VOLUME V. (continued 8)

Attend, all ye who list, to hear our noble England’s praise; I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny’s isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial grace, And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgcumbe’s lofty hall; Many a light fishing-boat put out, to pry along the coast, And, with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace; And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As, slow upon the labouring wind, the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And, underneath his deadly paw, treads the gay lillies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and Cæsar’s eagle shield. So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And, crushed and torn beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious royal battle-flag, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall be! From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s glittering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip’s sunless caves; O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery herald flew: He roused the shepherd of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o’erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood red light. Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And, from the furthest wards, was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As, fast from every village round, the horse came spurring in: And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent; Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: All night, from town to town, they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill: Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwins rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely Height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o’er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o’er the wild vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle; (End of Lord Macaulay.) Till, from the peaks of Cheviot, the wonder-telling flames Passed on the news from Berwick bounds to subjects of King James. 148 O well it was for Englishmen that, as the tidings spread, No panic seized their stalwart hearts, no fear or craven dread. O well it was for England then that, on her trial day, Her sailors and her soldiers brave were ready, ready aye! And Catholics and Protestants with equal zeal were seen Vying who best could England serve, who best could serve the Queen. Lord Effingham had chief command in Plymouth Sound that day, Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher like hounds in leashes lay; Drake and his men were playing bowls that eve, on Plymouth Hoe, Said he, “My mates, we’ll end our game and then we’ll end the foe!” When scarce the morning light had broke on land and sea around The English fleet, of forty sail, put out from Plymouth Sound; The flagship was the Raleigh Ark; beside her sailed the Bear, The Dreadnought and the Victory had foremost places there; And soon they saw the Spanish ships, with every sail outspread, Come up from the Atlantic main, by the tall Pinta led; Full six-score gallant ships sailed up, the south-west wind before, And, like a crescent moon, they stretched for seven good miles or more, And on their decks and in their hulls were thirty thousand men. Such fleet was never seen before, nor shall be seen again! Up channel now they set their helms, King Philip ordered so, To join the Duke of Parma’s men, ere up the Thames they go! For he, the greatest general that Spain or Europe knew, In Flanders long had waited them, and now impatient grew. But well the little English ships hung on their rear that day, And many a shot and shell flew east, to speed the Spaniard’s way! See hindermost, with towering poop, a galleon of Biscay Laden with gold of Mexico, full thirty weeks of pay; And next a frigate huge sails up, with port-holes open wide, From Andalusia is she come with piles of arms inside. But well for England fought that day the flame and southwest wind! The devil takes, the proverb says, the one that comes behind! The Andalusian lost her mast, the treasure barque took fire, While, in their wake, the English ships pressed ever nigh and nigher, And ere had paled, that summer night, the sunset’s ruddy glow These two, with all the spoil, were towed right up to Plymouth Hoe. Brave Drake it was that took the gold, but not a coin kept he; Full fifty thousand to his men he dealt, with jovial glee! Beyond the Tamar Raleigh lay, the Lizard Head to guard, But, when he saw the Spaniards pass, said he, “I count it hard That I who came to lead the van thus in the rear should lag!” He left his men, took horse and rode, and joined the Admiral’s flag! And now from every western port the ships came more and more, From Bristol and from Barnstaple, from all along the shore; From Dartmouth and from Bridport town, from Weymouth, Poole, and Lyme, And every ship spread all her sail, in haste to be in time. ’Twas off the point of Portland Bill the first great fight took place; The year was fifteen-eighty-eight, of our Redeemer’s grace, Throughout a glorious summer day, July the twenty-third, A cannonade both fierce and loud on either coast was heard. The hulking Spanish galleons then were sorely put about, The English ships sailed out and in, sailed briskly in and out. As when a mighty baited bull the valiant dogs surround, And all his bulk and all his strength of little use are found, So many a great three-decker then threw wide her shot and shell; The balls flew o’er the English masts, and in the billows fell! But now the light and gunpowder alike were spent and gone, And, in the night, the Spanish fleet their eastward way went on. In Calais roads the foemen next their anchors huge let fall, And to the Duke of Parma then they sent an urgent call: “Send out your pinnaces in haste, your boats with all dispatch; To fight these English devils thus is not an equal match!” But to this plan the Hollanders, old England’s staunch Ally, Refused consent, and would not let the pinnaces pass by. At length the Spaniards spread their sails and took their onward way Till off the Flemish coast, becalmed, the great Armada lay; And still the gallant English ships kept up with their advance Till six-score sail around them lay, and waited for their chance. Meanwhile on land, Her Grace’s troops, as active as the fleet, Prepared themselves with urgent haste the foreign foe to meet. Ten thousand Londoners in arms rallied around the Queen, A hundred thousand, hastening up from every shire, were seen; And as they came they leapt and danced and sang, with cheerfull face, As nimble runners gird their loins, with joy to run a race. At Tilbury Fort Elizabeth reviewed the bright array: O long did loyal English hearts recall that famous day! And long shall grateful Englishmen, that know her faults no less, Revere the gallant memory of England’s Good Queen Bess; For, riding on her war-horse white, the serried ranks between, A noble sight it was to see Old England’s Virgin Queen! A helmet crowned her golden hair, and they that saw it tell No coronet of diamonds became Her Grace so well; A coat of mail of burnished steel the Royal Maiden wore, And, in her fair white hand, aloft a truncheon-sceptre bore; Then up she spoke, and reined her steed before the troops to stand, And all could hear her accents clear beside the Essex strand: “My loving friends, my courtiers say I run a risk this morn, That treason lurks in martial throngs! Their cautious speech I scorn! For rather than distrust you all, from life I’d sooner part: Let tyrants fear! Next to my God I trust my people’s heart: So come I in your midst to-day, the Spaniards to defy, And for my God, and for my lands, with you to live or die. But well I know my frame is weak; what can a woman do? Yet mine’s the spirit of a king, a king of England too! 149 Full scorn I think that any King, or any prince on earth, Should dare to set his foot within the land that gave us birth! So I will be your general, and mark each gallant deed, And to the victors in the fight give each their fitting meed So o’er the enemies of my God, and of this nation free, The valour of your arms shall win a famous victory!” But now my Lord of Effingham had made his cautious plan, And in the night, off Dunkirk coast, a fearful fight began; At close of day uprose the tide, uprose a gale of wind, And, on its wings, eight fire-ships flew the Spanish fleet behind; With sulphur and with rosin filled, their hulls were all aflame. And right upon the foemen’s ships, the fiery terror came; The Spaniards then their anchors weighed, and some their cables threw, In aimless course before the wind the ponderous galleons flew. The morrow morn the English took full many a splendid prize, While some, hard hit, by shot and shell, went down before eyes. Some foul of one another fell, in Flemish shallows lost; The rest flew north before the gale, to round the Scottish coast. Ah! better had they yielded then, or waited for their time, Till change of wind might speed their course back to their southern clime; For, up beyond the Orkney Isles, a furious tempest roared, And many a gallant ship was lost with every soul on board. And, on the iron northern coast, vast hosts of valiant men Were wrecked, or drowned, or butchered there, and never saw again The southern sun, the orange groves, the smiling Spanish shore, Which, full of pride and hope, they left but three short months before; And only sixty ships came back, into Santander bay, Of all the host that once had sailed to take their northern way. And, ah! how changed the gallant fleet, how changed the ragged forms Alike of ships and men, sore marred by cruel seas and storms! All splintered were the masts and yards, the bowsprits shot away, The sails to ribbons torn, the men all fevered, gaunt and gray! But in old England swells the sound of mirth and joy and praise, By day triumphal banners wave, by night the bonfires blaze, The church-bells’ merry carillon, the cannon’s harmless roar, Are echoed loud from shire to shire, resound from shore to shore. At Whitehall now the Virgin Queen, on the appointed day, In grand procession takes her place amidst the crowded way. See, on her right, great Cecil rides: a wiser man than he Ne’er led our glorious country on to meet his destiny: And, on her left, in manhood’s prime, is Raleigh proud and brave, Back from Virginia lately come, across the Atlantic Wave. Lords Effingham and Seymour next move onward side by side, Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher but just behind them ride; Lord Oxford and Lord Cumberland, and Vavasor and Blount, And more of England’s chiefest men, too numerous to recount. From every window beauty smiles, in faces young and old, And all the streets and all the roofs are wondrous to behold: Like bees they swarm! From every nook and corner of the land They haste to render thanks to God for His delivering hand. In all the way the densest throng at Ludgate Hill is seen, For there the player-men have wrought a wondrous arch of green; With them a youth of forehead high and eyes that pierce like flame; Mark well his face, ye passers-by, for Shakespeare is his name! So to Saint Paul’s they come, and when they reach the western door Her grace the stately chariot leaves, and kneels upon the floor. And, as a solemn silence falls upon the surging crowd, Her queenly voice gives thanks for all, in accents clear and loud. Three hundred years have passed since then, and many a change is seen; But, God save England! still we cry, and God save England’s Queen! H. C. Leonard.

