WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 3)

The way was long and weary, But gallantly they strode, A country lad and lassie, Along the heavy road. The night was dark and stormy But blithe of heart were they, For shining in the distance The Lights of London lay. O gleaming lamps of London that gem the City’s crown, What fortunes lie within you, O Lights of London Town. * * * * * George R. Sims.

Those Wights of London Town. The Correct Version. The way was long and dreary, But jauntily they strode, Bill Sikes and Jim the Leary Along the frosty road. The night was nice and dusky, The sky was dark and grey; And Bill, in accents husky, Opined they’d fix the lay! “O gleaming lamps of London! I’d like douse your glim, What “crackings” lie within you when you are faint and dim!” The hours passed on and found them A-burgling of a “shop” And scattered all around them, They’d got a golden crop. And from the office window, That lonely moonless night The “swag” they dropped, and grinn’d O! It was a lovely sight! “O sleepy slops of London, who crawl about the town, I think you must be jolly green, for we have done you brown.” With faces black with sorrow— With words we dare not speak, Upon the fateful morrow, They stood before the beak. The “slops” had watched their capers, And soon their way had barred, And, according to the papers, They each got six months hard! “Oh cruel lights of London, why do you shine so gay? A-showing up poor burgulars, to steal their peace away.” S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald.

The Lights o’ Ascot Heath. The way was long and dusty, But joyfully they drove, 43 A London lad and lassie, Along the Ascot road; The day was hot and muggy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in his pocket Some twenty dollars lay. Oh! gleaming heath of Ascot, That gem of racing sights, What fortunes you could tell of; What sad and sorry flights. With faces torn and beery, That told a loser’s load, That day a man and woman Crept up the London road: They sought their native alley, “Regular broke” from the fray, Yet shining still behind them The heath of Ascot lay. Oh! cruel heath of Ascot, If D’s your race could win, Your victims’ mouths would yell them, To get their favourite in. The Sporting Times. June 20, 1885.

The Ballad Monger. It was a ballad monger, Of the gruesome, morbid type, And he told of cold and hunger, “Little alls” sent “up the pipe.” And he piled on high the agony, As with sobs we gasped for breath, When he sang us—à la Dagonet, Of murder, want, and death. Doth a child convert a burglar, Or that burglar kill that child, Then this sentimental gurgler, “Airs his slush”—to put it mild. He will tell you how it’s mother— Yes, the child’s of course not Sykes’— Was a relative of t’other, By a natural son of “Mike’s!” How this “Mike” was Sykes’ father, And the father himself betwixt A duke and an earl—or rather, When the parentage got mixed. And so on and yet so forth, Will this “poet” meander on, Till he proves my Lord of Beauforth, Was undoubtedly Mike’s son. And the child was Sykes’s daughter, And the mother wife to he, Though their grandma wasn’t sorter, Everything that she might be. Yet the moral indicated, In this tale that is bedeckt, Troubles not this addle-pated, Jerry-plotting architect. Should occasion demand a sonnet, On a “starve” or on a “freeze,” Then our ballad monger is “on it,” With his dismal, doleful, wheeze, And he’s safe upon this track, sir, To his muse he ne’er resorts, For his scenes are based on facts, sir, Solid facts from police reports. Oh, the unction of this whiner, Of a tune pitched in a key, Which the clef is B flat minor, And as dirge-like as can be. Not content with dying father, Teething babe and wasting wife, With his licensed poetic lather, He must needs call in the knife. Need I wade through scenes of torture, To the climax strong and hot, When the son, himself a “scorcher,” Takes and massacres the lot. No! I needn’t, for it’s certain. That in sympathy you’d choke, With emotion at the burden, Bf this ballad-slinging bloke. Heber K. Daniels. From The South Western Star.

