composes himself, and leaves the Times To follow his example.

The Devil’s Dream. The Devil, one day, lay down to sleep, Though the fact improbable seem: (Mankind is so used to his whip and rein, He knew he could trust his team!) And straightway, having a quiet mind, The Devil began to dream. And as dreams recall what best is known To men in their waking hours, The Devil, of course, could do no less Than dream of this world of ours, Where, though the Tomahawk is deceased, His potent effigy towers. He first imagined himself in France; But his stay had been so long Therein, with the godly Emperor-King And the Communistic throng, That he flew hap-hazard over the seas, With an execration strong. He lit him down on a chalky shore, That a mist perpetual cools; And he knew at once he was in the land That an absent Sovereign rules; For had he mistaken England’s fogs, He had recognized her fools! And hereabout, he wandered at will, ’Mid sights that gladdened his heart; For his friends seemed many in every place,— The church, the camp, and the mart; And the foes of himself and Ignorance, Were few and weary at heart, He heard in his dream a curate preach The horrible sin of doubt, The duty of mental cecity, And of Some-one always about; And the Devil smiled; for he knew such men Were certain to find that out. He saw a person, who wrote burlesques, In the act of forcing puns, And thought he must be a man of weight; For he knew, though such things he shuns, That the heads of persons who write burlesques Weigh ever so many tons. He dreamed of a Minister who told His electors all his mind, And he smiled in his dream, remembering That the blind conducting the blind Shall both be housed in the well-known ditch For all such unions designed. He dreamed that he smelt a corpse-like smell, And flying, by instinct, o’er to it, Discovered a Small-Pox Hospital, And, in high good humour, swore to it,— 194 “If not the abode itself of Death, You certainly are next door to it!” A knot of persons exceeding wise Were trying a sailor brave Who, sent to sea, in a rotten ship, His crew had contrived to save; And the devil bowed,—respecting the man Who had beaten both him, and the wave. (Six verses omitted.) The Hornet. November, 22, 1871.

The Devil’s Politics. From his brimstone bed at break of day The devil a walking is gone, To visit his snug little farm, the earth, And see how his stock goes on. At St. James’s Hall, like a prophet of good He commences humanity’s work— “Unsheathe holy Russia, thy sanctified sword, Nor spare the ‘unspeakable Turk.’” With a twist and a twirl, and a sulphurous smell, He departs with applause at his hoof; And glancing at Bennet’s, he winds up his tail, And to Constantinople spins off. At Berlin he stops for a minute to breathe And to tell the good news to his cousin: “The doting ‘old woman’ to me you may leave, But, dear Biz, you must rub up the Russian.” He passed by Vienna, Count Andrassy saw him, And asked him to stop for a chat; But the Devil replied, “You may keep on see-sawing, I’ll call on you when I come back.” Arriving in Turkey, but changing his dress, He repaired to the Russian Headquarters, And gave in his card—“A gentleman of the press— Instructed to write up Bulgarian slaughters.” Anonymous. January 1, 1878.

The Forestaller’s Walk. (After Southey—and after a bad night.) From his restless bed at break of day The Forestaller walking has gone, To visit the half-ruined farms for his mirth, And see how the crops get on. And over the hills, and through the wet fields He walked, and over the plain, And outward or homeward he heard the long tale Of the ruin caused by the rain. He saw a Widow with Orphans three Go up to a Baker’s door, But she had to leave the loaf untouched, For he wanted a penny more. Just then the Sun’s bright turning face, He saw with consternation, And home pell-mell his way did take; For the Forestaller thought ’twas a great mistake, And it filled him with indignation! Punch. September 10, 1881.

The Devil’s Walk. From his sulphurous realm as the sun goes down The Devil is walking once more, To visit his favourite vineyard, the Town That stretches by Thames’s shore. Over the bridges and through the Parks He strolls, and along the streets, A presence that fails to elicit remarks From the hurrying hundreds he meets. There is nought to suggest that he comes as a guest From regions torrid and drouthy, He has altered his ways since the simpler days Of Coleridge and Southey. A jacket of red and breeches of blue He knows would be far too striking, And as for a tail!—even Darwin’s crew Would hold that in sore misliking. He sees a spectral scare-crow thing Slink into a slum-fouled alley, And he mutters, “With cowl and with scythe and wing, He might lord it in Death’s own Valley.” He sees a roof-rotten, muck-sodden den, To the gutter ready to tumble. Says he, “Well, if this be the dwelling of men, We haven’t much reason to grumble.” Then steps he into a “tenement-house,” Through a dark but doorless entry. “Little need,” chuckles he, “for a lock or a key Whilst my brace of friends stand sentry.” He climbs a rotten and rickety stair, Foul filth its cracked walls smearing. “Why, chaos,” says he, “had a pleasanter air, And needed less careful steering.” He sees commingling of Labour and Vice In joint contamination. Quoth he, “This, indeed, were a spectacle nice For Belial’s contemplation.” Sees Childhood, broken with ill-paid toil, ’Midst sin’s contagious venom. Says he, “For friend Moloch’s favourite spoil, This beats the Valley of Hinnom.” Then he sees a House-jobber grubbing for gold Amidst festering Vice and Poverty cold, And says he, “I’ve one henchman more trusty and bold Than the ogre worshipped in Ammon: Beelzebub’s doughty, and Astaroth’s good, As snarers of souls with a crown or a snood, But the first, most ubiquitous, best of my brood, Is my ruthless, respectable Mammon!” So Satan, seeing that all went right In his big branch-Hades by day and night To his personal pleasure and profit, 195 Back to headquarters swift wended his way. “I shall sicken,” said he, “if much longer I stay: For though sulphur’s not pleasant, I really must say ‘Mammon’s Rents’ are more choky than Tophet.” Punch. November 17, 1883.

The Devil’s Latest Walk. From his villa in town at the dawn of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To visit his snug little urban estates, And see how his game goes on. Over the city, the suburb, the slum, He rambled from pillar to post, And backward and forward, observant, though dumb, As a fleetly noctivagant ghost. He peeped in the Houses of Parliament, And found but a factious Babel. To a smile he was moved, for he thought, “They’ve improved On the story of Cain and Abel.” He saw Law trying a Viper for slander, And searching a muck-heap for truth; And he held his nose, and he said, “I suppose That poison and filth in a duplicate dose Have medicinal virtues for Youth.” He went into a Bookseller’s shop Hard by to a learned College; And there, peeping over the shoulder of Youth, He saw how new Pilates played ninepins with Truth; How neo-Greek noodles, in poem and fiction, Draped dirtiest thoughts in the daintiest diction; How Art uninspired sought some stimulant fresh In charnel conceits, and the lusts of the flesh. Cried he, “This is culture! The gauntest vulture On garbage will fatten, allowed to batten On the fruit of this tree of knowledge.” He saw huge Stores that small shopkeepers smashed, To whose portals cash-paying patricians up dashed; Big Companies, that piled lucre—and crashed; And the eyes of the Devil they sparkled and flashed, And he capered with great agility. Said he, “Big Monopoly’s now all the go; Mankind is enamoured of size and of show, Modest industry’s stupid, small enterprise slow, No room now for trade’s little fishes, oh! no. To succeed you must be a big whale who can ‘blow.’ I shall re-arrange all my affairs down below, And convert them into a Joint-Stock Co., With ‘Limited Liability.’” Punch. June 18, 1887.