The Feast of Lanterns. (Being the original of Macaulay’s “Armada.”) Attend, all ye who wish to hear our noble London’s praise, I sing of that great Tuesday night that saw her in a blaze, When the Archbishop’s benison had linked, in bridal chain, Young Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, and our sweet bright-eyed Dane. It was about the chilly close of a half-foggy day, When London’s myriads all came out to see the grand display; From sleepy Hammersmith, and from the Dog’s amphibious Isle, The east and west they poured along for many a muddy mile. The aristocracy for once the pageant deigned to grace, (Except a few who fled from town, and joined the sylvan chace). Each wide-awake and travelling cap was taken from the wall, Each wrap and bearskin was brought down and ready in the hall, Many a gay visitor came up from province and from coast, And on that night Sir Rowland Hill, he stopped the local post. See, mounted on his charger tall, the proud Inspector comes, For sterner work than aiding swells to get to balls and drums, His constables essay to clear in every street a space, And shout his orders with much more of Henergy than grace; 150 And haughtily the dandies sneer, and slightly scream the belles, As round the crested carriage the plebeian torrent swells, See how the Lion of the Park attempts with half-a-crown, To bribe his way from streets his coach should never have gone down. * * * * * The rain is done, each carriage ope, and each umbrella fold, And now to see how London shines as bright as molten gold. Night sinks upon that multitude, that roaring surging sea, Night that in London never was and ne’er again shall be. From Westminster to Islington, from Lord’s to Ratcliffe Way, That time of slumber is as bright and busy as the day: For swift to East and swift to West the glaring joy-flame spread. High on Victoria tower it shone, on the New River Head, In pleasant Kent, in Essex dull, and each surrounding shire The semi-bumpkins gaped and grinned to mark each point of fire. * * * * * The huge sea-lanterns dimly showed on Wren’s cathedral height, But Science rather made a mull with her electric light, The Templars, for their brother Prince, lit up their dingy fane, And you could see their Lamb and Flag made out uncommon plain. Rich was the glare that Mappin’s house (the cab pervader) sent, Fierce glowed the Store that sells the beer from Burton-upon-Trent. And many a hundred grease-pots did their best for Barry’s pile, But that is an Immensity—what say you, Tom Carlyle? Shirley Brooks. 1863.

The Lord Mayor’s Show. First Prize. Hearken, all ye who care to hear my panoramic lay; I sing of that resplendent Show I saw last Lord Mayor’s Day, When forth from “famous London town” to grace their chosen lord Came shields and banners of each Guild, and men of every Ward. It was about the gloomy noon of a dull November day, When from the stately Guildhall’s court set out this pageant gay; The crowds, who long had waited, cheered to see it slowly file Down King-street and across Cheapside come winding near a mile. Forthwith the bells of every church chimed all the “bobs” they knew, While mounted “bobbies” led the way that they might clear it too. Next these appear the Fire Brigade, with engines fully manned, For here behoved that they should march ’twixt men of sea and land— ’Twixt sailor and ’twixt soldier placed, as though between two fires, Whose ardent spirits they might quench if aught should rouse their ires; So Guards and Rifles in their front played stirring tunes of war, While merrily behind them marched full many a youthful tar. And next on prancing palfreys borne, with plume and nodding crest, Four gallant knights with lances come, in silver armour drest; Look how their war-steeds gracefully lift up their well-trained feet, While underneath their iron hoofs resounds the stony street; So stamp they when at Sanger’s Cirque, in Bosworth’s mimic fight, They Richmond or brave Surrey bear, or some great mail-clad knight. How can one human pen suffice to paint this varying Show, Where Watermen with standards gay in long procession flow? Where Lancers, true to Bacchus, the monarch of the vine, Escort the mighty Vintners with band and strains divine; Where proudly the “Swan-hoppers” bear the banners of the Guild, With master and with wardens comes many a carriage filled; While onwards without ceasing stream more banners, knights, and bands, And louder still the people cheer, still louder clap their hands. Ho, guildsmen, all your banners wave! ho, gaily ring, ye bells! Ho, trumpets, sound a flourish! ho, urchins, shriek your yells! Thou coachman, drive on furiously; ye horses swiftly stride; Speed on that glorious coach which bears our Lord Mayor in his pride. No sun shone on those panels decked with classic subjects old; The mists of damp November dimmed its hammercloth of gold; Still boys at its great Jehu stared, and their tears began to flow, To think such coach they ne’er would see until next Lord Mayor’s Show. From the Guildhall to Westminster, whene’er that pageant passed, The tide of business there was slow, as on a day of fast; Girls rushed to doors and windows, men climbed on gates and walls, Right loud and clear the bells all day rang out from great St. Paul’s; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked neither left nor right, 151 But as he looked straight to his front he must have seen the sight. At Westminster it paused, and then down Thames Embankment wound, While thicker still became the throng, and louder still the sound, Till, Guildhall reached, it halted, while the Mayor in state descends To greet and feast great Beaconsfield, to banquet with his friends. As grand as was the Show this year, so may it next year be; Heaven send us such another sight, and take me there to see. Sphinx (Captain J. A. Barlow, 96th Reg.)

Come hither, children, for you love your grandsires tales, I know— I’ll tell you of the Lord Mayor’s Show I saw long years ago; What time the gallant ’prentice band came forth with gibe and jeer To flout the civic monarch whom they had been used to cheer. It was a fine November day, the year of the Zulu war, Hot-foot a little ragged boy came flying to Temple Bar; He said he’d seen the brave array advancing to the Strand, Preceded by the minstrelsy of all the Life Guards band; He’d dodged beneath a horse, and ’scaped by dint of nimble feet, Though a peeler tall, B 99, had chased him down the street. Straightway each clerk and office boy his walnuts ceased to crack, Forth from its hiding place was brought a hideous doll dyed black; The dirty little boys ran out the soldiers to espy, While in the crowd the pickpockets were faking many a cly. * * * * * From Westminster and Whitechapel, from Shoreditch and Vauxhall, The idle vagrants had turned out with laughter and catcall; From east to west the show moved on, and still the hooting spread, It thundered through Trafalgar-square where Nelson rears his head; From Whitehall’s topmost story the Treasury clerk might hear Street after street re-echoing the oft-repeated jeer; The coster left his barrow-load, careless of urchin raids; The dapper waiters hurried forth from restaurants and shades. All down the street of Parliament th’ assembled loafers bawl, And rouse the warders of Millbank, the Judges in their Hall; Right merrily with eager pen the specials took it down, And forty counties learned next day the humours of the town. Quantox (S. H. Woodhouse.) The World Parody Competition. November 26, 1879.

On Mr. Gladstone’s Midlothian Speeches. Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Gladstone’s praise. I tell of the thrice famous speech he made in his old days, When that great lord of flouts and jeers against him led in vain The peers and those few working men that honied lies could gain. With his white hair unbonneted the stout old chieftain comes; No picnic in a park gives he—he bribes no local drums; For shrewd men in the Corn Exchange have filled each vacant space. “Now, hark!” he says, “I grant the peers till autumn’s session grace.” And haughtily, in trumpet tones, he then the story tells, And though he tries to calm the storm, behold you, how it swells! Look how the hero of the fight lifts up his honoured head, And with his magic, winged words strikes Tory falsehoods dead! So spoke he when he put to shame, on that same Scottish field, The Government that tried by fraud the Turkish crimes to shield. So glared he when the Tory host he sternly brought to bay, And crushed and shamed beneath his glance the wretched Jingoes lay. George Mallinson. The Weekly Despatch. September 14, 1884.

I. Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array. II. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome.

XIX. They held a council standing Before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Outspake the Consul roundly: “The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town.” XXVI. But the Consul’s brow was sad, And the Consul’s speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. “Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?” XXVII. Then outspake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Then facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods. XXIX. “Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?” XXX. Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.” And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: “I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.” XXXI. “Horatius,” quoth the Consul, “As thou sayest, so let it be.” And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. XXXII. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then the lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. XXXV. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three.

LIII. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. “Come back, come back, Horatius!” Loud cried the fathers all. “Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall.” LIV. Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone; They would have crossed once more. LVII. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. * * * * * But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. LIX. “Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day!” So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. LX. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. 153 LXI. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. LXIV. And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. LXV. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it upon high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. LXVIII. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within; LXIX. When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows; LXX. When the goodman mends his armour, And trims his helmet’s plume; When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. T. B. Macaulay.

