VOLUME V. (continued 11)

Wanted—An Alderman. Wanted, an Alderman, fitted to fill His post in the City with competent skill. If no judge of justice, a good judge of wine, Who knows how to ride and who knows how to dine. When needed to Time he must be in “the nick,” And if he makes watches must not go on tick; Who three times on Sundays to church does repair, Who knows how to feather the nest of a mayor. Who well the importance of beakdom can feel, For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel. Wanted—an Alderman! He must not at Greenwich, with Radicals shout, Nor yet to a beanfeast with workmen go out; And if at a tavern to dine he doth please, Must not make a bet on the height of the cheese. He must vow Temple Bar still shall weather the storm, And not say a word about City reform, He must swear vested rights are of all rights the best, And not a chain cable wear outside his vest. He his mind must not speak, whatsoe’er he may feel, For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel. Wanted—an Alderman! Wanted—an Alderman—portly and fat, To wear on occasions a gown and cocked hat; To look sharply after the City police, And fine costermongers his five pounds apiece. To let out on bail each embezzling clerk, And lock up young swells who are “out for a lark;” To vote for the Tories or not vote at all, To ride in his carriage, and cabs never call; In short, “fit and proper” to be and to feel, For the Court is itself—oh! so very genteel! Wanted—an Alderman! Funny Folks.

Wanted an Editor. Wanted an Editor, burly and big, Clever, and willing, and hearty. Neither a Radical, Tory, nor Whig, But able to please every party. He must not be squeamish, nor over nice In tracing out jobs, root and fibre He must loathe every sinner, lash every vice But never offend a subscriber. (This last is a process requiring great care, Since vices are plenty, subscribers more rare.) Learned, yet practical, he must unite Natural talent with science, These, with that which can alone keep him right, Judgment, well worthy reliance. He must always be able to crack a good joke, And ready to tell a new story Know all the authorities, Camden and Coke, The Stud Book and Sir Peter Laurie. (He may have what he likes in his head; but beware! The latter authority don’t like long hair!) He must know all the turns of the Turf and the tricks Which folks would involve in such mystery; If a horse should be poisoned, be able to fix On the rogue—and relate the whole histr’y. He must watch every dodge and deceit in the odds, By discerning ’twixt better and hedger; He must mark all the winks, and the nudges and nods, And Prophesy Derby and Leger. (This last is a matter of lucky fortuity, Which when you are “out” merely wants ingenuity.) And now as to terms, we already have shown How pleasant this Editor’s place is— He must hunt, and of course keep a horse of his own Shoot—fish—and attend all the races;— Thus his work is so light, yet so pleasant withal, From the honest fame he must inherit, 212 The Proprietors don’t wish to pay him at all, But let his reward be—his merit. (Another announcement will appear by and by Directing all candidates where to apply.)

Violets. Violet!—deep-blue violets! April’s loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grown in the vale, Kissed by the sun, woo’d by the gale, None with the dew of the twilight wet So sweet as the deep-blue violet! I do remember how sweet a breath, Came with the azure light of a wreath, That hung round the wild harp’s golden chords, That rung to my dark-eyed lover’s words; I have seen that dear harp rolled With gems of the east and bands of gold. But it never was sweeter than when set With leaves of the dark blue violet. And when the grave shall open for me— I care not how soon that time may be— Never a rose shall blow on my tomb, It breathes too much of hope and bloom! But let me have there the meek regret Of the bending and deep-blue violet! Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

There are no flowers grow in the vale Kiss’d by the dew, woo’d by the gale,

Never a rose shall grow on that tomb, It breathes too much of hope and of bloom, But there be that flower’s meek regret, The bending and deep-blue violet!

Cabbages. Cabbages! bright green cabbages! April’s loveliest gifts I guess, There is not a plant in the garden laid, Raised by the soil, dug by the spade, None by the gardener water’d I ween, So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green. I do remember how sweet a smell Came with the cabbage I loved so well, Served up with the beef that so beautiful looked, The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked. I have seen beef served with radish of horse, I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos, But it is far nicer, far nicer I guess As bubble and squeak. Beef and cabbages. And when the dinner-bell sounds for me— I care not how soon that time may be— Carrots shall never be served on my cloth, They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth, But let me have there a mighty mess Of smoking hot beef and cabbages! W. M. Thackeray.

The Willow-Tree. No. I. Know ye the willow-tree, Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river? Lady, at eventide Wander not near it! They say its branches hide A sad lost spirit! Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful. Soon as she saw the tree, Her steps moved fleeter, No one was there—ah me!— No one to meet her! Quick beat her heart to hear The far bells’ chime, Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting time. But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Yet no one came! Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,— Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter. Then sank the moon away Under the billow. Still wept the maid alone— There by the willow! Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly. Shrill came the night wind, Piercing and chilly. Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold. Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold! Bleak over moor and stream Looks the gray dawn, Gray, with dishevelled hair, Still stands the willow there— The maid is gone! Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany— Sing for poor maiden-hearts Broken and weary; Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a Wild miserere!