The Devil’s Excursion to London. Old Nick had just finished his London reports, Which gave him so much satisfaction, That he tucked up his tail, took the Underground rail, Bought a “Saturday Sneer” and a “Dublin Mail,” And went off to the scene of action. As he passed the palatial mansions and clubs, He nodded to many a friend; And he feasted his eyes on the fetid styes, And his ears on the brutal oaths and cries, Where the poor were packed and penned. And it made his sable majesty grin, For it needed no prophet to tell That the seeds thus sown of sorrow and sin, Harrowed by filthiness, watered by gin, Would provide a rich harvest for hell. He saw civic Dives, and some of his brood, At a sybarite feast in the City; And he thought of the thousands pining for food, And the Devil himself was almost in the mood To feel a sensation of pity. He called at the Mansion House, saw the Lord Mayor, “Permit me to wish you good day, sir. The City and I have been excellent friends, But if all comes about that our Ritchie intends, The last of Lord Mayors is Decay-sir.” To the Houses of Parliament next he went, But to stay he was quite unable, For the jabber and jaw made him feel so queer, That he swore to his friend Hughes-Hallett, “Oh dear, It is worse than the Tower of Babel!” But as Balfour was near, he said, “Arthur, my dear, Never care for J. M. or Trevelyan. Your uncle’s bold policy just pleases me, So stick to coercion, and soon we may see Pat goaded right into rebellion.” At midnight he wandered around the West-end, And remarked, with a dash of profanity, “It’s a terrible, dissolute, profligate sink; It makes me laugh, and I wink as I think Of British Christianity.” But the London Sunday tickled him most, And he stroked his tail with glee; “Shut up all innocent recreation, And open your gin-shops, Pecksniffian nation— And so pay homage to ME. Looking in at a meeting of Brewers and Bungs, He said, amidst deafening cheers, Such allies deserve my best consideration, And if you’re disturbed without full compensation, Come for it to ME, my dears. Some Jingoes were busy creating a scare. And he murmured, with jubilation, “All Europe is stuffed with combustible matter, And a single live spark from this truculent chatter Would cause a vast conflagration.” The very idea of another great war Amongst Europe’s countless legions Made him chuckle, and dance, and yell; And he sent a sixpenny wire to hell, “Enlarge the infernal regions.” He heard some sailors, in Ratcliff Highway, “Rule Britannia” bawling; And his tail with pleasure began to wag, For he loved this bit of blasphemous brag, And joined in the caterwauling. He called at the School Board, and gave the big D. A nice little bit of soft solder. It gave him, he said, a most pleasant sensation To see how they tinkered at education, (D. sternly called him to order.) 196 Just as he was thinking where next he should go, For Diggle had caused him a flurry, Who should he see but his Grace the Primate So “to oblige Benson,” and cursing the climate, He went back to Hell in a hurry. William Phillips.

“There is a Lying Spirit Abroad.” The spirit of lying and lawless might Flew out of the Czar’s dominions, He neither swerved to the left nor right But tore the air in his headlong flight With the stroke of his blood-sprent pinions, For far away in that woeful land They toasted Warren and Balfour’s band, And he hurried to offer a helping hand To autocratic opinions. He flew right over Trafalgar Square And looked at the crowded street, And said to himself with joyful stare, I hardly seem to be needed here! Ah, that was a gallant feat; Up with the bobbies and down with the Reds, Break their banners and smash their heads, Men and women and boys and maids, And trample ’em under your feet!” His beak was dashed with a blood-red stain, And his heart was all aglow, As he hurried to Hatfield House amain And tapped, tapped, tapped at the window-pane, Like the Raven of Edgar Poe; Till a churl with a full black-bearded chin, Opened the window and spake “Come in, And welcome, welcome, thou spirit of sin And herald of human woe!” Not long he tarried, but flew from there Over the Irish seas, To where young Arthur so debonair Was playing a Tory election air On Tullamore prison keys; With philosophical doubtful pose, Eyeing a bundle of stolen clothes, And chanting merrily through his nose, “My uncle deals in these.” The spirit of lying and lawless might Is a master of trimming and tacking, He sits on the Treasury bench all night, And teaches the Tories to scorn all right And send the Truth a-packing; He favors “my uncle” with Irish news, He is hand and glove with “my nephew’s” views. And polishes Mr. Matthews’ shoes With Warren’s infallible blacking. He will flourish a pen for the London Times, And prove to his own content— With the faultless logic of pantomimes— That lawful actions are legal crimes And landlords are heaven-sent, Till a wrathful people takes its stand Shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand, And drives him back to his native land, With his ugly pinions rent. Ernest A. Beard. The Star. February 14, 1888.

I think, whatever mortals crave, With impotent endeavour,— A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave,— The world goes round for ever: I think that life is not too long; And therefore I determine, That many people read a song Who will not read a sermon. I think the studies of the wise, The hero’s noisy quarrel, The majesty of woman’s eyes, The poet’s cherished laurel, And all that makes us lean or fat, And all that charms or troubles,— This bubble is more bright than that, But still they all are bubbles. I think that friars and their hoods, Their doctrines and their maggots, Have lighted up too many feuds, And far too many faggots: I think, while zealots fast and frown, And fight for two or seven, That there are fifty roads to town, And rather more to Heaven. I think that very few have sighed When fate at last has found them, Though bitter foes were by their side, And barren moss around them: I think that some have died of drought, And some have died of drinking, I think that nought is worth a thought, And I’m a fool for thinking! (The complete poem consists of thirteen verses.) W. M. Praed.

The Chaunt of the Political Brazen Head. (Mr. Gladstones version.) I think, that power the Tories crave, With impotent endeavour, Though Stafford is serene and suave, And Randolph rude and clever. I think my thoughts upon the throng Fall sweet as dews on Hermon: And that I’ll, set them to a song, Though apter at a sermon. I think that some are men of parts, Whilst some are vulgar fractions, That some are good at Liberals arts. And some at liberal actions; I think that Harcourt—with a bit— Is not so bad a neighbour, Though one who at, and with his wit, Will labour, and belabour. I think that Hartington is wise, And Bright austerely moral; 197 Fawcett sees more than some with eyes, And Forster’s sage, though sorrel; That Granville has a feline pat, Which much his foemen troubles, So soft they scarce know what he’s at Until it pricks their bubbles. * * * * * I think that Leadership’s a play, Now Entrance and now Exit, When fortune smiles upon it, gay, And sad when failures vex it, Like vessels in a seaway rough, To pitches prone and tosses; With little peace, pain quantum suff.— A game of noughts and crosses. I think the world, though hard it be, Affords one constant pleasure,— The felling of the forest tree When one has health and leisure, One volume—Homer—all delight, One comrade—a ripe scholar, One choice—when one can’t talk, to write, One ease—a loose shirt—collar. I think all aged Chiefs have sighed, When years at last have found them: New friends—though loyal—at their side, New foes—though little—round them, I think that those who long have fought Grow weary, though unshrinking; I think—that now you know my thought, And that I’m tired of thinking. (Four verses omitted.) * * * * * Punch. December 2, 1882.

No politics!—I cannot bear To tell our ancient fame; No politics!—I do not dare To paint our present shame! What we have been, what we must be, Let other minstrels say; It is too dark a theme for me: No politics to-day! * * * * * W. M. Praed, 1832.

