VOLUME V. (continued 5)

The Griffin’s Lament. (As sung by the Fleet Street Selkirk.) I am Monarch of naught I survey; E’en my site is a theme for dispute: Every omnibus horse that I see, As he passes me, says, “What a brute!” Talk of dignity? What are its charms, When, thrust in the popular face, I fill the old street with alarms, Looking down from this horrible place! I’m out of humanity’s reach, Stuck up here on the summit alone; And as for the music of speech, All I get is a hiss or a groan! For no beast of the plain, old or new, No brute from the depths of the sea, No bird that you’ll find at the Zoo— Has the vaguest resemblance to me! But alas! spite rebuke and report, And letters, and threats by the score, I’ve been fixed! And, henceforth, without sport, I shall hear my name mentioned no more! My friends in the City, do they Send a wish or a thought after me? I trust that they do; for this way Not a friend but old Birch shall I see! So the traffic each night sinks to rest; The barrister turns to his square: The bustle all hurries due West, Yet still I sit here in the air! And if you could then see my face, You’d say, “He has had it so hot— Has that brute, that he knows his disgrace, And admits he’s a precious bad lot!” Punch. November 20, 1880.

The Parvenu. I’m monarch of all I survey; At least, when I put it like that, I mean, if I’m willing to pay, There’s nothing that I can’t get at. I heard it was so from the fust, When I thought that I would be a swell, If I liked to come down with the dust, Why everything then would be well. Now a wife was my most pressing need, That ’ad plenty of breeding and blood; Well, I bought ’er—I mean it, indeed— Yes, bought ’er like one of my stud. For the Herl o’ Stoke Pogis was poor, And he couldn’t afford to say “No,” When he ’ad a good chance to secure Such a rich son-in-law at a blow. Well, next, goaded on by the Herl, A seat in the ’Ouse ’twas I bought; Which was dear at the price, I may say, For it’s not so much fun as I thought. Then the Baronet hafter my name— This, too, was a stiffish affair; But I don’t begrudge that, all the same, For I liked it no hend as Lord Mayor. Then I bought a big Family Tree, With roots which to Normandy spread; Whilst my ancestors cost—let me see! Yes, close on two ’underd per ’ed. And though they look well on the wall, And come out exceedingly nice, Yet I’m bound to admit that I call ’Em uncommonly dear at the price. Well, I’ve also bought dozens of “friends,” Not by paying ’em money down straight; No, it on their position depends, And there isn’t a regular rate. 83 To some ’tis a loan that I make, Or berths to their boys I hallot; Some I buy for a dinner-card’s sake, Some by lending a horse or a yacht. Why, I’ve Dooks as is under my thumb, And the proudest my cards don’t decline. Since I’ve heven got Princes to come And sit at my table and dine. In short, if he’s money, like me, There’s nothing, I’m ready to vow, That a man who is lavishly free Can’t do in Society now! Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.

Lawn-Tennis. I am monarch of all British Games, My right there is none to contest, For Britons all over the world Acknowledge that I am the best. Oh, Billiards! say where are the charms, That some people see in thy face; Better have a good “rally” with me, And endeavour “to keep up the pace.” Other Games I admit are at hand, But conscience constrains me to own, There are maidens and men by the score, Who live but for Tennis alone. There is Croquet, that once was the rage, Folks now with indifference see, And candour compels me to say Its tameness is shocking to me. There is Cricket, an old English sport, And a very good game in its way, But its votaries all must admit It is most inconvenient to play. For its players have nothing to do, Half the time that they own is so dear, And I’ve noticed, when once they are “out,” They hurry to ’baccy and beer. And Archery, Rinking, and Bowls, Your charms are displayed but in vain; No one cares the least atom for you, Or desires to taste you again; But with me folks their troubles assuage, With me they are merry and gay; Each game they enjoy more and more, And are cheered by the “rallies” they play. When driven with judgment and skill, How swiftly my balls cleave the air, And “topping the net” by an inch, Call for no little caution and care; How merrily, too, sound my cries, Though strangers can’t make out their use; My language is strange, I admit, “Fifteen, love,” “thirty, forty,” and “deuce.” When worn with the troubles of life, Or harrassed with business and care, Cast your worries at once to the wind, And straight to your Tennis repair. In every “set” that you play, There is pleasure and health to be got, And I’m the best thing in the world, To reconcile man to his lot. A. W. Mackenzie. From Pastime, July 20, 1883.

I am monarch of all I survey, Where only the savage disputes My right to teach heathenish clay The graces of trousers and boots. O liberty! what are thy rules To men with the Papuan skin? Better bless them with churches and schools, And plenty of powder and gin! I am out of a Parliament’s reach, And far from Gladstonian blame; No fear that a Radical speech Will spoil our Colonial game. The Papuans don’t care a straw If we claim all their acres in fee— They are so unacquainted with law, Their darkness is shocking to me! With railways, and taxes, and gaols, In store for this fortunate land, That native is mad who assails Such blessings so graciously planned. But his sorrows we soon shall assuage With this cheerfully practical test; “To till your own soil for a wage Is the pleasure of being annexed!” Truth. April 26, 1883.

I. I snoozle or snore all the day, I loll in my silk smoking suit, Yet, I’m drowsy and tired as can be, And feel like a regular brute; Oh! Solitude! where are your calms My head’s going round such a pace, All limp are my legs and my arms And I hardly dare look at my face. II. My ‘pals’ stick to me like a leech, When in want of a lunch or a loan, At other times swagger and preach And say: ‘I am wanting in tone’; They tell me again and again I need change—some fresh air by the sea; Do they think I am mad or insane? Their tameness is shocking to me. III. Society, friendship, and love, Look at me, pale, sickly and wan, I should like to give that footstool a shove, But I really don’t know if I can. 84 As I listlessly turn o’er the page Of some fanciful fickle untruth, Bent double by premature age, You hardly would guess at my youth. IV. Yes, alas! I feel seedy and old, Though the notion is highly absurd, For I’ve plenty of silver and gold, And there’s nothing I cannot afford: I’ve only to touch my hand-bell For although not respected, I’m feared, Though I live as a sot, I’m a swell And am thinking of growing a beard. V. Ye wiles that have made me your sport, Who have wasted my health and my ore, Who’ve made me swill sherry and port Till I could not contain any more; Oh! how I do wish I could mend Or begin life again and you’d see If I wouldn’t do something to tend To my taking my B.A. degree. VI. Just once in a way, I don’t mind, But, thus happening night after night! And the thoughts which the fumes leave behind, Are anything but pleasant or bright; I drink or I gamble till three, And, if I do reach the right square, Very often can’t find my latch key, Or perhaps take my bath for a chair. VII. I’ve become a by-word and a jest, And though I pretend I don’t care, I feel I’m a bore and a pest, Why, they laugh at the things that I wear, I’ll pick my man, my pistols and place, I know a very nice little spot— Hand him one, with most infinite grace. And either shoot him, or be shot!