The Willow-Tree. No. II. Long by the willow-tree Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother’s screams O’er the gray water. “Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter? “Rouse thee, sir constable— Rouse thee and look. Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily beds, Dive in the brook.” Vainly the constable Shouted and called her. Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder. Vainly he threw the net, Never it hauled her! Mother beside the fire Sat, her night-cap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping; When at the window-sill Came a light tapping. And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother’s heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her! Shrieking in an agony— “Lor’! it’s Elizar!” Yes, ’twas Elizabeth;— Yes, ’twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. “Mother!” the loved one, Blushing, exclaimed, “Let not your innocent, Lizzy be blamed. “Yesterday, going to aunt Jones’s to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep.” Whether her pa and ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know. Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short night,— Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight. Moral. Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England take Caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key. W. M. Thackeray.

(Air.—Il y avait un petit navire.) There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.” Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.” “Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information He used his pocket handkerchie. “First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught to me.” “Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. So Billy went up the main-top gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. “There’s land I see: “Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee: There’s the British fleet a riding at anchor, With Admiral Nelson, K.C.B.” So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s ship He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill, he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three.

The Modern Men of Gotham! (Who went to sea in a Bowl.) There were three dwellers in Gotham city Who took a bowl and put to sea; But first with fallacies, and figments, And cooked statistics they loaded she. There was bumptuous ’Arry, and bouncing Jemmy, And the youngest he was little Randee; And there wasn’t an able-bodied seaman, Nor a skilful steersman among the three. And the bowl was crank as the crankest cockboat, It hadn’t a keel, and its bottom was queer; And it rolled and pitched like a tipsy porpoise, And it couldn’t sail, and it wouldn’t steer. They might have sailed in a genuine clipper, ’Arry and Jemmy, and little Randee, But they’d had a row with the Free Trade skipper, And were filled with the spirit of mutinee. Their craft—“Fair Trade” was the name they christened it— They jointly launched on the tumbling ocean, And they huddled into her with a lot of shouting, But they soon felt queer, all along of her motion. For she tumbled this way, and wobbled that way, And she circumvoluted, like a tee-to-tum; And the angry billows dashed damply over them, Whilst they whistled for a fair wind, which wouldn’t come. Thus bumptious ’Arry and bouncing Jemmy, And the cocky urchin called little Randee! And they had’nt got far from the Prime Meridian, When they wished they were safe on a Seventy-three. Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy, “I fear we are very much at sea.” To bumptious ’Arry says bouncing Jemmy, “How about Reciprocitee?” Says bumptious ’Arry to bouncing Jemmy, “I begin to fear that it won’t help we If this blessed bowl takes us bang to the bottom, What do you think of it, little Randee?” Says he, “Our Free Trade Catechism We’d better repeat upon bended knee, And be more particular about the Ninth Commandment, Nor again go floating in a bowl to sea.” * * * * * So when they got back to the Free Trade skipper, He chivied ’Arry and he chaffed Jemmee. But as for little Randee, they made him— Well, they who live longest will probably see! Punch. November 15, 1884.

The Jolly Commissioners. There were some Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses, Who took a boat and went to sea, Who took a boat to see what they could see. There was Gorging Jack and Guzzling Jimmy, With others, who ran up a little bill-ee At the Waterloo, Grieve’s Hostelree. They went to inspect Lighthouses and Lightships, All round the Scottish coast, N.B. A very pleasant trip it was, N.B. 215 Says Gorging Jack to Guzzling Jimmy, “What shall we do if we’re hunge-ree? Which will happen very probablee. “Oh, ain’t we going to drink and eat too When Lighthouses we come to see? Oh, this air gives such an appe-ti-tee.” Says Guzzling Jim to Gorging Jacky, “O Gorging Jack, what a fool you be. Let’s store the boats provisionallee.” With dinners and dessert and Amontillado, And Chambertin they loaded she, With Sixty-four Lafitte they loaded she. * * * * * They’d Steinberg Cabinet of Sixty-Eight too, And other wines which were all first-rate to Says Guzzling Jim unto Jackee, “Oh, what a lot of lighthouses I see! “But they all appear mos’ dre’fully shaky, The Lighthouses appear mos’ horr’bly shaky! Its very fortch-nate that we came to see. Thesh Lighthousesh are not steadee. “I think the Lighthouses have been drinking, They have been taking too much whiskee! “Look at the lightsh how they’re revolving, I don’t think they’re working properlee, The Board of Trade must hear of this from We.” Before they finished their Waterloo Banquet, They drank the health of her Majestee, And they drank the Royal Jubilee. And as for their little Bill (who paid it?) It’s being examined by a Com-mit-tee When next they want Lighthouse Commissioners To examine the Scottish Coast, N.B. Of candidates what crowds there’ll be!! Punch. March 5, 1887.

Thackeray’s Burlesque Analysis of the Sorrows of Werther. Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.

