VOLUME V. (continued 9)

Fragment from a Lay of Modern England. (Picked up somewhere between Downing Street and Khartoum.) * * * * * But the statesman’s brow was dark, And fear was in his eye, For he saw the wild storm rising Across his summer sky. “The Mahdi, he will water His steeds at Cairo’s gate;— No Caucus, and no Chamberlain, Can save us from our fate!” Then out spoke gallant Gordon,— All fearless was his speech,— “What could a man ask better, Than to stand in the fiery breach; To go at England’s bidding And rend the sordid chain, That binds the desert peoples, For the sake of a Pasha’s gain; To build up out of ruin Order and peace once more; To burn the thongs for scourging, To break the prison door?” * * * * * Alone stood our brave hero, But constant still in mind, In front, foes thick as desert sand, And sneaking friends behind. “Now curse it,” quoth Lord Hartington,[103] “Blood-guiltiness I fear; The sun beats strong, the way is long, And English gold is dear!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth smooth Granville, “Yet will I speak him fair; “And show in my despatches “A Minister’s wise care, “To save him from the bad Zebehr, “And from the Mahdi too; “And praise him, while we leave him “To sink with all his crew!” “Aye! curse it,” quoth Spectator, “Why raise a hand to save “The friends he’s gathered round him; “Let each man dig his grave, “Or join the coming Mahdi, “Or take himself to flight; “We’ll rally round the Government, “And have a faction fight.” Round turned he as not deigning, Those craven ranks to see, Nought spake he to Lord Hartington, To Granville nought spake he; But he turned to the English people And spoke to the English heart, That ever has throbbed the higher When called to choose its part. “I came here at your bidding, “I came to try and save; “I spoke of that far England, “Away beyond the wave, “Whose hand could reach the helpless, “Whose shield could bar the way, “And would not leave to perish “One life, that owned her sway. “And now, forsooth, I’m bidden “To save myself in flight.” * * * * * Auberon Herbert. Pall Mall Gazette. May, 1884.

Adolphus Smalls, of Boniface, By all the powers he swore, That though he had been plucked three times He would be plucked no more. By all the powers he swore it, And put on “Coaches” three, And many a livelong night he read, With sported oak, and towell’d head, To get him his “degree.” * * * * * They gave him his “Testamur,” That was a Passman’s right— He was more than three Examiners Could “plough” from morn to night. And in each Oxford College, In the dark November days, When Undergraduates fresh from hall Are gathering round the blaze: When the crusted port is opened And the Palmer’s lamp is lit, 170 When the weed glows in the freshman’s mouth, And makes him turn to spit: When “goes” unlimited are forced On some unhappy gull, When victims, doomed to mull their pass, Unconscious pass the mull: With chaffing and with laughing. They still the tale renew, How Smalls, of Boniface, went in, And, actually got through. Anonymous.

How Titus Manlius Macauleius was made a Patrician. The Consul Palmerstonius Hath ta’en down his Debrett, And o’er its storied pages His anxious brow is set. Those are not age’s wrinkles The Consul’s cheek that plough, It is not time that sprinkles That snow upon his brow. The Consul closed the volume— He closed it with a bang! And he seized his slate and pencil From the wall where they did hang; And straight he set to ciphering, And out a sum he brought; And his sum was of six figures, And it ended with a nought. So the united ages Of the Patricians stood, When Consul Palmerstonius Vowed they must have new blood. What though your novi homines Do not always wax in wit; Oft Patricius, like Poeta, Proves “nascitur non fit.” “Besides, as after physic The matron gives her child A crust of blandest honey, To make the bitter mild; So I, for the Patricians, A pleasant peer must find, To take away the savour Wens’dalius left behind. “Patres majorum gentium, Patres minorum, too, Your seats upon those benches To sources strange are due: The fruit of royal bye-blows, The growths of courtier-slime The brawny sons of rapine, The heirs of reckless crime. “The sword hath dibbled often Holes for patrician seed; And many a lawyer’s tongue hath licked All shoes, and oft unfee’d, No stooping found too lowly, No crawling thought too mean, If but a Conscript Father He might at last be seen. “I’ll raise to the Patricians, One who ne’er wore steel, nor lied, Whose weapon was his goose-quill, Whose pleadings were world-wide; Whose foes were Falsehood, Prejudice, Fraud, Sophistry, and Wrong— With which he held wit-combat, Wit-combat, brave and long! “So, when that Palmerstonius Hath gone where all must go— E’en those whose brains glow fiery ’Neath coronals of snow: Write by the Appian way-side, On the tomb where he is laid, ‘Of Manlius Macauleius He a Patrician made.’” (Four verses omitted.) Punch. September 19, 1857.

The Battle of Lake Glenlivit. By the Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.” It was a song of sorrow, Blent with a solemn vow, Floated across the lovely lake, And up the mountain’s brow. Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! No wonder that we grieve; Glenlivit! O, Glenlivit! Why should we ever leave? No, we will never leave it, By oaths let us avouch, As long as mountain dew exists, And plack is in the pouch. Ye Parliament oppressors, Who Scotia ne’er could quell, Our fathers fought ye stoutly,— Their sons can fight as well!

Glenlivit’s joyous victors With cheers the welkin rent, 171 And home was Forbes Mackenzie Upon a shutter sent. Now you who hear this story, Don’t doubt it, if you please; Have I not told you things before As wonderful as these? Why should you doubt a legend Because ’tis nearer home? Or can no fables please you But those that come from Rome?

Lay of Modern England. Augustus Smith, of Scilly, By Piper’s Hole he swore That the proud Lord of Brownlow Should keep the waste no more. By Piper’s Hole he swore it, And named a trysting night, And bade his myrmidons ride forth, By special train from London’s north, To venge the Common Right. Where on the street of Drummond Four Doric columns frown, Where the gigantic Stephenson On his own line looks down, The stalwart navvies gathered, From lodgings far and near; Strong were the crowbars in their hands, Stronger their hope for beer. Loured the foul London gaslights, And made the gloom more deep, The million-peopled city’s sons Were in their early sleep, When from the Euston Station Glided the special train That bore the force that went to win Berkhampstead’s waste again. On, the steam-demon bore them, Nor flagged upon the wing, Until he lighted with his load At Baptist-chapelled Tring. They marched three miles in silence, The road was dark and drear, One thought upheld the navvy’s heart The pleasant thought of beer. They reached Berkhampstead Common Or that which had been one, Until by Ashridge’s proud Lord The feudal deed was done. There, miles of iron railing Scowled grimly in the dark, Making what once was Common, The Lord of Brownlow’s Park: His rights that Lord asserted, Rights which they hold a myth, The bold Berkhampstead Commoner, Led by Augustus Smith. Spoke out the nameless Leader, “That Railing must go down” Then firmer grasped the crowbar Those hands so strong and brown, They march against the railing, They lay the crowbars low, And down and down for many a yard The costly railings go. So down went Brownlow’s railings, And down went Hazell’s beer, And from the gathering crowd upgoes One loud and lusty cheer. For carriage, gig, and dog-cart Come rushing on the scene, And all Berkhampstead hastes to see, Where Brownlow’s rails had been. And husbands, wives, and children, Went strolling through the gorse, And cried, “We’ve got our own again, Thanks to your friendly force.” They cut green little morsels As memories of the Band, Whose lusty arms and iron bars Had freed the Common land. Bold was the deed and English The Commoners have done, Let’s hope the law of England, too, Will smile upon their fun. For our few remaining Commons Must not be seized or sold, Nor Lords forget they do not live In the bad days of old. (Seven verses omitted.) Punch. March 24, 1866.

And when the lamp is lighted In the long November days, And lads and lasses mingle At the shucking of the maize; When pies of smoking pumpkin Upon the table stand, And bowls of black molasses Go round from hand to hand; When slap jacks, maple sugared, Are hissing in the pan, And cider with a dash of gin, Foams in the social can; When the goodman wets his whistle, And the goodwife scolds the child, And the girls exclaim convulsively, “Have done, or I’ll be riled!” When the loafer sitting next them Attempts a sly caress, And whispers, “Oh! you ’possum, 172 You’ve fixed my heart I guess!” With laughter and with weeping, Then shall they tell the tale, How Colt his foeman quartered, And died within the jail.