A Lyric from Highbury. By Joseph Chamberlain. No politics!—I cannot bear To tell our ancient fame; No politics!—I do not dare To paint our present shame. What we have been, what we must be, Let other minstrels say; It is too dark a theme for me— No politics to-day! I loved to bind the Caucus chain, I loved to drive the screw, But now they’re binding might and main And screwing me and you. I cried, “Three acres and a cow,” The cursed yokels say; They’ve got a sort of conscience now— No politics to-day! I used to think my happy home Was free from ransom’s law, Though manor-house and church’s dome Were caught in Demos’ maw; I paid no borough rates—but you And I must run away; We cannot tell what Morley’ll do— No politics to-day! It seems I’ve missed the proper tack, That justice holds the field; That an orating platform quack Is bound in time to yield. That men are not of pocket made, As Schnadhorst used to say; That politics is not a trade— No politics to-day! Let’s talk of Spurgeon and of Dale, Of Connie Gilchrist’s eyes, Say, why did “Jim the Penman” fail, Despite his brass and lies? Let’s take to racing, try to win A competence, at play; Let’s take to fiddles, rattles, gin— No politics to-day! Pall Mall Gazette. May 28, 1886.

You tell me you’re promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week; Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, My own Araminta, say “No” * * * * * W. M. Praed.

A Letter of Advice. (On a pending Election at the Athenæum Club.) You tell me that What-you-maccollum Is up for election this week, And reasons, convincing and solemn, For voting against him you seek. Though Pollock propose, Arnold second, And a duke and a marquis or so Support him, they need not be reckoned; My own Athenæum say “No.” Though Browning and Bright try to kindle Your zeal, and their notions instil— Though Trevelyan, and Millais, and Tyndall Should tempt you to keep back your “pill;” 198 If you think he would frown our cigars on, Or to sixpenny whist prove a foe, If he’s only a Gladstonite parson, My own Athenæum, say “No.” If you don’t, he will cut some new caper— P’raps accuse the committee of crimes; He will ruin the club in note-paper. And use it to write to the Times. So give him the cleanest of clean “sacks,” Let him wander to far Jericho; To an anthropomorphist of bean sacks My own Athenæum, say “No.” The Globe. February 25, 1858.

I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by,— The mirth of its December, And the warmth of its July; On my brow, love, on my brow, love, There are no signs of care; But my pleasures are not now, love, What childhood’s pleasures were. Then the bowers—then the bowers Were blythe as blythe could be; And all their radiant flowers Were coronals for me: Gems to-night, love—gems to-night, love, Are gleaming in my hair; But they are not half so bright, love, As childhood’s roses were. I was singing—I was singing— And my songs were idle words; But from my heart was springing Wild music like a bird’s: Now I sing, love,—now I sing, love, A fine Italian air; But it’s not so glad a thing, love, As childhood’s ballads were. I was merry—I was merry When my little lovers came, With a lily, or a cherry, Or a new invented game; Now I’ve you, love, now I’ve you, love, To kneel before me there; But you know you’re not so true, love, As childhood’s lovers were! W. M. Praed. June, 1833.

Boy. I remember, I remember, When I was a little boy, On the column in November I was given some employ. I help’d the man to build it, And we laboured hard and long But the granite came up slowly For we were not very strong. I remember, I remember, How we raised its form on high, With one block in December And another in July. Both. We remember, we remember, When St Martin’s bells were rung In the laying of the first stone, for We both were very young. But weary years have past, now, Since we our work begun; We fear we shall not last, now, To see our labour done. We remember, we remember, But we heard it on the sly, ’Twon’t be finish’d next November Nor the subsequent July. Punch. November 25, 1843.

The Farmer’s Corn Law Song. I remember—I remember—when the price was very high, I’d my hunters for December, and my racers for July; On my brow, Peel, on my brow, Peel. There are sad signs of care; For the prices are not now, Peel, What once the prices were. I was merry—I was merry—when the ’lectioneerers came; And the Squire, he said the prices would always be the same! Now I’ve no one, now I’ve no one, To say a word of cheer. For the Squire and ’lectioneerers They never come anear. Punch. 1846.

About the Weather. (A Fragment.) I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, 199 It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings— In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn’t now at all Like what it used to was! The Man in the Moon. Vol. V.

The Bankrupt to the Commissioner. I remember, I remember How my tin once used to fly— How at th’end of each December Bills in bushels met my eye. On my back, Sir, on my back, Sir, Though my coat is not threadbare— Yet those spicy things I lack, Sir, Which of yore I used to wear. (Two verses omitted.) The Puppet Show. July 1, 1848.

Mistletoe Anticipations. (By a young gentleman “who knows what’s good.”) I remember, I remember, We the mistletoe hung high On a cold night in December, When the Christmas Eve drew nigh; I remember, from the ceiling How its gleaming berries shone On the pretty girls there squealing, As I kiss’d them ev’ry one! I remember, I remember, How the mistletoe hung high On that cold night in December; And the tale that hangs thereby. Then the dancing, then the dancing, And the waving hair all tress’d; And the bright eyes brighter glancing When the little waist was press’d; And the flirting, and the flirting, Oh! how well I can recall! And the lips their charms asserting, For I think I kissed them all!! I remember, I remember, Each pretty girl and kiss; And I judge from that December, Of the fun I shall have this. I was merry, I was merry, When my pretty cousins came; For their lips were tempting, (very!) So I kiss’d them all the same! Girls that night, sir, girls that night, sir, As frolicsome as fair, Ran about in wild delight, sir, When the mistletoe was there. I remember, I remember, How they feign’d to hate a kiss; But they kiss’d in that December, And—I think they’ll do so this! Cuthbert Bede.

Good-night to the Season! ’Tis over! Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover, Are scattered like swallows away; There’s nobody left to invite one Except my good uncle and spouse; My mistress is bathing at Brighton, My patron is sailing at Cowes: For want of a better employment, Till Ponto and Don can get out, I’ll cultivate rural enjoyment, An angle immensely for trout. Good-night to the Season!—the obbies, Their changes, and rumours of change, Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, And made all the Bishops look strange; The breaches, and battles, and blunders, Performed by the Commons and Peers; The Marquis’s eloquent thunders; The Baronet’s eloquent cheers; Denouncings of Papists and treasons, Of foreign dominion and oats; Misrepresentations of reasons, And misunderstandings of notes. Good-night to the Season!—the buildings Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended, From love of effect, into one; The club-houses only intended, The palaces only begun; The hell, where the fiend in his glory Sits staring at putty and stones, And scrambles from story to story, To rattle at midnight his bones. Good-night to the Season!—the dances, The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances, The fancyings of fancy costumes; The pleasures which fashion makes duties, The praisings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at Beauties, The tedium of talking to mutes; The female diplomatists, planners Of matches for Laura and Jane; The ice of her Ladyship’s manners, The ice of his Lordship’s champagne. 200 Good-night to the Season!—the rages Led off by the chiefs of the throng, The Lady Matilda’s new pages, The Lady Eliza’s new song; Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’s Was held to have something to say; Mrs Splenetic’s musical poodles, Which bark “Batti Batti” all day; The pony Sir Araby sported, As hot and as black as a coal, And the Lion his mother imported, In bearskins and grease, from the Pole. Good-night to the Season!—the Toso, So very majestic and tall; Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, And Pasta, divinest of all; The labour in vain of the ballet, So sadly deficient in stars; The foreigners thronging the Alley, Exhaling the breath of cigars; The loge where some heiress (how killing!) Environed with exquisites sits, The lovely one out of her drilling, The silly ones out of their wits. Good-night to the Season!—the splendour That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar; Where I purchased—my heart was so tender— A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, A bottle of perfume, a girdle, A lithographed Riego, full grown, Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle That artists might draw him on stone; A small panorama of Seville, A trap for demolishing flies, A caricature of the Devil, And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes. Good-night to the Season!—the flowers Of the grand horticultural fête, When boudoirs were quitted for bowers, And the fashion was—not to be late; When all who had money and leisure Grew rural o’er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches, And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches, And treading on delicate toes. Good-night to the Season!—Another Will come, with its trifles and toys, And hurry away, like its brother, In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose or a briar? Will it come with a blessing or curse? Will its bonnets be lower or higher? Will its morals be better or worse? Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, Or fonder of wrong or of right, Or married—or buried?—no matter: Good night to the Season—good night! Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