Limavaddy inn’s But a humble baithouse, Where you may procure Whiskey and potatoes; Landlord at the door Gives a smiling welcome To the shivering wights Who to his hotel come. Landlady within Sits and knits a stocking, With a wary foot Baby’s cradle rocking. To the chimney nook, Having found admittance, There I watch a pup, Playing with two kittens; (Playing round the fire, Which of blazing turf is, Roaring to the pot Which bubbles with the murphies;) And the cradled babe Fond the mother nursed it! Singing it a song As she twists the worsted! Up and down the stair Two more young ones patter (Twins were never seen Dirtier nor fatter); Both have mottled legs, Both have snubby noses, Both have—here the host Kindly interposes; “Sure you must be froze With the sleet and hail, sir, So will you have some punch, Or will you have some ale, sir?” Presently a maid Enters with the liquor, (Half a pint of ale Frothing in a beaker,) Gods! I did’nt know What my beating heart meant Hebe’s self I thought Enter’d the apartment. As she came she smiled, And the smile bewitching, On my word and honour, Lighted all the kitchen. With a curtsey neat Greeting the new comer, Lovely, smiling Peg Offers me the rummer; But my trembling hand Up the beaker tilted And the glass of ale Every drop I spilt it; Spilt it every drop (Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word,) On my what d’y call ’ems! Witnessing the sight Of that dire disaster, Out began to laugh Misses, maid, and master; Such a merry peal, 216 Specially Miss Peg’s was, (As the glass of ale Trickling down my legs was), That the joyful sound Of that ringing laughter Echoed in my ears Many a long day after. Such a silver peal! In the meadows listening, You who’ve heard the bells Ringing to a christening; You who ever heard Caradori pretty, Smiling like an angel Singing “Giovinetti,” Fancy Peggy’s laugh, Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, At my pantaloons With half a pint of beer full! * * * * * See her as she moves Scarce the ground she touches, Airy as a fay, Graceful as a duchess; Bare her rounded arm, Bare her little leg is, Vestris never show’d Ankles like to Peggy’s; Braided is her hair, Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably boddiced. * * * * * W. M. Thackeray.

A Beautified Being. (Old Lady Sings.) Only look at me, Fair in every feature; Don’t you think you see A fascinating creature? Venus, Beauty’s Queen, Looked so lovely never. Lo now, I have been Made Beautiful for Ever! Here are bust and brow, White as alabaster; Don’t you tell me, now, That I am cased in plaster. Here’s a cheek, whose rose Time shall never pluck—Oh Do not say it glows With nought but painted stucco! Oh, forbear to chaff, Saying, Art doth trammel Features, which a laugh Would cause to crack enamel. Freckles o’er this face Where did Time’s hand sprinkle? Point me out the place Or show me any wrinkle. I have undergone Renovation thorough, Loveliness, laid on, Has filled up every furrow, So, to win my hand, Now, boys, who’ll endeavour? Take me as I stand, Made Beautiful for Ever.

Whiskey! Drink Divine! Whiskey, drink divine! Why should driv’lers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we’ve thee before us? Were it not a shame, Whilst we gaily fling thee To our lips of flame, If we could not sing thee? Whiskey, drink divine! Why should driv’lers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we’ve thee before us? Greek and Roman sung Chian and Falernian— Shall no harp be strung To thy praise, Hibernian? Yes—let Erin’s sons— Gen’rous, brave, and frisky— Tell the world, at once, They owe it to their whiskey. If Anacreon—who Was the grape’s best poet— Drank our Mountain dew, How his verse would show it: As the best then known, He to wine was civil; Had he Inishowen He’d pitch wine to the d—l. Bright as beauty’s eye, When no sorrow veils it; Sweet as beauty’s sigh, When young love inhales it; Come, then, to my lip— Come, thou rich in blisses— Every drop I sip Seems a shower of kisses. Could my feeble lays Half thy virtues number, A whole grove of bays Should my brows encumber. Be his name adored, Who summed up thy merits In one little word, When he called thee spirits. 217 Send it gaily round— Life would be no pleasure, If we had not found This enchanting treasure: And, when tyrant death’s Arrow shall transfix ye, Let your latest breaths Be whiskey! whiskey! whiskey! Whiskey! drink divine! Why should driv’lers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we’ve thee before us?

Henry and Ellen. O’er Atlantic wave Comes a fearsome babel; Every sort of stave, Fact confused with fable. Henry some assail, T’other side the ferry; But the western gale Blows love of Ellen Terry! Black is Henry’s guilt, Passing all contrition; For he runs atilt At a pet tradition. When he seems to fail Philistines make merry; But the western gale Blows love of Ellen Terry! Shylock is too tame For a taste robustious; Oracles acclaim Henry is “industrious!” Still the crafty Jew Agitates the scholars— Hebrew never drew Such a pile of dollars. Melancholy Dane, Why this grief abysmal? Democrats would fain See a Prince less dismal. How can Boston praise, With this thought unnerving— Edwin’s crown of bays On the brow of Irving? For the Martyr King Countless cheeks are dewy; Critics sweetly sing Anthems to the Louis. Many love him best When his vein for sport is— Prize the polished jest That his Doricourt is. Mathias appals With his conscience deathless Gallery and stalls, Sitting mute and breathless. What though taunting scribe Write himself a noodle? Henry turns the gibe, Whistling “Yankee Doodle!” But when Ellen smiles, Glows the most sedate eye; Lightly she beguiles Boston literati. Never did the sword Win such wide submission— Slavery restored, Spite of Abolition! We who saw thy tomb, Pride of all Verona, Mourned thy piteous doom, Sweetest Desdemona; Gladly would we sail Ocean in a wherry, While the western gale Blew love of Ellen Terry! Portia, we know What it is that tutors Blest Bassanio To vanquish other suitors! Beatrice might rail From Sandy Hook to Kerry, Still would western gale Blow love of Ellen Terry! May red rose grow pale, Juice desert the berry, Ere the western gale Blow slight of Ellen Terry! Which of us would quail Before the worst of sherry, To drink “Columbia, hail!” For love of Ellen Terry! The St. James’s Gazette. January 10, 1884.