Little Flo.’ Tell you the tale o’ Flo, sir, and how she came to die? ’Twere a sad time in my life, tho’ it’s so long gone by. I was a drunken brute then—never thought much o’ Flo; Nearly al’ays in liquor—got jolly screwed, you know. Yes, I treated her shockin’! life must ha’ been pretty bad, She’d prom’sed her dyin’ mother al’ays to look after dad. I used to laugh at her notions, she was but a gal o’ seven, And ’ad got it fixed in her ’ead to bring me along to heaven. “Dad!” she’d say to me sometimes, “it’s beau’ful bright in there; Everyone’s al’ays ’appy, and got golden crowns to wear.” How I laughed at the child then, to think o’ a crown on my head; I told her to shut up cantin’, I didn’t want to be dead. Still some’ow I wasn’t ’appy, for ’appen I’d got a fright, And wondered whatever’ud’appen if I should die that night, So to keep down her pleadin’s I off on a pretty good spree, Down at the pub at the corner, along o’ my mates and me. We was pretty gone on the wrong side, stagg’rin’ ’ome that night, And there was Flo sittin’ and watchin’, with the room clean and bright. With a curse at her for waitin’ I flung myself on the bed, Catchin’ the lamp with my arm, and pullin’ it down on my ’ead. Flo flung herself down upon me, and then I woke from my daze, We smoth’rd the flames with a rug, but Flo was all a blaze. I flung the blanket upon her, I seemed to go off my ’ead; But when I got back to my senses, they told me that Flo was dead. 44 She’d given her life for her father, for such a wretch as me, And mainly because she knew, sir, that I warn’t fit to die. When I got better they told me the last words ’o little Flo “They wouldn’t have ’im in ’eaven, if he was drunk, you know.” On my word, sir, that fetched me, I never drank since that night; And I prays as I’ll follow Flo up to her ’ome ’o light. For as that child forgave me, I believes by and by As He’ll forgive me too, sir, who came for sinners to die. So little Flo’s life warn’t lost, she showed me the way to live; She showed me what goodness meant, the way that a girl can forgive. When I am tempted to drink, I thinks o’ the last words o’ Flo, “He couldn’t be let into ’eaven if he was drunk, you know.” Magnum Bonum.

The Coster’s Plea. What ’ave I got to say, Mr. Beak, about the row last night, When I knocked the peeler down twice? Well, it was just a fight For liberty for me, sir—me an’ me old dawg Jack; The bobby tried to cop ’im, and I put ’im on ’is back. I tried to fight ’im fair, sir, but ’e pulled ’is trunchin out To brain my dear old dawg with, an’ the people round about Cried “Shame!” but it ony made him madder like, yer see, And then ’twas a matter ’o fists for to set my old dawg free. Why did I fight for a dawg so an’ try to injer the perlice? Well, cos if they ’ad took ’im I’d ’ave never ’ad no peace. Just cos that faithful dawg years ago did that for me What I could’nt, sir, forget if a ’underd I should be. Twelve years ago old Jack, ’e, when not much mor’n a pup, One night lay in ’is corner—’e’d ’ad neither bit nor sup; For times ’ad bin rare bad—’e lay down an’ shet ’is eyes, ’E was ’ungry, an’ wet, an’ tired, an’ ’ad ’ardly strength to rise. The missus an’ me went off up ter bed ter try ’an sleep, But when your stummick’s empty, its apt yer awake to keep; But at last we went sound off, an’ dead beat as we ’ad bin, A sleep as ’eavy as death, by-an’-bye, we both was in. I suppose we’d been asleep nigh upon a couple o’ hour, When Jack ’e woke me barkin’, an’ I see ’is tew eyes glower, Then I looked an’ missed our kiddy from ’er bed on the floor, But I spied ’er little bed things layin’ close again the door. I turned ter Poll to wake ’er, when I see a awful glare Cornin’ in the bedroom winder, an’ the ’eat was ’ard to bear, The ’ouse was all ablaze, an’ we’d dropped out ter the ground ’Bout ten minits, when it fell in scatt’rin fire all around. Jumpin’ out Jack broke ’is leg bad, and our kiddy’s life he’d saved; ’E ’ad took ’er out in safety, an’ ’ere on me ’earts engraved, The deed o’ that there dawg, who come back through fire to us, An’ can ye wonder now, sir, that last night I made a fuss? ’E braved a burnin’ staircase, an’ ’ed stayed till we had dropped, An’, when my Poll, soon after, straight away to glory popped, She said, “Jim, keep our Jack safe,” an’ I’ve allus’ kep’ me vow, An’ you’ll let me off, sir, won’t you, so that I don’t break it now; The kid ’as gone to her mother, wi’ the angels up above, An’ if I should lose old Jack, why, I’d nothin’ ave ter love, Ah! don’t be ’ard, sir, this time—don’t break a poor cove’s ’eart; What, sir? I’m free! God bless yer! me dawg an’ me won’t part! Aglaus.