Good-bye to the Commons. Good-bye to the Commons! Their places, Rude strangers will seek to obtain, And many familiar faces We never may look on again! Good-bye to their hasty expressions, Their wrangles, contentions, and fights, Their absolute waste of the sessions, Their “personal” wrongs, and their rights. The battle they’re off to prepare for, And some who away from us fly Will never return to us—therefore, Good-bye to the Commons, good-bye! Good-bye to the Commons! To speeches Without either reason or rhyme; To Irish Home Rulers; to breaches Of privilege, wasting our time; Good-bye to each wordy oration; To Blue Books consigned to the shelves; To small men who speak for “the nation,” To great men who speak for themselves; To voices once strong, now grown weaker, To orators little and big— To that excellent person, the Speaker, His chair, and his gown, and his wig. Good-bye to the Commons! To lobbies Now empty, and silent, and still; Good-bye to their various hobbies, To motion, and question, and bill; Their “Ayes” and their “Noes” and their prattle, Their sittings so early and late— For the trumpet has called them to battle, And none can be sure of their fate. We breathe just one sigh as they scatter, Yet, somehow, we cannot deny They’ve bored us immensely—no matter; Good-bye to the Commons, Good-bye! Funny Folks. March 27, 1880.

Vale. Good-bye to the Season, its crosses, Its care, and caress, its cabal,— Let us drown both its gain and its losses In Styx, or the Suez Canal! Though pleasure be near, or too far be, We’ve kept it up early and late, From the dust and the din of the Derby To the Fair at the Kensington Fête. Let the desperate dog, or the dreamer Dividing his lips with a weed, Recross the sick streak in a steamer, A travelling tourist—in tweed! (Two verses omitted.) Good-bye to the Season! but listen, Old Time keeps reversing his sand, Fresh tears in loved eyelids will glisten, And hand will keep searching for hand. We shall come from the sea and the heather, Refreshed and with faces burned brown, To face life with courage together, Or find care in charge of the town. Though the past to the loved one and lover Be sorrow, success, or a spell, It has passed like a dream and is over, Good-bye to the Season! Farewell! Punch. July 28, 1883.

Good-Bye to the Season. Good-bye to the season! ’Tis ended! My friends are all flitting away, And I murmured, as homeward I wended From Goodwood, that last weary day, Will no one invite me, I wonder, To join them in shooting their moor, Or shall I be left here to ponder, While my chances get fewer and fewer? Lord H. has gone sailing at Cowes, And Carrie is bathing at Brighton, And Charlie’s gone North with his spouse, Ah! Who is there left to invite one? Good-bye to the season! The Houses Are leaving their Bills in the lurch, And Gladstone with Northcote carouses, While Bradlaugh looks after the Church, And Warton has blocked his last measure, And Worms has forgotten the Russian, And Granville chuckles with pleasure, And dreams of his ally the Prussian; And Cairns in the Strand’s sweet seclusion Is blessing Garmoyle and dear “Forty”; And coals and commandments in fusion Are joined for a sign to the haughty. (Two verses omitted.) Good-bye to the season! We care not What the next may relinquish or bring, If low dresses we wear or we wear not, When green are the trees in the spring. If tight laces and vile crinolettes, Disfigure the forms of our girls, Turn they Yankee or smoke cigarettes, Or iron their hair into curls. If the season is heavy or fast is, If the beauties are many or few; We don’t care if this season our last is, (For our sweetheart is married) do you? Life. August 23, 1883.

Good-bye to the Season. Good-bye to the season! ’Tis over, And London no longer is gay. To Perth, to Penzance, and to Dover (For Paris) all hurry away. There’s scarce a soul left in this hot land, For all the world now, and his spouse, If not making tracks up to Scotland, Pretend to be yachting at Cowes. Whilst mothers whose ill-fated daughters Strove vainly for husbands in town, Are seeking, in Cheltenham waters, Their grim disappointment to drown. Good-bye to the Season—but truly, To all its chief items go through Would lengthen our rhymes so unduly, We dare not the subject pursue; Nor dwell on those purse-proud pretenders, Who, ever so ill at their ease, Give dinners, whose shoddyish splendours Are far too oppressive to please, And who, wheresoever we find them— And they’re omnipresent, alack!— Are given to leaving behind them Of “h’s” a well-defined track. Nor speak of the year’s recreations, Its billiards, its cricket galore; With breaks and with scores—such sensations As London ne’er looked on before! Nor talk of the lamp-lit “Inventions,” Whose management, showing small nous, A sum of enormous dimensions Paid over to little Herr Strauss; Nor even allude to those scandals, The which, it would certainly seem, That people with nominal handles Their personal property deem. Yes, these are the signs of the season, And these are the lessons we’d teach, As, mingling with rhyming our reason, We try to a homily preach. And out of the season’s excesses— Its fads, and its follies, and toys— Pick out what our mind most impresses Amidst all its notions and noise; And once more our moral commending To those who its truths should apply, Cry again, as our rhymes we are ending, “Good bye to the Season! Good bye!” (Six verses omitted.) Truth. August 6, 1885.

Farewell to the Season. Farewell to the Season! Not often We take it so early as June; But Chamberlain nothing could soften, The Parties were all out of tune. And so dissolution confronts us, Ere roses are fairly in bloom, And Gladstone from Westminster hunts us To challenge our fate, and his doom. Farewell to the Season! ’Twas scurvy Of William to play us this trick, Sets everything all topsy-turvy, And banishes trade to Old Nick, The Shopkeeper sighs with vexation, The Milliner moans in despair; In the West there is wild tribulation; Teeth grinding and tearing of hair. Farewell to the Season! The hunter Of husbands is baulked of her game. There is grief in the bosom of Gunter, All Regent-Street’s soul is a-flame. The Row is a wilderness utter, The Livery Stables look sad, The Cab-drivers mournfully mutter, And Materfamilias goes mad. Farewell to the Season! How dingy A pall seems this close premature. The shirkers, the stumped, and the stingy May welcome the change to be sure; But votaries of Commerce and Cupid, Young seekers of fortune or fame, All hold it confoundedly stupid, And vote it a thundering shame! Punch. July 3, 1886.

So the Jubilee’s over. Thank goodness! I scarce fancy, from all that I hear, We could stand (be it said without rudeness) Such a function as that every year. It was gorgeous, the drive to the Abbey, And was fairly well managed, we know, Since not even the critical Labby Could deny ’twas a mighty fine show. Such a crowd! Never saw I a larger, And what cheering. Of that was no lack, When they saw gallant Fritz on his charger, And the Marquis of Lorne on his back. Never was such a Royal ovation Since the history of England began: We had Princes of every nation, We had Daimios straight from Japan. There was soreness, of course, and dissension Haughty Holkar was sparing of smiles, Feeling hurt he should get less attention Than the Queen of the Cannibal Isles. Apsley House flew historical banners, Mr. Smith spent a fortune in gas, V.R.I. praised her people’s good manners, And a bobby arrested Miss Cass. Now the Jubilee season is over: There are met at Victoria no end Of Serenities hasting to Dover, Of Transparencies bound for Ostend While the Queen, with a thankful expression, Packs her bag and portmanteau for Cowes; Albert E. leaves the cook in possession As he migrates from Marlborough House. The beau monde copies Royalty’s caper, And (excepting mere tradesmen and boors) Every soul shrouds his window in paper, And is off to the seaside or moors. So the Park is deserted. The keeper Stalks alone where pricked rider and groom, All unswept is the crossing, the sweeper Standing idly at ease with his broom. Where but now rolled the Marquis’s carriage The rare hansom crawls, hopeless of fare, And there is not one notice of marriage On the books of St. George of the Square. All the noise and the glitter are banished That came in with the Jubilee year; Passed away into Ewigkeit—vanished With Hans Breitmann’s proverbial beer. Awful Warrior.