Ye Genii of the nation, Who look with veneration, And Ireland’s desolation onsaysingly deplore, Ye sons of General Jackson, Who’d thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valiance Insthructed his battalions, To respict the gallant Irish upon Shannon shore. Since that capitulation, No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious, That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. A chief of ancient line, ’Tis William Smith O’Brine Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more; O the Saxons can’t endure To see him on the flure, And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore! This valiant son of Mars Had been to visit Par’s, 218 That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor; And to welcome his return From pilgrimages forr’n, We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore. * * * * * When full of tay and cake, O’Brine began to spake; But juice a one could hear him for a sudden roar Of a ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. As Smith O’Brine harangued, They bathered and they banged; Tim Doolan’s doors and windies down they tore: They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower: Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. “Cut down the bloody horde!” Says Meagher of the sword, “This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;” But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his stick from the Shannon shore. Immortal Smith O’Brine Was raging like a line; ’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar: In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. Then the Futt and Dthragoons, In squadthorns and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo, But the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. W. M. Thackeray.

Mr. Patrick O’Rory’s Account of the Hampton Court Meet. Och, the glorification of bicycleation, What is’t in the nation can ever compare, With all of them fleeting to Hampton, and meeting Like temperance preachers all in the open air. Och, for the numbers with Singers and Humbers, Piling their instruments up by the gates; And patent Eclipses, and policemen, and gipsies, And boys with the programmes all eating of swates. Their bicycles shining all standing a line in, ’Twas done by designing, and splendid to see; With people all flocking, and each other knocking, And all of them happy as they could be. Then over the courses two policemen on horses, A-dancing and prancing, decipher the line; Quickissimo! steady! the riders get ready To jump in their saddles when they get the sign. Then the bugle sounded, and all of them bounded, Right on to the top of their lovely machines; Only some of them hopping too hard took to flopping, And mixed themselves up by all manner of manes. Then the first couple dodges right in by the Lodges, At the Lion Gates, into Bushy Park. Their club was the Pickwick (which wanst had a picnic In Epping Forest and got back before dark.) And next comes the Surrey up all in a hurry, With nice Mister Budd, ’kase he thought they were late; And Mister Oxx laughing so wide at the chaffing, He had to stop smiling to get through the gate. And then came the Temple, a pleasant exemple Of teetotal members who never drink beer; In front of them “Maccy,” who rode on his “jacky,” And young Charley Liles bringing up the rear. Then comes Lacy Hillier—’twould purty well kill ye, To watch him a-spiling his beautiful face In such a sad manner, just by the Diana, As only a knocker could make such a grimace. And H. Liddel Cortis, who’d only just bought his New Surrey Machinist a couple of weeks; And being a novice, ’twas hard luck of his, To have a great wapse get inside of his breeks. The next was the London, and may I be undone, By faith, if they wasn’t the best of them all. With Handicap Rucker in front, on a duck o’ A beautiful Humber from ’Cultural Hall; And then came the Saturn, a worthy pattern, With lace on their jackets, and gould on the front; And R. Vazie Simons, all shining like di’mon’s— The sun he complately put out of the hunt. (Three verses omitted.) Then the eggs and the cresses and the ladies’ dresses, And all other things which are good for to eat, With tea to delight ’em all ad infinitum, And waiters to cut up the plates full of meat; There was punch and toddy for everybody, And anyone else who could only get in; But poor Mister Sopper eat more than was proper, Which made him so fat that he’ll never get thin. Then the crowd disperses—the sojers and nurses, And dames with their purses for to catch the train, Wid all of them boring, each other assuring It’s the grandest sight they’ll never see again. And now that I’ve finished my tale and diminished The beautiful nagus ye mixed before, I’m dhry as a dragon, so hand me the flagon— Sure it can’t hurt to drink one glass more. H. A. V.

The Battle of O’Brine. Great jaynius of the nation, Ould Ireland’s veneration, Come over, Mr. Gladstone, most honourable sorr; And sling your grand old axe on, To slay the tricherous Saxon That raised that dridful shindy on fair Ontario’s shore. 219 As bould as any line Came W. O’Brine (A pathriot as eminent as ever Ireland bore), To prache Home Rule Salvation To this benighted nation That grope in degradation by fair Ontario’s shore. Tin gintlemen united The orator invited To meet Toronto citizens—some twenty bhoys or more— To purge the foul pollution Of the toirant Constitution By a pathriot risolution from fair Ontario’s shore. And the blaggart Lansdowne trimbled At our gallant bhoys assimbled, Though his craven crew dissimbled all the fears their bosoms tore, When, Will Mulligan beside, Did the bould O’Brine ride With Dan Cahill and Kilbride to fair Ontario’s shore. For the toirant thraithors knew What the bould O’Brine could do: So with rage and imulation in their black heart’s core, They hired a howlin’, shrakin’, Mob to interrupt the spakin’ That would else have bought true freedom to fair Ontario’s shore. With an illoquence most takin’ O’Brine began the spakin’; But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of the ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the propriety of fair Ontario’s shore. W. O’Brine harangued; But they battered and they banged, And they stormed the pathriot’s platform and the pathriot’s breeches tore. Till through all the shout and shindy He retreated by the windy With an angry curse at parting upon fair Ontario’s shore. That infuriated curse Only made the thraithors worse And the howling mob in hundreds after bould O’Brine did pour, As with cat-calls, shrieks, and whistles, And the most unginerous missiles— Rotten eggs, sticks, stones and carrots—they disgraced Ontario’s shore. With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead cats, These ruffian democrats themselves did lower. “Och! a national disgrace,” Cried O’Brine, and with quick pace Boulted down into a friendly and convanient ’cycle “store.” And there pale the bould O’Brine Halted, raging like a line: ’Twould have done your sowl good to have heard how he swore! Then he pinned up his trunk hose, And, retreating from his foes, By the back door, turned for ever from that tricherous thraithor shore. The Globe. May 21, 1887.

Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin, That never has known the barber’s shear, All your aim is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin. Wait till you’ve come to forty year! Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing and singing of midnight strains Under Bonnybell’s window panes. Wait till you’ve come to forty year! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to forty year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey: Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome, ere Ever a month was past away? The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper and we not list, Or look away and never be missed, Ere yet ever a month was gone. Gillian’s dead, Heaven rest her bier, How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian’s married, but I sit here, Alive and merry at forty year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

Love at Sixteen. In answer to W. M. Thackeray, Esq. By a Pretty Page. The affections, when young, are more prone to unite, As the flowers of the forest together entwine, Than when age with her vigour has frozen our might, And manhood has gone past the bounds of its prime. Forty years—ah! why wait for enjoyment so long, For a home with the heart and the hand of the fair? Why cheat expectation while time circles on, And marry a girl, in your fortieth year? With no one to share life’s troubles and crosses, Or cheer you with smiles when sickness is near, Or console you amidst your privations and losses, Would you wait for a bride till your fortieth year? Why not taste of the fountain of pleasure while beauty, Lends grace to the features now withered and sere? Oh! lose not the chance, for numbers will suit ye, Unless they’re put oft to the fortieth year. To sweeten the cup of the bitter we’re drinking, And mourn o’er the corpse when the spirit has gone, 220 To soften our fears when hope is fast sinking, Are to woman allotted, sad tasks! to be done. Oh! give me a home with a fair English maiden, Who’ll beguile the dull days of my sojourning here; While blest with a wife and two rosy young children, I’ll leave others to wed in their fortieth year. Cheltenham. January, 1850.

Was ever a woman so wretched as I, To long for a treasure that wealth cannot buy! That sexton has surely the heart of a bear, Or else he would sell me that cane-bottom’d chair. ’Tis nothing to look at, you crusty old man! And no one would give you the price of a fan; But since the fair evening when Albert sat there, I yearn and I burn for that cane-bottom’d chair. To think I have seen him as yet but in dreams, And that he should sit between Mary and Jeames! What rapture with Albert a prayer-book to share, Had I been as close to that cane-bottom’d chair! O sexton, how can you compel me to pine For a seat that can never be chaste in design? And yet could I win you, no Chippendale rare Should wean my heart from you, my cane-bottom’d chair! I’d work you a cushion; I’d dust you myself— The shrine of my saint, and the throne of a Guelph! No Liverpool rivals would dare to compare Their stale bric-à-brac with my cane-bottom’d chair. And oft in the twilight my fancy would see My Prince in that seat sitting smiling at me!— O sexton, kind sexton, give heed to my prayer, And take all I have for that cane-bottom’d chair!

There was a King of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days in bed, And every night as night came round, By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of King for me. * * * * * W. M. Thackeray.

The Great News-maker. It was the “crack” news-maker, The champion of the gang, A knowing wide-a-waker, Who would without a pang Supply strange stories without stint, Shoot emperors, blow up the Mint— In print. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! Where find the match of this hero?— Ho, ho! He every week discovers Fresh dynamiters’ schemes, And scores of sighing lovers He’s drown’d in Lethean streams; He knows the Ministerial mind, Whispers that Gladstone has, we’ll find, Resigned. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! The whole world’s secrets he does know— Ho, ho! For lovers of sensations Who like news dashed with “spice,” He’ll hint at revelations, Hatch scandals in a trice. And when he sees the gaping crowd, He’ll laugh—he’s of his wit so proud— Aloud. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! This is the age of shams, you know. Ho, ho! Funny Folks. June 5, 1886.

When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily’s bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames? 221 I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England’s lovliest shine— I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems— And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames? * * * * *

You scribblin’ fellers makes a show, Of bein’ reg’lar “in the know,” On pollytix an’ pollytishns Haffectin’ habsoloot homnishns— But wen there comes a cryziss, who’s The whery fust as knows the knoos? Who’s hex hoffisho on the spot To let you press-chaps know wot’s wot? Who’s plaist by Fête in sich a stashn As quite commands the sitiwashn? Who tells you penyalinin’ lyres The hins an’ houts of wot perspires? In short, who knows the time of day, Is hup to snough, hall there, ho fay? Who ’olds the pulse of Isterry? I hansers ortily, Y, ME!— Me, an’ a few kongfrares as well Wot waits upon the Front Door Bell. The wuld is pantin’ for to know The goins on of WEG. an’ Co.— His bedtime an’ the time he riz, His hegsits an’ his hentrances, His hax each minnit of the day, Who cawld on ’im, who stade awhey, Wen Herbert wisited the Guv, An’ wen he wawkt, an’ wen he druv, An’, most of hall, wot lucky feller He last took hunder his humbreller, Did Granwill pop across the streat? Did ’im an’ Wernon Arkrt meat? Were it at arf past twelve or wun The Gee Ho Hem sor ’Artington? He stayed—’ow long? An’ who come nex? Wot other bigwhigs paid respex? Who were it wrang the hairey bell An’ slipt in privit?—Not P—rn—ll? Wen came the darlin’ of the Corcus. His butnole gorjus with a horchus? Wile he enjyd a tateytate, Were Rowsberry ablidjed to wate? Who was eggscited? Who was carm? An’ who with who went harm-in-harm? For tips on sich pints Kings an’ Doox An’ Hurls is on the tenteroox— From Galway to Hafganistan Hall Ize is on the Grand Old Man; The Zar’s gone oph his sleap at night, Prints Bizmark’s lost his happytight, The Greax for hinfamashn long— An’ who, pray, keaps ’em ho koorong? Who plays, in langwitch mettyforacle, The mitey roll of Yewrup’s Horacle? Who lets you scribblers suck his branes An’ gits a quid, praps, for his panes? R! Sich the lot (’ow ’ard it seams!) The loly, lophty lot of Jeames. The Pall Mall Gazette. January 30, 1886.