The Great Durbar. Jan Larrens[104] of Calcutta, Chief Knight of India’s Star, Has sworn by all the Hindoo gods He’ll hold a Grand Durbar. By Gunga’s stream he swore it And named at once the day, Then bade his Aides-de-camp go forth, East, and west, and south, and north, To summon the array.

And through the heat of summer, Warm night and sultry day, While Brahmins teach the girls to love And Hindu youths to pray; When, through the Rajah’s palace, Or in the poor man’s hut, Against the winds of winter The doors are closely shut; When in his close Zenana The Indian swell reclines, And smokes the bubbling hookah And quaffs forbidden wines; And when in dufter-khanah Lall-puggree counts the gains He made from swarthy chieftains On Agra’s sun-burnt plains; When the ryot drives the bullock, And twists his broken tail; When Hindo maidens seek their loves, And old crones fiercely rail; When the woman cooks the curry, And piles it on the rice, And the baboo and the labourer Alike count up their pice, In every home in Agra, In many a place afar, They’ll tell the tale of that day when Jan Larrens held Durbar. From Lyrics and Lays. By Pips. Calcutta, Wyman 1867.

Before the Comitia. (The Two Aruspices.) In Rome, ere the Comitia To business could be set, The Augurs and Arùspices In solemn conclave met; The peckings, pipings, hoppings Of the sacred fowls to try, And in the victim’s entrails For signs of fate to pry. * * * * * There’s Dizzius Aruspex Wears a sardonic grin, Though sterner Merrypebblius Such laughter holds a sin; But, for all he looks so solemn, No less he twigs the fun, E’en while his brow on Dizzius Appears to frown “Ha’ done!” “Leaders should not be laughers,” (He holds) “whate’er their case; If in ’tis too triumphant; If out, ’tis not in place. Or, if a laugh be needful”— Which he does not believe— “The Arùspice’s laugh should never Extend beyond his sleeve.” (Thirteen verses omitted.) Punch. February 8, 1873.

The Citizens of Cambridge By Jonas Webb they swore, That the gownsmen for the future Should hold their own no more. By Jonas Webb they swore it, And named Guy Fawkes his day, And to their quarters all sent forth, East and West and South and North, To summon their array. * * * * * I wis ’midst all the Leaders There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Captain, Up rose the Leaders all, In haste they tore away their gowns, And shied them at the wall. They held a Council standing Beside the Royal Gate, No time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate, Outspake the Leader roundly, Picked men must straight go down. For if Rose Crescent once is lost, What hope to save the Gown? * * * * * Then out spoke Brown the brave one— The Captain of the eight— 173 “To every man this fight will bring A struggle soon or late. And how can a man fight better, Then facing fearful odds, For the honour of his College, And his oft invoked gods.[105] “To the Crescent, then, Sir Leader, With all the speed ye may; I and two more to help me Will hold the foe in play. In that strait path a hundred May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the lane with me?” Then out spake brave Mackenzie, A Scotchman proud was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the lane with thee.” And out spake strong O’Grady, Hibernian blood had he— “I will abide at thy left side, And keep the lane with thee.” * * * * * And so they won Rose Crescent, And beat the Townsmen back— But they owed it to the Valiant Three Who bore the first attack— That Dauntless Three who stood there, And kept in check the foes, And who so bravely held their post, In the Crescent of the Rose. And in the nights of winter When the cold north winds blow— And the “hallooing” of the cads Is heard amidst the snow; When round the well-built college Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the black gems from collieries Roar louder yet within; When the choicest cup is ready, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the edibles are fit, When all the men in circle Around the fireplace close, When some are smoking placidly And some on sofas doze; When the host prepares the potables, And makes all snug his room, And the cheers of all his comrades Far in the court-yard boom— With shouting and with laughter— Still is the story told How well those three men kept the path, In the brave days of old.

Fifth of November. Up rose the silver moonlight Over the rustling trees, And fast the hum of angry men Was wafted on the breeze. From many a dirty pot-house, And hole without a name, From many a low and filthy haunt The mob of blackguards came; From populous St. Aldates, Swarming with noisy brats; St. Aldates on whose house tops we Have often heard with ecstasy The sweet nocturnal melody Of melancholy cats.

And now no living thing is seen In the deserted streets, Save Oxford’s useless bobbies, Who perambulate the High, From Carfax to where Magdalen tower Stands tall and grim at midnight hour Against the moonlit sky. And oft on winter evenings, In the cold Christmas vac., When home from school and college The youngsters have come back, Around the blazing fireside, Still is the story told, How well the gownsmen thrashed the town In the good days of old.

A certain set of Christ Church, One common oath they swore, That the great M——s of Christ Church Should suffer yet once more, And to the Oxford tradesmen They named a trysting day And made the messenger go forth East and West and South and North, To summon the array. * * * * * But Mr. M——s’s brow was sad, He said their speech was low 174 And if they did not shut it up, He’d to the censor go. “These vans that come upon us, These tradesmen here that wait, I have not ordered,—Porter! I wish you’d keep the gate.” * * * * * Still in the nights of winter When the moon shines clear and bright And o’er the quad rise loud and wild The voices of the night. When the “36” is opened And the gleaming lamp is lit, And all around the embers A jovial party sit; When fresh and senior circle Around the firebrands bright, And the redolent virginian weed Gives mingled cloud and light; When the connoisseur, with practised eye, Rejoicing at the sight, Holds up his glass of ruddy port Athwart the streaming light, With screams and tears of laughter Still is the story told Of how the porter kept the gate In the brave days of old.

The Lay of the Last Commemoration Dinner. (By a Disappointed Guest.) The Seniors of Trinity By Newton’s bones they swore, That the proud Undergraduate Should share the feast no more; By Newton’s bones they swore it, And named their Feasting day, And sent no invitations round To hungry Scholars humblier gowned, Or prizemen in the May. * * * * *

A hand they found of Tomkins, Some sixteen miles away, And in its cold clenched fingers A box—“Bryant and May”; And to this hour his praises Are oft rehearsed in song, As one who perished at his post, And cheerfully gave up the ghost To wipe away a wrong. He standeth in the cloisters, Beneath a roof of thatch, Tomkins, the fiery freshman, In act to strike a match; And underneath is carven, In letters plain to read, A circumstantial narrative Of his devoted deed. Anonymous.

Obstruction Utilised. King Mensa of Coomassie By Mumbo Jumbo swore His family umbrella Should be detained no more; By Jumbo did he swear it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers run forth, South and west, and east and north, To gather his array. East and west, and south and north, The messengers run fast; And the fetish in each village Has heard the conch-shell’s blast: Shame on the false Ashantee Who will not join the host, When Mensa of Coomassie Is marching on Cape Coast! * * * * * But Gladstone’s brow was sad, And Gladstone’s speech was trite: “The Land League take King Mensa! We do not want to fight.” He looked upon the telegram They gave him, with a frown: “I fear ’t will send my Budget up, And I want to keep it down.” Then spake Coercion Forster, “O Gladstone, you’re a goose! For everything upon this earth One, some day, finds a use. Let’s send Parnell against him, With his Home Rule array! I think he’ll be the very man To obstruct King Mensa’s way!” “Good Forster!” answered Gladstone, “What thou sayest is very well.” So forth against King Mensa They sent the great Parnell; For England in her battles Grudged not a Home Rule life, To give the English Parliament, And Ireland, rest from strife. * * * * * I wis in all Ashanteeland There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Down from his throne fell Mensa, Down fell his council all, Headlong they rolled upon the floor, And loudly ’gan to squall. They held a council, rolling Upon the mud-hut floor; No hope there was, you well may guess, Of victory in such war. Alas! they had no Speaker To face such dire attack. King Mensa cried, “We’re diddled!” And his council cried, “Alack!” So they sued for peace right humbly, And said they’d been in fun, And sent five more umbrellas To be kept at Kensington! Judy. March 16, 1881.

“When the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, No blackguard in the city But raised his Roman nose: No lady on the housetops But snarl’d at him and spat, No child but shriek’d out curses— (Immoral little brat!)” * * * * * “Then out spake Spurius Lartius, A noble swell was he: ‘Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And take a chop with thee!’ And out spake strong Herminius, Heaver of coals was he: ‘I too will stay; and make them pay The wonted half pennie!’” * * * * * Horatius thus addresses the river:— “Oh, Tiber, mister Tiber— If thus I may address you— If to yon shore you’ll bear me o’er, All I can say is—Bless you!” * * * * * When boys and girls are romping, And the elders drain the flagon, While the children burn their fingers At glorious snap-dragon; Around the Christmas fire Still is the story told— How well Horatius kept the bridge, In the brave days of old.

