VOLUME V. (continued 14)

The Woodman’s Reply. No, mum, this ’ere old tree Can’t be no longer spared; It ain’t no odds to me, If Muster Brown was squared; But Muster Brown says, “Green, You drop that there tree down,” And what he say he mean, Sure-ly, do Muster Brown. I don’t possess the ’ed To hargify with you, A lady born and bred Is safe to speak what’s true. But, put a case, I takes A job from Mr. B. (And little ’tis I makes Out of the likes of he). Your heart-strings, and all that, Round this ’ere tree may cling— To contradict you flat, Would not be quite the thing; But if you talk of shade, There’s other boughs than these, And other folks have played, Mayhap, round other trees. It’s very good to feel A mystning of the eyes, For chairs of oak or deal, And old straw-hats likewise, To keep, if you’ve a mind, The things as makes you weep; I’ve got no fault to find, If they’re your own to keep. But this ’ere old oak tree, As you don’t want cut down, Excuse me, mum, you see, Belongs to Muster Brown. To him you should apply, Though ’taint no use I think, And if you please, mum, I Should like your health to drink. Godfrey Turner.

An Idyll. “O gai!”—French exclamation of delight. He stood on his head on the wild sea shore, And joy was the cause of the act, For he felt as he never had felt before, Insanely glad in fact. And why? In that vessel that left the bay His mother-in-law had sail’d To a tropical country far away, Where tigers and snakes prevailed. And more than one of his creditors too— Those objects of constant dread— Had taken berths in that ship “Curlew,” Whose sails were so blithely spread. Ah! now he might hope for a quiet life, Which he never had known as yet, ’Tis true that he still possessed a wife, And was not quite out of debt, 272 But he watch’d the vessel, this singular chap, O’er the waves as she up’d and down’d, And he felt exactly like Louis Nap. When “the edifice was crown’d.” Till over the blue horizon’s edge She disappeared from view, Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge And danced like a kangaroo. And many and many a joysome lay He pealed o’er the sunset sea; ’Till down with a “fizz” went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea. Walter Parke.

His Mother-in-Law. He stood on his head by the wild sea shore, And danced on his hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig. And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sail’d For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed. Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt. He had borne the old lady through thick and thin; And she lectured him out of breath; And now as he looked at the ship she was in, He howled for her violent death. He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He’d consider his happiness crowned. He watched till beneath the horizon’s edge The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge, And pranced like a kangaroo. He watched till the vessel became a speck That was lost in the wandering sea, And then, at the risk of breaking his neck, Turned somersaults home to tea. From The San Francisco News Letter.

Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen’d old stoat! Him! that smarty chap. What flower’s that in your coat? It looks so bright an’ red ’longside ’o that sprig o’ green, I like the look of it rayther. Don’t you know what I mean? Don’t yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y’ see that knife? It’s dug out o’ human an’ grizzly the red and ragin’ life. I’m Grizzly Jim o’ Nebraska! Hain’t ye heerd o’ him? An’ the human dies an’ the grizzly that crosses Grizzly Jim. Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look: Don’t yer know what I mean? What I’ve liked I’ve allus took. Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be, Or this’ll make winders and doors where yer won’t like sich to be. Laughin’. By thunder! Dog done it, ye’re grit, an’ I love yer spunk. Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk. Why that was the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds ’ud fear, Let’s have a drink. Don’t? Moses! Don’t! Why ain’t that queer, Not! an’ a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that’s rum! What’s the name o’ yer flower, I say! Gee-ray-nee-um. That’s a comical name; and fern’s that bit o’ green, Never know’d it before, though acres of ’em I’ve seen. Where’d you get ’em? Grew ’em? Come, sell me one, I say! Here’s half-a-dozen o’ dollars: I want to throw ’em away, Hain’t got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn’t trade. You’d gi’ me ’em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade. Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher. But why wouldn’t you gi’ me that flower, you lyin’ sneak of a cur? Well, beg parding. You were’nt ask’d, that is, in a proper way; Besides, goin’ courtin’ I s’pose. Ay, an’ likely, too, I say. Well, let’s liquor up, old chap—my stars! I forgot, yer don’t. It’s extrornery cert’nly, but if yer won’t, yer won’t. I’d like to know you a deal, for you ain’t so stiffish an’ high. Tarnation! hyar’s the boat. Look hyar: keep the bowie. good-bye! William Wilkins.

Joseph Swife, of Potiphar. A Man after Twain’s own “Harte.” There’s been some whales ’mong the buoys I’ve know’d, (They was all on ’em high above par); But the rightest sperm as ever blow’d Was Joe Swife o’ Potiphar. Joseph’s heighth was seven fut three, All mussell and grit when he stripp’d, On his face a network of scars you’d see, (That is, where the dirt had chipp’d.) Whenever the buoys had a rowdy on, Bet your currency Joe was there; An’ ef he didn’t head inter the fun, He’d see as all things went square; ’Twas a Fourth o’ July to see him hop round, Along of his ’leven-inch knife, And the way his man would nose the ground Was the pootiest sight in life. 273 His Bowie was now jest a ’leven-inch rip, (’Twas thirteen when it was bought, But he wore two inches off the tip With carvin’ the men he’d fought.) A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer, He didn’t let that iron rust, He’d spot a couple a day with her, Would Joseph—when on the bust. We reckon’d his “down-pins” about fourscore, But we hadn’t the c’rect amount; ’Cos arter he’d notch’d up to seventy-four, He lost the run of his count. Where is he now? I knows no more Nor you, in them respeks, ’Cos one arternoon in sixty-four He had to “pass his checks.” The way that it mayhap’d was thus:— Up Potiphar they went “pard,” An’ made a pile, that some thievin’ cuss Stole—which was derned hard; I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad, They wanted that skunk to knife, An’ the lad that ’peared to git most mad Was him as I’ve named—Joe Swife. To see that critter cavortin’ around, Was a sight to raise your hair, Jest arx him if the thief was found, If you wanted to hear a swear! Joe left Potiphar then an’ came here to Creek, An’ soon had a run o’ luck, He hadn’t been prospectin’ more’n a week ’Fore he said a big pocket he’d struck. One day we was lappin’ round Joggles’s bar— The Cunnel, an’ Joseph, an’ me— When in totes Long Hiram from Potiphar, An’ we arxed him to drink ’long o’ we; He call’d for a “spider”—(his fav’rite drink), An’ was liftin’ the glass to his lips; But he dropp’d it smash on the floor in a wink, When he saw Joseph haul out his chips. Ses he: “Joe Swife, my gentle son, You’ll have for to strike your flag, You stole the pile, you son of a gun— Our dust was in that bag!” He glared at Joe like a grizzly bear, Then he draw’d a bead an’ fired, ’Scavating a canon in Joseph’s hair, In a manner we all admired. But Joseph’s iron was ready to bark, ’Fore Hiram the dose could repeat, Six shots, an’ Hiram was stretch’d out stark, In a style as couldn’t be beat; With “conical” holes he was reg’lar scored, From his scalp-lock, down his legs, He’d ha’ made a derned good cribbage-board, If you’d on’y got the pegs. Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear’d, ’Fore the fellows had time to revanche, For the fust time in his life he was skear’d, An’ mosey’d out of the ranche; He know’d, with men as digs and delves, He dursent trust his breath, “Killin’ a man was atwixt yerselves,” But to go for his pile meant death. When he found that the buoys were dead on “kill,” Joe came for’ard an’ giv’ hisself up, “You’ll settle my hash with a leaden pill,” Ses he—“Don’t string me up like a pup!” Openin’ his shirt, and slappin’ his breast— “Here’s lodgings to let for a slug!”— They fired, an’ Potiphar’s pride lay at rest, Stiff an’ stark, with a smile on his mug! Funny Folks. April 29, 1876.