The Ballad of a Rural Pleceman, by “whackery.” Tory gents of Lincoln county, Lincoln famed for minster grand, Whence a “party,” as is nameless, Looks they say across the land. I’m a bold and rural Pleceman Keepin’, as in duty boun’, Hi’s on all them poachin’ raskles As infestes Spaldin’ town. And my hobject is remonstransh (Which I feel I’m to it drove) With that ere ’Ome Secertary, A most harbetary cove. In this hex’lent town of Spaldin’ Lives a gent of whom I speak, Most respectful,—as a Rev’rent,— And a most intel’gent Beak. And this Rev’rent Beak afore him Had a gal—of crackter rum, Caught most flagrant in the hact like Priggin’ a Geraneum. And her prevus hantecedants (Which the law they couldn’t reach) Bad they was,—I’d o’mmost warrent She’d not heerd that Rev’rent preach. Niver been to Skool and sich like, Niver curtsy’d, I’ll be boun’, When she met that Rev’rent party Walkin’ meek in Spaldin’ town. 222 So his Rev’rent Washup hearin’ All the fax to which I speaks, Sent that most owdacious huzzy Into quod for several weeks. When that wicked gal was quodded (I wish more was, on my sowl) All them penny Radikle papers Made a most infunnil ’oul. And they said as this ere Rev’rent,— (Bless his gentle ’art—for years I have heeard ’im for them ’ethens Preach till every hi was tears). Yes,—they said this pious gen’lm (Which I knows the coals he give) Was a cruel ’artless tyrant, O’mmost ’ardly fit to live; When they know as ’e’s as kind like As his little boys wot sings, Allus gettin’ good old ladies To be givin’ of ’im things. Now no word was too revileful ’Cos o’ this gals “tender years” (As they called ’em), and ’cos mostly Of her Corkodilish tears. Then this ere ’Ome Secertary (Which of this I now complain) Spoke quite stern-like to this Rev’rent, And released that gal again. And what’s wus,—another Conviction Of this hex’lent J. P., Though not ’arf what I’d ’a given, Was just squashed like, d’ye see. And this Radikle ’Ome Secertary, Speakin’ in a public place, Hinted as this Rev’rent party Worn’t quite fitted for his place. This I call a most etroceous, And a hins’lent thing to speak; Who is ’e I’d like to know now, To hinsult a Rev’rent Beak? I on’y wish that Rev’rent had ’im Afore him with a fairish tale, I don’t think that cheeky party Would too easily get bale. And I call on all them ladies Which his church and sich-like give, All them gents upon his Boards like, And them lawyers, as must live, Now to jine in this remonstransh At the truth which now I told, And in gen’ral hindignation, With a rural Pleceman bold. From Grins and Groans, 1882.

Old Fashioned Fun. When that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke True wit was seldom heard, And humour shown by few, When reign’d King George the Third, And that old joke was new. It passed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair; You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new. W. M. Thackeray.

A Midnight Meditation. Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine! And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins’ Entire my fill, I sigh not for the nymph of Aganippe’s rill. But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey’s dead! 223 They’ll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia’s streams, and best Macassar oil? They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being’s stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought. Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy’s enchanting light! Until the public, ’wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight— Of course, ’twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy’s as good as any other bam. Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield’s martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though the stout is good, old sherry’s greatly better. A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote “Maltravers”? Prologue to “Alice, or the Mysteries”? No! even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about, What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout! (Several verses omitted.) William E. Aytoun.

“I seek no purfled prettiness of phrase, A soul in earnest scorns the tricks for praise. If to my verse denied the Poet’s fame, This merit, rare to verse that wins, I claim; No tawdry grace shall womanize my pen! Ev’n in a love-song, man should write for men! Not mine, not mine, (O Muse forbid!) the boon Of borrowed notes, the mock-bird’s modish tune, The Jingling medley of purloin’d conceits Out babying Wordsworth, and outglittering Keates (sic) Where all the airs of patchwork-pastoral chime To drowsy ears in Tennysonian rhyme! Am I enthrall’d but by the sterile rule, The formal pupil of a frigid school, If to old laws my Spartan tastes adhere, If the old vigorous music charms my ear, Where sense with sound, and ease with weight combine, In the pure silver of Pope’s ringing line; Or where the pulse of man beats loud and strong In the frank flow of Dryden’s lusty song? Let School-Miss Alfred vent her chaste delight On “darling little rooms so warm and bright!”[124] Chaunt, “I’m a-weary,” in infectious strain, And catch her “Blue fly singing i’ the pane,” Tho’ praised by Critics, tho’ adored by Blues, Tho’ Peel with pudding plump the Puling Muse, Tho’ Theban taste the Saxon’s purse controuls, And pensions Tennyson, while starves a Knowles.