Sally. What’s the matter down the alley Don’t yer know? I thought as ’ow Every one ’ad ’eard of Sally— Killed last week in a drunkin row. Come aside, then, out of the mob, sir. A drink? I don’t mind if I do. I don’t like talkin’ of this job, sir; But any ’ow I’ll tell it you. Well, I think ’twas last December— ’Bout as near as I can tell— Joe Hale, then a stiddy member, Lost ’is wife an’ kid as well. That upset ’im altogether, Drove ’im nearly off ’is head; Whether it was that, or whether It was not, it’s what was said. Fightin’ every night an’ boozin’, Doin’ weeks an’ months in quod, Sellin’ all ’is sticks, an’ losin’ All he ’ad, when on the cod; An’ he’d leave pore little Sally (Sally was ’is daughter, sir) For days a starvin’ in the alley, Givin’ not a thought to ’er. This night Joe was fightin’ madly In a gang of drunkin’ brutes, Who, if things was goin’ badly, ’Ud down a man an’ use their boots; An’ little Sally, screamin’ “Murder!” With a face just like a sheet, Rushed among the fightin’ herd, sir, An’ fell down beneath their feet. Trampled on, an’ crush’d, an’ moanin’, They carried Sal out of the fight; She lay a little while a groanin’, An’ then she died the selfsame night. An’ now they’re goin’ to bury Sally— An’ Joe? Ah, Joe, too, ended bad, For when he seed ’er dead in the alley, He went stark, starin’ ravin’ mad. Phil. Lascelles.

“Give a copper a doin’, As ’ad said my barrer was blockin’ the way, And they took me afore a beak, And he see what I wanted was change o’ hair, So he sent me to quod fur a week.”

“I’ll not ’ave none of it, Betsy,” I sez—and I chucked the lot of it out, And I did’nt recover my self-respeck till I see it go up the spout! For we all on us has our feelings, Sir, and my pride it was cruel ’urt, To think as a swell could ha’ gone so fur as to rob a poor man of his dirt! But I never ’anker for Culcher now, nor henvy no harristocrats, For I’m cured fur life of the longing I ’ad fur a roomful of brick-a-bats. Of spadgers and pea-green paint you’ll find in the attic ’ardly a trace, And, when me and my old woman ’as words—there’s allus plenty o’ space! * * * * *

The Lost Cord. Seated one day in a carriage, I was frightened and ill at ease, For a fellow, behaving wildly, Was up to his drunken sprees. I knew not if he was playing, Or what I was doing then, But I pulled the cord like winking, While the lunatic shrieked “Amen.” It rattled against the ceiling As I clasped it in my palm, Then it broke and fell on the cushion, Where it lay in a holy calm. It startled the next compartment, On the lunatic’s nerves it jarred; It reached the length of the carriage, But it never reached the guard. It may be a grand invention At the distant guard to get; But I’ve tried it in twenty cases, And I’ve never succeeded yet. George R. Sims. From The Lifeboat, and other Poems. 1883.

The Lost Shot. Shooting one day at the targets, In a steady three-o’clock breeze, I watched my score rise quickly— I was making bulls’-eyes with ease. I knew well what I was doing, And what I was thinking then, As I fired my one last bullet, And awaited the signal again. It sped thro’ the Golden Ether, With the speed of an angel’s wing, And it must have reached the target, For I’m certain I heard the “ping.” I waited with utmost confidence For the signal that never came; I challenged, and paid my sixpence, But the marker ignored my claim! I raged with perplexed feelings, And swore like a big dragoon; Then I fretted away into silence O’er the loss of the silver spoon. I have sought, and I still seek vainly The value of that one last shot, For which I claimed a bull’s-eye, Only the scorer said it was not. It may be that playful zephyrs Wafted it over the plain; It may be that only in dreamland I shall find my last shot again. Corporal.