To a Jilt. (An imitation of Praed.) When rural boroughs are not bought, Or lovely maidens sold; When self is reckoned less than nought, Or honour more than gold; When money does not make the man, Or gooseberries champagne; When Poet Close’s verses scan,— I may be yours again! When Tussaud’s wax-works learn to think Or Tories to be wise; When local rates begin to sink; Or Spanish scrip to rise; When German princes live at home, Or swells in Drury-lane; When Dr. Cumming goes to Rome,— I may be yours again! When knaves and ranters cease to preach, Or evening prints to lie; When tyros do not try to teach, Or silly girls to dye; When Osborne quite forgets to jest, Or Ireland to complain; When taxes are no more assess’d— I may be yours again! When law and justice both unite, Or Swan and Edgar part; When London gas gives better light, Or Ayrton takes to art; When Leicester-square begins to smile, Or “Bradshaw” to be plain; When smart reviewers don’t revile,— I may be yours again! When Lord Penzance shall sit no more, Or gaols no longer stand; When want is banished from our shore, Or love is in the land; When earth is rid of every woe, Or fools are blest with brain— Why then, my faithless charmer, know I may be yours again! Anonymous.

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; 203 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 quite a crime, When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school, And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. Lord! how principles pass away! Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may. Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

O, hush thee, my babie!—the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum! Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindling to the shortest span; Oh! give relief and heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, Has been the channel to a flood of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Here, as I craved a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial drove me from the door, To seek a shelter in an humble shed. Oh! take me to your hospitable dome: Keen blows the wind and piercing is the cold: Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity e’er touch’d your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be repressed. Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine? ’Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot; Then like the lark I sprightly hail’d the morn, But ah! oppression forced me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur’d by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandoned on the world’s wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindling to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

The Goose’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Goose, Whose feeble steps have borne her to your door, Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use, Oh! give me corn, and Heaven will bless your store. My feather’d coat, once lily white, and sleek, By cruel pluckings grown so bare and thin; These rags, alas; doth misery bespeak, And show my bones, just starting thro’ the skin. Come, Biddy, come, that well-known pleasing sound, Stole in soft murmurs from Dame Partlet’s farm; For plenty there, in youthful days, I found, So waddled on, unconscious then of harm. Soon as I reach’d this once blest, happy cot, Feeding the pigs, came Partlet from the stye; More kicks than halfpence I too surely got, She seiz’d a broomstick, and knock’d out my eye. A bandy cur, sworn foe to all our race, Some few years past, when I was strong and plump, Who, if I hiss’d, would run and hide his face, Now boldly tears my breeches from my * * * The wall-eye’d brute next bit me thro’ the leg: A naughty boy too, out of wanton joke, For whom I’ve laid, aye, many and many an egg, Seiz’d up a stone, and this left pinion broke. To go from hence you see I am not able; Oh! take me in, the wind blows piercing cold; Short is the passage to the barn or stable; Alas! I’m weak, and miserably old. St. Michael’s fatal day approaches near; A day we all have reason sure to curse; E’en at the name my blood runs cold with fear, So inimical is that Saint to us. 204 You have misfortunes; why should I repine? We’re born for food to man, full well I know; But may your fate, ah! never be like mine, A poor old Goose, of misery and woe. A numerous flock elected me their Queen; I then was held of all our race the pride; When a bold Gander, waddling from Brook Green, Declar’d his love, and I became his bride. Goslings we had, dear comforts of my life; But a vile cook, by some mad fancy bit, My pretty cacklers kill’d, then stuff’d with sage, And their sweet forms expos’d upon the spit. The murd’ress next seiz’d on my tender mate; Alas! he was too fat to run or fly; Like his poor infants, yielded unto fate, And with his giblets, Cook she made a pie. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Goose, Whose feeble steps have borne her to your door, Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use, Oh! give me corn, and Heaven will bless your store. The European Magazine. 1804.

The Third Class Traveller’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a third class man, Whose trembling limbs with snow are whiten’d o’er, Who for his fare has paid you all he can: Cover him in, and let him freeze no more! This dripping hat my roofless pen bespeaks, So does the puddle’ reaching to my knees; Behold my pinch’d red nose—my shrivell’d cheeks: You should not have such carriages as these. In vain I stamp to warm my aching feet, I only paddle in a pool of slush; My stiffen’d hands in vain I blow and beat; Tears from my eyes congealing as they gush. Keen blows the wind; the sleet comes pelting down, And here I’m standing in the open air! Long is my dreary journey up to town, That is, alive, if ever I get there. Oh! from the weather, when it snows and rains, You might as well, at least, defend the Poor; It would not cost you much, with all your gains: Cover us in, and luck attend your store. Punch. March 1, 1845.

The Stag’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Stag, Brought by the panic to the workhouse door; Whose Scrip has dwindled into worthless rag: Oh! give relief; part of his loss restore! These tattered Shares my poverty bespeak; These horrid deeds proclaim my length of ears; I signed for many thousands every week: I cannot liquidate the calls with tears. Yon line, projected on no solid ground, With tempting prospects drew me of my cash; For plenty there the lawyer said he found, And the Directors grandly cut a dash. Hard is the fate of him who holds the Shares; For when a slice of their rich gains I sought, The pamper’d secretary only stares, And tells me to go back to Capel Court. Oh! take me to your comfortable Board; Down is the Scrip—the Times are very cold! Some of your premium you might afford, For I’m let in, while you—for profits—sold. Should I reveal the sources of your wealth, I think that I could gibbet every name; For to yourselves you have done “good by stealth,” And even you might blush to find it fame. You sent allotments—and ’tis very fine That, spite of panics, you unharmed should be; Some of your premium should have been mine; Why should the discount all devolve on me? A little batch of ten you did allot, Then, like a trump, I my deposit paid; But ah! the panic to the City got, And not a sixpence now’s to be made! My broker once his friendship used to brag; Check’d by the panic in his zeal to pay, He casts me off, a poor abandoned stag, And sternly bids me think of settling day. My creditors, who know I’ve dealt in Shares, Struck with suspicion at the wreck they see, Tell me for worthless Scrip there’s no one cares, But ready money they must have from me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Stag, Brought by the panic to the workhouse door; Whose Scrip has dwindled into worthless rag; Oh! give relief; part of his loss restore. From George Cruikshank’s Table Book. 1845.