The Fight of the Crescent. A Lay of Modern Cambridge. The sturdy undergraduates Are pouring in amain, Up thro’ the fair Rose Crescent, The Market-place to gain— From many a wild wine-party, From many a sober tea, From the distant halls of Downing, And the Courts of Trinity. From lowly Queen’s Quadrangle, Where muffins are the go; From Magd’lene, famed for fast men, From Cath’rine, famed for slow; From Caius, where anxious proctors To keep the gates shut try; From Clare, where Dons chivalrous Unlock them on the sly. There be twenty chosen gownsmen, The foremost of the band, Pupils of Sambo Sutton, To keep the Crescent stand: They can’t run if they wish’d it; Perforce they bear the brunt, For the gownsmen in the rear-rank Push the gownsmen in the front. And all within the Market-place, And Market-Hill along, The townsmen, far as words can go, Come it uncommon strong, But as yet no nose is bleeding, As yet no man is down; For the gownsmen funk the townsmen, And the townsmen funk the gown. When, lo! a cad comes brimful Of bravery and beer— “To arms! to arms! The Borough Police will soon be here!” Thro’ Market Street to eastward, Each townsman turn’d his eye, And saw the hats and truncheons Rise fast along the sky. And plainly and more plainly, Now may each gownsman know, By form and face, by port and pace, Each big blue-coated foe. There, in the front, fierce Freestone, Be-whisker’d may be seen, And stalwart Sergeant Seabrook, With buttons bright and sheen; And Buggins, of the mutton fist; And Muggins, with the fearful twist; And Hobbs, famed for his waving curls; And Dobbs, adored by servant girls, And gruff Inspector Greene! Then out spake a fellow-commoner, In voice both sad and low, And darkly look’d he on his friends, And darkly on his foe: “They’ll be too many for us; Ten to one against the gown: Unless we get to Trinity We’ll be wollop’d by the town.” Then out spake brave Fitz-Wiggins, Though a small college man: “To keep the Crescent ’gainst the cads, I’ll do the best I can! 154 And if none will stand beside me, Alone I’ll face the snobs, Despite fierce Freestone’s truncheon And the staves of Hobbs or Dobbs!” Then out spake Sir Tom Noddy, A son of Trinity, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And the Crescent keep with thee.” And out spake Merrypebbles— A Johnian was he— “I will abide at thy left side, And the Crescent keep with thee.” A great shout of defiance From all the snobs arose, But the three stand calm and silent— A thumb to every nose! And forth three Peelers rushing, Attempt to storm the Pass; Truncheons are thick, but fists are quick, And down they go to grass! Fitz-Wiggins floor’d fierce Freestone, Tom Noddy levell’d Hobbs, And cheerful Merrypebbles Black’d both the eyes of Dobbs; And the aggravated townsmen Stand all appall’d to see On the flags the unconscious Peelers— In the Pass the dauntless Three! And on the leaguer’d Crescent Was none would brave attack; But those behind cried “Forward!” And those in front cried “Back!” Meanwhile their legs the gownsmen Right manfully have plied; And now they’ve got to Trinity, And the gates are open’d wide. “Come back, come back, Fitz-Wiggins,” Loud cried they from the gate “Back Noddy, Merrypebbles, Back, or you’ll be too late!” But the police are on them, And their truncheons fierce they ply; Now the fates save brave Fitz-Wiggins— What a terrible black eye!— Though Merrypebbles’ head be The thickest in the ring, It scarce can ’scape unbroken; Such staves must make it sing. Alone stood Sir Tom Noddy, But constant still in mind, Policemen pitching in before And Trinity behind. “Down with him!” cried false Seabrook, As he mopped his bloody face; “Now yield thee,” cried the Inspector, “Now yield thee, to our grace!” But brave Tom Noddy never deigned An answer; no not he; But he floor’d the Inspector neatly As a man could wish to see: And through the storming townsmen And the irate police, He fights his passage manfully, And he wins the gate in peace. And now, his gown in ribbands, In the crowded court he stands, And “to call upon him the next day,” Receives the Dean’s commands. And then with shouts and clapping, And hip, hip, hurrah, loud, He passes on unto his rooms, Borne by the admiring crowd. But he was rusticated By the Dons that very night; And when he show’d them his black eye, They said, “It served him right.” But long at our wine-parties, We’ll remember how, like bricks, Stout Noddy kept the Crescent, In Eighteen-forty-six! Punch. April 11, 1846.

Marcus Curtius, the Honest Lawyer. (A Lay of Ancient Rome.) Wilt hear how Marcus Curtius, that lawyer true and hold, Did bravely for his country in the brave days of old? How by Justinian’s Institutes and his green baize bag he swore, That the only honest lawyer could live in Rome no more? Oh, none could be more honest in life and death, than he Who cheated but the sexton, and saved the burial fee. The lawyers in the Forum are squabbling loud and long, To the wonder of their clients, confounding right and wrong; Begowned, bewigged, bewildered, each judge the clamour hears, And Justice, blind already, would fain have stopped her ears. As now the wordy contest grew hotter still and hotter, The desks, the books, the benches, began to quake and totter; And they heard a sound like thunder, a horrid, dreary sound, As though all the powers of evil danced the polka underground. The lawyers through their spectacles looked with a stony glare, And the crier stammered out, “O Yes,” and whispered through a prayer: Some of the judges fainted, and there for dead they lay; And the jury snatched their solidi, and fleetly ran away. And now—O, sight of wonder!—with a stifling smell of sulph- Er, in the Middle Forum, there gaped a hideous gulf: A gulf as black as midnight, or “best Japan,” I trow; And a voice came howling, hissing up, like a thousand whirlwinds now: “This gulf will close—no, never! till in Rome the rarest thing, The rarest and most wondrous, a sacrifice you bring.” 155 O! great was the lamenting, when these fearful facts were known, The mothers weep and wring their hands, the grandames groan “Ochone;” And the little boys no longer their flying hoops pursue, Nor chaunt of “Ole Virginny,” as they were wont to do. And the men in moody silence pace slowly to and fro, With pallid lip, and frowning brow, and countenance of woe; And the Fathers of the City—the Aldermen and Mayor— Are met in solemn council, with a grave and puzzled air. Then uprises Lucius Cimber, a grocer proud was he, Who traded first with China, in Twankay and Bohea; And in accents slow and solemn, thus the meeting he advised:— “Let’s try and fill the hole up with stones macadamised.” And they listened to his counsel, and with shovel and with spade, They adjourned unto the Forum, and aside their togas laid. And then all in their shirt sleeves they worked with might and main, Patrician and Plebeian, alike they worked in vain. For though a thousand cart-loads into the gulf they threw, Instead of getting shallower it deep and deeper grew. And now a frenzied client who had lost his all that day, Seized “Selwyn’s Nisi Prius” from the bookshelf where it lay, And in the hole he dashed it, with a howl of maniac glee, And wished all law and lawyers at the bottom of the sea. And, fired by his example, the crowd seized, one by one, On “Chitty,” and on “Starkey,” and on “Coke and Lyttleton” On Bacon’s Whole Abridgement, with tooth and nail they fell, But where they wished those authors, ’twere not polite to tell. In vain the poor librarian, while tears ran down his cheek, Strove to bend them from their purpose—not a word they’d hear him speak. And the venerable Chief Justice, like Lord Mansfield at the fire, Not caring to remonstrate, thought it prudent to retire. So they rifled all the library of every book they saw, Yet the gulf but yawned the wider for all that dose of law. Then from that mixed assembly a seedy-looking gent (He pays not much for mending who cannot pay his rent), With an old coat all in tatters, and a hat without a brim, Stalked proudly from the multitude, who, curious, gazed on him. “My name is Marcus Curtius! a Roman knight am I,— And eke a learned counsellor, but, alas! I cannot lie! I’ve gone upon the Circuit,—there came no briefs to me; I ne’er addressed a jury, ne’er pocketed a fee. Alas! mistaken parents, to bind me to the law! I have no natural cunning to make or find a flaw. He who’d sit upon a woolsack must be ne’er with conscience cursed, And, for wool to fill the cushion, he must take to fleecing first. Then behold in me, O Romans! what the oracle demands, The thing in Rome that’s rarest, a lawyer with clean hands. A truly honest lawyer, with a feeling, tender soul, Which, witness this nay garment—a tongue’s in ev’ry hole. For the good of thee, my country, I die a true-blue Tory, For Dulce et decorum, est pro patria mori!” He said, and on the lawyers he turned a kindling eye, As away on all sides slinking, no one dared make reply. Then smiling sad but calmly, he cried “Good Charon, hark! I’m too poor to pay the obolus for crossing in your bark, But I know that you will trust me; so now, my friends, good bye, I’ll trouble not the coroner, a natural death I die: A natural death for Curtius, who might have been so rich, But he was an honest lawyer, so he perished in a ditch.” He said, and threw a summersault into that dreary vat— Head foremost, like a thunder-bolt down went the brimless hat; Down went the brimless beaver, fall many a fathom deep, And the women took hysterics, and the men began to weep. When they dashed away the tear drops, and looked ahead again, Where that gulf had late been yawning, there lay a level plain. And they reared a marble tombstone on the spot where he had died, And in letters carved and gilded, was inscribed on either side Here Marcus Curtius lyes, Ye onlye honeste lawyere, hee Who neverre pocketedde a fee. Anno aetatis XXXIII. Hee felle withe muche philosophie, Forre Rome a sacrifice. And with weeping and lamenting still is the story told, How Curtius kicked the bucket in the brave old days of old. Edgar Allen.