The Wife. Her washing ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And passed the long, long night away, In darning ragged hose. But when the sun in all its state Illumined the Eastern skies, She passed about the kitchen grate, And went to making pies.

To her Husband. Dead! dead! You call her dead! You cannot see her in her glad surprise, Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes; Moving about you through the ambient air, Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair. Dead! dead! You call her dead! Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead! In your lone path the unseen angels tread! And when your weary night of earth shall close, She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.

“Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, Shouting the battle cry of freedom; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go, Shouting the battle cry of freedom.”

Southrons, hear your country call you! Up! lest worse than death befall you! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon fires are lighted, Let all hearts be now united! To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! For Dixie’s land we take our stand And live and die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! Albert Pike.

‘It suits for feasts, it suits for fun, And just as well for fighting.’

Yankee Boy is trim and tall, And never over fat, Sir, At dance or frolic, hop or ball, As nimble as a rat, Sir. Yankee doodle guard your coast, Yankee doodle dandy. Fear not then, nor threat nor boast, Yankee doodle dandy. He’s always out on training day, Commencement, or election, At truck or trade he knows the way Of thriving to perfection. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, etc. His door is always open found, His cyder of the best, Sir, His board with pumpkin-pie is crown’d, And welcome ev’ry guest, Sir. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, etc. Tho’ rough and little is his farm, That little is his own, Sir, His hand is strong, his heart is warm, ’Tis truth and honor’s throne, Sir. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, etc. His country is his pride and boast, He’ll ever prove true blue, Sir, When call’d upon to give his toast, ’Tis “Yankee-doodle-doo,” Sir. Chorus—Yankee Doodle, etc.

The Origin of Yankee Doodle. After the manner of the old Continental Ballad writers. Once on a time old Johnny Bull, Flew in a raging fury, And swore that Jonathan should have No trials, Sir, by jury! That no elections should be held, Across the briny waters! “And now,” says he, “I’ll tax the tea Of all his sons and daughters.” Then down he sat in burly state, And blustered like a grandee, And in derision made a tune Called “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee Doodle”—these are facts— “Yankee doodle dandy! “My son of wax, your tea I’ll tax— “Yankee doodle dandy.” John sent the tea from o’er the sea With heavy duties rated; But whether Hyson or Bohea, I never heard it stated. Then Jonathan to pout began— He laid a strong embargo— “I’ll drink no tea, by Jove!” so he Threw overboard the cargo. Then Johnny sent a regiment, Big words, and looks to bandy, Whose martial band, when near the land, Play’d “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee doodle—keep it up! “Yankee doodle dandy! “I’ll poison with a tax your cup, “Yankee doodle dandy.” A long war then they had, in which John was at last defeated— And “Yankee doodle” was the march To which his troops retreated. Cute Jonathan, to see them fly, Could not restrain his laughter: “That tune,” says he, “suits to a T, I’ll sing it ever after,” Old Johnny’s face, to his disgrace, Was flushed with beer and brandy, E’en while he swore to sing no more, This “Yankee doodle dandy.” “Yankee doodle—ho! ah! he! “Yankee doodle dandy— “We kept the tune, but not the tea, “Yankee doodle dandy.” I’ve told you now the origin Of this most lively ditty, Which Johnny Bull dislikes as “dull And stupid”—what a pity! With “Hail Columbia!” it is sung, In chorus full and hearty— On land and main, we breathe the strain, John made for his tea-party. No matter how we rhyme the words, The music speaks them handy, And where’s the fair can’t sing the air, Of “Yankee doodle dandy?” “Yankee doodle—firm and true— “Yankee doodle dandy— “Yankee doodle, doodle doo! “Yankee doodle dandy.” George P. Morris.

The mighty Brougham’s come to town, To sweep away corruption, And other filth, but ten to one, He’ll meet with interruption. Yankee Doodle, etc. * * * * *

An Appendix to “Yankee Doodle.” Yankee Doodle sent to Town His goods for exhibition; Every body ran him down, And laugh’d at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people—never mind— Says quiet Yankee Doodle. Chorus.—Yankee Doodle, &c. Yankee Doodle had a craft, A rather tidy clipper, And he challenged, while they laughed, The Britishers to whip her. 276 Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, And that on their own water; Of all the lot she went a-head, And they came nowhere arter. Chorus.—Yankee Doodle, &c. * * * * * Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, But that again don’t mention I guess that Colt’s revolvers whack Their very first invention. By Yankee Doodle, too, you’re beat Downright in Agriculture, With his machine for reaping wheat, Chaw’d up as by a vulture. Chorus.—Yankee Doodle, &c. You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But Chubb’s and Bramah’s Hobbs has pick’d And you must now be view’d all As having been completely licked By glorious Yankee Doodle. Chorus.—Yankee Doodle, &c. Punch, 1851.

“Punch” on the Civil War. Yankee Doodle went to war, On his little pony, What did he go fighting for, Everlasting goney! Yankee Doodle was a chap Who bragged and swore tarnation, He stuck a feather in his cap, And called it Federation. Yankee Doodle, etc. Yankee Doodle, he went forth To conquer the seceders, All the journals of the North, In most ferocious leaders, Breathing slaughter, fire and smoke, Especially the latter, His rage and fury to provoke, And vanity to flatter. Yankee Doodle, etc.

“These for negro slavery strike, Those for forced protection. Yankee Doodle is the pot, Southerner the kettle; Equal morally, if not Men of equal mettle.

Jonathan to John. It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess We know it now,” sez he, “The lion’s paw is all the law, Accordin’ to J. B., Thet’s fit for you an’ me!” Blood ain’t so cool as ink, John: It’s likely you’d ha’ wrote, An’ stopped a spell to think, John, Arter they’d cut your throat? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess He’d skurce ha’ stopped,” sez he, “To mind his p-s an’ q-s, ef thet weasan’ Hed b’longed to ole J. B., Instid o’ you an’ me!” Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell, ’T would kind o’ rile J. B., Ez well ez you an’ me!” Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win,—ditto, tails? “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, (I’m good at thet,)” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!” When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,— Britanny’s trident-prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” says he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller. Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’ Put up by you an’ me!” 277 We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus’n’t take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’-stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B. Ez wal ez you an’ me!” Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honour, when it meant You didn’t care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent.? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, He’s like the rest,” sez he: “When all is done, it’s number one Thet’s nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!” We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’t was right; It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John, Provokin’ us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess We’ve a hard row,” sez he, “To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow May heppen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!” We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John, With twenty million people, An’ close to every door, John, A school-house an’ a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess It is a fact,” sez he, “The surest plan to make a Man Is, Think him so, J.B., Ez much ez you or me!” Our folks believe in Law, John; An’ it’s for her sake, now. They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, Ef’t warn’t for law,” sez he, “There’d be one shindy from here to Indy; An’ thet don’t suit J. B. (When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)” We know we’ve gut a cause, John, Thet’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’cotton: There’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!” The South says, “Poor folks down!” John, An’ “All men up!” say we.— White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, John preaches wal,” sez he; “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du Why, there’s the old J. B. A crowdin’ you an’ me!” Shall it be love, or hate, John? It’s you that’s to decide; Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world’s beside; Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess Wise men forgive,” sez he, “But not forget; an’ some time yet Thet truth may strike J.B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!” God means to make this land, John, Clear thru’ from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The wuth o’ being free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess, God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut He sells Wears long, an’ thet J.B. May learn like you an’ me!” James Russell Lowell.