A Lay of Modern Hammersmith. The great Sir James[106] of Charing Cross By the whole Board he swore That carriage folk for Richmond Should risk their lives no more, By the whole Board he swore it, And named a closing day, And bade his engineers ride forth To stop all traffic with the North, And block the right of way. “To stop all traffic with the North,” The news it flies full fast, And terrace, lodge and villa, Are staggered at the blast. Shame on the slave of Mortlake Content for hours to roam, Because Sir James of Charing Cross, By Putney sends him home. (Five verses omitted.) Time was, when after dining Beyond proud Notting’s ridge, A halfpenny would bring him Across the classic bridge: For Hammersmith and Mortlake, Ere both of them were sold, Were like suburban brothers In the brave days of old. But meanwhile axe and lever Have ruthlessly been plied, And soon the ancient structure Will have a new inside. But louder grows the thunder About the route to town,— And p’raps they’ll get a wooden bridge A little lower down. So in some night next Winter, When the cold Easters blow, And the omnibus comes slipping Amid the frozen snow; When round the lonely villa The fog wets to the skin, And the cheap coals of Wallsend Chokes everyone within. When the latest bill is opened, And the dimmest gas is lit, And the curtains are drawn closer, O’er the windows that won’t fit; When the leaden pipe is bursting With the water it provides; When the girls are reading novels, And the boys are making slides; When the goodman scans his cheque book, With a fitting Christmas gloom; And the goodwife’s chatter sharply Goes snapping round the room; With threats and imprecations, The tale may still be told How great Sir James blocked up the bridge That served quite well of old. Punch. September 30, 1882.

How Gladstone Won the Election. I. Our Queen’s Most Gracious Majesty, By the rich gems she wore, Declared “Her faithful Commons” Should waste their time no more. With her own tongue she said it, And would not brook delay, But bade her officers ride forth, East, and west, and south, and north, To scatter the array. II. East and west, and south and north, The officers went fast, And cottage, town, and county Have heard the trumpet blast; Shame on th’ enfranchised Briton Who does not find his voice, 176 When country, Queen, and duty, Demand to know his choice. III. For though her “faithful Commons,” The Queen must needs dissolve, The gov’ning of the Empire Requires her quick resolve, To call another Parliament Of loyal men and true, Who shall devise laws good and wise, And change old things to new. * * * * * VII. And now, most of the boroughs Have sent their tale of men, The Tories clear the hundred, And claim the victory then. In London’s mighty city, A Liberal scarce dare speak; A proud man was Lord Salisbury As ended the first week. VIII. But ’mong the Liberal party Was anger and dismay, As some of their oldest strongholds Yielded to Tory sway. From all parts of the country The messages came in, Suggesting ideas, expressing fears, Hoping ’gainst hope, to win. XIV. Then out spake William Gladstone, A Grand Old Man was he, “To every one upon this earth, Must come obscurity; And how can man yield better, Than falling in a fight, Where the true, straightforward Liberal, Meets Tory and Parnellite? XV. “Keep up your pluck, good comrades, And hark to what I say; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe at bay. In Scotland’s beauteous capital I’ll rally all the clans; Now who will stand on either hand, And aid me in my plans?” XVI. Then out spake good Lord Hartington, A comrade tried was he, “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And fight this fight with thee.” And out spake William Forster, Of Irish fame was he, “I will abide by thy left side, Though weak and ill I be.” XVII. “Brave leaders,” quoth the Liberals, “As speak ye, so let it be.” And straight against the great array Forth went the valiant three. For Liberals, in this conflict Left not a chance untried, To crush the combined forces Which strangely were allied. XVIII. For none were for a Party, But all were for the State; And the great men helped the poor, And the poor men loved the great. The lands they’d fairly portion, In a way which they knew how, And every man they’d have possess, “Three acres and a cow.” XXX. To Derbyshire, Lord Hartington, Travelled to help a friend; While Forster’s serious illness Threatened his life to end. But when they saw friend Gladstone Commence renewed attack On a Tory Welchman’s stronghold They wished to hurry back. XXXIII. “O voters, county voters,” The old man’s heard to say, “A Liberal’s life and policy Do ye endorse to day.” So he spake, and, speaking, opened His umbrella with his right, And, with his left hand, seized his axe And plunged into the fight. XXXIV. But fiercely raged the conflict, Fed by each Party’s gain, And fast his strength was failing, And heavy grew the strain; His voice grew weak and weaker, As speeches multiplied, And oft they thought him done for, But he again revived. XXXVI. And now the strife is over, In Flintshire as elsewhere, The Liberal cause has conquered, With lots of strength to spare. Round Gladstone throng the leaders From all parts of the land, And each would be the foremost To grasp his manly hand. XXXIX. And in the nights of winter When the stars withhold their smiles, And the sweet voices of the cats Are heard upon the tiles; When round suburban villas Roars the loud tempests’ din, And draughts and smoky chimneys Cause loud complaints within— XL. When the oldest bottle’s opened, And the chandelier is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the good wife sits to knit; 177 When young and old in circle Around the fireside close, When the boys go in for courting, And the girls caress their beaus; XLI. When the Stanley club completeth Its year of jubilee, And grey-haired members take with pride A grandchild on each knee; With ever growing interest The story will survive, How William Gladstone gained the day In eighteen eighty-five. F. W. S. (Twenty-four verses omitted.)

Gladstonius. (Extract from a Classic Poem.) But with a crash like thunder, Fell many a loosened “plank,” And, with a dam,[107] the Grand Old Man, Made for the County Bank. * * * * * “O Voter, Rural Voter, To whom we Liberals pray, A Liberal’s life and policy Take thou in charge this day!” So he spake, and speaking, fastened The well-worn mackintosh, And, with Welsh flannel on his back, Plunged Hodgewards in the slosh. * * * * * And when above the turmuts They see his drooping gills; From the Reform came loud applause, And the Times’ Leader-writers pause To trim their well-worn quills. * * * * * But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And the Good Rural Voter Bore bravely up his chin. And now he feels the bottom, Now on dry earth he stands, Now round him throng the Lib’rals; To press his muddy hands. * * * * * They gave him an umbrella-stand In record of the fight, And twelve stout stand-up collars To wear from morn till night. They gave him gay gardenias For buttonholes, I vow, And Chamberlainus promised him “Three Acres and a Cow!” Punch. December 12, 1885.

Now Joseph C. of Birmingham By his Three Points he swore, The worthy folk of England Should suffer wrong no more. By his Three Points he swore it, And eager for the fray, He bade his messengers ride forth East and West, and South and North, To summon his array.

Jon Runcius of Hacne By the nine gods he swore That the ninth seat at Stepne Should vacant be no more. By the nine gods he swore it, And he marked the Meeting Day, And made his circulars go forth, East and West, and South and North, To summon his array. East and West, and South and North, The circulars go round, And every Proprietor, A proxy-form hath found. Shame on the weak Shareholder, Who chafes at being bored, When Runcius of Hacne Is going for the Board! The Last Verse. When the goodman buys “Commercial,” When we near the half-year’s end, When the goodwife counts her holding, And scents her dividend, With zest, tut no ill-will or spite, Still be the story told, How well Bradshauvus kept the Board, And somebody was sold!

Volumnia. Just at the ides of April They were in marriage tied, The noblest Roman of them all Unto the fairest bride; Volumnia her nomen was, And Lartius was her “spoon;” The twain went to Tarentum, To pass the honeymoon. Yet, when the ides of August Had swiftly glided by, For a new Autumnal bonnet The bride began to cry He said: “My dear Volumnia I cannot give you that.” Yet still her cry was: “Lartius, I want a new style hat!” 178 He was a speculator In stocks of every sort; But down, far down had fallen, The stocks which Lartius bought, Had fallen down until his purse Was as a pancake flat. Yet still her cry was: “Lartius, I want a novel hat!” “Volumnia,” said Lartius, “Now, really you must cease— I cannot give you what you ask, So let me have some peace; I’m busted, used up, done for, And all that sort of thing, If bonnets cost a sesterce I could not buy a string.” Yet still she kept on crying Aloud for a new hat. He had it with his muffins, When he at breakfast sat; He had it with his roasted joint, When dinner was served hot; And still it came at supper With toast and the tea-pot. Then Lartius donned his toga, And by the Gods he swore That such an endless nagging He would endure no more. “I’ll to the Lictor,” quoth he, “And tell my tale straightway. I’ll tell to Consul and Tribune How she does nag and importune And see what they will say.” “Wants a new hat!” quoth Consul And Lictor and Tribune. “That must be stopped, or females, Will rule our country soon, It’s written in the Tables, And all the laws of Rome, That when a woman’s hat is old She ought to stay at home. “And if she nags her husband Just when he’s dreadful short, And howls for a new bonnet, Why that’s in law a tort: And for all torts the laws provide A punishment complete: For such a heinous crime as hers That she should die is meet.” The Romans stood no nonsense In those good days of old. They quickly crushed a woman Whene’er she grew too bold. They fired such without ado Off the Tarpeian height; And that happed to Volumnia, And served that female right. Anonymous.