Gustavus.[99] A Lay of Drury Lane. Great Smithius of Drury Lane, By cape and truncheon swore, That Bold Gustavus Brookius Should perdu lie no more. By staff and cape he swore it, And named his opening night, And sent his messengers abroad, Each with a pile of orders stored, To summon all they might. 156 East and west, and south and north, The messengers repair; Some hie them to the Regal Oak, Some to the Arms of Eyre. Shame on the false theatrical Who would refuse to come, When bold Gustavus Brookius Enters the “Drama’s Home!” The gallery-boys and pittites Are pouring in amain, And struggling in a turbid mass, The theatre doors they gain. From many a noisome alley, From many a crowded court, Great G. V. B’s supporters Have hastened to the sport. From Kingsland’s leafy quarters, From Camden’s noble town, From where Belgravia’s daughters On humble men look down; From Islington the merry, From Kensington the slow, To meet the great Gustavus The many-headed go. The patrons of the Surrey, Who e’er in shirt sleeves sit. While the refreshing foaming stout Is handed round the pit, Yield up their old allegiance, And join the swelling train, Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo, To meet at Drury Lane. Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut! Ho! drummers, use your strength! He comes, whose name on every wall Measures six feet in length! Who, though perchance he cannot With Shakespeare move your souls, Will gain your heartiest plaudits By gifts of soup and coals! Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him; Come, Kean, and do the same; You, famous by your own good deeds, You, by your father’s name! Crouch to the great Gustavus, Who has become the rage, And proved himself, by feats of alms, King of the British Stage. Edmund H. Yates. From Mirth and Metre. G. Routledge and Co. 1855.

Johnson. (A Lay of Modern London.) By Thomas Blabbington Macawley. Stout Johnson, of Saint Thomas, By George and Jingo swore That the street door of Watkins Should hold its own no more, By George and Jingo swore he, And named a trysting day, For all his trusty friends on town To meet to tear the knocker down, And bear the bell away. From East-end and from West-end, His missives prompt entreat, Assistance (at his rooms resolv’d On making both ends meet), Shame on the craven spirit Who sends a poor excuse, And smokes his pipe at home or strolls Ignobly on the loose! The staunch allies in clusters Are dropping in apace, From many a lofty “chambers,” From many a lowly “place,” From “cribs,” and “dens,” and “quarters.” And vague mysterious “rooms,” Whose whereabouts to specify, No daring mind presumes. From Guy’s across the water, From Strand adjacent Kings’, From Charing (which a shadow o’er The mourn’d Casino flings!) From Bartlemy’s in Smithfield, Of accidents bereft! And Middlesex, whose course we trace From Oxford Street up Rathbone Place, By turning to the left. From wall-encircled Temple, Shut out from London’s noise. Where apron’d porters guard the way, And keep in awe the boys; From Gray’s and dingy Clement’s (Where rents so mod’rate run!) And Lincoln’s Inn, where stands, alas! Th’ Insolvent Court,—besides a mass Of others of a noisome class (Requiring far more nerve to pass), Where no whitewashing’s done. Rich are the chops whose gravy Exudes o’er Rhodes’s[100] bars; 157 And sweet, at Evans’s, the notes That issue from the singers’ throats In spite of the cigars. Beyond all bands the waltzer Loves Laurent’s (when in tune); Best of all grounds the bowler loves The American Saloon. But now no chop or kidney Emits its soft perfume; No voice is heard suggesting that “The waiter’s in the room.” In vain the sylphs at Laurent’s Their palms in kid have dressed; The bowls may wait, and Rhodes’s grate Enjoy a few bars rest. The comic songs of Cowell, To-night old men shall hear,— To-night young boys and greenhorns Shall have the Argyle clear; And parsons from the country, To-night sole audience be, To hear Sam Hall or Baldwin’s call, “Attention for a glee!” A score of chosen spirits In Johnson’s rooms are met, And Johnson sees his birdseye Diminish with regret; And from the round stone bottles Too fast the liquids flow;— He sees (and feels) his spirits sink, And inwardly begins to think— ’Tis time for them to go. “Ho! friends and fellow students, ’Tis fit we should prepare For action (Fibbetson, you brute, Don’t interrupt the Chair!) The enterprise before us Must fraught with danger be; Will you go in through thick and thin To win the spoil with me? “For Watkins the plebeian, Whose door we go to spoil (By past unskilled attempts enraged) A private watchman has engaged, Our cherished schemes to foil. Therefore let no man join us Who fears to break the peace And go the undivided hog, E’en to (should they our footsteps dog) Assaulting the police.” Then up spake Robert Simpson, Of Middlesex was he: “Lo! I’ll go in through thick and thin, To win the spoil with thee!” And up spake Brown of Charing, (Plucked but last week was he): “No man am I for saying die— Lul-liet-iet-y! “That accidents will happen, It stands a fact confest, In families which, by their heads, Are regulated best; And if to-night’s adventures Result in fines and quods, So long as you are happy, Inform me where’s the odds?” And now the dauntless phalanx Stand ’neath the gas-light’s glare, And many a pipe and ancient hat Hurl’d at a scared and flying cat, Goes whizzing through the air. With Ethiopia’s music They rend the welkin now, Telling of Blane and Tucker’s fate, Till stern policeman “Twenty-eight” Steps forward to expostulate ’Gainst such a jolly row. The restless Strand behind them They leave, and quickly gain The corner where Saint Martin’s Church Frowns grandly up his lane. Through danger-fraught Cranbournia Unscath’d they make their way (Protected by the evening’s shade, For syrens in the bonnet trade That spell-bound district long have made Unsafe to pass by day). Up through the Court of Ryder! Nor idly pause to sigh O’er the crush’d Valentino’s fate, Nor Wharton’s bills investigate Above the lamps hard by. On! through the Cretan mazes Of Newport Market go. They’re past, and now the warlike train A yell of joy can scarce restrain As bursts in sight the proud domain Of Watkins of Soho! “Back, Simpson! back, Carruthers! Back, Blatherwick!—be cool; Be quiet Brown; keep Davis down; And Jones!—don’t be a fool. Wait till the private watchman Shall round the corner wind; He will directly, to inspect The premises behind. “There, now, you see,—I told you; He’s hidden by the wall, Haste, Jones!—engage him in a chat,— Insult his capes, or chaff his hat, Or treat him to some coffee at The early breakfast stall: Anything to engage him For minutes two or three, By which time he, I dare be bound, Shall see what he shall see.” Like telegraphic message Jones on his errand flies; And Blatherwick and Simpson Go with him as allies. (And, of those last-named heroes ’Tis whisper’d since on town, They thought the watchman-chaffing game A less precarious road to fame Than pulling knockers down). But Johnson of St. Thomas, No craven droopings knew; Up to the frowning knocker, With tiger spring he flew; And mirthful e’en in danger, Said, with a joyous grin, “Walk up!—the exhibition’s just A-going to begin!” 158 Then thrust he through the knocker His stick of British oak; But Brown of Charing, from the throng, Quoting a Social Progress song, Thus, with a purpose, spoke: “Just wait a little longer, There’s work for me as well; You from its clamps the knocker tear— I from the door, your fame to share, Will please to wring the bell.” But of that gang the stoutest Felt their hearts sink to see In progress what, in planning, Had merely seem’d a “spree;” And from the dread adventure, So rashly underta’en, All shrank, like boys who, ere they strip, Intend to plunge o’er head and hip In Father Thames, but when they dip In his cold flood a toe-nail’s tip, Scared—dress themselves again. But meanwhile Jones and Simpson, And Blatherwick have tried, In vain, to keep the watchman Round on the other side. “Run, Davis! run, Carruthers!” Loud cried the students all; “Slope! and to him who hindmost lags, The usual fate befal!” Back darted Brown of Charing, Letting the bell-pull go, With startling clang, and all the gang Retreated from the foe; But when they saw brave Johnson Still tugging at the door, Under the very watchman’s nose, They would have turn’d once more. But, with a crash like thunder (Such thunder as one hears At minor theatres, when the ghost Or maniac appears), Round on its well-used pivot The watchman’s rattle sprung; The band set up a frighten’d cry, And (Jones in front) began to fly, E’en Brown, averse to saying die, Scorn’d not to cut and run. Yet, like himself in practice (“Teeth drawn for half-a-crown,” Stands graven on his bus’ness card), The furious Johnson struggled hard To wrench the knocker down. And with Herculean prowess, At length perform’d the feat; And oaken splint, and nut and screw, With bits of paint and dried-up glue, Flew scatter’d o’er the street. With one huge stride he bounded Adown the steps in glee, Waving his hard-earned prize on high, But stopp’d—he was compell’d to—by Policeman “Twenty-three.” “Off with him!” cried the watchman, With a smile on his pale face; “Now blow me!” “Twenty-three” exclaimed; “This here’s a Brixton case.” Round turn’d he somewhat stagger’d, These myrmidons to see, But he took the watchman’s measure, And the weight of “Twenty-three.” And ere “Robinson” you’d summon He had laid the former low, By tripping up his heels, and dealt To “Twenty-three” (above the belt) A firm left handed blow. Bereft of speech and breathing, Awhile was “Twenty-three,” (For, thanks to kitchen maidens fair, Who bought his love with viands rare, Of habit full was he); And Johnson, by his valour Freed from judicial grab, In safety gain’d the neighb’ring stand, And with the knocker in his hand, Plung’d headlong in a cab! Never, I ween, did driver With such a style of horse, Urge o’er the stones at such a rate, To save a patron from the hate And fury of the Force. But his sympathies went greatly With the large heart within, Who half-a-crown beyond his fare Had promis’d—and some gin. And now they near his chambers, Where, waiting his return, Stand his false-hearted comrades Joy’d his escape to learn; Whom, for their craven conduct, As from the cab he leaps, The high-soul’d Johnson scruples not To stigmatize as “sweeps.” And now they press around him, And now they soap him down; And with emollient sawder His just reproaches drown; Now on the back they slap him, Thumbs in his ribs they stick, And now they dub him “Trojan,” And now proclaim him “Brick.” They gave him songs and speeches, They drank his health with glee, And (heedless of the lodgers) It was done with three times three. And they took the rifled knocker, And hung it up on high, And there it stands in Johnson’s rooms, To witness if I lie. And in the nights of winter, When things are rather slow, And men (the gardens being shut) Uncertain where to go; To Johnson’s humble chambers, In little knots drop in, To smoke his soothing birdseye, And quaff his cheering gin! When the bottled stout is opened, And the meerschaum pipe is lit, And the guests on trunks and tables (Chairs at a premium) sit, 159 When flags the conversation, Revert they to the “go,” How Johnson tore the knocker down Of Watkins of Soho.