“Yankee Doodle” from the Southern point of View. Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Because they didn’t choose to live On codfish and potatoes. Yankee Doodle—doodle doo, Yankee doodle dandy, And so to keep his courage up, He took a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle said he found By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee, &c. Yankee Doodle made a speech; ’Twas very full of feeling. I fear, says he, I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing. Yankee, &c. Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practised all the passes; Come, boy, we’ll take another drink When we get to Manasses. Yankee, &c. Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee, &c. Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run, And such a race was never seen As that he made at Bull Run, Yankee, &c. Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame, You’re always intermeddling; Let guns alone, they’re dangerous things; You’d better stick to peddling. Yankee, &c. 278 Yankee Doodle, you had ought To be a little smarter; Instead of catching woolly heads, I vow you’ve caught a tartar. Yankee Doodle, doodle doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, Go to hum, you’ve had enough Of rebels and of brandy.

A Yankee Soldier’s Song. I hearkened to the thundering noise, And wondered what ’twas for, Sir! But when I heard ’em tell our boys, I started up and swore, sir! Yankee boys will fight it out! Yankees brave and handy! Freedom be our battle shout! Yankee doodle dandy! They said that traitors tore our flag, Down there in Dixie’s land, sir; I always loved the stripèd rag. And swore by it to stand, sir. Yankee boys will fight it out, &c. I knew them Southern chaps, high bred, Had called us “Mudsills” here, sir: If on these sills they try to tread, I guess ’twill cost them dear, sir, Yankee boys, &c. Down South I marched, rat-tat-a-plan, With heart brim full of pluck, sir; I held my head up like a man; A righteous cause brings luck, sir. Yankee boys, &c. * * * * *

Cock-a-Doodle. Mr. Stanley went to found A Congo trading station. The Stars and Stripes he hoisted up, And cried “No annexation.” But M. de Brazza came along, The natives to “canoodle;” He gave them “tricolours” all round, And sang out “Cock-a-doodle!” Mr. Stanley, very cross, Called de Brazza “Poodle!” M. de Brazza said, “Pooh, pooh! You’re one Yankee Doodle!” Whilst the natives took the flags, As our view discloses, Made them serve as coverings, And to blow their noses! Truth Christmas Number. 1882.

Randy Churchill. Randy Churchill’s gone to pot, Melted just like candy; Once he was, but now is not, And that’s the last of Randy. When he thought that he was great, Fellows thronged about him, Swearing that affairs of State Couldn’t move without him. Then a somersault he threw, Tumbled in the gutter, Spilt his salt, and sugar, too; Lost his bread and butter. Still the wheels will move, no doubt, Running on quite gaily, Doing better far without That Brummagem Disraeli. American Paper. January, 1887.

A Radical Song. To the tune of “John Brown’s Body lies mouldering in the Grave” Raise a shout of gladness for the dawning of the day, Ever steady, onward to the foremost of the fray: Every Tory barrier, boys, will soon be swept away As we go marching on. Chorus. Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, As we go marching on. Tory knaves oppressed us in the ages long ago, Tory knaves have left us all a heritage of woe, Tories now must tumble, for we mean to lay them low, As we go marching on. Joseph’s coat of colour now is fluttering in the wind, Joseph and his brethren are the leaders of the blind, Joseph and his “gentlemen” must all be left behind As we go marching on. Rally round the standard of our great democracy, Rally round your leader, boys, and on to victory, Rally as your fathers did, and Ireland shall be free, As we go marching on. 279 Hand in hand our army with the workers o’er the wave, Hand in hand we’ll battle till the people we shall save, Hand in hand for Torydom we’ll dig a yawning grave, As we go marching on. Shout, for Time with victory our strife is sure to crown; Shout, for million voices join the chorus of renown; Shout, and at the anthem every wrong shall crumble down, As we go marching on. D. Evans. The Weekly Dispatch. July 17, 1887.

We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before, We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind an instant tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour, We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more. If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mothers’ knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow, against their country’s needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door— We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more! You have called us and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tide, To lay us down for freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside; Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the fore of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before— We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more! John S. Gibbons.

An American Lyric.—To Abraham Lincoln, On his demand for 300,000 Men. We’re coming, Father Abraam, we’re coming all along, But don’t you think you’re coming it yourself a little strong? Three hundred thousand might be called a pretty tidy figure, We’ve nearly sent you white enough, why don’t you take the nigger? Consider, Father Abraam, and give the thing a thought, This war has just attained four times the longitude it ought; And all the bills at Ninety Days as you have draw’d so free, Have been dishonoured, Abraäm, as punctual as could be. We’ve fought, old Father Abraäm, and fought uncommon bold, And gained amazing victories, or so at least we’re told; And having whipped the rebels for a twelvemonth and a day, We nearly found ’em liquoring in Washington in May. Now, really, Father Abraäm, this here’s the extra ounce, And we are almost sick, you see, of such almighty bounce; We ain’t afraid of being killed at proper times and seasons, But it’s aggravating to be killed for Mac’s strategic reasons. If you’d be so obliging, Father Abraäm, as to write To any foreign potentate, and put the thing polite, And make him loan a General as knows the way to lead, We’d come and list. Jerusalem and snakes! we would indeed. But as the matter stands, Old Abe, we’ve this opinion, some. If you say “Come,” as citizens of course we’re bound to come, But then we want to win, you see; if Strategy prevents, We wish you’d use the nigger for these here experiments. Hereditary bondsman, he should just be made to know He’d convenience us uncommon if he’d take and strike a blow. The man as will not fight for freedom isn’t worth a cuss, And its better using niggers up than citizens like us. So, Father Abraäm, if you please, in this here game of chess, You’d better take the black men against the white, I guess, And if you work the niggers off before Rebellion’s slain, Which surely ain’t expectable,—apply to us again. Shirley Brooks.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The Boys are Marching! As we muster for the fray, In our thousands every day, By one hope and by one purpose we are buoyed. We will never cease to fight Until Ireland claims by right That same freedom which so long we have enjoyed. 280 Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching! Justice for Ireland there shall be; For beneath our Leader’s flag Not a man shall lurk or lag, Till old Ireland, like Great Britain, shall be free! Chorus. Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching! Cheer up! the foes begin to run! See where Gladstone waves the flag, And let no man lurk or lag Till the Battle of the Ballot-box is won! Since we last time joined in fight We have lost some men of might, Thanks to envy and to spite and to ill-will; But we need to waste no tears O’er these jealous mutineers, For we have our grand old leader, Gladstone, still! Tramp! tramp! tramp! with him we’re marching! Forward! we shall win the day! For we will not flinch nor turn ’Till with purpose grim and stern We have swept the Paper-Unionists away! * * * * * (Several verses omitted.) * * * * * If we Parliament divide, By our foes it is implied That a fatal risk too surely we shall run; But ’tis better, we maintain, To one Parliament make twain, If thereby we can but make two nations one. Tramp! tramp! tramp! for this we’re marching! Tramp! tramp! Gladstone’s at our head, And poor Ireland soon to be From a Paper-Union free, Shall be linked to us by heart and hand instead! Truth. July 1, 1886.