I am monarch of all I survey; My facts there are none to dispute; I can sneer in my nastiest way, And the Government Benches are mute, Oh, why do I constantly sit In this roofless and desolate house? For the Peers have had “notice to quit,” And ’tis left to the spider and mouse. I am out of Democracy’s reach, My place the political shelf, Never hear the sweet sound of a speech— Except those I make to myself. The policemen who haunt Palace Yard My form with indifference see; To a Marquis they pay no regard, Which seems dreadfully “bad form” to me. * * * * * Oh, Granville! I wish I had known What pleasure there lay in your talk, Then I should not be pining alone Where I once was the cock of the walk! But the sound of the Lobby-going bell These moth-eaten seats never hear, Never fill at the voice of a “Swell,” Or empty when dinner-time’s near! Punch, November 8, 1884.

The Tortures of Tourists. Yes, I am the monarch of all I survey, My right, at the Club, there is none to dispute; The whole of the papers are mine every day, And no one esteems me a bore or a brute, The waiters, too glad to have something to do, Are eager to wait on the one man in town; I get my pet chair, without strategy too, And my button-hole’s free from the finger of Brown. The Park is my own, I can loll as I will, I can sit where I wish, I can dress as I please; And at home or abroad, though a Londoner still, I, with no one to censure, can live at my ease. No longer condemned in a whirl to exist, Nor my time in most senseless pursuits to employ, I pass the glad hours of the week as I’ll sit, And London, at last, to the full can enjoy. But go where I will, be my tasks what they may, As heedless of Fashion I linger at home, My thoughts ever dwell, both by night and by day, On my ill-advised friends who from happiness roam. Nor can I deny it is one of my joys To muse on the woes of that sorrowful band, As victims to heat, to extortion, and noise, They wander afar o’er the sea and the land. * * * * * As I dally awhile o’er my toast and the Times, I picture these tourists, for time ever pressed, Like spirits condemned, for most heinous of crimes, To forfeit for ever the semblance of rest; From foul-smelling places to towns fouler still, I see them dragged hither and thither away; Doomed mountains to climb, and spa waters to swill, To touts and to guides and to vergers a prey. I see them, deprived of the comforts they need, Diurnally grow more distraught and distress’d, And doom’d at hotels in succession to feed On food that they loathe, and can never digest. Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air, And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal, As each Galignani increases the scare, And dread of the Cholera broods over all! And then when at night I retire to my bed— To my own cosy bed in my big airy room— I think of those friends who from London have fled To find on the coast of these islands their doom. 85 For I see them condemned—for the heed that they pay To Fashion’s decrees—in a cupboard to sleep, Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way, And causes its victims long vigil to keep. Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay, To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace; To be bitten by night and be bullied by day, And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease; Whilst e’en the ozone that they yearn to obtain, And which to inhale they ’midst miseries tarry, Can only be breathed by the side of the main Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay ’Arriet and ’Arry In a month or two’s time I shall welcome them back— Save those too unwell from abroad to return— And some Roman Fever to England will track, Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn; And all will be writing complaints to the Times, To re-tell the story which every one knows, As couriers’ guile and hotel-keepers’ crimes They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose. Truth. August 13, 1885.

I’m the Monarch of all I survey, And Brassey the fact won’t dispute, For here I’ve been sticking all day Like some waterlogged sea-going brute! O Cheeseparing, where are the charms That Northbrook has seen in thy face! Look at me—in the midst of alarms!— And yet mine’s but a typical case. But the upshot of all is quite clear; If matters go on as they do, Well, the Navy will soon disappear, And “My Lords,” well—they’ll disappear too! So now that I’m docked, and they find That I never was fit for the main, Let us hope that a thing of the kind Won’t occur—till it happens again! Punch. April 25, 1885

A Song for Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. O Society, where are the charms That once I could see in thy face? To escape from these Duchesses’ arms, I would live in a desolate place! But alas! since I’ve turned on my chief, My peace has been wrecked in this way, And nothing can bring me relief Whilst I still with the Unionists stay! Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose, ’Twas at best but a poor faded flow’r! But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants, And threaten my peace to devour. And instead of the orchid so famous My buttonhole once used to bear, ’Tis a primrose (of silver enamel) That now I’m expected to wear! Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

The Lament of the Sportive M.P. I am weary of all I survey, I am sick to the heart of debate; It is something too awful, I say, To be thus kept in London so late. O Parliament! where are the charms That candidates in thee can trace? For, worn out by the “Whips’” false alarms, I am sick of the horrible place! I am out of Society’s reach; At the Club I am well-nigh alone; And not e’en the smile of Hicks-Beach For my dulness extreme can atone. Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern, Have not the least pity on me, But they all make long speeches in turn In garments most shocking to see. Had I known it was certainly meant The House through September should meet, My money I’d never have spent In order to carry a seat! It is shameful, this tax on my brain, And this daily compulsion to work; And yet fussy voters complain If by chance a division I shirk! Each post brings to me a report That but makes my position more hard, As I read of the excellent sport From which I am wholly debarr’d. Whilst the “guns” I had asked to my moor, At Pittwithiebothie, N.B.; Big bags are content to secure By blazing away without me! Yes, I think of these fortunate men, As I aimlessly wander about, Or rush to my place now and then, When Biggar attempts a “count out.” And sometimes I doze till I dream Of the things which my thoughts always fill, Till I wake with disgust most extreme, To find Dr. Tanner up still! And then there are Radicals too, Who want all the votes to discuss, Instead of “Supply” rushing through At one sitting, without any fuss. Whilst some seek the people’s applause By stating that we of the House Had better be there making laws Than shooting at blackcock and grouse. Such rubbish I never have heard, For what, pray, becomes of my ease? It seems to me too, too absurd That I’m not to do what I please. 86 The people elected me, true, But that, let me say, to be frank, Was the very least thing they could do, Consid’ring my fortune and rank; And yet they now tell me, forsooth, That, since I’ve become an M.P., I must give up the sports that in truth Make life most worth living to me; And, heedless what fashion may claim, In London continue to live; And the days I’d intended for game, To Crofters and Irishmen give! What nonsense it is, I repeat, That a rich young patrician like me Should be forced, for the sake of a seat, With a view so advanced to agree. But I will not submit; they shall find That I’ll start off for Scotland this day— But what’s this, though—a whip five times lined? I suppose, after all, I must stay! Truth. September 16, 1886.

The Modern Alexander Selkirk. (By Sir Charles Warren.) I am monarch of all I survey; My might there is none to dispute; I will prosecute all whom I see If they argue, remonstrate, or hoot. O Liberty, where is the charm That Socialists see in thy face? The tradesmen have taken alarm At such views being heard in the place. I am out of society’s reach, I can issue my edicts alone; I laugh at the rights of free speech, For I tolerate none but my own. The mobs that collect in the Square I can’t with indifference see, So outspoken, so bold—I declare Their language is shocking to me, How sweet is the constable’s stave For putting the rabble to flight, When they bludgeon some vagabond knave, Then arrest him for brawling outright! Who talks of a free native land? I’ll teach them ’tis otherwise there, With the cells and police-court at hand, And no speaking allowed in the Square. So let orators note my behest, Let each pauper slink back to his lair; They can go to the workhouse for rest, While I to my mansion repair. There’s a workhouse in everyplace, And the guardians (encouraging thought) Give relief when they’ve sifted each case— Why ain’t they content with their lot? Pall Mall Gazette. November 25, 1887.