Sibthorpius. A Lay of Modern London, made in the year 1848. By T. Blabbington Macsqually. I. O’Connor of York Castle By the Six Points he swore, That the great English rabble Should suffer wrong no more. By the Six Points he swore it, And named a trysting day, And made his underlings go forth, In third-class trains, from south to north, To summon his array. II. The pickpockets and Chartists Come pouring in amain, From many a dirty market-place, From many a half-choked drain; From many a lonely alley, Where, hid from Peeler’s eyen, In a magmen’s nest—the neighbourhood’s pest— Grovel the human swine. III. There be some scores of delegates, The noisiest of the land, Who alway by O’Connor, In John Street’s building stand; With dirty hands the delegates Have turned the papers o’er— The leaders bright, in black and white, Of journalistic lore. IV. And with one howl the delegates This answer forth are slipping, “Go forth, go forth, dear Feargus, Go forth, go forth, our pippin! Go, and return in glory, To our fine John Street dome, And hang the tickers of the rich Round the bare walls of home!” V. And now hath every alley Sent up its batch of men, The foot are some ten thousand, The horsemen scarcely ten, Upon the plain of Kennington Is met the great array— A proud man was O’Connor Upon the trysting day! VI. But in the Parks, and Pall Mall, Was tumult and affright; And in the Carlton, men looked blue, And those in Brookes’s white; And Berkeley Square was shaky, While some from Mayfair cut; And girls in pastrycooks were sad And Quadrant shops were shut. VII. Now, from a lofty lamp-post Could the wan Peelers spy The dust made by the marching mob, Like a pall in the sky. The Ministers in Downing Street Were nervous all the day, For every hour a horseman came With tidings of dismay. VIII. They held a council standing In Westminster Bridge Road; Surrounded by sad Specials, Who evil days forbode; Out spake Lord Russell roundly, “The bridge must straight go down, For now that they’re past the New Cut, Nought else can save the town.” IX. Then out spake brave Sibthorpius, Up to the council riding, “I’ll keep the bridge—Chartists be hanged, I’ll give them a d——d hiding! Hew down the bridge, Lord Russell! I’ll let the humbugs see— What Honourable Member Will keep the bridge with me?” X. “Sibthorpius,” said Lord Russell, “As thou sayest, so let it be.” He spoke! two more came forward, And forth then rushed the Three. Meanwhile, the Specials round them, Came each man with an axe, And Russell gave a mighty blow, And Morpeth pummelled with a crow The bridge ’neath which the Thames doth flow, Resounded with their whacks! XI. One Member smote proud Cuffey, The second rushed at Jones, Unmoved by Chartist yelling, Undaunted by the stones. Sibthorpius at Feargus Darted one horrid thrust And the plebian’s puddle blood Mix’d with Lambeth dust. XII. And now the Bridge of Westminster Trembled ’neath Russell’s blows,— “Back, back,” he cried, “brave comrades, Back ere the old bridge goes.” Then quickly the two members Ran to the other side— Then turned and saw Sibthorpius Alone in all his pride. XIII. Then with a crash like thunder, The old bridge went to pot— Its ruins down the foaming stream Rushed hurriedly and hot. 160 Alone stood brave Sibthorpius, A moment sternly stood, Then, with his armour on his back, He jumped into the flood. * * * * * XIV. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And sweepers from the pavement Are shovelling the snow; When the crusted port is opened, And the camphine lamp is lit, When dessert is on the table, And around it bright guests sit. XV. When the gay and lively party Roar at the Puppet-show, And claret, sparkling like its jokes, Right joyously doth flow. When the good-man plays écarté, And the young lads make a noise; When the girls are working crochet, And the children smashing toys. XVI. When the good-wife takes her workbox, And the grandame takes a nap, When Radicals and Chartists Grow lively at the tap. With weeping and with laughter, Still is the story told, How well Sibthorpius kept the Bridge, And how the mob were sold. From The Puppet-Showman’s Album.

The Fight for the Championship. (As told by an ancient Gladiator to his Great-Grandmother.) Big Heenan of Benicia, By ninety-nine gods he swore, That the bright belt of England Should grace her sons no more. By ninety-nine he swore it, And named the ‘fisting’ day— ‘East and west and south and north,’ Said Richard Mayne, ‘ride forth, ride forth, ‘And summon mine array.’ ‘Ride forth by heathy Hampshire, Of “chalk-stream-studded” dells, And wake the beaks of Eversley Where gallant Kingsley dwells; Spur fast thro’ Berkshire spinneys, The broad Hog’s Back bestride, And if the White Horse is scour’d Mount up amain and ride: Spur, spur, I say, thro’ England! The word went flashing by. Look out for Sayers and Heenan, Policemen—mind your eye! Sir Richard’s bold moss-troopers Looked out uncommon keen, From park and plain and prairie, From heath and upland green; From Essex fens and fallows, From Hampshire, dale and down, From Sussex’ hundred leagues of sand, To Shropshire’s fat and flowery land, And Cheshire’s wild and wasted strand, And Yorkshire’s heather brown;— And so, of course, the fight came oft A dozen miles from Town. Then first stept out big Heenan, Unmatched for breadth and length; And in his chest it might be guessed; He had unpleasant strength. And to him went the Sayers That looked both small and thin, But well each practised eye could read The ‘lion and the bull-dog’ breed, And from each fearless stander-by Rang out that genuine British cry, ‘Go in, my boy,—and win!’ And he went in—and smote him Through mouthpiece and through cheek; And Heenan smote him back again Into the ensuing week: Full seven days thence he smote him, With one prodigious crack, And th’ undaunted Champion straight Discerned that he was five feet eight, When flat upon his back:— Whilst a great shout of laughter Rose from the Yankee pack. As from the flash the bullet, Out sprang the Sayers then, And dealt the huge Benician A vast thump on the chin; And thrice and four times sternly Drove in the shatt’ring blow; And thrice and four times wavered The herculean foe; And his great arms swung wildly, Like ship-masts two and fro. And now no sound of laughter Was heard from either side, Whilst feint, and draw, and rally, The cautious Bruisers tried; And long they sparred and counter’d Till Heenan sped a thrust So fierce and quick, it swept away Th’ opposing guard like sapling spray—, And for the second time that day The Champion bit the dust. 161 Short time lay English Sayers Upon the earth at length, Short time his Yankee foeman Might triumph in his strength! Sheer from the ground he smote him And his soul went with the blow— Such blow no other hand could dash— Such blow no other arm could smash— The giant tottered low; And for a space they sponged his face, And thought the eye would go. Time’s up!—Again they battle; Again the strokes fly free; But Sayers’ right arm—that arm of pride— Now dangles pow’rless by his side, Plain for all eyes to see; And thro’ that long and desperate shock— Two mortal hours on the clock— By sheer indomitable pluck With his left hand fought he! With his left hand he fought him, Though he was sore in pain,— Full twenty times hurled backward, Still pressing on again! With his left hand he fought him, Till each could fight no more; Till Sayers could scarcely strike a blow, Till Heenan could not see his foe— Such fighting England never knew Upon her soil before! They gave him of the standard Gold coinage of the realm, As much as one stout guardsman Could carry in his helm; They made him an ovation On the Exchange hard by,— And they may slap their pockets In witness if I lie. And every soul in England Was glad, both high and low, And books were voted snobbish, And ‘gloves’ were all the go; And each man told the story, Whilst ladies’ hearts would melt, How Sayers, the British Champion, Did battle for the belt. Yet honour to the vanquished! (If vanquished then he were) Let the harp strike a bolder string And the Bird of Freedom clap his wing For the fight so free and fair. And forge another girdle That shall belt as brave a breast As ever sailed to English shore From the broad lands of the West. And when some sterner battle Shall shake along the line, The Lion flag of Liberty In Freedom’s cause to shine,— To fence its ancient honour, And guard it safe from harms, May two such Champions hand in hand— Twin brethren of the Saxon land— Be found together to withstand A universe in arms. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.