The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland! Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel! Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland! Come! ’Tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland! Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain, Sic Semper! ’Tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland! Come, for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come, for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng, Stalking with liberty along, And chaunt thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland! My Maryland! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire before thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland! The Old Line bugle, fife and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb! Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come! Maryland! My Maryland!

The Karamanian Exile. I see thee ever in my dreams, Karaman! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, Karaman! O Karaman! As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams With lines of light thy hills and streams, Karaman! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman! O Karaman! * * * * *

Ah me! I’ve had enough of thee, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear land, thou art too dear for me, Maryland, my Maryland! I’ll take the nearest ford and go, I’ll leave thee, darling, to the foe, But do not let him kick me so, Maryland, my Maryland! You’ve dashed my hopes, ungrateful State, Maryland, my Maryland! Go! bless your stars I came too late, Maryland, you understand! I meant to dress you well in black, And scar you with the battles track, And I had scourges for your back, Maryland, my contraband! Oh, where are Longstreet, Hill and Lee? Maryland, my Maryland! And “Stonewall” Jackson, where is he? Maryland, my Maryland! Four coat-tails streaming in the breeze, And that is all a body sees; Better than dangling from the trees, Maryland, my Maryland! Gray geese are flying southward, ho! Maryland, O Maryland! It’s getting cold up there, you know, Maryland, O Maryland! I should have thought it rather warm, South Mountain yonder took by storm, Antietam yielded in alarm,— Maryland, O Maryland! Blood-red my hand, and dead my heart, Native land, my native land! Columbia from her grave will start, Murder’d land, my murder’d land! Thy flag is like a sword of fire, I’ll fly, I’ll fly its vengeful ire; Beneath its stroke its foes expire, Native land, my native land.

A Liberal Lyric. There’s a crisis coming on, Mary Ann, That I dread to think upon, Mary Ann! In the papers there appears Quite enough to raise our fears For the Commons and the Peers! Mary Ann! For, apart from all the rows, Mary Ann! And the squabbles, threats, and vows, Mary Ann! That are sure to emanate From the “Gifted, Good, and Great;” Oh, the Rads will demonstrate! Mary Ann! Though the delegates seem mixed, Mary Ann! And the date is hardly fixed, Mary Ann! There will be a meeting, mark! In that innocent Hyde Park, And most likely after dark, Mary Ann! An enthusiastic crew, Mary Ann! But what aim do they pursue? Mary Ann! Well, I’m sure I cannot say! Yet, wherever asses bray, Fools are sure to go astray, Mary Ann! Oh, our policy once stood, Mary Ann! For the nation and its good, Mary Ann! Now, alas! it only drains From the senatorial brains, To be howled in railway trains, Mary Ann! There are better times in store, Mary Ann! When these wrangling feuds are o’er, Mary Ann! And an interest for the State Have usurped this Party prate; But you’ll have some time to wait, Mary Ann! England. October 11, 1884.

Yankee-Land. Novus Ordo Cyclorum. The destined wheel is on thy shore, Yankeeland! Its perch is at thy ample door, Yankeeland! Ascend the gay exotic goer That flashed the streets of Boston o’er, And beat the boneshaker of yore, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! 282 Hark to the wondering son’s appeal, Yankeeland! “My mother dear, I want a wheel,” Yankeeland! For life and health, for “go” and weal, Thy beardless cavalry reveal, And speed their beauteous limbs with steel! Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! They must not tumble in the dust, Yankeeland! Their beaming steel should never rust, Yankeeland! That slender firmness you may trust Like slender blades in warlike thrust, Held by those numbered with the just, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! Come, for the wheel is bright and strong. Yankeeland! Come, for thy carriance does thee wrong, Yankeeland! Come for thy young bard in the throng, Who stalks with levity along, And gives a new key to much song, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! This iron forms no tyrant’s chain, Yankeeland! Britannia now sends not in vain, Yankeeland! She greets her kindred o’er the main— Slick transit! be the wild refrain We shout in greeting back again, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

1798. Hail, Columbia! Happy land! Home of heroes—Heaven-born band, Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause, And when the storm of war was gone Enjoyed the peace their valour won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost: Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies. Firm—united—let us be, Rallying round our Liberty. As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find. * * * * * 1887. Look our ransomed shores around, Peace and safety we have found! Welcome, friends, who once were foes. Welcome, friends, who once were foes. To all the conquering years have gained A nation’s rights, a race unchained! Children of the day new born, Mindful of its glorious morn, Let the pledge our fathers signed Heart to heart for ever bind! While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One! Graven deep with edge of steel, Crowned with Victory’s crimson seal, All the world their names shall read! All the world their names shall read! Enrolled with his hosts that led, Whose blood for us—for all—was shed. Pay our sires their children’s debt, Love and honour—nor forget Only Union’s golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty! While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One! Hail, Columbia! strong and free, Firm enthroned from sea to sea! Thy march triumphant still pursue! Thy march triumphant still pursue! With peaceful stride from zone to zone, And make the Western land thine own! Blest is the Union’s holy ties, Let our grateful song arise— Every voice its tribute lend— In the loving chorus blend! While the stars in heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever shall the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

Deborah Lee. ’Tis a dozen or so of years ago, Somewhere in the west countree, 283 That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know By the name of Deborah Lee: Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, But Deborah by me. Now I was green, and she was green, As a summer’s squash might be, And we loved as warmly as other folks,— I and my Deborah Lee,— With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom Coveted her and me. But somehow it happened a long time ago, In the aguish West countree, That a chill March morning gave the shakes To my beautiful Deborah Lee; And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came And bore her away from me,— The doctor and death, old partners they In the aguish countree. The angels wanted her in Heaven (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess, In the aguish West countree, That the cold March wind and the doctor and death, Took off my Deborah Lee— My beautiful Deborah Lee— From the warm sunshine and the opening flower, And bore her away from me. Our love was as strong as a six horse team, Or the love of folks older than we, Or possibly wiser than we; But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, Was rather too many for me; He closed the peepers and silenced the breath, Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, Silent and cold—Ah me! The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers, In their odorous beauty around it wave, Through all the sunny hours, The still bright summer hours; And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass, She wakes no more to me; Ah! never more to me; Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She wakes no more to me. Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night, A vision of beauty I see, Gliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee, My bride that was to be; And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death, And the cold March wind should stop the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee— Adorable Deborah Lee— That angels should want her up in Heaven, Before they wanted me. Anonymous. American Paper.