The New Timon, and the Poets. We know him, out of Shakespeare’s art, And those fine curses which he spoke; The old Timon, with his noble heart, That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. So died the Old: here comes the New, Regard him: a familiar face: I thought we knew him. What! it’s you, The padded man—that wears the stays— Who kill’d the girls and thrill’d the boys With dandy pathos when you wrote, A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes. And once you tried the Muses, too; You fail’d Sir: therefore now you turn, You fall on those who are to you, As Captain is to Subaltern. But men of long-enduring hopes, And careless what this hour may bring, Can pardon little would-be Popes And Brummels, when they try to sting. An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, And waive a little of his claim, To have the deep Poetic heart Is more than all poetic fame. 224 But you, Sir, you are hard to please; You never look but half content: Nor like a gentleman at ease, With moral breadth of temperament. And what with spites and what with fears, You cannot let a body be: It’s always ringing in your ears, “They call this man as good as me.” What profits now to understand The merits of a spotless shirt— A dapper boot—a little hand— If half the little soul is dirt? You talk of tinsel! why we see The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks, You prate of Nature! you are he That spilt his life about the cliques. A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame: It looks too arrogant a jest— The fierce old man—to take his name You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. Alcibiades. Punch. February 28, 1846.

‘Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.’”

Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would’st have me paint, The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers This hand would lead thee, listen—a deep vale, Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, Near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate! A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, Whose song should syllable thy name! At noon We’d sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends That were not lovers, no ambition, save To excell them all in love; we’d read no books That were not tales of love—that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We’d guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I’ the midst of roses!—dost thou like the picture?

Say dearest, say, if thou wouldst have me paint The lodging whither, but not till we are wed, The bus shall take thee, listen, A cottage making to external splendour But small pretence, passed every half an hour By omnibuses musical with cads Who’d set us down at our own door. At noon We’d dig our early brocoli, and wonder How the slave trade could flourish, while the heavens Send down such loads of blacks. We’d have no friends That were not jolly, no ambition save How to make both ends meet. We’d keep no book, ’Cause we’d pay ready cash that we might smile To think how thoroughly long Christmas bills Would take the poetry out of love like ours. And when night came, beneath our pea-green arbour, We’d guess whence came the earwigs that like friends Drop into tea, while blazed the camphine light, Or Vesta, or some other patent lamp, And all the streets were echoing with the cries Of orange girls, and music from cracked flutes And murmurs of low organs that grind forth One endless polka. Dost thou like the picture? To which Cinderella (Mrs. Keeley), replied: Oh don’t I just, Lord, I could walk and walk, For ever so long, to hear you talk and talk.

Pauline.—Describe to me again, your highness, do That Crystal Palace you would take me to. Claude.—If thou would’st have me paint— Pauline.—I would—be quick! Claude.—(aside) Then I must lay it on extremely thick, (aloud) The home to which could love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee—(aside) up no end of stairs A flight of beauty such as ne’er did man see— (aside) But in this instance quite a flight of fancy; A palace in the winter and the summer, Open to every decently dressed comer, Who with the humble shilling can come down; (On Saturdays the charge is half a crown) With marble halls—each end a glassy tower; (The trains start every quarter of an hour); At noon when cooler much the air becomes, We’d sit amongst the megatheriums And others with hard names—I scarce can tell ’em One from the other—nobody can spell ’em; We’d have no friend with us the live long day Third parties, dear, are always in the way, And when night came, down at the railway station Mid’st hundreds in a state of agitation We’d guess which carriage should convey us home As to the platform’s side the train would come— Say dost thou like the picture? Pauline.—As the bee Upon the flower hangs—I hang on thee Such honey have thy charmed accents got. Claude.—(aside bitterly) Alas! no honey for it is mel-not.

Melnotte.—Nay, dearest, nay. If thou wouldst have me paint The home to which—if paint were not unwholesome— This hand would lead thee—listen. A clear space, Guarded by sheltering hills from the east winds, Laid out in geometrical designs, Around a garden for the general use. Planned to secure—on soundest principles— Accord among the various families; As cloudless—save for “tiffs” and passing shadows— As I would have thy fate. Pauline.—My own Hygeia! Melnotte.—A mansion lifting from the triple arches Its perforated walls, its staircase tower Distinct, a ventilating shaft, a lift For dust and other objects, and a roof Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable MY name. At noon We’d sit beneath the arching glass and wonder What a photographer would pay per annum For such a studio. We’d read no books That did not treat of drainage—sing no songs But sanitary lays, that we might smile To think how poorly others felt the need Of hygienic altitudes like ours; And when night came, in tesselated rooms We’d guess what style would be our home when means Became unbounded, while the newest light Stole through the patent economic lamps, And every air-hole in the hollow bricks Whistled and moaned in ghostly dissonance, With coughing and the sneezes that gush forth I’ the best o’ noses.—Dost thou like the picture? Funny Folks. February 3, 1877.