The Fight of Sayerius and Heenanus. A Lay of Ancient London. (Supposed to be recounted to his Great Grand-Children, April 17th, A.D. 1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.) Close round my chair, my children, And gather at my knee, The while your mother poureth The Old Tom in my tea; The while your father quaffeth His rot-gut Bordeaux wine,— ’Twas not on such potations Were reared these thews o’ mine. Such drinks came in the very year —Methinks I mind it well— That the great fight of Heenanus With Sayerius befell. These knuckles then were iron; This biceps like a cord; This fist shot from the shoulder A bullock would have floored. Crawleius his Novice, They used to call me then, In the Domus Savilliana, Among the sporting men. There, on benefit occasions, The gloves I oft put on, Walking round to show my muscles When the set-to was done; While ringing in the arena The showered denarii fell, That told Crawleius, Novice Had used his mauleys well. ’Tis but some sixty years since The times whereof I speak, And yet the words I’m using Will sound to you like Greek. What know ye, race of milksops, Untaught of the P. R., What stopping, lunging, countering, Fibbing, or rallying are? What boots to use the lingo, When you have not the thing? How paint to you the glories Of Belcher, Cribb, or Spring,— To you, whose sire turns up his eyes At mention of the Ring? 162 Yet, in despite of all the jaw And gammon of the time, That brands the art of self-defence —Old England’s art—as crime, From off mine ancient memories The rust of time I’ll shake, Your youthful bloods to quicken And your British pluck to wake. Then gather to your grandsire’s knee, The while his tale is told, How Sayerius and Heenanus Milled in the days of old. * * * * * The stakes are pitched, the ropes are tied, The men have ta’en their stand; Heenanus wins the toss for place, And takes the eastward hand. Cusiccius and Macdonaldus Upon the Boy attend; Sayerius owns Bruntonus, And Jim Welshius for friend. And each upon the other now, A curious eye may throw, As from the seconds’ final rub In buff at length they show, And from their corners to the scratch Move stalwartly and slow. Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp, His foemen’s fives in friendly clasp; Each felt his balance trim and true,— Each up to square his mauleys threw; Each tried his best to draw his man— The feint, the dodge, the opening plan, Till left and right Sayerius tried; Heenanus’ grin proclaimed him wide; He shook his nut, a lead essayed, Nor reached Sayerius’ watchful head. At length each left is sudden flung, We heard the ponderous thud, And from each tongue the news was rung, Sayerius hath “First blood!” Adown Heenanus’ Roman nose Freely the tell-tale claret flows, While stern Sayerius’ forehead shows That in the interchange of blows Heenanus’ aim was good! Again each iron mauley swung, And loud the counter-hitting rung, Till breathless all and wild with blows, Fiercely they grappled, for a close; A moment in close hug they swing Hither and thither, round the ring, Then from Heenanus’ clinch of brass Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass! I trow mine ancient breath would fail To follow through the fight, Each gallant round’s still changing tale, Each feat of left and right. How nine times in that desperate Mill Heenanus, in his strength, Knocked stout Sayerius off his pins, And laid him all at length; But how in each succeeding round Sayerius smiling came, With head as cool, and wind as sound, As his first moment on the ground, Still confident, and game. How from Heenanus’ sledge-like fist, Striving a smasher to resist, Sayerius’ stout right arm gave way, Yet the maim’d hero still made play, And when in-fighting threatened ill, Was nimble in out-fighting still, Did still his own maintain— In mourning put Heenanus’ glims, Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs, The chances squared again. How blind Heenanus in despite Of bleeding mug and waning sight So gallantly kept up the fight, That not a man could say Which of the two ’twere wise to back, Or on which side some random crack Might not decide the day: And leave us—whoso won the prize,— Victor and vanquished, in all eyes, An equal meed to pay. Two hours and more the fight had sped, Near unto ten it drew, But still opposed-one-armed to blind,— They stood, the dauntless two. Ah, me, that I have lived to hear Such men as ruffians scorned, Such deeds of valour brutal called, Canted, preached down and mourned! Ah, that these old eyes ne’er again A gallant Mill shall see! No more behold the ropes and stakes, With colours flying free! But I forget the combat— How shall I tell the close, That left the Champion’s Belt in doubt Between those well-matched foes? Fain would I shroud the tale in night,— The meddling blues that thrust in sight,— The ring-keepers o’erthrown;— The broken ring,—the cumbered fight,— Heenanus’ sudden, blinded flight,— Sayerius pausing, as he might, Just when ten minutes used aright Had made the fight his own! Alas! e’en in those brighter days We still had Beaks and Blues,— Still, canting rogues, their mud to fling On self-defence and on the Ring, And fistic arts abuse! And ’twas such varmint had the power The Champion’s fight to stay, And leave unsettled to this hour The honours of the day! But had those honours rested Divided as was due, Sayerius and Heenanus Had cut the Belt in two. Punch. April 28, 1860.

The Battle of the Bridge. Great Lawrence, erst a builder, By Gog and Magog swore That he would rule the Livery 163 And be Lord Mayor once more. By Gog and Magog swore it, And named the polling day, And bade the Liverymen go forth To all the wards, East, West, and North, To summon his array. I see the long type galleys, I see the molten lead, I see the wondrous matrix— The bright type leaves its bed. He casts the grim black-letter, For battle he is ripe, Thus ever rides our Besley, Lord of the Founts of Type. Now hath each polling district Sent up her tale of men, And Besley counts by hundreds, And Lawrence scarcely ten. But a mighty boast he uttered “Right soon the Queen shall ride To Blackfriars Bridge, and where looks down The viaduct o’er London town, And Lawrence by her side.” The harvest of the title, This year shall Lawrence reap; This year the London urchins At Queen Victoria peep. This year the crowds shall gather To London, like the foam That gathers on the Tiber That rolls beside old Rome. And now the warfare’s over, And who shall say who’s won, Our Besley rules the Aldermen, The civic fight is done. But Lawrence, cool and cunning, No shock of war would stand, He yields the power, but wins the prize; Henceforth, before the nation’s eyes, He wears the Bloody Hand! And in the nights of winter When many a bottle’s floor’d, And gormandizing aldermen Gloat o’er the groaning board, Between the punch and turtle, The tale they still shall tell: How Lawrence jockey’d Besley— How Gladstone managed well. The Period. 1869.