Burbaban’s Defeat. A Warwickshire Lay. Count Peste, he was a nobleman, Of credit and renown, A jockey-club man, too, was he, Of old Newmarket town. Count Peste said to his love, “My dear, Though with me you have been These many tedious years, yet you No racing yet have seen. To-morrow is a racing day, And we will then repair Unto the town of Warwickshire And see the racing there. I am a nobleman so bold, As all the world doth know, So I will ride old ‘Burbaban,’ You’ll see how we will go.” Quoth Lady Peste, “That is well said, For jockey’s fees are dear, So you can ride, and be your own, That is both nice and clear.” * * * * * He lost the race, he lost it quite, And back he got to town; All wished he never had been up, For it was up and down. Now let us sing, “Long live the Queen! And Count Peste, long live he! And when he next a race does ride, May I be there to see!”

A RIDDLE. I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told; I am lawful, unlawful—a duty, a fault, I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.

A riddle by Cowper Made me swear like a trooper, But my anger, alas! was in vain; For remembering the bliss Of beauty’s soft kiss, I now long for such riddles again.

Bless my Heart, how Cold it is. Hark! the blustering Boreas blows. See! the waters round are froze. The trees that skirt the dreary plain All day a murmuring cry maintain; The trembling forest hears their groan, And sadly answers moan for moan. Such is the tale, O’er hill and dale, Each traveller may behold it is; While low and high Are heard to cry, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!” Now slumbering sloth, that cannot bear The question of the piercing air, Lifts up her unkempt head, and tries, But cannot from her bondage rise; The while the housewife swiftly throws Around the wheel, and quickly shows The healthful cheek industry brings (It is not in the gift of Kings). To her long life, Devoid of strife, And justly, too, unfolded is, The while the sloth To stir is loth, And trembling cries, “How cold it is!” Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed, All shivering like a shaken reed, “How sharp the wind attacks my back! John, put some list across that crack; Go, sandbag all the sashes round, And see there’s not an air-hole found.” Indulgence pale Tells this sad tale Till he in furs enfolded is; Still, still complains, O’er all his pains, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!” Now the poor newsman from the town Explores his way across the down, His frozen fingers sadly blows, And still he seeks, and still it snows. “Go take his paper, Richard, go, And give a dram to make him glow.” Such was thy cry, Humanity, More precious far than gold it is, Such gifts to deal, When newsmen feel, All clad in snow, how cold it is. Humanity, delightful tale, When we feel the winter gale, May the cit in ermined coat Lend his ear to sorrow’s note; And when with misery’s weight oppressed A fellow sits, a shivering guest, Full, ample may his bounty flow, To cheer the bosom dulled by woe. In town or vale, Where’er the tale Of real grief unfolded is, Oh, may he give The means to live To those who feel how cold it is, Perhaps some soldier, blind or maimed, Some tar for independence maimed; Remember these. For thee they bore The loss of limbs, and suffered more. Oh, pass them not; for if you do, I’ll blush to think they fought for you. Through winter’s reign Relieve their pain, For what they’ve done, sure bold it is; Their wants supply Whene’er they cry, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!” And now, ye sluggards, sloths, and beaux, Who dread the breath that winter blows, Pursue the counsel of a friend Who never found it yet offend. When winter deals his blasts around, Go beat the air and pace the ground; With cheerful spirits exercise, ’Tis there life’s balmy blessing lies. O’er hill and dale, Though sharp the gale, And frozen you behold it is, Your blood shall glow, And swiftly flow, And you’ll not cry, “How cold it is!”

—A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many, Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell,” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “Two of us in the churchyard-lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.” Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie; Beneath the church-yard tree.” “You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.” “Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. “My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem: And there upon the ground I sit, I sit and sing to them. “And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there. “The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. “So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.” “How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” The little Maiden did reply, “O Master! we are seven.” “But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!” William Wordsworth.

A driver of a rattling cab, Or gorgeous omnibus, That passeth every great man by, What could he know of us? I met a driver such as this, And I knew that he was king, For his steeds trod over classic ground, And they made its echoes ring. He bore a thousand books along, The best their authors had, And his praise was fair, and very fair, But his censure made me mad. “Why come you here, why come you here, And how many may you be?” “We each come here to be made a peer,” I said, “and seven are we.” “And where are the seven—I see but one?” I answered, “seven are we;” But Rogers is digging up some old pun, And Southey has gone to see. 89 “Tom Campbell is shaking Bentley’s hands, And Croly a sermon giving, In praise of the good Lord Chancellor, Who popped him into his living. “Coleridge is now expounding why The Latin for “fish” is pisces, While Moore has lunched on one lady’s sigh, And will dine on another’s kisses.” Then did the mighty king reply, “Seven are ye, I see, But the devil a peer in all the lot Shall ever be made by me.” With a rolling eye, and a visage sage, I gazed on the glorious heaven, Then turned away in a furious rage, And shouted, “We are seven.” The National Omnibus, November 4, 1831.

A simple creature Gaffer Jones, A Court he never saw; An income adequate he owns; What should he know of Law? He had a quiet stupid air, And he was richly clad; I thought if he’s got cash to spare, ’Tis easy to be had. A suit I heard was ’gainst him brought, Which must expensive be. “Expense!” he cried; Pooh pooh, ’tis nought; I’m only a trustee.” “But how is that? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Don’t you see? I’d got some property to sell— Only as a trustee. “Two purchasers they did apply, Whilst, to prevent all bother, When one hung back I by and by Concluded with the other. “The first from Chancery got a writ, And served it straight on me; But why am I to care a bit?— I’m only a trustee.” “You say in Chancery you are thrown; Great the expense will be; And since the fault has been your own, The costs will fall on thee.” Then did the simpleton reply, “’Tis true the first vendee Has filed a bill—I can’t tell why— I’m only a trustee.” “You’re in a mess, my little man, As sure as you’re alive, Unless to hit upon a plan For safety you contrive.” “You’re rather green, it may be seen,” The silly man replied; The purchase-money paid has been. The fund I did divide; “And when I’d parted with it, Sir, Another suit they brought; Because, they said, I’d sold it for Less money than I ought. “First, the original vendee Had filed a bill to say, His purchase-money paid would be, Upon a certain day. “But as it happen’d, I’d been paid By number two, and I To him had the estate consign’d, Passing the first one by: “And as I did not better know With whom I ought to side, I’ve let the money from me go— The fund I did divide. “So the executors have brought An action ’gainst me, too, Yet I’ve proceeded as I thought ’Twere best for me to do.” “How many suits must you defend, In numbers odd or even?” Said he, “To say I can’t pretend: I think, though, there are seven. “But then, you know, you’ll understand It matters not to me; For though no fund I’ve got in hand, I still am a trustee.” “The cash is gone, the suits run on, Each day requires a fee!” ’Twas waste of argument, for still He said, “I’ve not to pay a bill, I’m only a trustee.”

Only Seven. A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth. I marvell’d why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death. Adopting a parental tone, I ask’d her why she cried; The damsel answer’d, with a groan, “I’ve got a pain inside! 90 “I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven;” Said I, “What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?” She answer’d, “Only seven!” “And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?” quoth I. “Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!” “If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out, “Of course you’ve had eleven;” The maiden answer’d, with a pout, “I ain’t had more nor seven!” I wonder’d hugely what she meant, And said, “I’m bad at riddles, But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.” “Now, if you don’t reform,” said I, “You’ll never go to heaven.” But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, “I ain’t had more nor seven.” Postscript. To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I’d better call my song, “Lines after Ache-inside.”