Norman. The eternal Flora Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind: While circling round and upwards from the boughs, Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds, Melody, like a happy soul released, Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes Shakes sweetness down!” Norman. “Hark! she has blessed her son! I bid ye witness, Ye listening heavens—thou circumambient air: The ocean sighs it back—and with the murmur Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes Aloud—aloft—to the Great Parent’s ear, The blessing of the mother on her child.”

“Look up, look up, my Violet-weeping? fie! And trembling too—yet leaning on my breast. In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter. Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas, My sailor’s bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes? Nay—from those roses, let me, like the bee, Drag forth the secret sweetness!” Violet. “Oh what thoughts. Were kept for speech when we once more should meet, Now blotted from the page; and all I feel Is thou art with me!”

‘The love that ruins round the charms it shines, Gilds while it trifles oft;’

‘The charm that gilds around the love it ruins, Oft trifles while it shines;’

‘The ruins that love gilds and shines around, Oft trifles where it charms,’

‘Love, while it charms, shines round, and ruins oft, The trifles that it gilds;’

‘The love that trifles, gilds, and ruins oft, While round the charms it shines.’

Lytton. The “Last Days of Pompeii.” If ought so damping and so dull were As these “last days” of Dandy Bulwer, And had been cast upon the pluvious Rockets that issued from Vesuvious They would no more have reached Pompeii Than Rome or Tusculum or Veii. W. S. Landor.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers— And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing t’wards the west: But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!— They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago. The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers! Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy. “Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary;” “Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave rest is very far to seek. Ask the agéd why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. “True,” say the children, “it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year—the grave is shapen Like a snowball in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her; Was no room for any work in the close clay; From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’” If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries! Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes! And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime! “It is good when it happens,” say the children, “That we die before our time.” Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have; They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city— Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do— Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cow-slips pretty— Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer are your cow-slips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! 230 “For oh,” say the children, “we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping— We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark underground, Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories round and round. “For all day the wheels are droning, turning,— Their wind comes in our faces,— Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places,— Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,— Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,— Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,— All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, “O ye wheels” (breaking out in a mad moaning), “Stop! be silent for to-day!” * * * * * E. B. Browning.

Do you hear the Children wailing in the daytime, And the watches of the night: Far too sad are they for pleasure in their playtime, Or for laughter and delight. They are old before their age and worn and weary And their little heads are bowed upon their books; “For this life at school,” they say “is very dreary,” And there’s listlessness and languor in their looks. And all day, the Wheel of Education, By the orders of the State, Whirleth round in every school-room in the nation, Like the direful Wheel of Fate. It is hard to see the Children growing older, With such heavy eyes and dim, As you mark the pallid cheek and rounded shoulder, From this stern pedantic whim. They are suffering from a sempiternal dead ache In the tortured brows that know so little rest, And they fly to ease the constant “School-Board head-ache,” On a mother’s or a sister’s kindly breast. For all day they toil on in their classes, With an earnestness too sad; It is well that we should educate the masses, But not drive the Children mad. They come breakfastless from alleys in the city, Undersized and underfed, They are starving, and we give them—more’s the pity! Education, and not bread. And we work their brains through every changing season, Till the ceaseless labour stupifies and numbs; They are sleepless, and they give the childish reason— “I can’t get to sleep for thinking of my sums!” For all day the labour seems quite endless, In this philanthropic land; Oh, ye Women; are the wastrels then so friendless That ye will not lend a hand? * * * * * It is well to praise the spread of education, And the people need more light, But the horror of each long examination Haunts the little ones at night. Here are Children born ’mid London’s toil and traffic, They are bloodless and half-starving we can see; And we feed them with statistics geographic, And, in the place of bread, we give them “Rule of Three.” How long then, we ask it in all sadness, Can such laws be deemed the best; While the Children, through brain-fever and through madness, Seek the graveyard—and their rest! Punch. October 25, 1884.

The Bitter Cry of Agriculture. Do you hear the cry from Farmers, O my brothers, As the toilsome years go by? ’Tis a cry that should be heard above all others A continuous and bitter cry. The shipping may be crying with its grievance, The factory as each spindle slowly turns Home competition with its dogged keen adherence And labour for employment daily yearns; But the cry from Agriculture, O my brothers, Comes up from English Homesteads wearily And affects the Nation far above all others In this Country of the free. If you question Farmers why this land depression, Why this weary, bitter cry You will hear their quick and ever sad expression, We are being ruined, they reply. We’ve toil’d against successive cloudy seasons And competed with the trade of every clime, Whilst Manufacture for her obvious reasons And her labour market filled from time to time, Cares naught for Agriculture, O my brothers, Or if its Capital shall fall or stand, But piles up wealth, and has no care for others, In this our Fatherland. They look on wasting stock from land and pocket And the sight is sad to see For the strain upon each Agricultural socket Presses hard and heavily. Landlords, they say, have met the question bravely As the value of their land has slipp’d away, And our diminished income presses gravely This sad question “How long will depression stay?” Can no Economist, Philanthropist or Statesman, Solve this great problem, to our hopes forlorn, Before our land becomes a hunting-field for great men Dependent on foreign corn? * * * * * 231 Our old Homesteads are as dear to us my brothers, As your Factories are to you, And we cannot starve our children with their mothers For quack maxims preached as true; Our pilgrim fathers left the land that bore them, And their Agricultural sons must do the same, And with a foreign banner waving o’er them Forget the native land from whence they came. But when war or trouble meets the English nation, And the foreigner commands his price for corn, You may wish you had given consolation, And your help instead of scorn. J. D. Beeston.