Camomile Tea. It was many and many a year ago, In a cot by the Irish sea, A decoction I knew of which you may know, By the name of Camomile tea; A stuff which was brewed with no other end Than to plague and be drunk by me. I was a child, a mere bit of a child, When I lived in that cot by the sea; But I hated with hate which was more than hate That horrible Camomile Tea. A hate which was visible, I have no doubt, To the eyes of my—Aunt Magee. And this is the reason, I happen to know, Why she always was down on me, Whenever I had the least malady, filling A tumbler with Camomile Tea, And drenching me three times a day with the same— The horriblest bore that could be— And shutting me up in my bedroom for hours, With a tract and more Camomile Tea. Even now, strange it seems, I have hideous dreams Of that horrible Camomile Tea; Of its taste when I think I still shudder and shrink At the nauseous Camomile Tea; And I muse in amaze at that old woman’s craze, On the loathing, the loathing I felt in those days, When I lived in that cot by the sea, In that cot with my Aunt Magee. Punch’s Almanac. 1883.

“W. E. G.” ’Tis not so much as a year ago, In this kingdom by the sea, That a statesman was at the top of the House Known as old W. G.; And this statesman he lived with no other thought Than a premier always to be. I had a vote—not a faggot-vote— In Midlothian by the sea, And I gave, with a love that was more than love, That vote for W. G.; Tho’ a vote that the Tories, striving in vain, Tried muchly to win from me. The Tories not feeling happy in mind At the Budget which was to be; And this was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That petitions came swarming from every pub. And toppled o’er W. G. And that was the reason this hurricane came In this much-taxed land of the “Free”; Just a row o’er the tax, which completely snuffed out This tree-felling W. G. In his dark days a Sunbeam brightened the gloom, In the shape of Sir Thomas Brass-ie, Who took him a-starring to “Norroway’s” shores— To “Norroway” over the sea. But my faith got a shake in Bill’s taxing ways, His liquor tax didn’t suit me— He should have piled it on to the tea; 284 And I’ve split with the “Libs.” all over the shop, And stick to Lord Randolph C. And never—no, never—again will I vote For the grand old W. G. Judy. October 21, 1885.

Albert McGee. It was not very many years ago, In a city by the sea, That there lived a man whom none of you know, By the name of Albert McGee; And this man he lived with no other thought Than to read for his Math. Degree. He was quite a child when he first came up To this city by the sea, But he read in a way that you’d scarcely believe (For you didn’t know Albert McGee),— In a way that the bejants all agreed Was really frightful to see. And this was the reason he always said no, When invited out to a spree (His favourite excuse was a very bad cold, But that was all fiddle-de-dee). And always at midnight his landlady came, Bringing him gallons of tea; And he wore wet towels around his head; And he always sat up till three. * * * * * The examiner, not knowing half so much, Envied this prodigy. Yes! that was the reason, I always thought (And Albert agreed with me), Why he ploughed him, not once but several times, Finally killing Albert McGee. But his ghost is more persistent by far Than Banquo’s (Macbeth, Act III.) That appeared to Macbeth at a spree; And neither tonics, nor change of air, Nor the best advice can set free That wretched man from the haunting wraith Of the injured Albert McGee. For at night in his dreams he frequently screams, “Go away, dear Mr. McGee!” And at morn he will rise with bloodshot eyes, And the very first thing he will see, There, sitting down by the side of his bed With several towels around his head, And an Algebra laid on its knee, Is the spectre of Albert McGee! The University News Sheet (St. Andrews, N.B.) February 24, 1886.

The Swells. Here the drive is filled with swells— Noble swells! What a mass of snobbery their toggery fortells How they snigger, snigger, snigger In the spicy air of day At the girls who cut a figure On their horses—looking bigger And particularly gay. In a trot, trot, trot All about one spot To the super-admiration, that so admirably tells Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, And the laughing and the chaffing of the swells. Here’s the op’ra and the swells— Full dress swells What a taste for music each swell’s countenance fortells With their pretty well gloved paws How they tap out their applause At the prima donna’s notes All in time. While the liquid music floats Till it filters in their mouths and down their throats Oh, sublime! Oh, what are the gal’ry yells To the gush of bravos that unanimously wells! On the belles— How it dwells! On the singer—how it tells! Oh the rapture it impels Does the rapping and the tapping Of the swells, swells, swells, Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, Does the calling and the bawling of the swells. Here’s a drawing-room of swells— Grand swells! What a world of slowness their society compels In the brilliancy of night Don’t we instantly take fright At the melancholy drawling of their tone? Lisping through their tender throats Dwelling on their upper notes All their own— That we plebeianic people Would be rather in a steeple All alone Than be list’ning, list’ning, list’ning To their dreary monotone— Or elsewhere at some grand christ’ning Where the children shriek and groan. They are never never cheery, Ever à la “Lord Dundreary” Always dolls And the best among them lolls And woman extolls— Lolls In the presence of the belles And his lisping voice it tells Of the beauty of the belles Who delight to dance with swells Keeping time, time, time In a manner quite sublime To the joy of both the swells And the belles; Keeping time, time, time With exactitude most prime To the squeezing by the swells Of the belles, belles, belles, 285 To the pleasing of the belles Keeping time, time, time Oh ye swells, swells, swells, In a way that’s most sublime To the throbbing of the belles, Of the belles, belles, belles, To the bobbing of the swells, Of the swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, To the measure and the pleasure of the swells. T. F. Dillon Croker. The Royal Dramatic College Annual. July, 1868.

The Polls. Hear the statements of the Polls, Of the Polls! What a world of partisans their publishing consoles! How they’ve waited, waited, waited In the morning or the night Till the net result is stated, When they scamper oft elated With delirious delight; And they hip, hip, hip, Hip-hurrah, and dance and skip With the supererogation of a lot of frisky foals From the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, From their triumphs of the Ballot and the Polls. Hear the totals of the Polls, Of the Polls! What a large official staff their adding-up enrols! After breakfast or at night How they count with all their might, Sorting papers, checking notes; And, ere ’tis done, How the scrutinizer gloats As he pounces down on spoilt or unmark’d votes One by one! Then they end their calculation, And at last is made the long’d-for declaration: How it rolls, How it trolls O’er the human heads in shoals, Which—Whig, Radical, and Tory— Press round to hear the story Of the Polls, Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, The story and the sequel of the Polls Oh, the troubles of the Polls, Of the Polls What a heap of candidates must find themselves in holes! How they tremble with affright For the verdict of the night, Till the knell of their discomfiture it tolls! Then they prate of promised votes With the huskiest of throats, And they haul their luckless agents o’er the coals; And they give so many reasons for not having reached their goals, That we gradually weary of the Polls, And, perceiving one objection, To a General Election, We begin to dread the mention of the Polls, Of the Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, Polls, This persistent iteration of the Polls! The St. James’s Gazette. December 8, 1885.