A Lay sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux. Ho, trumpets, sound a war note! Ho, lictors, clear the way! The Knights will ride, in all their pride, Along the streets to day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with garlands all, From Castor in the Forum, To Mars without the wall. Each Knight is robed in purple, With olive each is crowned; A gallant war-horse under each Paws haughtily the ground. While flows the Yellow River, While stands the Sacred Hill, The proud Ides of Quintilis Shall have such honour still. Gay are the Martian Kalends; December’s Nones are gay: But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides, Shall be Rome’s whitest day. Unto the Great Twin Brethren We keep this solemn feast. Swift, swift, the Great Twin Brethren Came spurring from the East. To where, by Lake Regillus, Under the Porcian height, All in the lands of Tusculum, Was fought the glorious fight. * * * * * And Sergius the High Pontiff Alone found voice to speak: “The gods who live for ever Have fought for Rome to day! These be the Great Twin Brethren To whom the Dorians pray. Here, hard by Vesta’s temple, Build we a stately dome Unto the Great Twin Brethren Who fought so well for Rome. And when the months returning Bring back this day of fight, The proud Ides of Quintilis Marked evermore with white. Unto the Great Twin Brethren Let all the people throng, With chaplets and with offerings, With music and with song; And let the doors and windows Be hung with garlands all, And let the Knights be summoned To Mars without the wall: Thence let them ride in purple With joyous trumpet sound, Each mounted on his war-horse, And each with olive crowned; And pass in solemn order Before the sacred dome, Where dwell the Great Twin Brethren Who fought so well for Rome!” T. B. Macaulay.

The Chiswick Flower Fête. For 1846. Ho! members take your tickets,— Ho! maidens, choose your shawls! The son looks out his waistcoats, The sire selects his smalls. To-day is Flora’s triumph, To-day great sights you view, So, cabmen, drive your cattle, And drive your bargains too. Green are the squares of London, And some few lanes are green, And trees of city foliage Shade walks of stone between, And green are certain gala days, With places known to fame— The inner circle of the park That bears the Regent’s name. And green are those great glasses That hold Germania’s wine, That they tell you suit the vintage Of the clear Moselle and Rhine: And green are those young freshmen, Who, to earn a gentle name, Take credit of a tailor, Or give it to a dame. But greener far than any Is Chiswick’s shaven sward, And gayer than all gala-days Are the groups that swarm abroad. See how they muster onwards,— The car, the cab, the team; My dearest friends in carriages, My dearer self by steam. Bright is the first fresh show of Spring, When cucumbers are rare; And bright the show of hot July, When Autumn’s fruits are there: Autumn that’s forced beforehand, As children oversage, When all forestalls its season, Like minds before their age. But the brightest day among them, The grandest show of three, Is that which brings the roses, And draws down you and me. So ’mid the great Triumvirs Did greater Caesar sway; So ’mid the days of Epsom Stands out the Derby day. (Ten verses omitted.) The Travelling Bachelor.

The Battle of the Vestries. Ho, guardians! sound the cornet, Ho, beadle! clear the way, The parish pride to-day hath hied To see the mud-pumps play. The legates of the Vestries Have gained the river boat. The legates of the Vestries Are all in state afloat. The legates of the Vestries Defying aqueous ills, Have reached the land by Stratford’s strand, Where stand the Abbey Mills. Fair are the bowers of Stratford, Its coppices and clumps, And fair the Pumping Station Which Tamesian sewage pumps, And fairer yet by long chalks That cold collation is, Which Vestrymen have brought in train, Of ham and beef and fowl amain, And ale and stout and cheap champagne: The Vestries term it “fiz.” They saw the Abbey Mill Pumps Work grandly up and down, Which save the mud and garbage Infecting London town; And when they had inspected, With noses satisfied, Down sat they to a banquet sprent O’er a white table in the tent Pitched over Stratford side. But ere they sat to dine there On fowl and beef and tongue, They, on the steamboat fore and aft, The wine and bitter beer had quaffed, Till, in the language of their craft, Each Vestryman was “sprung.” Now dinner barely over, With more drink doled to each, Higgins the noble shopkeeper, Arose to make a speech— Higgins who all the noblemen Of Clerkenwell supplies; And near him sat brave Podger, who The letter H defies, But Higgins when in liquor Of speech is somewhat thick, Yet dealeth he in chaff which is Extremely apt to stick. At Higgins’ muddled periods Stout Podger hurled a sneer, And Higgins answered with an oath Meet for a Vestry’s ear. Now by the crest of Mary, Mary surnamed Le Bone, The ire of Podger swiftly rose To hear the scoffer’s tone. An empty bottle wielding He aimed it at his crown, And with unerring fleetness Tumbled his foeman down. Then flamed the wrath of Vestries, And blows and curses sped, And fowl-bones flew, and H’s dropped, But still undaunted Podger whopped, With champagne bottles that had popped, Prone Higgins’s bare head. 180 The battle now grew general; Boggle at Hunks let fly! Hunks aimed a blow at Boggle That caught him in the eye; While Grigg and Globb and Blenkinsop Around dealt broken pates; Still Podger’s stick dealt many a blow, Till mastered by the numerous foe That hurled him far and laid him low Among the knives and plates. The Ilford beaks look sternly Upon a Guardian’s fault; The Ilford beaks fined Podger Five pounds for each assault, Still let us sing in triumph With all a minstrel’s powers, How Vestrymen behave themselves In the brave days of ours. The Tomahawk. September 19, 1868.

A Lay of Ancient Rome. New-laid in Modern London. Ho, Bugler, give a tootle! Ho, Peeler, keep the way; For the Mayor will ride in all his pride To Temple Bar to-day: To-day the doors and windows Are hung with banners all, From Buckingham’s famed Palace, To the Churchyard of St. Paul. And forth ride Mayor and Sheriffs, All duly chained and gowned; A well-trained charger under each, Treads gingerly the ground. While stands the old Cathedral, And, till the Law Courts rise, So great a sight shall not delight Again our wondering eyes. Sweet is the First of April— November’s Ninth is gay; But they may not compare a jot With this Thanksgiving Day. Fast from the Hill of Ludgate, Where Benson’s watches are, The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs Rode on to Temple Bar. On the right hand trotted Truscott, Of Dowgate Ward the pride; And on the left spurred Bennett, The Bennett of Cheapside. I wis in all the City There was no man so cold, But loud he roared, and long he cheered, The pageant to behold. The Fathers of the City They sat their horses well, Though by their side did footmen stride To catch them if they fell. And now ’mid cheers and laughter, They halt at Temple Bar, And glad are they, so I should say, To find that there they are. And lo, the Queen arriving, The City’s keys has ta’en:— But look you how, with gracious bow, She gives them back again. And now the Mayor and Sheriffs Remount at Temple Bar, And down the street of ancient Fleet Precede the Royal Car. And now the ascent of Ludgate ’Mid shouting is begun: They pass the Cheese of Hudson, They pass the Books of Dunn, And where McCarthy’s groves of Hats A pleasant shadow cast, They draw the rein, for it is plain They’re at St. Paul’s at last. (Five verses omitted.) Fun. March 2, 1872.