A Lay of Ancient Stoke. Qucealy, the avenger, By the nine points he swore That the great Tichborne Claimant Should suffer wrong no more: By the nine points he swore it, And ere the polling day He straightway rose and gat him forth, And taking tickets for the North, He sped him on his way. Full rapidly yet surely, The Midland train runs fast, Until the town of potteries Is safely gained at last! Woe to the vile traducer Who treats it as a joke, For Qucealy the avenger Is on the march for Stoke. There be many whom the franchise Makes voters in the land, Who always by the public house, Both morn and evening stand. Evening and morn they linger About the open door; While each man’s little finger Is lifted o’er and o’er. And with one voice the voters Have their glad answers given “Go forth, go forth, Qucealy! Go forth, beloved of Heaven.” Or, in the plain vernacular Of these simple men of Stoke, “We’ll stick to you, Qucealy! Go in and win, old bloke!” I wis in all the Commons, When came the Doctor’s night, There was not e’en a vacant seat For none would miss the sight. Forthwith uprose the Premier, Uprose the Members all: Full speedily they seized their hats, And hied them to the hall. The Doctor’s brow is knit, And the Doctor’s speech is low, And frequently is heard “Ha, ha!” And now and then “Oh, oh!” But he flings aside their taunts, As when bounding o’er the plain, The lion shakes the dewdrops From off his tawny mane. “Ye honorable members Jeer on as best ye may; But I with two to help me Will keep you all at bay. A Jesuitical device May well be checked by three: Now who will stand on either hand To crush conspiracy?” Then out spake valiant Whalley, From Peterborough he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And give my voice with thee.” And outspake bould O’Gorman, Of Celtic blood was he, “Whack philliloo! I’m wid you too. Acushla gra machree!” The speeches now are ended, And lo! the ranks divide, And outsteps brave O’Gorman, With elephantine stride. And many fear what he may say, And at the thought grow pale! “Is there any of yiz here would like To trid upon my tale?” 164 Never I ween did member In any former case, In solitary grandeur walk Back to his ’customed place. With a mighty cheer they greet him, As he marches on alone, And the tellers say the members be Four hundred odd to one. When the “ancient Tom” is opened, And the farthing dip is lit: When the elders whack the youngers, And the kid howls when he’s hit: When old and young together Around the quartern close: When the girls are cracking cobnuts And the lads are mixing “goes:” When the goodwife rubs her elbow, After contact with the broom: When the goodman’s “highlows” merrily Are flying round the room! Amid these gay distractions, Still doth the story run, How Qucealy lost his motion by Four hundred odd to one. The Figaro (London). July 7. 1875.

The Return-Match between Dryburgh and Sludgeborough, Sir V. O. Verandah of Sludgebro’ On his Tate racket swore That the marshy town he dwelt in, Should know defeat no more: On his Tate racket swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers go forth, To Dryburgh in the far off North, And challenge it to play. On bicycles to the far off North The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage And hill and vale are passed. And continuous rotation Of the never-wearied wheel Brings them to where, near Dryburgh’s hill, Flows Pepperhanger’s rapid rill; To where the whilom victors dwell, And play the game they love so well, Foes worthy of their steel. * * * * * From the towers of stately Ballchester Drives in young Tennyslorne, From Pleycyngbury comes the heir, And the young de Vorley’s horn Is heard behind his spanking four As he drives to the Pavilion door, And nods to each a friendly greeting Assembled for the special meeting, Just called on Dryburgh’s lawn. They held a council standing By the Pavilion gate; There wasn’t much necessity For musing or debate. And they read the Sludgebro’ challenge “That another match they’d play;” And they all agreed on the Sludgeborough mead To meet on the trysting day. * * * * * Quick are the strokes as lightning From Charley Pleycynge’s racket, And hot must be the game that makes De Vorley doff his jacket; And the two said, “We will play them A return-match, if they will. That they may regain on Sludgeboro’ plain What they lost on Dryburgh’s hill.” But the maidens fair of Dryburgh Must do without their beaux, While young Pleycynge and de Vorley Go forth to fight the foes; To fight them where in Sludgeboro’s lakes The pike at their quarry dash, And the silver moon on the deep lagoon Sees the wild fowl dive and splash. And now on the Sludgebro’ tennis-lawn Is met a surging crowd, And “play” is called by the umpire skill’d. In accents clear and loud: And forth steps the great Verandah With the warrior Biscoe bold, Whose doughty feats upon these sheets Could never enough be told. And the Dryburgh pair so dauntless Step forth on that humid lawn, From which the lake-weed and the sedge Have recently been shorn: With their Tate-made rackets in their hands And their dark blue flannel coats; And the referee and the umpire skill’d Lay to, hard by, in their boats. Then the great Sir V. O. Verandah Served his over-handed stroke, And the crowd was hushed in silence, And never a word was spoke: But it came back down the side-lines, And made the whitening fly, And the warrior barely saw it, As it swiftly whistled by. Then all gazed on young de Vorley, As he smashed with wondrous knack; And some in front cried “Volley,” And some said “play it back;” But the Marshers looked despondent, As the umpire called the score, While all this time the rain poured down As usual in Sludgeboro’ town. * * * * * At length a sound of triumph From the Dryburgh players rose, “Three sets to love, and Dryburgh wins Once more against her foes.” And many a muttered curse was heard From the Marshers in goloshes, And folks in boats were heard to swear, 165 And the Sludgeboro’ people tore their hair, And their looks were those of grim despair, As they clutched their mackintoshes. But then a sullen murmur Through the angry Marshers ran, And the word was passed from mouth to mouth, Till it reached from rear to van: “Seize on those haughty Dryburghers, And duck them in our lake, And their jackets blue, and their rackets too, From those proud ones let us take.” * * * * * Then forthwith Charley Pleycynge raised Aloft his Tate-made racket; Sternly his partner buttoned up His dark blue Christ Church jacket; And the surging crowd pressed forward, And the shout of “Drown them!” rose, But the two stood calm and silent, And gazed upon their foes. * * * * * Was none who would be foremost To lead this fell attack? No: those behind cried “forward!” And those in front cried “back!” And backward now and forward Wavered the deep array, Till, all at once, the warrior bold And Kander, shepherd of the fold, And the country correspondent too, With fright all shivering cold and blue, Turned tail and ran away. And the great Sir V. O. Verandah, With all his Sludgeboro’ men, Fled for their lives and safety Through marsh and lake and fen; Nor paused to look behind them, All pale and white with fear, Till they had reached the furthest shores Of the gloomy Sludgeboro’ mere. * * * * * And in future generations, In Dryburgh’s lofty town, When we, and our great grandchildren By time have been cut down, In the freezing nights of winter, When the blinding snow-storm falls, And the boys are making tennis-nets, And the girls are washing balls, When the good man mends his racket, And tightens up the strings, When the good wife plies her needle, And mends her winter things, Will children gather round the fire, And the story will be told, How well their champions fought the fight On Sludgeboro’ marsh, on Dryburgh height In the famous days of old. From Pastime. September 28, 1883.

The Battle of the Asses’ Bridge. Triangle Equilateral By Algebra he swore, That his good friend, Isosceles, Should suffer wrong no more. By Algebra he swore it, And named a fighting day, And bade his angles hurry forth— East and west and south and north— To summon to the fray. East and west, and north and south, The angles hurry fast. And problem old and Theorem Have heard the trumpet blast. Shame on the Point that has no parts The Circle that would quake, When Equilateral has sworn The Asses’ Bridge to take. * * * * * And now they are assembled, The tale of fighting men, The Decimals in hundreds are, The Units one to ten. Equations all quadratical, Drawn out in long array; Oh, proud was Equilateral Upon the fighting day! But on the Bridge of Asses Was tumult and affright, For all the lines below the base Were stricken at the sight. They held a council standing, Upon the narrow ridge, Hard lines I wis in times like this ’Twould take to save the Bridge. Then outspake gallant Alpha, On the Apex full in view, “A Dog they say shall have his day, A Bridge must have it too; And how can man die better, When things come to this pass, Than fighting as first letter In the sacred name of ASS?” “Know then, false Equilateral, “No Bridge thou’lt take to-day; I, with two more to help me, Will keep ye all at bay. In these five lines a thousand May well be stopped by three; Now who will stand on either hand And keep the Bridge with me? Then outspake gallant Beta, Of Grecian blood was he, “Lo! I will stand on thy right hand, And keep the Bridge with thee.” And spake a stout Centurion, A Roman, surnamed C, “I will abide on thy left side, And keep the Bridge with thee.” The three stood calm and silent, And watched the foeman’s line, As from its right stepped out to fight 166 Theta’s well-known Co-sine. And Vector the Quaternion— Vector, whose fourfold power Had puzzled many a weary head, And kept it aching out of bed Long past the midnight hour. C went at once for Vector And with a deadly blow, Of his good blade he quickly laid The great Quaternion low: For in that hour had Vector’s power Been risen to the tenth. Little cared C I ween for he Had smote him to the Nth. Next Beta marked how Theta Advanced against his line, So with his trusty tangent he Bisected the Co-sine. “Lie there,” he cried, “fell tyrant! No longer shalt thou mark How Girton’s gold-haired graduates sigh With vain endeavours to descry The variable length of Pi In thine accursed Arc.” Then X on his Equation Advanced, and all were mute, For in his hand he waved his brand, A knotty old cube root; Thrice round his head he waved it, And then the weapon sprung Like bolt from bow, a mighty blow, On Alpha’s crest it rung. He reeled, and first on Beta Leaned, for a breathing space, Then dashed his Co-efficient In the Equation’s face: And loud he cried, “No more thy pride My inmost soul shall vex;” Then with a stroke, ’twould cleave an oak, Eliminated X. * * * * * They gave him out of Euclid Ten cuts so erudite, Not thrice ten senior wranglers Could solve ’twixt morn and night; They gave a square, it still is there, And every dunce derides, With twice the double ratio Of its homologous sides. And on the square they raised him A vast triangle high, His name is on the Apex To witness if I lie, And underneath is written, In letters all of brass, How well brave Alpha held the Bridge, That’s sacred to the ASS. J. M. Lowry.