The Bills. O the season of the bills— Tradesmen’s bills! What a quaking in my bosom the sight of them instils! How they flutter, flutter, flutter, In upon me day and night! From between my half-closed shutter I can hear their bearers mutter They be blowed if it’s “all right!” O the bills of Christmas time! I feel positive that I’m Quite bilious grown with terror that the Protean shape instils Of the bills, bills, bills— Of the never-ending deluge of the bills. O the never-ending bills, Christmas bills, For the mince-pies, puddings, pastry, things which bring a thousand ills In their train! How they still come on me flocking, With hateful “figures” mocking My dazed brain. And—ah, who’s that I hear knocking? Oh, it’s positively shocking— Doctor Squills! With his recipes of powders, black draughts, pills, To be followed by his bills, Physic bills, By the little boy in buttons, with his bills. Oh, confound, then, Christmas-tide and all its bills! Funny Folks. January 2, 1886.

The Sleigh Bells. Hear the sleigh-belle, how she chatters With her beau! How she chatters, chatters, chatters, Of innumerable matters, While the horse’s heel bespatters Her with snow! See the sleigh-belle with her lover! How they feel Like a pair of colts in clover, This sleigh-belle and her lover, Underneath the dainty cover Of the seal! See the people stand and stare At the belle, As, with loosely flowing hair, And a smile beyond compare, She is speeding through the air With a swell. Oh, such weather suits for riding, Though ’tis rough; And the sleigh-belle loves the gliding, And such merry, merry sliding, With her fifteen fingers hiding In her muff! The Topical Times. March 13, 1886.

Autumn Bells. Hear the bakers with the bells— Muffin bells! What domestic happiness their melody foretell 286 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, As the man appears in sight, With a mouth that’s all a-wrinkle, And an eye that’s all a-twinkle With a demon-like delight. Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of flabby rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells, With his yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells— How we tolerate the torture of those yells! Fun. October, 1886.

The Bells. Hear the clamorous church bells! Noisy bells! What a sound of Pandemonium their ding-ding-dong foretells; How they jingle, jingle, jingle, Every morning, noon, and night, Till I’m sure their deafening ring’ll Make my ears for ever tingle, And my peace of mind quite blight. Hear their dong-dong-dong, Like a cracked old Chinese gong! Oh, that tintinabulation’s worse than all the street boy’s yells. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, The jingling and the jangling of the bells! Hear the Ritualistic bells, Ceaseless bells! What a discord most distracting in their noisy clappers dwells. Ere has come the morning light, I awaken in a fright At their dong-dong-dong, For ’tis matins all days long, Till they ring for evensong. Or ’tis Little Bethel’s Bells That from opposition steeple Call the other kind of people. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, What a horror in me dwells While the ear distinctly tells, As the noise now ebbs, now swells, That there’s madness in the clangour of the bells, Bells, bells, bells, In the never-ending Babel of the bells! C. H. Waring. Fun. June 15, 1887.

The Christmas Party. (American.) The Reception. Oh, the meeting of the Belles, and the greeting of the swells! How the merry maidens chatter While the men haw-haw and flatter, And how roguish Cupid weaves his magic spells!— Happy Belles! The Dance. Oh, the skipping of the Swells, and the tripping of the Belles! As couples, clasped, advancing In the whirling, twirling, dancing, The merry laugh all starchiness dispels— Solemn Swells! The Supper. Oh, the flirting of the Belles, the diverting of the Swells! How memory fondly lingers On a pressure of the fingers, And thought upon a whispered nothing dwells! Foolish Belles! The Departure. Oh, the parting from the Swells, the heart-smarting of the Belles! Pledging no surcease of sorrow Till the meeting on the morrow, As with gleaming eyes they murmur their farewells— Lucky Swells! American Paper.

The Bills. See the postman with the bills— New Year’s bills! What a world of tribulation Now their sending out fulfils! How they rankle, rankle, rankle In the startled dreams of night, As the creditors’ procession, Of the chamber takes possession, With a brutalised delight; Calling “Time!” “Time!” “Time!” In a sort of prize-ring rhyme. To the dark and deep demnition That so gradually kills, From the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, From the tailors’ and the hatters’ little bills— Bills! Bills! Bills! The Umpire. January 7, 1888.

An Appeal. Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary, Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for, When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing, 287 As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door; “It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door, Merely this and nothing more.” Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December, Gilbert said “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore, Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever, How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore,’ Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’ Just that once, but nevermore.” “For the feeling—sad, uncertain—at the rising of the curtain, Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore, And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated, I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before, There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before, Now to do so nevermore.” Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal, Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before; Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he, And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte”—then slammed the door, And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door. Only this and nothing more. Mr. Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly, Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for? Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn, Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore! Tell me what its funny name is—tell, O tell me, I implore!” Answered Gilbert—“Ruddygore!” Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded, For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore; And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score; Therefore change it, I implore.” Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking; I have never found a title that I liked so much before, For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er; Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er; Therefore be it Ruddygore.” And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor; And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing, Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grosssmith an encore, Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title “Ruddygore.” Not in spelling—we want more.” The Pall Mall Gazette.

An Artist’s Ravin’. (Apro-Poe of the Royal Academy Exhibition.) In my studio, listless, dreary, As I pondered, weak and weary, Over heaps of washy sketches I had painted years before, Suddenly there came a tapping (A curious wild mercurial tapping). ’Twas the postman’s double rapping, Rapping at the big front door. Only this, and nothing more. But it brought to me a feeling Ever growing—never healing— “Still so gently o’er me stealing,” Which I’d often felt before. The Academy were sending Round those cards, those never-ending Monitors to the offending Limners they’d turned out before. This it was—and nothing more. As I sat there, half demented, Our Jemima Ann presented Several letters which were left me by that postman at the door; And amongst them lay the verdict The Academy had sent me, And I swooned upon the floor— Simply this—and nothing more. Rising, on the verge of madness, Should I—courting joy or sadness— Find it now by bursting open the portentous seal it bore; Or, in frenzy, should I burn it, Or to the R. A.’s return it, And their secrecy implore— Their forgiveness—Evermore! Or still feeling that without full Knowledge, if a Cross or Doubtful Might be lurking in the missive I’ve adverted to before, Should I tenderly unfold it, And in trembling digits hold it To confront me Evermore With its verdict—Evermore! Musing thus, I opened wide the Envelope, and looked inside the Deep abyss, and found a curious card I’d never seen before: 288 ’Twas the varnishing permission For the coming Exhibition! May I get it—Evermore; Be accepted—Evermore! Funny Folks.