They are Three. ——A simple youth That sits and smokes with fools, And looks a fop in face and mien, What should he know of Schools? I met an undergraduate boy: He was three times ploughed, I heard; His head was like a pretty toy, His language was absurd. He had a town-bred London air, And he was sprucely clad; His face was soft, so was his hair; His ‘side’ it made me sad. “Of lectures, undergraduate sir, How many may you keep?” “How many? Three,” he did aver. And cunning looked and deep. “And what are they? I’d gladly know.” He answered, “Three are they; To one of them I never go, And one I cut each day. “But one of them is given by My Tutor and my Dean, So in the early morning I Must go to that I ween.” “You say that one you cut alway, To one you do not go, Yet you have three! Explain, I pray, Sweet youth, how this is so.” The wily youth thus answered me, “Three lectures—three in all The list of lectures you may see Upon the board in hall.” “You wander in your talk, I wot, Or else you are in fun, If one you cut, to one go not, Then you have only one.” “The list is there, that can I swear,” The wily youth replied; “In the second row of the letter O, The three are side by side. “I oft do paper work in hall, My letters there I write; And, though the dons are cutish all, I sit and crib outright. “And often, when the sun is down, Beneath the gaslight’s glare, I take my tattered cap and gown, And eat my dinner there. “The first I cut was Latin Prose; In bed one morn I lay Till ten had struck, and then I rose, But ’twas too late that day. “So in my room I sat and smoked, And when my pipe was out, To Russell’s lazily we walked, I and my terrier, Snout. “And when the clock eleven had struck, I scarce had chalked my cue; And though perhaps the schools I’ll muck, I cut my Mods, Books too.” “How many have you then,” said I, “If two you cut each day?” The wily youth would still reply, “Three, if you please, we’ll say.” “But one you cut, nay two you cut! You never go, you see!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still This wily youth would have his will, And said, “Nay, they are three.”

“I’ve got Seven.” ——A little boy, A schoolboy he might be, That shows his joy in every smile, Of figures what knows he? I met a little London boy, He was nine years old, he said; His face shone bright with mottled soap, His hair curled on his head. He had a cockney, saucy air, And he was sparely clad: His eyes were black, and very black; —He looked a thorough cad. “All sorts of marbles, little boy, How many may there be?” “How many? Seven in all,” he said, And, whistling, winked at me. 91 “And where are they? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Seven there be; Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’ And all belong to me. “The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece Do count, and thus you see, That they are seven in all, although Their number’s only three.” “You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’ And one small ‘commoney;’ Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell, Youngster, how this may be?” Then did the little boy reply, “Seven marbles I possess; Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’ And count for six—no less.” “You cut along, my lively lad, You’re gamesome, I can see; Although for seven your marbles count, Still they are only three.” “They’re striped with red in lines of three,” The little chap replied. “Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door I place them side by side. “My spelling there I try to learn, My tables there to say; And there upon the ground I kneel, And, knuckling, with them play. “And often after ‘washing up,’ When the tea-table’s bare, I take my bread and treacle, and I eat my supper there. “The first I had was given me By my big brother, Bill; He bought it with a ha’penny which He cribbed from mother’s till. “The next my sister Poll gave me; She found it as she brushed My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then With it to me she rushed. “The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got From out the kitchen drawer; I nailed it when I went to fetch Pa’s usual spirit—raw.” “How many have you, then,” said I, “If two to you were given; And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?” “Lord love you! I’ve got seven.” “Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy, You’ll never go to Heaven!” ’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still, The little wretch would have his will, And would say, “I’ve got seven.” Edward Compton. Touchstone. November, 1878.

A Simple Lay. By the Archbishop of Canterbury. ——A Rural Dean That with the Church content, Brooked not in any shape or form The schism of Dissent. He met an aged cottager, He was eighty-two, he said, His hair—as will to you occur— Had some time left his head. He had a dazed and rustic air, In kettle-smock was clad; The Dean a minute had to spare, So spoke to this gran’-dad: “Of sons and daughters cottager, How many may you be?” “I have had seven, they’re all in heaven, Not one is left to me!” “And what were they?” the Dean asked then; “What were they?” echoed he; “Why, three was Plymouth Bretheren, And two turned Methodee. “And two was Baptistes, I think, The heldest an ’is brother; The heldest, well, he tookt to drink, An’ used to whack ’is mother. “But in the hend he did reform, An’ gived up bein’ cranky; He was converted in a storm By Moody an’ that Sankey!” “That two were Methodists, you said, And Plymouth Brethren three, And Baptists two, then why say you That seven in heaven there be?” Then did that cottager reply, “Seven boys and gals had we, And now they’re dead, as I’ve a-said, In heaven I hopes they be.” “You’re very green!” observed the Dean, “And won’t be long alive; Your children seven are not in heaven, Nor three, nor four, nor five! “For all of them, by what you say, Dissenters I must call; And so you make a great mistake. There’s none in heaven at all!” “Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The cottager replied. “Ah, yes, I see, they are on the Unconsecrated side.” “The first that went was Mary Jane,” The cottager did say; “A rare good gal, too, in the main, ’Twere fine to yeer ’er pray! “So in the ground, sir, she was laid, Then Bill the fever caught; A rare good workman with ’is spade, And good in deed an’ thought! “It seemed a despard cruel blow!”— And here the old man sighed— “For ’fore the ground was white with snow, God help us! all ’ad died!” 92 “How many were you?” said the Dean, “I think you mentioned seven?” Then said the cottager, serene, “Yes, we have seven in heaven!” “They were dissenters!” cried the Dean, “They cannot be in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still The cottager would have his will, “And said “We’ve seven in heaven!” From Finis, 1877.

The Ballad of the ’Bus. ——A simple ’Bus, Belonging to a London “Co,” That gets its ten per cent. with ease, —Why should it crowd us so? I hailed a raucous little “Cad,”— “There’s room for one!” he cried; But when I stood upon the step, The facts his word belied. He bore a bag to give you change; His voice was very loud. The simpleton he overcharged, And timid ladies cowed. “Within this vehicle,” I asked, “How many may there be?” “How many?” roughly he replied; “Why don’t you look and see.” “But where is room? I see no room?” My wrath I tried to smother. He answered—“On one side are six, And only five on t’other.” “Two of the five,” I pointed out, “Must weigh a ton between ’em; Two others have such tattered garbs As barely serve to screen ’em.” Then did the little “Cad” rejoin, “Yet they are only five; If you’re a-coming by this ’bus, I wish you’d look alive!” “’Tis shameful,” angrily I said, “To play your fares such tricks! If two do take the room of three, Then surely there are six.” “You’re jolly green, that may be seen!” The rude Conductor cried; “Until I’ve got twelve passengers, I am not ’full inside.” “I always travel in a ’bus,” I thought it right to say, “And frequently am over-pressed In this atrocious way. “My little bag I love to bring, My paper here I read, And, when there’s proper elbow-room, ’Tis very nice indeed. “A Magistrate has just declared You have no right to pack us, And—ah, I see that person is A votary of Bacchus! “A nice quintette! The more I look I seem to grow the sicker; Two elephants—two more in rags— The fifth, he is in liquor! “But Mr. Partridge, he will see These wrongs are not repeated—” ’Twas wasting words, for with a frown The ’Bus Conductor knocked me down, And cried. “Now you are seated!” Punch. April 18, 1885.