The Lament of Westminster Bridge. Pity the sorrows of a poor old bridge Whose tottering state has made him quite a bore; Whose arches dwindle to the river’s ridge, As they approach on either side the shore. Those falling stones my craziness bespeak, My smoke-dried aspect tells my lengthen’d years, And many a furrow, worn into a creek, The rain has made a channel for its tears. Yon houses built on the adjacent ground Have upon me my final doom bestow’d: The Commons there a residence have found; The Peerage a magnificent abode. 205 Hard is the fate of an infirm old pile, While daily sinking on a cold damp bed; If they don’t move me in a little while I certainly shall tumble down instead. My wretched lot your interference claims, Much longer I cannot together hold; Some morning I shall drop into the Thames, For I am weak and miserably old. Pity the sorrows of a poor old bridge, Whose tottering state has made him quite a bore, His piers have sunk down to the river’s ridge, Oh! cast him off, lest he should tumble o’er. Punch. 1846.

The Begging Impostor’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man Whose bandaged limbs have brought him to your door, Who rolls his eyeballs on a famous plan Which he has practised for a month or more. This studied shake paralysis bespeaks— This shred of onion makes the best of tears; And ’neath the whitening plaster on my cheeks, The flush of last night’s lushing disappears. Yon house erected on a rising ground, (A serious maiden lady’s snug abode) I visited, and there with depth profound, A touch of first-rate pantomime I showed. But, ah! how merit in this world gets stopp’d! Just as to groan and shiver I’d begun— A pamper’d peeler round the corner popp’d, And made me shoulder up my crutch and run. Oh, stand a trifle (just one’s throat to wet)— See how my eye with tears of anguish swims; But make it something decent, or you’ll get, Ahem!—not blessings on your eyes and limbs. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose bandaged limbs have borne him to your door! Who in these dreadful times—try all he can, Can only make two pounds a day—no more! The Man in the Moon, Vol. V. 1849.

The Prince’s Petition. Pity the troubles of a poor young Prince, Whose costly scheme has borne him to your door; Who’s in a fix—the matter not to mince— Oh, help him out, and Commerce swell your store. This empty hat my awkward case bespeaks, These blank subscription-lists explain my fear; Days follow days, and weeks succeed to weeks, But very few contributors appear. Yon house, whose walls with casements tall abound, With look of affluence drew me from the road; But grumbling there a residence had found, Light was so plaguy dear at that abode. Hard was the answer, and the cut was sore; Here, where I hoped for good a pound a head, A maid-of-all-work drove me from the door, “We pays too much for Winder Tax,” she said. * * * * * A great success I thought would be my lot, When, for a lark, I broach’d my plan, one morn; But ah! Taxation to such height has got, That I’m afraid the thing will fall still-born. The Income Tax, that burden of the age, Narrows the comforts of so many a home, That people can’t afford me patronage, And I am doomed for charity to roam, The tiresome duties that on Knowledge bear, Retained by Government’s unwise decree, A farthing will not let the poor man spare To aid all nations’ industry and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor young Prince, Whose costly scheme has borne him to your door; Who’s in a fix—the matter not to mince— Oh, help him out, and Commerce swell your store! Punch. 1850.

The Young Lady’s Complaint. (Addressed to Messrs. Rowland & Son, from the Seaside.) Pity the sorrows of a poor young girl, (O, Rowland, great for oil and Kalydor;) Whose tiresome ringlets will not keep in curl, Tho’ they’re with hair-pins skewer’d o’er and o’er. In vain at eve I paper them with care, At morn releasing them in due array; Ere breakfast’s done all loose and limp they are, And I’ve to curl them twenty times a day. ’Mid the parade’s attractions could I show? Dank and dishevell’d will my ringlets be; I know the Captain doesn’t like bandeaux, Yet what resource beside is left for me? O, Mr. Rowland, do contrive some charm That by the sea may keep our hair in curl; Call it the Bostryk-Oceanic Balm, And take the blessings of each English girl. Diogenes. September, 1853.

The Clerk’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Clerk, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose eyes are gone, his hands too weak to work, Give him a fair allowance, and no more. The Treasury hard masters seemed to be, And to the House with hopeful hearts we came, Deeming with kindlier eye our case ’twould see, And lend more liberal hearing to our claim. 206 Vain hope, alas!—the measure you propose But serves to make our hard lot harder still; Leave us untouched: we’ll bear our present woes, But save us from the Civil Service Bill. (Four verses omitted.) Punch. August 2, 1856.

The Beggar’s Petition. (The Tichborne Claimant.) Pity the sorrows of an ill-used man, On whom has closed the heavy prison door; He only begs you’ll give him all you can— Oh, give him that, and he’ll not ask for more. These twisted thumbs my parentage bespeak, And next the limp, the famous wink appears; The eyelid drooping down upon my cheek, Adds certain proof to my convincing ears. A butcher’s cart was my paternal lot, In Wapping stood my proud ancestral halls; Ambition made me spurn a humble cot, And lodged me where I am, in Newgate’s walls. “Yon house erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence had found, And Grandeur a magnificent abode.” Hard was the fate, for one so very stout; Here, when I told my wild advent’rous tale, A pamper’d lawyer came and drove me out, To find a shelter in a wretched gaol. Some people has much money and no brains; Some others plenty brains and little gold; Those who’ve the wit, the coin take for their pains, From those who’ve not the sense their own to hold. Pity the sorrows of an ill-used man, On whom has closed the heavy prison door; Be generous, and give him all you can, To rescue him from Justice—I implore. Judy. April 24, 1872.

The Bar’s Petition. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Bar,[116] Whose trembling base is rotten to the core; For whose last day one scarce need look afar, Whose tottering frame unsightly timbers shore. My dismal lines my ugliness bespeak, These blacken’d stones proclaiming lengthen’d years; And many a patch of mud upon my cheek Look like the grimy stains of scarce-dried tears, Oh! take me down, and save me from the doom Of being shortly in the roadway roll’d, Sending some poor wayfarers to the tomb; For I am pitiably weak and old. Time brings misfortunes; and the surging tide Of City traffic roaring under me Hath sapp’d me to the base, and to one side Hath made me lean, as now you sadly see. Two centuries ago I graced this spot, When these old stones by fewer feet were worn; But now stern Progress vows that I cannot Block up the street, or longer here be borne. Pity the sorrows of a poor old Bar, Whose trembling walls unsightly timbers shore Whom Time has mark’d with many an ugly scar, Oh! take him down, and stick him up no more. Judy. September 9, 1874.

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long’d To follow to the field some warlike lord; And Heav’n soon granted what my sire denied. This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light, A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, Rush’d like a torrent down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succour. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hover’d about the enemy, and mark’d The road he took, then hasted to my friends; Whom with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, ’Till we o’ertook the spoil-encumber’d foe. We fought and conquer’d. ’Ere a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow had pierc’d their chief, Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d The shepherd’s slothful life; and having heard That our good king had summon’d his bold peers To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father’s house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps:— Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I pass’d these towers, And Heaven-directed, came this day to do The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

The Jew Stock-broker. My name is Moses:—In theft-famed Rag Fair My father sells old cloathes.—A bearded Smouch; Whose constant aim was to humbug his buyers, And teach his only son, myself,—to cheat. But I had heard of Gambling,—and I long’d To lighten, with false dice, some sporting Lord. Change Alley granted, what my fate denied: 207 This moon, which rose last night, crooked like my fingers, ’Pear’d not i’ th’ almanac, when in dark street, A band of lucky Bulls, from Garraway’s—hot, Rush’d like a torrent down chaste Goodman’s Fields, Row-wing and breaking lamps. The Rabbis fled To fetch their canes brass headed:—I alone With breeches pack, and box of ladies’ caxens,[117] Shuffled about the jolly dogs, and filch’d Their pocket-books;—I sought Ben Israel; Whom with a troop of fifty perjur’d Brokers I Bank-ward follow’d: the notes we parted; Next morn we fac’d the Stock-encumber’d foe. We bought up Consols. Ere a transfer made, A bargain from my tongue did up their chief, Who held that day the scrip since in my name. Returning home half-groggy, I disdain’d Th’ old cloathes man’s stitching life, and having heard The financier had summon’d all loan jobbers To bring their Rino to the Treasury side; I left old Shylock’s house; and stole with me His fraud-earn’d bags to pay my quantum down; (The electric Spankers which have skirk’d their masters!) Intent on lies and rapine, I have prowl’d, Till, hell-directed, I a Bear became, The accursed deed that dickies all my hopes! From “Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau,” Chichester. 1803.