The Garden of Sleep. (With compliments to Messrs. Clement Scott and Isidore de Lara) There’s a crib in Whitechapel is used by a heap, An’ the deppity calls it ’is Garden o’ Sleep! Where the Heast Hend hexotics are bloomin’ in rows, An’ the fake an’ the cadger find blameliss repose. For a double or single you settles the boss, An’ you dumps down your coppers an’ goes for your doss; Though if turn out you won’t when your time’s fairly sped, They’ve a ’abit of lettin’ you down by the ’ead, An’ a bump on your Barnet you commonly keep All the day hafter leavin’ the Garden o’ Sleep. Sleep! sleep! Never mind things wot creep! Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep! If you’ve ’tecs on your track there’s but foppence to pay, You can set in the kitching the ’ole of the day, Smoke your clay, brile your bloater, or swill down the booze, While you reads o’ your deeds in the Hecko or Noos, An’ you splits the bone buttons right orf of your west Wen they brings you the word of your latest harrest; An’ you larfs till the water runs out of your heyes Wen you thinks of the slops goin’ round in disguise, And the ’andsome reward as no cully won’t reap, ’Cept some pal blows the gaff in the Garden o’ Sleep! Sleep! sleep! for the slops we’re too deep! Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep! Once a swell come a-slummin’ in second-’and slops, And my pal, which is William, the needle ’e cops, And ’e twigged ’im a-takin’ down notes on the sly, An’ arranged for to cure ’im o’ doin’ Poll Pry; For ’e kep’ on a-sniffin’ and saying, “Ho, dear! There’s a state o’ things ’ighly deplorable ’ere!” An’ ’e cussed at the blankits, which all was ’is spite, As the gent as ’ad used ’em since Wensday fortnite Was a gifted an’ ’ighly respectable sweep, As is werry well known in the Garden o’ Sleep! Sleep! sleep! A respectable sweep! Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep! Then my pal an’ me pulls that there swell out o’ bed, An’ we gets a young lady to set on ’is ’ead, An’ we searches ’is pockets and collars the mags, Takes ’is coat an’ ’is weskit, and also ’is bags, An’ we tenderly pitches ’im out in the street, Where ’e is copped by the bobby as b’longs to the beat; An’ we watches an’ watches, but watchin’ is wain, ’Cos that swell ’e won’t never try slummin’ again, As a fine for disorderly drunks gets ’im cheap Orf that night as ’e spent in the Garden o’ Sleep! Sleep! sleep! Two ’arf bulls does it cheap! Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep! Judy. November 28, 1888.

How the Good News was brought from Ulundi to Landsman’s Drift. First Prize. One turn in the saddle to look at the smoke, Then into a canter the stout pony broke. “All right!” cried the laager’s last picket; and I, “Right!” cheerily answered, as, cantering by, I took in the very last hole in my belt, And, alone with my tidings, rode into the veldt. Not a word from a comrade to cheer me, no beat From an answering hoof to make him more fleet, For the nag; but I gave, with the flat of my hand, A friendly rib-binder he’d well understand. Each strap was in place, each buckle was right, As is custom with me ere I ride for the night. I started at noon, and at Panda’s old kraal We stayed, where there tinkled a thin waterfall, To wash out our mouths; and I ran for a spell, With my hand on the pommel, then into the selle— The stouter the pair of us, so for the rest— We swished through the grass to the crimsoning west. By the river, and up through the pass in the range; By track of the troops and trail that was strange Down donga and drift, past koppie and stone, We galloped while daylight should last all alone. And thankful enough, God wot, too was I, To be free from the Zulu and his company. Babinango to northward, and south by the map Must be Umblabankosi through yon azure gap. “Half-way, my tough garron, half-way! We shall do If the next merry moiety you’ll travel so!” I groomed his hot legs with the African herb And he snuffled responsive and rattled his curb. Then a thick fog crawled to us and shut up the moon, And the stars too; nor did I a minute too soon, With compass and chart, once more strike the trail, And shake the staunch pony together to sail— Like a stout ship, keen watch at the bows, and steered small Mid berg and mid mist—to a guessed-at landfall. Well, we fetched it at last; nor did I refuse A draught of good wine in return for my news. The battle was fought, and the tidings were brought By a man and a horse, thirty leagues at a bout. I’ve no story to tell; it’s a matter of course When a Briton on duty bestrides a good horse. Plunx (Mr. George Heaton).