They are Seven. I marvelled why he looked so wild, And fiercely drew his breath; That Tory, who had lately smiled, But now looked pale as death. His cranium seemed in such a whirl, He hated Fate, he said— His hair was sadly out of curl, He lowly bent his head. Said I, “The members in for ‘Brum,’ All one sort seem to be.” “Yes, seven in all,” he said, quite glum, But, there, we’ve no M. P.!” “And who are they?” I asked, “Say, do!” Quoth he, “Cook, Broadburst, Bright, And Williams, Kenrick, Dixon, too— And ‘Joe’ has won his fight!” “What, not e’en Randolph in,” said I. “That Birmingham batch to leaven?” “Ah, no,” he sadly made reply, “Not one, while they have Seven!” “Nay raise your head,” I gently said, “Let mirth your mourning leaven; Why, look at Liverpool”—but he Still moaned “In ‘Brum’ we’ve no M. P., While Liberals they have Seven!” Fun. December 2, 1885.

“We are Seven.” ——A Radical, With tenets all complete, Whose name is Joseph Chamberlain— How should he know defeat? I met—no little cottage gal, With curls around her head,— But Joe, the conquering Radical, He’s more than seven, he said. “In Brum what conquests have you made? How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all,” he said, And winked and smiled at me. “The Tories? Pray you, where are they?” He answered: “Seven are we; The Tories stood awhile at bay, But they were all at sea! 93 “All of them knew the way to lie, They tutored one another, But each has gone to pipe his eye And whimper to his mother! “And as they went I raised my hat, I smiled and coughed: Ahem! And there upon the poll I sat, I sat and laughed at them. “The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill, Bright made him dull, by Joe! Then Showell showed extremely ill, And Lowe looked very low!” “But they are fled—their hopes are done.” He said: “They are forgiven! Seven seats there are, but they have none, Seven seats—yet they have not won one,” He said, “But we are seven!” The Judge. London. December 5, 1885.

More Than Seven. (Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times.) I met a little city child, A small and vulgar boy, His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled As with an inward joy. He had a look of saucy pride, His legs were somewhat bent, He walked along with careless stride, And whistled as he went. “Sisters and brothers, little child, How many may you be?” His whistle ceased, but still he smiled, And stood and looked at me. I said, “How many may you be? Where dwell you under heaven?” He smiled a simple smile at me, And said “I’m more than seven!” “I do not doubt your word,” I said, “It gives me no surprise.” I placed my hand upon his head, And looked into his eyes. “But pray you tell me, too, of those To whom your love is given.” He laid his finger on his nose And said, “I am more than seven!” “I asked you not your age to give,” I said, with mild caress, “But tell me if your parents live, And what is their address?” He fumbled with his jacket hem, As only children can: “I never tell such things as them To any School Board man!” “I’m not a School Board man, my child, I am your friend,” said I, But still he only stood and smiled, And made this strange reply: “If you tell whoppers such as that You’ll never go to heaven!” I reasoned vainly, I suppose, For still he smiled and tapped his nose, And said, “I’m more than seven!” A. St. J. A.

We are One. (More’s the Pity.) ——A single man, That leads a quiet life, Far from the din of family cares, What should he know of strife? I met a tall and ancient girl— She was nineteen, she said— Her wig was thick with many a curl That bobbed about her head. She had a very regal air, And she was thinly clad, As well befits an ancient girl Whose beauty makes one glad. “Sweethearts and lovers, lovely maid, How many may they be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And gave a leer at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are they, And two of them in Bedlam dwell, And two have run away. “Two more of them are underground And then there is another Who ——Ga ’long you naughty man, Or else I’ll call my mother.” I went along. That beauteous maid Has followed me through life; But now, alas! I sue no more, Because—she is my wife.

’Tis Peterborough’s simple child, Who knows not what he saith, Replies to me in utterance wild, And somewhat out of breath. He has a rustic woodland air, And he is strangely clad; His eyes are wild, unkempt his hair, As one a little mad. “Of those who bring the House disgrace, How many may there be?” “Why, seven,” he said, with vacant face,— “There’s seven—counting me!” “But he who doth at Cavan dwell Foremost is wont to be; Yet you are ‘seven’—I pray you tell, My friend, how that may be.” 94 He kept to the same statement still, “Obstructives seven are we; Our task to hinder every bill, Aid spoil whate’er may be. “And often after sunset, sir, Until the morning fair, The weary House we keep astir, And eat our breakfast there.” “We thought that Biggar and Parnell Alone the House had driven”—— Again the self-same accents fell, “Oh, master, we are seven!” Funny Folks. July 21, 1877.

They are Five. I met a statesman old and worn, He was threescore years and more, And in his trembling hand were borne Vague Resolutions three or four.

“We are Seven.” (The Birmingham Version.) ——A Grand Old Man, By self-conceit so eaten, He cannot bring himself to feel That he’s completely beaten. He met a Midland Radical, From Birmingham came he, And eye-glass, orchid, monogram All showed ’twas Joseph C——. J. C.’d a perky, well-pleased air, His “frock” was buttoned tight, The glance that through his eye-glass shot Was jubilant and bright, “Ah,” said the G. O. M. to him, “Your face I surely know. Methinks you hie from Birmingham. Say, how do things there go?” “How many have elected been, I’ve not had time to see?” “How many? Seven in all,” said Joe, And smiled at William G. “And who are they, I pray you tell?” He answered, “Seven are we; Four sit for North, East, South, and West, And one for Bordesley. “This last one, by the bye’s my friend, Who, spite your verbal maulings, Has triumphed! need I add he is ‘A certain Jesse Collings?’” “Collings?” the G. O. M. replied, As he his brows knit sore, “Oh, Jesse Collings; yes, I may Have heard the name before.” “But,” he went on—and he to keep His temper much did strive— “You said that you were seven, but you Have only mentioned five.” Then straight did Joseph C. reply, “Seven Unionists are we, For to the five you have to add, My brother-in-law and me.” “But you’re against me,” Gladstone said, “I know your Caine-like tricks, So Birmingham has only sent For me supporters six?” “What, do you mean you have not seen The polls?” J. C. replied, “Why, G. O. M., from Brummagem Not one is on your side.” (Seven verses omitted.) “Nay, nay,” cried Gladstone, “I refuse To own that things are so; “Birmingham went for me!” said Joe— “It did—nine months ago.” “But you have since brought in two bills So foolishly arranged That your devoted followers To bitter foes they’ve changed.” “But they are dead; those bills are dead; They’re dead, I say, by Heaven!” The Old Man wasted breath, for still Would Midland Joseph have his will, And still exclaimed in accents shrill, “We Unionists are seven!” Figaro. (London), July 10, 1886.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Besides the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! William Wordsworth. 1799.

On Wordsworth. He lived amidst th’ untrodden ways To Rydal Lake[74] that lead; 95 A bard whom there were none to praise, And very few to read. Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky. Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe”[75] With dust is dark and dim; It’s still in Longman’s shop, and oh! The difference to him.

“O blessed vision! happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years.”

Jacob. He dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try. A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighbourhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife,—and O! The difference to me!