Once beneath a tree at Hawarden, while I pondered in my garden Over many a quaint and curious volume of Homeric lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, came a noise like distant tapping, Or shillelaghs gently rapping, on the verdant Shannon shore. “’Tis more Irishmen,” I muttered, “from the verdant Shannon shore— Home Rulers, and nothing more!” Ah, distinctly I remember—’twas in Eighty-six, November, After every “Union” member had conspired my bill to floor— In a state of agitation, I sought some vaticination Which should show me if the nation would their G.O.M. restore: If the public their old leader would to place and power restore Once again, or nevermore. Once again I heard the tapping; then, his ebon pinions flapping, O’er the wall there flew a Raven, of the stormy days of yore. An old bird of aspect cheeky, with a croak extremely creaky, And a bill extremely “Beaky,” and a curl that hung before, Like the curl once worn by Dizzy, which, you know, hung down before, And he croaked out “Nevermore!” Then methought the air grew denser, and he changed to Mr. Spencer, And he gibbered, ghostly, ghoul-like, on the garden’s tufted floor. “Wretch!” I cried, “from distant Berlin, cease thy fierce moustache from twirlin’; Tell me, for my brain is whirlin’, will the Fates my power restore? Will the dissidents surrender and once more my power restore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” J. C. Rose.

Once upon an evening dreary, as I pondered worn and weary Over many a dusty packet of unsettled bills of yore, As I sat serenely rocking, thinking it was very shocking, Suddenly I heard a knocking—knocking at my study door. “’Tis my tailor gay,” I muttered, “knocking at my study door— Only this, and nothing more.” Ah! distinct my recollection, for I had a chest affection— Out of cash—and in dejection I was gazing at the floor! Vainly I had tried to borrow half-a-crown to meet the morrow, But discovered, to my sorrow, none would trust me any more— From the too-confiding butcher to my tailor, tradesmen swore They would trust me—nevermore! Then, my study door unbolting, in there stepped, with bow revolting, He, my stern, relentless tailor, whom, I fear, I hated sore— Made a most polite oration—didn’t show the least vexation— As he calmly took his station just within my study door, With his bill upon the matting just within my study door— Merely waited—nothing more. “Tailor,” cried I. “Imp of evil! Tailor still, or else the Devil, Whether Satan sent thee—whether ’bus thy body hither bore; Standing in thy frock-coat braided on my carpet very faded— Having this my den invaded, tell me truly, I implore.” Is there, is there trust no longer? Tell me, truly, I implore.” Quoth the tailor, “Nevermore!” F. B. Doveton.

“Joe” after Poe. A Chamberlainian Dream. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and skeery, Over many a quaint and curious volume of Midlothian lore; While I studied—deeply napping—suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping with something wooden on the door. “’Tis some Radical,” I murmured, “with a cudgel at the door Waiting for me—nothing more.” Presently my views grew broader; “it must be that great marauder, The big and hurly-burly Harcourt, sturdy limb of legal lore. Yes, ’tis he of frame Titanic, massive jowl, and sneer Satanic, That puts his foes to flight and panic when he occupies the floor. Or perhaps it’s Gladstone coming meekly pardon to implore— “This it is, and nothing more.” Back I dashed the door, half crazy—had my wits turned mad or hazy— For in there stepped a pompous raven, full of paunch and sleek galore, And his look was grave and crafty, neither smiled, nor looked, nor laughed he, As he slowly strutted past me, perching o’er my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Schnadhorst—somewhat broken—o’er the door, Croaking “Caucus,” nothing more. * * * * * 289 “Bird,” I cried, “with voice so raucous—thou who pratest of that caucus (Which once my highest praise and presidential honour bore) Know that we’re the Liberal party, and my brothers Dick and Arty, We are the leaders—we—and Harty. And you shall return no more Unless your vows and Grand Old Leader you throw over and ignore. ’Tis all we ask for—nothing more.” “Prophet,” cried I, “thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil, Whether Gladstone sent or lent thee thus to guide me back to shore, Thro’ that cloud the future veiling, say which way my bark is sailing? Are our efforts unavailing? Shall I ever hold once more My old position in our party? Tell me, tell me, I implore.” “Morley,” quoth he, nothing more. “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend;” I cried, upstarting; “All our conferential meetings only serve to part us more. Get thee gone with this defiance, tho’ we have no real reliance, In the strength of our affiance—for ’tis rotten to the core— This our aim, our hidden purpose, we don’t want to cross the floor.” “Gladstone,” croaked he, nothing more. But that raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Demos—grimly mocking o’er the door; And when Parnellites decrying, and stern common-sense defying, All my former self belying, the shadow steals across the floor, The prescience of a Dissolution stealing darkly o’er the floor— Annihilation, nothing more. W. L. (Seven verses omitted.) Pall Mall Gazette. April 13, 1887.

The Yankee Cryptogram. A Tale of Shakespeare’s Bacon. Once within an autumn dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Of the only actress playing in my half-forgotten lore, While I nodded—nearly napping, which is something oft does happen, When some actors try the tapping, tapping of my written lore; Someone muttered, “Not his writing.” This has sure been said before. Only this, and nothing more. * * * * * Open then I flung the shutter, and with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a lengthy Yankee from Columbia’s shore; Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he; But with haste like all the Yankees, wrote a book about my plays; Wrote that it was Francis Bacon who had written all my plays, Wrote and wrote, and nothing more. Then the Yankee scribe beguiling all my sad soul into smiling By the queer and strange arrangement of the nonsense that he wrote. “Though thy pate’s unshorn, unshaven, thou,” I said, must be a craven, Ghastly, grim, and lengthy Yankee, wandering from Atlantic’s shore, “Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Baconian shore?” “Donnelly, and nothing more.” Then the Yankee creature, holding Bacon’s bust, spoke only One long word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, not a pamphlet even fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other men wrote thus before; On the morrow he will leave me as the others did before.” Said the Yankee, “Crypto! More!” Startled at the stillness broken by the words so oddly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store, Caught from an unhappy master, who some shocking brain disaster, Turned into a poetaster, till his thoughts one burden bore— Till the echoes of his thoughts one melancholy burden bore Of Crypto—cryptogram!” Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer, Swung by creatures whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Romeo cried, “Shakespeare hath sent me, to the world he lent me, Showing through me and Juliet how it is true lovers love. Leave, oh leave thy stupid fiction, and forget this cryptogram.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.” “I am Richard! Man of evil! Hero still, though fiend and devil! Whether tempter sent, or ill wind blew thee to our shore; Take my word—me all undaunted—see Macbeth on ground enchanted, Poor Macbeth by Banquo haunted—see them with a hundred more! Hamlet and his murdered sire! Leave him, leave him, I implore.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.” Said Orlando, “Thing of evil! Yankee man, be civil! By the heaven that bends above us, by the God we both adore, Tell this soul all loving-laden, do you think that Francis Bacon 290 Could have made a sainted maiden, like the one called Rosalind? Made a fair and radiant maiden like to Shakespeare’s Rosalind?” Quoth the Yankee “Cryptogram.” “Be that word our sign of parting, Yankee fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting; “Get thee back to Sampson Low’s, or your own Atlantic shore, Leave no proof-sheet as a token of the lie that you have spoken, Leave my glory still unbroken, take that bust without my door, Take thy book from off the press, and that bust without my door.” Quoth the Yankee “Nevermore.” And that Yankee never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting, With the pallid bust of Bacon to and from his printer’s door, And his tale has all the seeming of a madman who is dreaming, And the Crypto o’er him streaming, holds him wriggling on the floor And his book from out that Crypto wriggling with him on the floor Should be published—Nevermore! (Eight verses omitted.) Ithuriel. The Topical Times. December 3, 1887.