Second Prize. I sprang to the stirrup; my friend the D.T. Should gallop right fast if he meant to beat me. “Good luck!” cried the rearguard, as past them I sped. “There are Zulus about; keep a bright look ahead!” ’Twas noontide, and near the full heat of the day, As through the fierce sunlight I galloped away. Not a being to speak to; I kept the great pace Alone o’er the desolate grass-covered space; Turned round in my saddle, and saw through the glare The smoke of the burning kraals rise in the air; Then again facing forward each tuft well I scanned, And strapped my revolver more ready to hand. Good news—over hill, over dale, speeding fast— Ere sundown Fort Evelyn had heard as I past; Then gratefully over us flew the cool spray, As through Umlatoosi we splashed on our way: With twilight there came a fresh breeze sweeping by, And the bright stars peeped forth from the darkening sky. At moonrise Fort Marshall lay close on the right, And still my stout galloper sped through the night, With nostrils dilated, stretched neck, and clenched teeth, While his hoofs dashed the dew from the grass underneath In ceaseless, monotonous, regular beat, Till Sandwhlana lay steeped in white mist at my feet. Rorke’s Drift and the Buffalo River were nigh, When a bank of black clouds rose and darkened the sky; The bright moon was hidden, and hidden each mark, And I came near to missing the ford in the dark: As we left the cold river I patted my steed, And urged him again to his uttermost speed. On, on still I rode, as the wild huntsman rides: In the dawn I could just see the foam-covered sides, See the head sinking low, see the staggering knees, Feel the shudder that shook him as wind shakes the trees; Yet onward he struggled with fast-failing strength, And safe into Landsman’s Drift galloped at length. And all I remembered was, “Now it is done; I was first with the news of the victory won; And no voice but will praise this long gallop of mine, When ’tis talked of at breakfast or over the wine.” Odd Fish (Mr. Charles McIntyre).

How I won the Challenge Shield. I sprang to the saddle and Wheeler and Lea; I treadled, Lea treadled, we treadled all three: “Five mile!” cried the judge, decked in rosette of blue; Whiz! went our front wheels as past him we flew: And loud were the public with cheer and with jest, As round the first lap we sped on abreast. 48 Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Yard by yard, wheel by wheel, never changing our place: And firm in my saddle—prepared for each swerve— I steadied each muscle and braced up my nerve, Reserving my whole strength, kept pace with the two, And neither was favourite, at least to the view. We were scratch all at starting; but when we drew near The first mile I led, amid deafening cheer; At two the “crack” wheeler was the first of the three; The third mile was led by the resolute Lea; And from ropes and pavilion was heard the loud roar As the judge’s gruff voice gave the mileage at “Four!” At five miles I spurted and kept up the run, And gained the lost lead that the others had won, And bent o’er my wheel and went inch by inch past My sturdy opponents and left them at last, With sure-footed pedals each spinning away, And still on the watch like a cat for its prey. I now kept the inside and heard them at my back— Saw their shadows athwart on the smooth cinder track, And each eye’s sharp look-out lest they neared on the right, Kept my bi. well in hand as each wheel came in sight; And the roar of the people which aye and anon Would quicken each pedal and hasten it on. Next moment Lea fell; cried the judge, looking grim, “Poor fellow, fought bravely, the fault’s not in him, ’Tis cursed ill-luck!” For he saw by his face, Scarred and cut, and white lips, he was out of the race, And carried him off to the shade of the tent And came back to criticise us as we went. So we were left treadling, Wheeler and I, To spin for the prizes—no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above shed its pitiless shine, Down my face rolled the sweat and stung me like brine; Then loudly the judge, coming near as we passed, Said, “Go it, my hearties, this lap is the last!” How they shouted! and all in a moment a spurt Gave him an inch lead—but he found me alert, And then was my stamina put to its test: He and I fought the battle, and onlooked the rest, With his head near the wheel, and his teeth firmly set, He still kept my side and no farther could get. Then I called up my energies; loud was the cry That came from the thousands of spectators nigh; Gripped firmly the handles, the grasp of grim death, And steadied the pedals, then took a deep breath, Clenched my teeth, gained a yard, as we flew down the track, Till the shouts told me plainly I’d beaten the “crack.” And all I remember, is friends flocking round, Who bore us both shoulder high then off the ground, And the club all en masse cheered this record of mine, And my health was the pretext for bumpers of wine. And the fellows all voted three cheers from the field, For the victor and vanquished, who fought for the shield. W. H. Smith. The Wheeling Annual. 1885