Emancipation. She dwelt within unyielding stays That kept her bolt upright, A nymph whose waist won doubtful praise, She laced so very tight. A maiden by a kirtle dun Half hidden from the eye, A single skirt when only one Was worn by low and high. She burst her bonds at last, and so With perfect ease can stir. She wears “divided skirts,” and oh! The difference to her!! F. B. Doveton.

The Baby’s Debut. “Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait, All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee.” Cumberland.

My brother Jack was nine in May,[76] And I was eight on New-year’s-day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top. Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,— He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, It’s head against the parlour door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane. This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth! Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: 96 “No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!” Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet. The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am. My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me; My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see. What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound. And there’s a row of lamps—my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground. At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan. “You’ve only got to curtsey whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;[77] Then why not Nancy Lake?” But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? O, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit. And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you. Blows a kiss, and exit.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!” And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side. No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal. * * * * * William Wordsworth.

Rink, Pretty Creature, Rink. The dusk was falling fast, the lamps began to blink, I heard a voice, it said, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.” And looking o’er the edge, close by me I espied A gentle youth on wheels, with a maiden at his side. No other folk were near, and they were quite alone, I saw the maiden sit upon a friendly stone.— With one knee on the ground the gentle youth did kneel, And stooping down, her skates he tenderly did feel, I saw, when in his hand her little foot he took, He seem’d with joy o’ercome, with sweet emotion shook, “Rink, pretty creature, rink,” he cried in such a tone, I saw that he had ta’en her heart into his own. A handsome youth was he, while she had beauty rare, I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair; Now, hand in hand, again, I saw them start away, And as they passed me by, methought I heard him say: “What ails thee, dear one? What? Why pull so at my hand? Are not thy skates yet firm? dost feel thou canst not stand? Ere long upon thy skates thou wilt be quite at home, And fly across the ground like any fairy gnome. “Art tired, sweet, or hot? See here a cosy nook, Where we can sit and rest, and nobody can look; Or would’st thou skate alone, then start in all thy pride? One whistle and thou know’st that I am at thy side. “Thou need’st not fear a fall when I am by thy side, My arm will hold thee up, as round and round we glide; Asphalte, I know, is hard, so it will always be, But if you feel you must fall, dearest, fall on me.” I could not listen more, I had no time to stay But ponder’d o’er the scene as home I took my way; Methought the servant-maid who oped the door did shrink, For all I muttered was, “Rink, pretty creature, rink.” A. W. Mackenzie (Author of Idyls of the Rink). From Mirth. May, 1887.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; 97 So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth.

Extract from Poems of the Apprehension. My heart leaps up when I behold A bailiff in the street: ’Twas so since from one first I ran; ’Twas so even in the Isle of Man: ’Twill be so even in Newgate hold, Or in the Fleet! A trap is hateful to a man; And my whole course of life shall be Bent against them in just antipathy! William Maginn.

I. I met an old man on the road, His name was Robert Lake; Old man, said I, how do you do? He said his tooth did ache. II. I think, good Sir, he cried in grief, My tooth’s not worth a pin! But now and then to get relief I fill my mouth with gin. III. You fill your mouth with gin, said I, Your face, too, doth denote That now and then, by way of change, You pour it down your throat. IV. Indeed ’tis not a goodly drink, It fills the mind with doubt; And if your tooth doth ache, I think You’d better have it out. V. So to his tooth a string I tied, And pull’d right strong, forsooth; The old man held tight by the post, And soon out came his tooth. VI. The pain immediately took wing, No ghost e’er vanished quicker; “Ho,” quoth the man, “a bit of string Is better far than liquor.” From The Satirist. June 1, 1811.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; (Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light. William Wordsworth.

The M.A. Degree. It was a phantom of delight When first it gleamed upon my sight, A scholarly distinction, sent To be a student’s ornament; I did not know nor did I care What work there might be to prepare, For all my mind to work was drawn Then, in my academic dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay Before me then was my M. A. I saw it upon nearer view, A glory, yet a bother too! For I perceived that I should be Involved in much Philosophy (A branch in which I could but meet Works that were more obscure than sweet); In Mathematics, scarcely good For human nature’s daily food; And Classics—rendered in the styles Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles. And now I own, with some small spleen, A most confounded ass I’ve been; The glory seems an empty breath, And I am nearly bored to death With Reason, Consciousness, and Will, And other things beyond my skill, Discussed in books all darkly plann’d And more in number than the sand.— Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight With something of its former light. From The University News Sheet. St. Andrews. N.B. March 24, 1886.

On Auberon Herbert. He was a Great Panjandrum, quite, When first he burst upon our sight; An Admirable Crichton, sent To be the nation’s ornament. His eyes possessed the Sphinx’s glare, The Sphinx’s, too, his stony air; But all things else about him drawn In tints of the millennial dawn. A mighty sage, a Mentor great, To chide, to chivvy, and to slate. We saw him upon nearer view A Radical, yet a Tory too! With thoughts from Party bondage free, And steps of chartered liberty. A diction his in which did meet Tart enmities and phrases sweet. A creature far too wise and good For civic nature’s daily food. For Salisbury’s schemes or Gladstone’s wiles; He rates, and rallies, and reviles. And now cantankerously serene He pitches into “The Machine,” Breathing hot wrath in every breath On Gladstone and his shibboleth. Having the will, if not the skill, All schemes—save his—to scotch or kill. A perfect Oracle—nobly planned, To scold, to scathe, and to command. And yet with an admixture slight Of blague and bounce, and blatherumskite! Punch. June 5, 1886.

See where old Bob the Dustman stands, With dirty face and dirtier hands, Swinging his huge bell to and fro, Chaunting the while, “dust ho! dust ho!” In sooth, it is a pleasant cry, That hoarse and deep-toned harmony; It speaks of health and strength, and, oh! What dearer blessings here below? Marry! he hath a sooty brow; But there are brains within, I trow; The blackness, that o’ershadows it, Doth hide a mine of rude old wit, Whose pleasaunce oft will downward fly, And sparkle in his broad, bold eye; A merry truth which ye, who’d know, Go watch him, while he sings, “dust ho!” Old brawny songster! ’tis to me A marvel and a mystery, The jovial and Stentorian gusto With which thou daily callest “dust ho!” How useful art thou, making clean The dwellings both of rich and mean, Unheeding each small street-boy elf Who tauntingly cries, “clean thyself!” Mild Dustman! in thy filthy face A moral he who looks may trace,— A moral which, perchance, hath struck Thyself, when ’neath thy weight of muck; For, to my fancy, in thine eye A quaint philosophy doth lie, Which says, “who dirt from others sweeps More dirt upon himself but heaps!” I met him last in Piccadilly; His bell was faint, his howl was shrilly; There was no more his lungs about The force with which he used to shout; A cry, but not as erst, was heard;— I knew that “dust ho” was the word, But all the depth, the soul was gone As with his bell he “dust ho’d” on. His hat was still in Dustman’s fashion, But with a slouch that woo’d compassion; Of velveteen still were his breeches, But with a host of coarse-drawn stitches. Of highloes still a pair he wore, But laceless each, and with a score Of holes that let the puddles in, And wetted Bobby, sole and skin! No, Bob was anything but garish; ’Twas time they sent him to the parish! They tell me he is there at last, And that his bell was with him passed! The Dustman’s cart, the Dustman’s horse, Still haunt the streets and squares—of course, But other drivers do the job That once was done by Dusty Bob! From The Comic Magazine. 1834.