A Vision. Once within my little study,[137] while the firelight gleaming ruddy Threw fantastic lights and shadows on the wall and on the floor, I was thinking of two nations that for many generations Had known nought but deadly hatred and contentions sad and sore— Nought but deadly strife and hatred and contentions sad and sore, Going on for evermore. And I thought, all this is blameful, ’tis not only sad but shameful, All this plundering and oppressing and this spilling lakes of gore, ’Tis the nation that is stronger that has been the other’s wronger, Let her play this part no longer, but this cruelty give o’er, Turn to ways of love and kindness, and this cruelty give o’er, And have peace for evermore. While unto myself thus speaking, on the stairs I heard a creaking As of someone softly sneaking up to listen at the door; Then said I, “You need not fear me, you can just come in and hear me, Take a seat or stand a-near me, let us talk this matter o’er— ’Tis a grave and serious subject, let us talk it calmly o’er,” Then I opened wide the door. Then a being thin and shanky, white of visage, tall and lanky Looking ill at ease and cranky, came and stood upon the floor; In his hands some keys he dangled, keys that harshly clinked and jangled, And over his right optic a large pane of glass he wore— When it fell, he slowly raised it, and replaced it as before— This he did and nothing more. “Now,” said I, the shape addressing, “don’t you think ’twould be a blessing If this Anglo-Irish conflict coming down from days of yore— If this age-long woe and sadness could be changed to peace and gladness And the holy ties of friendship could be knit from shore to shore And no words but words of kindness pass across from shore to shore!”— Quoth the lank one, “Tullamore.” At this word I marvelled truly, for it seemed to come unduly As a misplaced exhibition of his geographic lore; So my thread of thought resuming, I said, “There are dangers looming Over England’s wide dominion that ’tis useless to ignore, What shall strengthen and sustain her when the battle-thunders roar?” Answer made he, “Tullamore.” Then said I, “Across the waters Erin’s faithful sons and daughters Now have fierce and bitter memories burning in each bosom’s core, Think what peace and joy would fill them and what happiness would thrill them If but England yielded freedom to the land that they adore— If she spoke the word of freedom to the land her souls adore”— But his word was “Tullamore.” “Think,” said I, “of England’s masses; every day that o’er them passes Hears their murmurings and complainings swelling louder than before, They object—and ’tis no wonder—to the rule of force and plunder That so long has kept them under, squeezing blood from every pore— Have you any word of comfort that their patience may restore?” His reply was “Tullamore.” 291 From my vision quick he glided; in my heart I then decided That if this was England’s message by this popinjay brought o’er, She had missed a chance of glory that would brighten all her story— But, I said, that lanky Tory was a humbug and a bore: These words from both the peoples soon will ring from shore to shore— “We are friends for evermore.”

Tullamore. Ye who Erin’s history dreary oft have pondered, shamed and weary Of our Saxon sway’s inglorious volume of unrighteous lore; Castle knaves her sons entrapping, cruel laws her vigour sapping, Vampire landlords ever lapping at the blood her bosom bore; Weep! for Mandeville is martyred, stilled the hero heart he bore— Done to death in Tullamore! Ah, distinctly we remember peasants, thrust, in bleak December, From the peat-fire’s smouldering ember, wandering on the barren shore, Shiveringly to wait the morrow, vainly to attempt to borrow Solace and surcease of sorrow—sorrow for their homes of yore— For the poor dismantled cabins that they named their homes of yore— Their one shelter, Tullamore! Tyrant Balfour! slave of evil! Tyrant still if man or devil! Whether Satan sent, or whether Cecil set thee at her door. Erin’s sons, who, all undaunted, hear thy tinsel bravery vaunted, See their isle coercion-haunted—yet their patriots’ lives implore. Is there, is their hope of respite? Tell us, tell us, we implore! Croaks brave Balfour, “Tullamore.” And brave Balfour, venom spitting, chief in council still is sitting, While the pallid face of Dillon smiles behind his prison door; For he sees, beyond all seeming, Erin’s dawn of Justice beaming, Knows that when the daylight streaming throws its radiance o’er her shore Erin’s soul from out thy shadow, that now desecrates her shore, Shall be lifted, Tullamore! Samuel Mapeham.

Christmas Boxes. (After E. A. Poe’s lines “For Annie.”) Thank heaven! the nuisance Is over and past— The fierce Christmas Boxers Came eager and fast, But my purse full of silver Is emptied at last. The scavenger—hang him! Who howled “Dust ahoy!” The lazy and blundering Telegraph boy; The lame crossing sweeper Came “wishing me joy.” The turncock was grinning “Merry Christmas”—what stuff! His overpaid Company Charge me enough; And the sweep too’s a claimant, All sooty and gruff. The postman, who often Delivers next door The note that should reach me A whole day before, Reminds me, the varlet, “’Tis Christmas once more.” I’ve tipped the lamplighter Though dark is my road; Remembered coal heavers, Though paid with each load— Even poor-rate collectors, Who no mercy showed. And O! of all tortures That torture the worst, The Waits! who awoke me From sweet slumber nurst, And made the night hideous With discord accurst. Moonshine. January 8, 1887.

The Ladies, after Dinner. See the ladies, ladies only, Scattered lonely Through the empty room and chill, Ladies chatting each with other, Wife and mother, Ladies posing, posing still! And their talk is faint and chilly Almost silly! Chatter about sun and rain, Chatter about baby’s teething, Heavy breathing— Wretched wee thing!—and his pain. Talk about the latest story, Gay or gory, Blonde or brune has chanced to skim, Talk of abbés, talk of verses, Talk of Nurses, Nurses, Baby,—more of him! This, all this keeps going, going, Overflowing, Broken by a plaintive moan; Luckless little ladies dreary, How you weary, How you weary all alone!

To William. (At an immense distance after Poe.) William, thy “glamour” is to me Like these torpedo barks that oft Go forth on the unvintaged sea Fresh from the yards of Thornycroft; Their mission—to blow ships aloft! Through frantic speeches wont to foam, Thy tongue, that could not be at peace, Has brought us, for the “Rule” called “Home,” To barter fame that matched with Greece, And grandeur more than dwelt in Rome. Lo, in thy dread historic niche A bankrupt State shall see thee stand, Thy wondrous Bills within thy hand! Ah, William, these thy measures which Have wrecked the land! The Saturday Review. May 8, 1886.

Leonainie, angels named her, And they took the light Of the laughing stars, and framed her In a smile of white, And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In a solemn night.

My Leonainie drifted From me in a dream.

The Lost Soul. Hark the bell! the funeral bell, Calling the soul To its goal. Oh! the haunted human heart, From its idol doomed to part! Yet a twofold being bearing, She and I apart are tearing; She to Heaven I to Hell! Going, going! Hark the bell! Far in Hell, Tolling, tolling. Fiends are rolling, Whitened bones, and coffins reeking, Fearful darkness grimly creeping On my soul, My vision searing. She disappearing Drawn from me By a soul I cannot see, Whom I know can never love her. Oh! that soul could I discover, I would go, Steeped in woe, Down to darkness, down to Hell! Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!