Harcourtius of Derbiæ. Harcourtius of Derbiæ, In Right’s great name he swore That the crass hordes of Bumble Should hold Guildhall no more. In Right’s great name he swore it, And with good heart and will Made ready for the desperate fight— That is to say, he named a night For bringing in his Bill, And when the night (’twas Tuesday) In order due came round, In serried ranks the Liberals Were in their places found; And with a mighty shouting Their gallant chief they cheered: In sooth, those present on that day Declare ’twas good to hear the way They ardently “Hear-hear’d!” But ’mongst the City Fathers Was turmoil and affright, For they had right good reason To dread the coming fight; And as they filled the lobby, And locomotion stopped, An awesome thing it was to hear The h’s that they dropp’d! For many a City Father, With far-protruding vest, And City Knight, who should have worn A soup-tureen as crest; Vulgares Consiliarii— In short, they all were there, Who, having passed the bottle, Soon hoped to “pass the Chair!” They held a council standing About the Lobby floor, In groups to which fierce Auceps In turns his presence bore; But, after hot discussion Of this and that design, They, to a man, agreed their plan Should be to go and dine! * * * * * Then out spoke brave Harcourtius, Commencing the debate, “To every Government on earth Defeat comes soon or late, And how can one fall better Than fighting Bumbles’ swarm, For the sake of London’s future And Municipal Reform? For the sake of every citizen, Be he or high or low, And dwelleth he at Kensington, Or Bermondsey, or Bow, For the sake of every citizen Who payeth heavy rates, And to save them from the jobbery That Bumble’s rule creates. “I’m ready, Mr. Speaker, With all the haste I may, To pass the sweeping measure That I bring in to-day. Too long has Gog been fancied 167 Invincible to be; Now, who will stand on either hand And back this Bill with me?” Then out spake Gee-O-Emius, A Grand Old Man was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand And back this Bill with thee!” And out spake Chelsæ Firthius, A legal “friend” was he, “I will, with pride, by thee abide, And fight the Bill with thee!” Meanwhile the Civic forces, Despite their recent meal, Are, in their hearts, so much afraid, That all the blatant noise they made Could not their fear conceal. In vain did Magnus Blockus His snuff-box pass around, In vain did Auceps try to cheer His followers, or far or near, By his loud “Yah, Yah’s” sound. And far above the arena, More City Fathers sat; Smug, dense, and dull and vulgar, Crass, fatuous, and fat. And full of dread foreboding Lest, if the Bill were past, Of civic jobs and shuffles They’d seen the very last. For none was for the City, Though all “managed” its estates; And the Liveries robbed the poor man, And the Council jobbed the rates. Most trusts were misdirected, And endowments misapplied, When Harcourtius and Firthius Stood out boldly side by side. Stout Firthius sprang on Auceps, And in a moment’s space He hurled, with crushing ardour, A Blue-book in his face, He saw, too, McArturus, With soup-nerved vengeance burn, And with one shot upset him, Fired from a new “Return.” Then Cardenus of Barum, On Gee-o-Emius rushed; Cardenus, who, neath cab or ’bus So frequently is crushed; And Gee-O-Emius met his dash With a compelling frown, Then, with a force like Pickford’s van, Bore his assailant down. ’Twas Firthius smote down Luskus, Statistics laid him low; And to Cottoniensis’ heart Harcourtius sent a blow; Owdenus muttered curses, And ’midst the rising din Was heard the voice of him who sits For Farringdon Within. But hark, they cry, “Randolphus!” And ’midst a deep’ning roar The spry “Quaternian” leader Sprang out upon the floor. He smiled at those before him, A smile serenely sly; He eyed the Bumbles near him, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, “In my existence I never yet did know So very just a measure, So very mean a foe, The City Corporation! Bah! tell me what is that? A mass of vulgar ignorance, Of fussiness and fat!” Then, snatching up a Blue-book, He turned him left and right, And hurled most damning extracts With all his well-known might! ’Twas vain for poor Northcotus To shrewishly protest; In vain for Sclater-Boothius To beat his massive chest. And when the perky Crossius To Bumble brought his aid, ’Twas fun to see how quickly he Upon his back was laid. Meantime, the “whips” their office Persistently had plied, And all the air was vocal With cries of “‘vide,’ ‘vide,’ ‘vide!” With one more bound Harcourtius At Auceps sternly leapt, Then like a stream that bursts its banks, In currents twain the rival ranks. On to the lobbies swept. * * * * * No sound of joy or sorrow Rose from the crowded floor, But friends and foes in mute surmise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing at the door, And when, from ’mongst the members That surged about the Bar, They saw the Liberal Whips appear, There rose a most stupendous cheer, Repeated near and far. The stricken City Fathers, Disgusted, slink away, But round great Gee-O-Emius The jocund victors stay, Until, midst shouts and laughter, And cheering long and loud, He passes from the Forum, Hailed by the joyous crowd. They gave him and Harcourtius A banquet straightaway, And passed of votes of thanks, at least, A score or so a day. And they made a graven image Of both these statesmen good, And set them up where hitherto The Civic Griffin stood. And still their names are music Wherever they are heard; Still by the daring deeds they did, The City’s pulse is stirred. And its wives still pray for offspring 168 With hearts and will as bold As those who passed the Bill so well, And stormed bold Bumble’s hold. And in the nights of winter, When from Turnham-Green to Bow, And from Camberwell to Hackney The Cits all homeward go; When round their cosy firesides The happy households draw, No longer dreading Bumble, Nor Vestry-muddled law; When the evening print is opened, And electric-lamps are lit, And, their rates no longer dreading, The serene breadwinners sit; When the young and old in circle Around their parents close; When the girls make high-art doyleys, And the boys make classic mots; When Papa writes to the paper To Civic ways commend, And London’s central government To London’s weal doth tend; Then, with many a burst of laughter, Shall the story still be told How brave Harcourtius passed his Bil. In the bad days of old! Truth. April 10, 1884.

The Battle of the Institute.[101] A Lay sung on the Feast of St. Guy, about the ides of November, 1875. Charles Cochrane of the Institute, By the heathen gods he swore That that great swell, Lothian Bell, Should Cocci Walkus be no more. By all the gods he swore it, And Marshall[102] named a day, And circulars were posted forth East and west, and south and north, Calling members to the fray. Charles Cochrane there, whose yellow hair Waves o’er his manly brow He built a mighty furnace, the cause of all the Row. This furnace was more wide and big Than any other known, And, Cochrane said, t’would make more pig As could be clearly shown. And then he quoted figures, which were an awful bore, And of the members some did yawn, some shuffled on the floor. Bell shook his head, and then he said The figures were all wrong. The blast put in was much too weak The facts were all too strong! And in his pleasant, genial way He “hoped the Chair would let him say That Cochrane was a fool!” Then Cowper great, from Storey’s Gate, He raised his voice on high And swore an oath, a mighty oath, He swore that Bell should die! Each chieftain hastened to the brawl In vain did Bramwell “Order” call. Cried Marshall “What will Europe think? When Cochrane hurled a pot of Ink Full in the face of Bell! Now Williams to the rescue! oh! What man alive could tell The laughter that arose all round When they saw the face of Bell? But Bell he rushed at Cochrane And smote him fearful blows; He gave him one between the eyes, And two upon the nose! They rose, they fell, with gasp, and yell And angry oath and roar; Whilst Ink and Blood, one horrid flood Did cover all the floor! Then, Carbutt, Mighty Hammer, and Bramwell in the Chair And Siemens of the Telegraph, did wish they were not there. Whilst all the other members thought It was a funny way. To settle scientific points In that far distant day. But high above the mighty din, was Hawksley heard to say “Ho! Gentlemen, Ho! Gentlemen, let’s stop this horrid fray!” So they sent out for the Serjeants, the Serjeants of Police, The Constables of Manchester, in the interests of Peace. They bade them pick those members up, And wipe the blood away, Whilst others washed each inky stain From off the floor that day. But when they picked the foemen up No man alive could tell Which of the two was Cochrane, Nor which of them was Bell! But Bell survived the combat, all in the North Contree And for his gifts and money, they made him an M.P. Whilst Cochrane for his valour Got glory and renown, As much as could be measured Ere the sun went down. 169 And in each drawing office, when the argand lamp is lit, And the draughtsman cuts his pencil, and points his ready wit. When the pupil spoils the tracing, and breaks his Archbutt scale With laughter and with merriment then shall they tell the tale. Whilst the pupil rubs his Indian ink And the draughtsman wipes his pen They still recount with wonder The valour of those men. And still we hear the story—told with mirth and glee, In any West end office, where merry draughtsmen be.