O blithe new comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery. * * * * * William Wordsworth.

Cuckoo Notes. O blythe new paper! From thy page Seductive scraps I cull. O Cuckoo, shall I call thee sage? I cannot call thee dull! 99 When I’m reclining—business done— Thy “Notes” provoke a laugh; From line to line my optics run, And twinkle at thy chaff. From Fetter Lane I hear thee call To thousands far away; And unto me thou bringest all The gossip of the day! “Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!” To me thou art, no doubt No bird, but a most novel thing— The brightest paper out! F. B. Doveton.

At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. William Wordsworth.

The Reverie of a Poor Squeezed ’un. At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale; And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”—the cry’s somewhat stale. The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well. His fancy runs riot! What ails him? He sees A Boulevard appearing, all shaded by trees; With ease and with comfort the ’busses now glide From Cannon Street corner to busy Cheapside. A road, “wide as Holborn,” allows him to view The Cathedral uprising in dignity new; And a fine open space lets the oxygen roam Where school-boys and merchants once boasted a home. He looks, and his joy grows intense! But they fade— The visions of elbow-room, Boulevard, and shade; And the space will be speedily built on, unless To the cry of, “Oh, buy it!” the City says, “Yes.” Punch. December 26, 1885.

Violets, do what they will, Wither’d on the ground must lie: Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die.

Fair women win the hearts of men, Men the hearts of women too! It has been so, the Lord knows when— What then can the poor things do? Their blue eyes will be blue eyes still; Will have fire, and fire will warm: Lips will be lips, say what they will; And to kiss them, where’s the harm? To church, to marry, fair one, go— Bells in belfries toll, ding dong; If your mother did not so, Then your mother, child, did wrong.

What Women make of Man. I heard her singing lively notes, While on a chair I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sweet thoughts to the mind. To her fair face had nature linked A subtle charm that through me ran. And it pleased my heart to think, I was a lady’s man. Soft blushes would, in that sweet hour, Each time we met, her face suffuse. And told me I had gained the power To have her hand did I but choose. Bright couples round me danced and played, Their thoughts I could not measure, But, as approached the beauteous maid, My heart was full of pleasure. My outstretched hands caught hold her arm, And drew her to my side. I told my love, confessed her charm; The maiden quick replied “Here comes my husband;” then she went; The maiden even ran! Have I not reason to lament What maidens make of man! Wm. E. Doubleday.

The Yarra-Yarra Unvisited. Written in an Australian Album on its Home Tour. Ne’er have I rambled on its marge, Ne’er angled ’mid its willows; I ne’er have sailed in skiff or barge Upon its languid billows. Yet will I sing as Callanan Once sang at Gougaune Barra— Yet will I sing as best I can The lazy winding Yarra. Ah! many a day of weary toil, And much privation well borne, Have served to tame the rampant soil And raise this rising Melbourne. Some forty years ago, as wild, As lonely as Sahara, Now rife with life and Trade’s keen strife, Just at the mouth of Yarra. It creeps between high wooded sides, And ere it reach the city, Past holy Abbotsford it glides— To which it owes this ditty. For in Australian album, why Waste praise on Connemara, Thy heart’s in Abbotsford, and I Will praise its Yarra-Yarra. The friend whose friendship gave me thine, With kindness past all telling, Pursues me since the “auld lang syne” When first with him I fell in. Ah! while we watched the summer tide Lap thy gray rocks, Kinvara, We recked not that o’er oceans wide He’d fly to Yarra-Yarra! He tells me that the sky above Is bluer far and brighter Than that which spans the isle we love; The air is warmer, lighter. Gay flowers along the margin float And many an avis rara Of brilliant plume but tuneless throat, Skims o’er the sparkling Yarra. When shall I breathe that purer air? Quite lately I have had some Fair chance of being summoned there. If summoned, ecce adsum? The motto of our Bedford race Is this: Che sara sara. (The accent slightly I misplace To coax a rhyme for Yarra.) More musical than new Adare Its olden name Athdara, And Tennyson’s meek Lady Clare Grows statelier as Clara. Had not my Muse such gems to spare For gemming thy tiara, She would not waste a double share On this one stanza, Yarra! There is not unity of theme I grant it, in these stanzas, The subjects as far sundered seem As Kensington and Kansas. ’Twere better if in graceful round My thoughts could move—but arrah! What can a poet do who’s bound To close each verse with Yarra? And notice here our rhythmic chords Are strict in orthodoxy, Nor do they force two little words For one to act as proxy. An article to harshly treat (As in this line) would mar a Most conscientious rhyming feat Achieved to honour Yarra. But now, at last, we must give o’er With our Wordsworthian sapphic, Though sundry rhymes remain in store Historic, topographic, Like those we’ve hitherto impressed, A Lara and Bokhara, Carrara, Marat, and the rest: But how link these with Yarra? My trickling thread of metre wells As if ’twould well for ever: So mountain streamlet swells and swells Into a stream, a river. But now my harp as mute must grow As that which hangs at Tara. Farewell, dear Maid from Bendigo! Farewell, O Yarra-Yarra! W. L.

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camoens soothed an exile’s grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay mirtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glowworm lamp It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains—alas, too few! William Wordsworth

Translation by M. De St. Beuve. Ne ris point des sonnets, ô critique moqueur; Par amour autrefois en fit le grand Shakspeare; C’est sur ce luth heureux que Petrarque soupire, Et que le Tasse aux fers soulage un pen son cœur; Camoens de son exil abrège la longueur, Car il chante en sonnets l’amour et son empire: Dante aime cette fleur de myrte, et la respire, Et la mêle au cyprès que ceint son front vainqueur. 101 Spenser, s’en revenant de l’ile des féeries, Exhale en longs sonnets ses tristesses chéries; Milton, chantant les siens, ranimait son regard: Moi! je veux rajeunir le doux sonnet en France, Du Bellay, le premier, l’apporta de Florence, Et l’on en sait plus d’un de notre vieux Ronsard.

An American Parody. Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed; The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood; Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude; A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked; Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch, And many more whose verses float about, Puffed the Virginian or Havana leaf; And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch, Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout Consolatory whiffs—alas, too brief!

Bull in the Printing Office. A Wordsworthian Sonnet. Oh! Bull, strong labourer, much enduring beast, That with broad back, and sinewy shoulder strung, Draggest the heavy wain of taxes, flung In growing heap, from thy poor brethren fleeced. Hadst thou a literary sense of shame, How woulds’t thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore, The printing press, and hands that work therefore, For the sad trash that issues from the same. If they would print no other works than mine, The task were nobler; but, alas, in vain, Of audience few and unfit I complain, Bull won’t believe in Southey’s verse and mine. Arouse thee, John, involve in general doom All who bid Wordsworth rise for Byron to make room. Cruikskank’s Comic Almanack. 1846.

Billy Routing. A Lyrical Ballad. Fit subject for heroic story, I sing a youth of noble fame; Town and country, ten miles round, Awaken at the glowing sound, Of gallant Billy Routing’s name!