Ho! Captains sound the war note; Præposters, clear the way; The Whartonites and Beaconites Will soon begin to play. See, many a tree and paling Is hung with caps and coats, From Mug’s shed to the Hundred The fence in finery gloats. Each youth is striped with colours, With light blue each is crowned, Right gallantly and proudly each Advances up the ground. The Captain,[108] brave Valerius, Is bringing up the ball, A shout of schoolboy merriment And mirth proceeds from all. The half-backs were stout Aulus Of herculean size And Brutus strapped and tied and wrapped In wondrous football guise The full back was Horatius Who near the goal posts stood In shorts and stockings gay, arrayed Capped with a Brewer’s hood. See, now the ball is started; See now they run apace; How pluckily the little chaps Those Beacon giants face! And in the gutters thickest Were given hacks and blows And from the gutters loudest The cry of “Play up” rose, And louder still and louder Rose from the muddy field 181 The shouts and yells of Captains both “Shove up and do not yield.” The panting forwards dashing Like madmen, o’er the plain, Mid joyous shouts of triumph And screeching yells of pain, For underneath a gutter Flaccus of Sevenoaks lay: Better had he been learning Greek grammar all that day. Mamilias saw him struggling And tossed his blue black crest And toward the brave Valerius Through the thick battle pressed. Valerius smote Mamilias So fiercely on the head That the great Lord of Sevenoaks Rolled over well nigh dead. Mamilias smote Lars Porsena With a good aim and true Just where the neck and shoulder join And made him black and blue, Here brave Amutius Elva Fell swooning to the ground, And a thick wall of players Encompassed him around. Sempronius Atratinus Would fain have cleared a space But deaf’ning yells and shrieks and shouts Were levelled at his face. While some stood round and shouted “Brave Sextus don’t give in,” As many others roared as loud “By Jove, my man will win.” Then out spake good Valerius, The Captain of the team, “To all that stand upon this field “This must rare plucky seem, “But how can a man die better “(If he’s to die at all) “Than battered in and bashed and squashed “And flattened in a maul?” Sempronius Atratinus And Decius Mus were hoarse With yelling “Boys get off the ball “It’s Sextus’s of course.” And oh! the thundering clamour When Sextus faintly rose, Black in the face and panting fast Must bring this to a close. Gay are the Cricket Kalends, The Racing Nones are gay, But the Football Ides, of all the pride, Shall be the whitest day, While flows our Medway river, While stands our One Tree Hill, The Ides of proud November Shall have such honour still. The Tonbridgian. December, 1878.

A Prophecy of Capers. (A Lay of an Ancient Roamer.) Ho! grooms, fling forth the sawdust Ho! shed it on the tan, For round the show The troupe must to In glittering caravan; In long and grand procession Parading, one and all Belonging to the Circus At the Agricultural Hall. Gay are Reform Processions, The Lord Mayor’s Show is gay, But the Circus-ride All else beside Surpasses in that way, Where piglings, born in litters, Did late attention crave, And implements of husbandry The reaping hook to save; Where (shows of mules and hosses Are likewise in its line), We’ve had of late A gathering great Of fatted sheep and kine. But nobler now the show is, And brighter the array— A pageant, gay and glorious, A quite unique display Of horsemanship That none may whip Is opened there this day. Tall are the iron siphons That rise in Pentonville, And lofty is the viaduct You see at Holborn Hill, Thwaites, at the Thames Embankment, Has worked for many a year, Beneath our highways Fowler drove An Underground career. But now no water-workmen Are found at Pentonville, No navvies poise the girders huge For spanning Holborn Hill, Unheeded on th’ Embankment Rings out the cry of “Beer!” Unwatched the populace may urge Their Underground career! The harvests at Refreshment bars Just now young men may reap; Just now the banks of Lombard The unfledged clerks may keep; And in the vats of Romford Just now the brewing’s done By ’prentice hands, for all the world Has gone to Islington. Ho! bandsmen, toot your bugle! Ho! grooms, there, clear the course, For Mademoiselle Will cut a swell Upon her high-trained horse, And here is Jones of Putney, Who rides the bare-backed steed; And here is Brown of Camberwell, Who clears six hoops at speed; And here is Peckham’s Perkins, The foremost in the land, With tinsel fillet, smiling lip, 182 And cracking whip, and loud Ya-hip, Who drives eighteen-in-hand. Make way for the procession— Make way there, great and small— It comes,—the troupe of Sanger, Of the Agricultural Hall! Fun.

The Battle of Lake Mort. A Lay sung at a Feast of Bacchus, about the Kalends of Aprilis, in the year of grace MDCCCLXX. With Latin notes by Canis. I. Ho, undergrads, be merry! Ho, all men, shout away! The Crew will ride, in all their pride Along the streets to day. To-day the doors and windows Are hung with “colours” all, From hand-bills in the street way, To posters on the wall. Each man is clothed in “blazer,” With light blue each is crowned; And each preserves a well made oar No more to rowlock bound. While flows our turbid river, While stands our Market hill, The Kalends of Aprilis Shall have such honour still. Gay are the Ides of Maia: December’s Nones are gay: But the Kalends which April sends, Shall be our proudest day. II. Unto the Great Sea Ruler, With Bacchus, is this feast. Swift, swift, the Great Sea Ruler Ran till the race had ceased, He came from depths Atlantic, Where tossing waves abound, With countless laughter rippling, And music in their sound, He came to see his well-loved, Our Thames, where glory rings, He came to lordly London, The city of our kings[109]; To where by far-famed Lake Mort, Now Mortlake long time hight— All in the Thames’ fair waters, Was fought the glorious fight. III. Now on the place of battle Are boats and barges seen, And rows of tugs, and lines of ships, And boatmen far from clean; The screws of the big steamers Crush the small waves beneath, And others with their paddles Make all the waters seethe; The fisher baits his angle, The mudlark goes his round, Little they think on those strong limbs That battled near that ground; Little they think how sternly That day the coxwains cried, How boat and boatmen felt the rush, Of that dark eddying tide; How some men came with rumours Which others called a hoax; How some laid bets on captains, And others named the strokes; How thick the crowd was gathered Upon the bridges height; How all along the towing path Swayed the wild stream of flight; And how the far-famed Lake Mort Bubbled with unclean foam, What time the ancient Isis Against the Cam did come. X. Up rose the golden morning Over the Pauline[110] height. The Kalends of Aprilis, Marked evermore with white. Not without secret trouble Our bravest saw the foes, For held by sixteen manly hands The eight good oars arose. From each picked beating college That boasts the Oxford name Fore doomed to be defeated That gallant army came. * * * * * And in the Cantab army Were men of wondrous might, Who came from Johnian portals, And girt them for the fight, From Trinity came others, As part of that array; From Sidney and from Jesus— Athletic men were they. XV. Now to each boat the starter Gave signal for the charge; And in each boat the oarsmen Rowed on past tub and barge; And in each boat the oarsman Struck the water with his oar; And near each boat the steamers Steamed on with mighty roar, And under that great turmoil The waves with mud were dark, And like the London fog at morn The steam hung o’er each bark. And louder still and louder Rose from the crowded bank The cheering and the war cries,[111] With hopes that rose and sank. And onward rowed the rivals And neither seemed to wane, They scudded o’er the waters Like whirlwinds o’er the plain. 183 XVII. The Cantabs took the lead at once; At the Creek they were away. “Now hie ye on!” the coxswains cried, “And see ye win the day.” But when they reached the Crab Tree ’Twixt the two light was seen; And halfway to the Soapworks, There was a length between. But now the Oxford strokesman Laboured with labour strong, And spurted up amidst the cheers Of the delighted throng. And closer still and closer Did Darbishire draw near, Till by the Soapworks Cambridge men Began to feel some fear. But Goldie now worked harder, And passed the Ship a-head When Darbishire put on a spurt, But his men were nearly dead. “Cam to the charge!” cried Gordon, The foe begins to yield; For now the Great Sea Ruler Hath gained for us the field. And passing under Barnes Bridge Cam was a length away, And rowing on to Lake Mort Most bravely won the day. XX. The god who lives for ever Hath fought for Cam to-day He is the Great Sea Ruler, To whom the oarsmen pray, Back comes the Chief in triumph Who in the hour of fight Was helped by the Great Ruler, Who gave him what was right. Safe comes the ship to haven Through billows and through gales If once the great Sea Ruler Sits perched upon the sails. Here in the Union building, Hoist we the telegram, Which says the Great Sea Ruler Hath fought so well for Cam. And when the months returning Bring back this day of fight— The proud day of the boat-race Marked evermore with white— Unto the Union building Let Undergrads all throng, And pass into the Union To read the telegram, Which says “The Great Sea Ruler, Hath fought so well for Cam!”