“My name’s the Doctor: on the Berkshire hills My father purg’d his patients; a wise man, Whose constant care was to increase his store, And keep his only son—myself—at home. “But I had heard of politics, and long’d To sit within the Commons’ House, and get A place; and luck gave what my sire denied.— Some thirteen years ago, or ere my fingers Had learn’d to mix a potion, or to bleed, I flatter’d Pitt; I cring’d, and sneak’d, and fawn’d, And thus became the Speaker. I alone, With pompous gait, and peruke full of wisdom, Th’ unruly Members could control, or call The House to order. “Tir’d of the Chair, I sought a bolder flight, And grasping at his power, I struck my friend, Who held that place, which now I’ve made my own. “Proud of my triumph, I disdain’d to court The patron hand which fed me, or to seem Grateful to him who rais’d me into notice. And when the King had called his Parliament To meet him here conven’d in Westminster, With all my Family crowding at my heels, My brothers, cousins, followers, and my son, I show’d myself prime Doctor to the country; My ends attain’d, my only aim has been To keep my place, and gild my humble name.”

My Name is Scraggem. My name is Scragg’em. On famed Mutton Hill My father sells his pies, a frugal man Whose constant care it was to win the toss, Increase his store, and keep my humble self at home. But I had heard of winning, and I long’d To follow to the hill, to call out head or tail, And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. Yon gas, which blazed last night long as my stick, Had scarce burst into flame, when by its light A half-starved, hungry mortal, rushed furiously On my stall, devouring mince and mutton. The watchman fled for succour, I alone In Crib-like attitude, hover’d about the enemy, Then pounced suddenly upon his meagre carcass, And drew a half-munch’d pie from his devouring jaws. I fought and conquer’d, ere a Charley came, I’d drawn the claret from his olfact’ry organ. Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d The vulgar cry of apple, mince, or mutton; And having heard of one Sir Walter Scott, And Bernard-Barton, bard of broad-brim’d beaver, Filling their pockets with produce of a pen, I left my stall, took up the grey goose quill, And wrote these lines, with the intent That Mirror’s page should gild my humble name.

My Name’s Tom Dibdin. My name’s Tom Dibdin,[118] far o’er Ludgate Hill My master kept his shop, a frugal Cit, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only ’prentice, me, at home; For I had heard of acting, and I long’d To mimic on the stage some warlike lord, But fortune granted me what trade denied. Yon moon, which rose one night across Moorfields, Had scarcely fill’d her horns, when by her light A band of merry mad-caps from the town Rushed like a torrent to the water’s edge Seeking the Margate hoy—with them I fled For liberty and acting. Thus alone, With walking strides, and bundle thin of linen, Hover’d about the Kentish coast, and mark What trade I took—I hasten’d to East-Bourne, Where Richland,[119] and a troop of actor folks I met advancing. Merry lives we led, Till we had eased the cash-encumber’d clowns, 208 I wrote and acted, ere long time had flown, A scribble from my quill, produc’d a farce, Which bore that day the name that now it bears, Elated thence, with triumph I disdained A country actor’s life, and having heard That Mister Harris wanted some bold bard, To lead his actors to old Nilus’ side,[120] I left my manager, and took with me A chosen fair one to console my steps, Yon merry female who delights her master. Journeying to town from Kent, I pass’d the Tower, And, chance directed, came this day to write An opera that’s wormwood to the Jews.[121]

Address, To be spoken by the Author, dressed in the garb of a Brewer’s Porter, armed with a Spigot, &c. My name is Whitbread. Upon Hertford’s hills My father kept his house; a brewer rich, Whose constant cares were to increase his wealth, And keep his only son, myself, at school; For I had heard of speeches, and I long’d To follow in the House some noisy chief, And Bedford granted what my sire denied. This House which opes to-night, large as my brewhouse, Had not yet rais’d its head, when on its site A band of Irish bricklayers, from the street, Rush’d like mad dogs upon the ruin’d walls, Wheeling the bricks and stones; the Renters fled For Sheridan and Peake; whilst I alone, With bended quill and book full of subscribers, Hover’d about the ruins, and well mark’d The road they went;—then hasted to some friend, Whom with a list of fifty wealthy men I met advancing. Then the chair I took And soon o’erturned the debt-encumbered foe; We talked and argued: ere a pound was paid, A promise from my tongue upset the chief, Who had that day the box which now I have! Returning home in triumph, I disdain’d A brewer’s vulgar life; and having read That our old King had summoned his good towns To send new members up to Abbot’s side, I went to Bedford, and behind me left A chosen Lord to follow in my steps— Yon bald-head bigot who forsook his master. (Pointing to Lord H’s box.) Journeying with that intent, I’ve ’scaped the Tower, And, pride directed, come this night to hear The rabble shouts that greet my brazen name. The Morning Post. October 29, 1812.

Canning’s History of Himself. (Written in April 1822.) My name is Canning; on the Thespian boards My mother played her part—a thrifty dame, Whose only care was to increase her store, And teach her hopeful son the “Rule of Three.”[122] But I had heard of sinecures, and long’d To follow in the track that leads to Court, And Heaven soon granted what I so desir’d: The Gallic sun rose from chaotic night, And by its blaze, a horde of Sans Culottes Rush’d, like a torrent, o’er the affrighted world— Threaten’g all crowned heads. The Courier wrote The Jacobins to succour. I, on place Intent, wrote, in the Anti-Jacobin, Phillippics against France, and Pitt soon mark’d The squibbs I penned, and rank’d me with his friends, A chosen band of needy, hungry placemen, In fortune all advancing. This life I led Until at Waterloo we met the foe: We fought and conquer’d, thank our lucky stars, The loitering Grouchy seal’d the fate of Nap.,[123] Who wore that day the crown fat Louis wears. Exulting in our triumph, I disdain’d A rhyming punster’s life, and having heard That Lusitania’s king, called by his peers, His course was bending to the Tagus side, I left my native land and took with me The sum of fourteen thousand pounds a year. The King came not; but what cared I for that? I ate and drank, and then came back again; And, Heaven be prais’d, have liv’d to see the day When India hails me as her Governor! From The Mélange, Liverpool, 1834.

Dr. Lardner’s Cyclopædia. My name is Lardner, in St. Paul’s Churchyard My Cyclopædia sells, a weighty book Whose constant pages do increase my store And keep their editor, myself, at home! For I was born a janius, and I longed For some two thousand pounds per annum, and My book soon gave what Gower Street denied. From The National Omnibus, May 27, 1831.

Norval. My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills, My faither keeps his whisky stills, 209 His occupation is to shield His whisky stills frae the gauger chiels; And to keep his son at hame as weel, Fal, lal, &c. The moon which shone so bright last night, Had scarcely set itself—not quite; When a band o’ gaugers o’er the hills Cam’ tumblin’ down like Jacks and Gills, And pounced upon our whisky stills. Fal, lal, &c. My faither he was off like a shot, And said the stills might go to pot; While I alone withstood the shock, And tumbled the gaugers o’er a rock, And made their heads play nick-ety-knock. Fal, lal, &c. Full fifty fathoms they fell, I think, And spattered the rocks all over with ink; The first he fell down with a thump, thump, thump, The next he fell down with a dump, dump, dump. While they all fell together in a clump, clump, clump. Fal, lal, &c.