Billy Blinn. I knew a man that died for love, His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn; His back was hump’d, his hair was grey, And, on a sultry summer day, We found him floating in the linn. Once as we stood before his door Smoking, and wondering who should pass, Then trundling past him in a cart Came Susan Foy, she won his heart, She was a gallant lass. And Billy Blinn conceal’d the flame That burn’d, and scorch’d his very blood; But often was he heard to sigh, And with his sleeve he wiped his eye, In a dejected mood. A party of recruiters came To wile our cottars, man and boy; Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue, And boldly, without more ado, Off with the troop went Susan Foy! When poor old Billy heard the news, He tore his hairs so thin and grey; He beat the hump upon his back, And ever did he cry, “Alack, Ohon, oh me!—alas a-day!” His nights were spent in sleeplessness, His days in sorrow and despair, It could not last—this inward strife; The lover he grew tired of life, And saunter’d here and there. At length, ’twas on a moonlight eve, The skies were blue, the winds were still; He wander’d from his wretched hut, And, though he left the door unshut, He sought the lonely hill. He look’d upon the lovely moon, He look’d upon the twinkling stars; “How peaceful all is there,” he said, “No noisy tumult there is bred, And no intestine wars.” But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within; And rushing forward with a leap, O’er crags a hundred fathoms steep, He plunged into the linn. We found him when the morning sun Shone brightly from the eastern sky; Upon his back he was afloat— His hat was sailing like a boat— His staff was found on high. Oh reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, And with a soldier, young and gay, Thus harlot-like to run away To India or Japan. Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, And laid him in the mould! William Maginn.

Fragment in Imitation of Wordsworth. There is a river clear and fair, ’Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— 102 It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on a turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they’d nothing else to do, But ever to be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately stems so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaft,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery. Fix’d are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river’s brink, And of the living waters drink. There’s little Will, a five year’s child— He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild. It is a very joy:— He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose, The blue belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature’s rearing? A thing beyond the world’s control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow tree, His brother trees among. He’d be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

The milliner officious pours Of hats and caps her ready stores, The unbought elegance of spring; Some wide, disclose the full round face, Some shadowy, lend a modest grace And stretch their sheltering wing. Here early blooms the summer rose; Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows; Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes— Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes! Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head! Mine be the chip of purest white, Swan-like, and as her feathers light When on the still wave spread; And let it wear the graceful dress Of unadornèd simpleness. Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought; Ah! hope indulged in vain; Of modest fancy cheaply bought, A stranger yet to Payne.[78] With undissembled grief I tell,— For sorrow never comes too late,— The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall Is sold for £1 8s. To Calculation’s sober view, That searches ev’ry plan, Who keep the old, or buy the new, Shall end where they began. Alike the shabby and the gay, Must meet the sun’s meridian ray; The air, the dust, the damp. This, shall the sudden shower despoil; That, slow decay by gradual soil; Those, envious boxes cramp. Who will, their squandered gold may pay; Who will, our taste deride; We’ll scorn the fashion of the day With Philosophic pride. Methinks we thus, in accents low, Might Sydney Smith address, “Poor moralist! and what art thou, Who never spoke of dress?” “Thy mental hero never hung Suspended on a tailor’s tongue, In agonising doubt; Thy tale no flutt’ring female show’d, Who languished for the newest mode, Yet dar’d to live without.”

Lines Supposed to have been written by Robinson Crusoe on the acquisition of Friday. I have stood on the brink of the grave: Savage feet have imprinted the sand; But an arm that was mighty to save, Has saved in this terrible land. * * * * *

Oft had I heard of Ralph Rattat— His name is known to most men— 103 And t’other day it was my luck To meet that pearl of postmen. Upon a doorstep Ralph was stretched, The while he let off stout cries, And silently a crowd stood by And listened to his outcries. Epistles round about his frame Formed quite a pretty border; Tossed here and there the missives lay In most admired disorder. His waistcoat all unbuttoned gaped, His coat was all undone, For one as unconfined of waist You might have searched wide London. But though poor Ralph no more was pinched By swathes of tailors’ stuff, he Still suffered pain. I ne’er before Had seen a wight so puffy. So swells sometimes a huge balloon Within its hempen fetters. D. Lambert had been beaten by This bloated lord of letters! “What’s wrong?” I asked the groaning wretch. “Say, have you ‘growed’ like Topsy? Is poison lurking in your veins? Or is your ailment dropsy?” “It’s Manners’ tip that’s laid me low,” This answer did Ralph mutter. “I’m busting, sir, with cups o’ tea, And plates o’ bread-and-butter!” Funny Folks. December, 1885.

Macaulay, who made it. Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, No Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires, More rich the herb of China’s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires! Tennyson, who took it hot. Swinburne, who let it get cold. Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it. Browning, who treated it allegorically. Wordsworth, who gave it away. “Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.” She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk. And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.” “Why, what put milk into your head? ’Tis cream my cows supply;” And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?” “You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth, “I called that milk—she blushed with pride— “You bade me speak the truth.” Poe, who got excited over it. Here’s a mellow cup of tea-golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune To the tintinabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n-th, Rossetti, who took six cups of it. The lilies lie in my lady’s bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost) They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command, Drank deep, and now—you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). Burns, who liked it adulterated. Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined, Whusky or tay—to state my mind Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou, And gin the next, I’m dull as you, Mix a’ thegither. Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute. One cup for my self-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it. What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got; I don’t want to be personal. All-right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formules. B. E. O. P.

I. It is the thirty-first of march, A gusty evening—half past seven; The moon is shining o’er the larch, A simple shape—a cock’d up arch, Rising bigger than a star, Though the stars are thick in Heaven. IV. Beneath the ever blessed moon An old man o’er an old grave stares, You never look’d upon his fellow; His brow is covered with grey hairs, As though they were an umbrella. VI. ’Tis Peter Bell—’tis Peter Bell, Who never stirreth in the day; His hand is wither’d—he is old! On Sundays’ he is us’d to pray, In winter he is very cold. VII. I’ve seen him in the month of August, At the wheat-field, hour by hour, Picking ear—by ear,—by ear,— Through wind,—and rain,—and sun,—and shower, From year,—to year,—to year,—to year. XXXVII. Patient Peter pores and proses On, from simple grave to grave; Here marks the children snatch’d to heaven, Nor left to blunder “we are seven;”— Even Andrew Jones no power could save. XXXVIII. What a Sexton’s work is here, Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone; And Barbara Lewthaites’ fate the same, And cold as mutton is her lamb, And Alice Fell is bone by bone. XXXIX. And tears are thick with Peter Bell, Yet still he sees one blessed tomb; Tow’rd it he creeps with spectacles, And bending on his leather knees, He reads the Lakeist’s Poet’s doom. XL. The letters printed are by fate, The death they say was suicide; He reads—‘Here lieth W. W. Who never more will trouble you, trouble you;’ The old man smokes who ’tis that died. XLI. Go home, go home—Old Man, go home; Peter lay thee down at night, Thou art happy, Peter Bell, Say thy prayer for Alice Fell, Thou hast seen a blessed sight. XLII. He quits that moon-light yard of skulls, And still he feels right glad, and smiles With moral joy at that old tomb; Peters’ cheek recalls its bloom, And as he creepeth by the tiles, He mutters ever—“W. W. Never more will trouble you, trouble you.”