In the Arena. The “Parade” before the Conflict. Ho! trumpets blare forth bravely, ho, banners proudly flout! Cool critics loll expectant, spectators swarm and shout! For lo! short truce is over, and lately sundered foes, Once more in the arena will counter, clash, and close. The echoes of the battle when last they trod the sand, The tramp of eager horsemen, the clang of biting brand, Seem scarcely to have left us, and now, before the Spring Has come with burst of blossom, has filled with flush of wing, Ere Valentine the Vernal hath trod the ancient tracks, His burthens laid on lovers, and eke on postmen’s backs, Ere snow hath left the branches, ere green hath lit the boughs, We may look out for ructions, and we must list to rows. Yet in this huge arena heroic figures shine; Such sure is thine, Gladstonius; Cæcilius, such is thine! Achilles and great Hector might well have flushed with joy To counter foes so worthy afar by windy Troy. Cæcilius on his war-horse full proudly pranceth round— He doth not show like shrinking, nor look like giving ground; And at his back all brawny, and stolid, and serene (An armour-bearer stouter hath been right seldom seen), Comes low-lipped Hartingtonius, ready with shield, or crest, Or sword, or spear, or javelin, as may be in request. These eyeing stern and steady, as fighters foemen eye, Comes wintry-lock’d Gladstonius, game still the lists to try Against whatever comer, erect, and gaunt of limb, With glance exceeding fiery, and jaw exceeding grim; His armour-bearer, also, is ready at his heel, With breadth of bossy buckler, and length of shining steel; Parnellius the Placid, with pallid cheek and cold, With calm eye ever watchful, and chill front ever bold. When these anon encounter in full and fiery tilt, Be sure that steel shall splinter, and ruddy blood be spilt. “Who—who in the aforetime had ever thought to see These heroes so attended, museth the herald, P, And other chiefs of valour though lower in their grade, Array in the arena, and prance in the parade. Comes Smithius the smug-faced, him of the settled smirk, Balfourius “the brave,” too, one never known to shirk Sword-thrust, or spare his foeman though prostrate and disarmed, Goschenius, erst henchman of Gladstonius, till charmed From him the white-lock’d Wonder, but now his fiercest foe, Save Chamberlanius, better beknown as Brummijo, Who beards his ancient Chieftain with even more of ire, And backs his ancient foeman with yet more zealous fire. Not so the stout Harcourtius, him of the triple chin, He backs the “Grand Old Manlius,” as one who’s bound to win, Old Manlius Gladstonius, when others shy or sulk, And loads the ancient war-horse with big complacent bulk. And others follow after him of the snowy crest, Morleius the mordant, bravest amongst the best, Gallant Spencerius Rufus, the loyallest of hearts, And—but the clarion brayeth, the martial pageant starts.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy, Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre. T. B. Macaulay.

The War of the Normas. Now glory to La Diva who still reigns the Queen of Song, And glory, too, to Costa, may he wield the bâton long. Now let the distant sound of song, and echo of the band, Be heard through Covent Garden, and Long Acre, and the Strand. And thou, too, Morning Chronicle, bold partisan of Beale, As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our weal. For ill-advised was Jenny, when she thought to reach the throne Of that unrivalled songstress who had made the part her own. Hurrah! hurrah! the first night proved she had essayed too much; Hurrah! hurrah for Grisi, and the Norma none can touch! Oh! how our hearts were beating, when a week before the day, We saw proud Lumley posting up his bills in long array; There stood the name of grand Lablache, of mighty voice and limb; And there too, was Fraschini, but we did not care for him. And we cried unto our Norma, that she might be underlined, To combat for her own great name, and leave the Lind behind. * * * * * Ho! partisans of Lumley, don habiliments of woe! Weep, rend your hair, to hear the truth: your Norma was “no go.” Ho! Verdi, bring for charity thy opera to their aid, That Jenny Lind may sing and no comparison be made. Ho! bold Bond-street librarians find the public still is true Unto their long-tried favourite, to whom all praise be due. For Grisi still hath proved herself the best of all the bunch, Hath mocked the critic of the Post, and box-bought praise of Punch. Then glory to La Diva who yet reigns the Queen of Song, And glory, too, to Costa—may he wield the baton long!

The Lord Mayor’s Show. Now, ye blue-blooded dustmen, leave your cart’s unsav’ry tail, And you, ye “supes” of noble birth, come don your coats of mail; For Harcourt and his legions and Firth, that recreant knight, Have dared the valiant Griffin and the Turtle to the fight! Now Fowler wipes his reeking brow, while smiles relax his face, For have they not already flinched before his mighty mace? And noble Nottage waves his lens, and seeks the thickest strife, And woe to those who stand to him—he’ll “take ’em from the life”! * * * * * But why this shadow o’er the board, this phantom at the feast? The day is won, the foe has fled, his fierce assaults have ceased. Yet still the hollow laugh is forced, as though each heard the cry: “Let’s eat and drink and merry be—to-morrow we must die!” In vain the jewelled cup is passed, the speech and song go round; Each song seems but a requiem, each speech a ghostly sound, While o’er the Master’s anxious face a cloud hangs like a pall; Alas! Belshazzar-Nottage sees—“the writing on the wall!” J. T. Wright. The Weekly Dispatch. November 9, 1884.

Ireland, 1890. Now, glory to the Lord Parnell, from whom all glories are! And feathers for his enemies, and ignominious tar! Now let Tay Pay blow off his steam, and Joseph Gillies prance, And suffer bold O’Brien (Ireland’s lion) to advance! And thou, Old Man, our Grand Old Man, who Erin’s acres bought us, With coin filched from the Sassenach, and confiscation taught us; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For impotent or dumb are they who wrought our bills annoy. Whiroo! whiroo! Rip up the bond before it be too late, The watchword of New Erin—rip! rip! REPUDIATE! * * * * * Ho! Morley of the mealy mouth; ho! Green and Grand Old Man; Weep, weep, and rend what hair you have for downfall of your plan. Ho! Rothschild lend (or Roseberrie) vast shekels (or pistoles) 185 To lure the Liberal and Rad from ratting at the polls. Oh, loyal members of the League, kneel at his feet and pray For him who with a royal hand hath squared the deal to-day. For the King hath crushed the tyrant bond, the King hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the just, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to the dodgy one who crowned New Erin’s Fate, And raised the cry, “Don’t pay your debts, but rip—REPUDIATE!” Charles S. is come to marshal us, in all his livery drest, And he has stuck a landlord’s scalp upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his creatures with a wary winking eye, And then upon the Sassenach, and cried, “How’s this for high?” Right knowingly he leered on us, as rolled from street to street The shout, “The honest Pat’s played out; make ready for the cheat! And if the Yankee dollars fail, as fail full well they may, For never saw I promise yet of such a costly day. Press where ye see the landlord’s scalp upon my hybrid pate, And be your oriflamme, my boys, rip! rip! REPUDIATE!” The Topical Times. March 20, 1886.

The Great Rent Case. (A Lay of the High Court in the year 1865.) Ho! Nazirs, sound your tom-toms! Ho! Sheriff, clear the way! The Judges ride, in all their pride,— To the High Court to-day. Shout! gallant little Crier! Your eye-glass tightly fit, Arrange your splendid Forum So every Judge may sit. Each Judge is robed in sable, His gills flow long and wide, Like Bull-frog in the fable, He swells with conscious pride.