Lord R. Churchill: My name is Randolph; in the Blenheim fields My father fed his flocks; a frugal duke Whose constant care was to increase his store Of ready money, hoarded for my sake, That I, although not heir, might have wherewith To help me in my fight for power and place. For I had suddenly (what time I sat For Woodstock borough) gained myself much fame, And finding that sharp wits, and daring pluck, And matchless impudence were strangely rare Amongst the Tories, straightway resolved To raise myself, as in the past men said That wily Hebrew and great Tory chief Lord Beaconsfield, long time as Dizzy known, Had raised himself to foremost place and fame. Aye, I had read his doings, and I longed To follow in the path of such a chief And trade, as he did, on the ignorance Of those who called themselves Conservative. What happ’d I need not tell you; ’tis enough That Fate soon granted what my soul desired, And that the chance I yearn’d for came full soon, I pass in silence o’er those merry months When aided by three henchmen (each of whom Has since had cause to bless the day he helped me), I made notorious our Fourth Party’s name. Are not its deeds in Hansard duly writ? How ’twas I teased and “drew” the Grand old Man? How, too, I all but broke poor Northcote’s heart? These things are recent, and men still recall How, like a freelance, rising from my seat, I made my verbal spear thrusts right and left, And dealt deep wounds to friend and foe alike. Men still recall, I say, the things I did, When office came to crown my lawlessness, And the proud Marquis had to own my might; How, cool and confident, I laid my plans, And, armed with weapons such as Dizzy used, Made haste to wield them. Aye! whilst others slept I hovered round the Tory camp and shot My venowed arrows till the air was full Of groaning, as the wounded Tory dolts Were borne complaining to the House of Lords. Thus did I clear the path that led me here, Thus paved the way to that great victory Which has been gained but lately o’er our foes. ’Tis true that other leaders led the van. Whigs fought and won, but Tories claimed the spoil, And I, insisting on a lion’s share, Am here to-day as Leader of that House In which I’ve played my pranks in sessions past, And outraged precedent and party faith. Yes, Randolph is my name, I would repeat, And whilst my brother Blenheim doth denude Of all its treasures, to increase the sum Accruing after mortgages are paid, I bring the House of Churchill fresh renown (My foes will call it notoriety), And seated on this bench prepare to reap Those oaths so wild I sowed below the gangway But thirty-seven, yet trusted to control The realm’s finances, and to have my way Despite the Marquis and his played-out friends; But thirty-seven, yet filled with the belief That greater honour still will soon be mine. And that the baser Tories, tickled by My daring tricks, my voluble command Of words abusive, and the ready way I pelt my friends and foes with verbal mud, Will with one voice proceed to summon me To lead their party to fresh victories, E’en though it may be o’er Lord Salisbury’s corse. The London Figaro. August 21, 1886.

The Infant Prodigy. My name is Balfour! On the Irish ills My uncle feeds his flock, a frugal swain Whose only care is to enforce the law, And keep myself, his nevvy, in the swim, And so, relinquishing a placid post— That is, the Scottish Secretaryship— I have been promptly thrust into the gap Which the involuntary exodus Of poor Sir Michael E. Hicks-Beach has made. Now must I urge a valiant attempt To show my mettle, and, in constant fray With Ireland’s Home Rule representatives, Or Ireland’s agitating multitudes, To justify my elevated state. Wherefore an’ these, the enemies of law, Oppose the mandates of our Government, It shall be mine to head the countercharge, And bring them to their knees. My trusty sword, Albeit ’tis of wood, can deal hard knocks; 210 And slashing, prodding, whacking right and left— As thus—and thus—unless I greatly err, I’ll pretty soon assert supremacy, And make the varlets mind their P’s. and Q’s. Fun. March 16, 1887.

Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had’st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee,— How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That goodness Time’s rude hand defies,— That virtue lives when beauty dies.]

Go, wedding-cake! And tell the Emperor, from me That no mistake, When I resemble him to thee, About his work and state can be. Tell him that’s rich, And deck’d in jewels, stars, and rings, That dainties which Are faced by plaster tinsellings Are not the wholesomest of things. Too large a slice Of plums and almonds thickly press’d, Though passing nice, And swallow’d, at the time, with zest, Is apt to lie upon the chest. A fair outside, Of lily whiteness, ne’er so much, May chance to hide A mass of black material, such As dainty palates fear to touch. Then go, that he May learn the fate of humbugs past, Like him, and thee,— To be, their transient splendours past— Pitch’d into, and cut up at last. Diogenes. February 1853.

The Æsthete to the Rose. (By Wildgoose, after Waller.) Go, flaunting Rose! Tell her that wastes her love on thee, That she nought knows Of the new Cult, Intensity, If sweet and fair to her you be. Tell her that’s young, Or who in health and bloom takes pride, That bards have sung Of a new youth—at whose sad side Sickness and pallor aye abide. Small is the worth Of Beauty in crude charms attired. She must shun mirth, Have suffered, fruitlessly desired, And wear no flush by hope inspired. Then die, that she May learn that Death is passing fair: May read in thee How little of Art’s praise they share, Who are not sallow, sick, and spare! Punch. October 1, 1881.

The Message of the Rosebery. Go, my Primrose, Tell them the new Secretaree Is one who knows His mind, and hath not a weak knee, How bland so’er he seem to be. Tell them you’re young, And in so high a post untried; But having sprung Into the saddle at one stride, You’re going to sit down and ride. Small is the worth Of a “light hand” that soon gets tired; Better stand forth As the strong man so long desired, Abroad respected, here admired. 211 In Granville we The fate of weakness debonair May clearly see; Put down your foot, sit firm and square, And keep us free from shirk and scare! Punch. February 13, 1886.

A governess wanted—well fitted to fill The post of tuition with competent skill— In a gentleman’s family highly genteel. Superior attainments are quite indispensable, With everything, too, that’s correct and ostensible; Morals of pure unexceptionability; Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility. The pupils are five—ages, six to sixteen— All as promising girls as ever were seen— And besides (though ’tis scarcely worth while to put that in) There is one little boy—but he only learns Latin. The lady must teach all the several branches Whereunto polite education now launches: She’s expected to teach the French tongue like a native, And be to her pupils of all its points dative; Italian she must know au fond, nor needs banish Whatever acquaintance she may have with Spanish; Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German, In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann. The harp and piano—cela va sans dire, With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier. In drawing in pencil, in chalks, and the tinting That’s called Oriental, she must not be stint in; She must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet; And if she knows gilding, she’ll not need to shelve it, Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades, The Polish mazurka, and best gallopades; Arithmetic, history, joined with chronology, Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology, Grammar, and satin-stitch, netting, geography, Astronomy, use of the globes, cosmography, ’Twas also as well could she be calisthenical, That her charges’ young limbs may be pliant to any call. Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition, Must be superintended without intermission: At home, she must all habits check that disparage, And when they go out must attend to their carriage. Her faith must be orthodox—temper most pliable— Health good—and reference quite undeniable. These are the principal matters. Au reste, Address, Bury Street, Mrs. General Peste. As the salary’s moderate, none need apply Who more on that point than on comfort rely. Anonymous.