Before the Battle. (And considerably after “Ivry.”) A Song for the Sanguine. Now luck unto the Liberal Host, to whom good luck should be! And luck unto our Leader Old, undaunted William G.! Now let the merry music sound a resolute advance, Come, Hartington, why bite thy beard? Come, Joe, why look askance? And Spencer, loyal Spencer gaze across the Irish water! It is not rapture lights the eyes of those who schemed thy slaughter. As thou wert constant in our ills, joy in our coming joy, For glum, and mum, and dumb are they who wrought thy rule annoy. Hurrah! How oft a single charge hath made the Tory flee, Hurrah! Hurrah! for victory, and valiant William G. Oh! how all hearts are beating, on this our opening day, We see the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-praised patriots, and all its rebels red, And Biggar’s beauteous body, and Tim Healy’s handsome head. There sit the brood of anarchy, the troublers of the land; And dark Parnell is in their midst, and holds them well in hand. And as we look on them, we think of treason in full flood, And good Lord Frederick’s manly breast bedabbled with his blood; And we cry unto fair Fortune from their toils to set us free, To fight for loyal liberty and valiant William G. He comes once more to marshal us, in simple broadcloth drest; As glorious are his scant white locks as any knightly crest. He looked upon his Homer, and he heaved a scholar’s sigh; He looks upon the Tory, and his glance is stern and high. Right genially he smiles on us, as rolls from wing to wing Down all our line the ready cheer. We’ve heard his voice outring: “And if our flag should seem to droop, as seem sometime it may, “For never saw I promise yet of such a fierce affray, “Press where you see my banner wave, in battle’s front ’twill be, “For whosoe’er fall to the rear, it won’t be W. G.” Hurrah! The foe are stirring. Expect the mingled shindy, Of Biggar tart and turbulent, and Bartlett wild and windy. The Uncrowned King will cut us out some most unpleasant work, With all his hireling patriots from Kerry and from Cork. Now by the golden lips we love, unitedly advance! Charge Radical with Liberal!—don’t give the foe a chance! A hundred times we’ve beaten them, now comes a crowning test, A hundred times we’ve phalanxed close behind that snow white crest. If now we mean to break their ranks, and beat them, it must be All of one mind, charging behind our valiant William G. Methinks the day may yet be ours. Carnarvon hath turned rein; Hicks-Beach in vain hath paltered, Lord Randolph glozed in vain. Their ranks are gaping; there be clouds upon each visage pale; Their Irish pact won’t somehow act; it was foredoomed to fail. It makes us dream of vengeance; and all along our van, “Remember their Kilmainham charge!” is passed from man to man. But what says generous William? “No Irishman’s my foe; “Down, down with every thought of hate! For justice let us go!” Was ever so magnanimous, so fair a foe as he— Our much maligned old champion, our gallant William G.? Right well each man will have to fight who fights with us to-day, And many a party pennon will fall earthward in the fray. And we whose watchword’s “Unity!” must bear us well in fight; For never yet was it more hard to follow simple right. But when our standard-bearer the old, old flag hath ta’en, Blazoned “Be just, and fear not!” flag that never flew in vain; 186 Up with it high, unfurl it wide, that all the host may know Though with the League we won’t intrigue, to Ireland we’re no foe. Then rally round whilst trumpets sound their challenge far and free; Broad let it wave, a banner brave, for gallant William G. Ho! Ladies of the Primrose, whose hearts for victory yearn, Weep, weep for the majority you struggled to return. Ho! Cecil, twist to Tory sense the verdict of the polls, And do your best to lure the Whigs and scare all timid souls. Ho! swollen cohort of the League, think not our hearts to fright. Ho! followers of the Liberal Flag, keep clear your sense of right. To foil Hibernia’s tyrant, yet to raise Hibernia’s slave, Will tax the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. Yet here’s for having at the task, how stiff soe’er it be! And here’s to him who’ll lead us on, our dauntless William G.! House of Commons, Wednesday, January 20. The Daily News. January 21, 1886.

Lay of the Amphitheatre (Royal). The Combat. As they entered the arena, Their step was firm and brave; Though of one or of the other, They knew it was the grave. Each took a little porter, To nerve him for the scene; They entered the arena, So calm and so serene! A thousand eyes were on them, All eager for the fight; The footlights flared before them— The combat was by night. And now they bare their falchions, And foot to foot they stand, Each sternly eyes the other With look composed and grand. Yet one is honest-hearted, And true, as well as brave— The other is a ruffian, A sanguinary knave. By turns their weapons clashing, Right equal seems the game; While “One, Two, Three,” says Simpson, Smith doth repeat the same. Sword upon sword descending, While fiddle and trombone, In time to that dread music, Play slowly “Bobbing Joan.” Yet not in time exactly— This night it may not be; Yon churl who plays the fiddle, Exceeding drunk is he! Now Smith doth wicked Simpson Into a corner urge; Now Simpson drives him back upon The stage’s utmost verge. At length a blow so swashing From gallant Smith’s claymore, On that of Simpson thunders— He totters—falls—’tis o’er! * * * * * And then—to show no malice Fester’d his soul within— The wicked corpse of Simpson, He treated to some gin. Now be each scheming villain Like yonder Simpson floored; And every gallant spirit meet With gallant Smith’s reward! (Eight verses omitted.) Punch. 1845.

A Lay of Modern England. Or, Ibrahim Pacha at Vauxhall. Great Ibrahim of Egypt has promised the Lessee The Masquerade at Vauxhall he’ll go in state to see; To Allah he has vowed it—to Allah and the Clown, That in his royal glass-coach he will in state go down.

The Inauguration of the Mayor. Up! Citizens of Cripplegate—come Billingsgate, begin! Rise ye of ancient Candlewick—up Farringdon Within, Now Castle Baynard, show your strength—now Aldgate, lead the van, Ye City wards which ne’er were picked, since history began. ’Tis London’s ancient Festival, another Mayor to-day, Begins the civic sceptre of the Mansion House to sway; Blythe the self congratulation—sad the wail of discontent, As the one gets into office, and the other out is sent. From the plains of fair Belgravia, from Tyburnia and the north, Troops of ruddy servant maidens on their holiday come forth, Each with snowy kerchiefs laden, which they never will unfold, Going wildly in directions just wherever they are told. * * * * *

Let us hope that in the waking from the darkness to the light, 187 The coming day may realise the visions of the night, That the civic corporation may its funds so well bestow, That a nation’s commendation may attend the Lord Mayor’s “Show.” Ainsi soit il.

The City Tournament. Ho! Policemen! get before them! Ho! Serjeants! clear the way! The Sheriffs ride in state and pride, To the Guildhall to-day! To the Guildhall they’re coming, Spite of the wind or rain; To preside at Civic Tourney, That makes a Chamberlain.

Burlington. (A Lay of Regent’s Park College.) The Senate of the London U- niversity they swore, That the great house of Regent’s Park Should pass its men no more. By their M.A.’s they swore it, And fixed the fatal day, And bade all their Professors pen Such questions as should keep the men From taking their B.A. There be an awful Senate; The wisest in the land, Who by the dread Examiners Both morn and evening stand, And with one voice the Senate, Like mean and stingy brutes, Have said, “Go forth, Examiners, And pluck them like old boots.”

Out came they, as not deigning Those other men to see; Naught spake they to the Porter, Although he asked a fee; But mentally in Regent’s Park They saw the “House” appear; And they hailed a Hansom cabman Who happened to be near. “Oh, Cabby! gentle Cabby! To whom the students pay, Three students’ lives, three students’ limbs, Take thou in charge this day.” So they spake, and, speaking, told The cabman where to ride, And with their books beneath their arms, Plunged recklessly inside. And now they gain the entrance; Now on the steps they stand, And round them flock the students, To shake each by the hand; And now, with shouts and laughter, To the tune of the College Song, They enter into the Common Hall, Borne by the joyous throng, They gave them of the buttered bread, That was of public right, As much as three big students Could eat from morn to night; They got the printed Class List, And set it up on high— And it exists until this day To witness if I lie. (Twenty-five verses omitted.) John D. Parley. 1872. From Rambles in Rhymeland.

Routh’s Revenge. A Lay of the Tripos. It was a future Wrangler, Smith, And gallantly he swore, “By blood and bones, by goose and groans, I’ll coach with Routh no more! I hate his problem papers, His quills I do detest; Revision too, and manuscripts With horror fill my breast. My mind is fixed, I’ll up at once And give him the straight tip.” And so he did; but Routh was out, So he gave it to his gyp; Then Routh he smole a horrid smile, And grinned a ghastly grin; “He wants to take it out of me, He’ll be himself took in, He’ll lose his place, alas, alas— And I shall lose his ‘tin.’” * * * * * The Day is come, the list is read, And Routh is there to see— The list is read which gives to all A high or low degree, Name after name, till Smith Came out a Junior Optime. From Light Green. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son, 1882.

The new Naseby. By Obadiah Bind-​the-​Priests-​in-​Chains-​and-​the-​Paddies-​with-​ Links-​of-​Iron, Officer in the Unionist Regiment. Oh! wherefore went you forth as in triumph to the North, With your speech at every station, which the Tories raging read? 188 And wherefore did your rout send forth a joyous shout? And where be the gapers that your northward journey sped? Oh, triumphant was your route, but bitter is its fruit, And mistaken was the line of your Manifesto odd, Where you railed against the throng of the wealthy and the strong, And swore the People’s voice was the very voice of God. It was about the noon of a sunny day of June, That we saw their banners dance in Midlothian fair and fine; And the Grand Old man was there, with his scant and snowy hair, And Cowan, and Lord Rosebery, and Liberal hosts in line. And the Chief by Scots adored raised his head and bared his sword, And harangued his motley legions to form them to the fight; And many a cheer and shout from their listening ranks brake out, As the aged Sophist glosed upon justice, love, and right. And hark! like the roar of the surf upon the shore, The cry of battle rises along our loyal line! For Union! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Salisbury the Splendid, and for Joseph the Divine! (Nine verses omitted.) Punch. July 24, 1886.

Ye good men of the Commons, with sturdy souls and true, Who stood by brave Gladstonius, as he had stood by you, Come make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what the Plebs have dared, and yet again may dare. * * * * * Of all the Upper Ten whose brows the Strawberry Leaves have prest, Cecilius af the acrid tongue was proudest, haughtiest, He stalked about the Senate like King Tarquin in his pride, And most of the Patrician host were marshalled on his side. And the Plebs eyed askance with doubt, which well he hoped was fear, That swarthy brow, that curling mouth, that ever seemed to sneer. That brow of black, that mouth of scorn, looked signs of iron will, And none believed Cecilius wished the Commons aught but ill. * * * * * Up from the Commons briskly the fair Landbillia came, Offspring of great Gladstonius, that Plebs-loved son of fame. And up the Senate stairs she passed, and, as she danced along, Gladstonius warbled cheerily words of the good old song, “She will return, I know her well!” thus the fond Sire out-sang, And through the Senate’s portals his mellow accents rang. * * * * * So passed the fair Landbillia to those high halls above, Where proud Patricians bowed to her they something less than loved. So triumphed great Gladstonius, who rather grimly smiled, As sour Cecilius once more led forth his cherished child, Uninjured from the ordeal stern; but, smiling, dropt his blade, And those two doughty champions, so late for fight arrayed, Like Boxus and like Coxus, each on other’s shoulder fell, What time the Commons chuckled, and the Plebs cried, “All is well!” * * * * * Punch. August 27, 1881.

Ye good men of the Commons, with loyal hearts and true, Who stand by us bold Irish, who now will stand by you, Come, light your weeds around me, and mark my tale with care, Of what poor Ireland oft hath borne, and yet may have to bear. * * * * * Of all the wicked Tories still the names are held accursed, And of all the wicked Tories black Balfour was the worst, He stalked about the Chamber like a Bunthorne in his pride, Or sprawled with lank and languid legs entangled or spread wide. The Irish eyed with anger, not all unmixed with fear, His lifted chin, his curling mouth that always seemed to sneer: That brow of brass, that mouth of scorn, mark all the species still, For never was there Tory yet but wished the Irish ill. Nor lacks he fit attendance; for ever at his heels That most notorious renegade, his Sub., King-Harman, steals, His written answer ready, be the question what it may, And the smile flickering on his cheek for aught his Chief may say. * * * * * “Now, by your children’s cradles, now, by your father’s graves, Be men to-day, ye Liberals, or be for ever slaves! For this did Cromwell give us laws? For this did Hampden bleed? For this was the great vengeance wrought, upon the Stuart’s seed? Shall a cat’s snarl alarm the race who braved the lion’s roar? 189 Shall we, who beat great Beaconsfield, crouch to the bland Balfour? Oh, for that ancient spirit that curbed the nobles’ will! Oh, for the men of Thirty-two, who passed the famous Bill! In those brave days our Liberals stood firmly side by side, They faced the Tory fury, they tamed the Tory pride; Shall what their care bequeathed to us, our madness fling away? Is the ripe fruit of three-score years all blighted in a day? O crier, to the polling summon the eager throng! O tribunes, breathe the word of might that guards the weak from wrong! No, by the earth beneath us, and by the sky above, We will not yield to Balfour’s hate, Hibernia, whom we love. No, let the Maiden’s Home be free, its Rule be hers, with pride She who now loathes ye—as a slave—will love ye—as a bride. Spare her the inexpiable wrongs, the unutterable shame Of being shackled and coerced to suit your Party game: Lest, when her latest hope is fled, her friends are in despair. Ye learn by proof in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!” Punch. March 10, 1888.

Song of December. The Saturnalia now prevail; The white and classic foam Soars high above the porter pots Of proud and ancient Rome: Upon the Capitol at night, There is the cry of “beer,” As the pot-boy, in his toga, Salutes the vulgar ear, And from the seven hills of Rome There is a festive shout Of youths who ask each other, “If Their mothers know they’re out.” Then hail the Saturnalia, The toast, the ale, the flip, For many a nose, a Roman nose, In many a jug will dip.

Friar Bacon walks again, And Doctor Faustus too; Proserpine and Pluto, And many a goblin crew. With that, a merry devil To make the airing vowed; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud. Why think you that he laughed? Forsooth he came from Court; And there amongst the gallants Had spied such pretty sport; There was such cunning juggling, And ladies gone so proud; Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud. With that into the city Away the Devil went; To view the merchants’ dealings It was his full intent! And there along the brave Exchange He crept into the crowd, Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud. He went into the city, To see all there was well, Their scales were false, their weights were light, Their conscience fit for Hell; And Pandars chose magistrates, And Puritans allowed. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud. With that unto the country Away the Devil goeth; For there is all plain dealing, For that the Devil knoweth. But the rich man reaps the gains For which the poor man ploughed. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devil laughed aloud. With that the Devil in haste Took post away to Hell, And called his fellow furies, And told them all on earth was well: That falsehood there did flourish, Plain dealing was in a cloud. Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha! The Devils laughed aloud. Anonymous.

The Devil’s Walk. From his brimstone-bed at break of day, The Devil’s a walking gone; To visit his snug little farm on the earth, And see how his stock there goes on; And over the hill, and over the dale, He rambled, and over the plain— And backwards and forwards he switched his long tail, As a gentleman switches his cane. And pray, now, how was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday best; His coat it was red, and his breeches blue, With a hole behind, which his tail went through. He saw a lawyer killing a viper, On a dunghill by his own stable; And the Devil he smiled, for it put him in mind Of Cain and his brother Abel. He saw an apothecary on a white horse, Ride by on his avocations. The Devil he smiled, for it put him in mind Of Death in the Revelations. He stept into a rich bookseller’s shop, Said he, “We are both of one college, For I myself sat, like a cormorant,[112] once, Hard by the tree of knowledge.” He saw school-boys acting prayers at morn, And naughty plays at night. And “Oho, Mr. Dean!” he shouted, “I ween, My own good trade goes right.” He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility; And the devil did grin, for his darling sin, Is pride that apes humility, Down the river did glide, with wind and tide, A pig with vast celerity; And the Devil grinned, for he saw all the while How it cut its own throat, and he thought with a smile Of England’s commercial prosperity. As he passed through Coldbath Fields, he saw A solitary cell; And the Devil he paused, for it gave him a hint For improving his prisons in hell. He saw a turnkey in a trice Fetter a troublesome jade; “Nimbly,” quoth he, “do the fingers move, If a man be but used to his trade.” He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man, With but little expedition; Which put him in mind of the long debates On the slave trade abolition. He saw a certain minister (A minister to his mind), Go up into a certain house, With a majority behind; The Devil quoted Genesis, Like a very learned clerk, How “Noah and all his creeping things Went up into the Ark.” Sir Nicholas grinned and switched his tail With joy and admiration; For he thought of his daughter Victory, And his darling babe Taxation, He saw General Gascoigne’s burning face, Which put him in consternation: So he hied to his lake, for, by a slight mistake He thought ’twas a general conflagration.

He saw an old acquaintance As he passed by a methodist meeting;— She holds a consecrated key, And the Devil nods her a greeting. She turned up her nose, and said, “Avaunt! my name’s Religion,” And she looked to Mr. —— And leered like a love sick pigeon. He took from the poor, And he gave to the rich, And he shook hands with a Scotchman, For he was not afraid of the itch.

“While the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in,” &c.

“Of the ‘Devil’s Walk’ there’s been much talk, And folks seem mighty curious; Now this is the ‘Real Devil’s Walk,’ And all the rest are spurious.”