And “Please your Worships,” said he, “I’m able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures—with ears—beneath the sun; After me they are bound to run In such a style as you never saw. I’m willing,” said he, “to try my charm On the Tories—they’re doing the country harm. I’m also possessed of a spell, you’ll see, To strengthen limp Libs, who’ve gone weak at the knee; The time-serving Rat and the envious Viper; And they call me Wandering Willie the Piper.” And here they observed that he carried his pipes, This man of the breeze-blown Galashiels stripes, And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing. But the Big-Whigs looked just a little bit cool, Inclined to believe that the man was a fool; Whilst the Tories yelled “You may do your worst, And blow away till your Bagpipes burst.” Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling a little sardonic smile, Gs if he knew what music slept, In his quiet pipes the while. Then like a regular Scotch adept, To blow the pipes his lips he bagged, His fingers flew, ne’er a moment they lagged, And e’er three notes the pipes had uttered You heard as if all Scotland muttered; And the muttering grew to a mighty roaring, And out of their strongholds the Tories came pouring, With many a grunt and many a groan: And not the Tory hosts alone, But the Liberal rats. There were swell rats, seedy rats, Bold rats, timid rats, plump rats, greedy rats, Nor the rats and the Tories alone came forth, But the long-silent Radical hosts of the North, Willingly, gleefully, shouting and cheering, Heedless of “fagots,” of jibe, and of jeering, Grave old plodders, and gay young friskers, Grandfathers, fathers, sons, uncles, and cousins; Greybeards, boys with scarce-budding whiskers, Valiant voters, by twos, tens, dozens. And as still that Piper (a plague on him!) played. Not the North alone in his train was arrayed, But the Voters flocked from east, west, south, And the Midlands, witched by that magical mouth; Voters from counties, and cities, and boroughs, From toil at the furnace, from work at the furrows; Voters from mansion, mart, meadow, and mine, Voters of all sorts and sizes, in fine, Rushing and crushing, ran eagerly after That wonderful music, with shouting and laughter. Then the Big-Whigs stared, and the Tories stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to fashion a fetching cry To rally those Voters hurrying by— Could only follow with envious eye, Hearts in the doldrums and heads on the rack, That numberless crowd at the Piper’s back, A mighty flood whose resistless roll Swept that Piper’s foes from their place at the Poll. * * * * *

Off for the Holidays.—the Pied Piper of Westminster leading the way. Have ye not in memory kept How, when out into the street Hamelin’s Pied Piper stept, From his reed pass’d notes so sweet That the children all came running, Captivated by his cunning, Follow’d at his heels, and then Never more returned again? A spectacle like to that kind of thing At Westminster now is happening; The piper there, thinking the time is ripe, Tootles aloud on his festive pipe. And at once there’s a bustling and scrambling and hustling To flee in hot haste from debate and its tussling, Peers’ shoes are pattering, Commons’ boots clattering, All of them blithely of holidays chattering, Eager to show they at least have a smattering Of yachting or sport, Or pursuits of a sort That are currently thought to supply health and pleasure To overworked statesmen whene’er they get leisure. But here the case grows different; For while these children of Parliament Dance over the hills and far away Directly they hear the Piper play, Though they go to the mountain or up to the moon, They’ll return to St. Stephen’s—and that pretty soon. Fun. August, 1884.

Poets and Linnets. After Robert Browning. Where’er there’s a thistle to feed a linnet And linnets are plenty, thistles rife— Or an acorn-cup to catch dew drops in it There’s ample promise of further life Now, mark how we begin it. For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, As blows the white-feather parachute; And ships will reel by the tempest blinded— Ay, ships, and shiploads of men to boot! How deep whole fleets you’ll find hid. And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God. The dew! for its want an oak will wither— By the dull hoof into the dust is trod, And then who strikes the cithar? But thistles were only for donkeys intended, And that donkeys are common enough is clear. And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended, Does it add any favour to Glugabib’s beer? Well, there’s my musing ended. Tom Hood, the younger. Fun. September, 1865.

The Quest of Barparlo. So, gat me to the oaken, gnarlèd man, That sat within the sounding-gate, half-wrapt, Encumbered by three-cornered phantasies, Hard-lipped, and low’ring like an autumn sky When winter jostles in before his time, Powdering his silvern breath against the brown. Now, thought I, if mayhap by time or tide, Or swiftly confluent imaginings, Or great Potentialities (which thrive On weakness,—for the doubtful gains on doubt As doubt grows yet more weakly in its doubt!) I may achieve to speech with this old man, Tho’ barrel-hooped with yellow waistcloth,—propped By king’s-cord on the nether, nerveless knees, He seems yet unattainable: the sky, Th’ imponderate vast æther—every star Have by the climbing-ladder brain of man Been searched and labelled. Nature, once so coy, Has yielded to her noble ravisher, And I, Barparlo, in whose pulses run The golden blood of fearless ancestors, Will—must—bespeak this rustic sage, or die! But now the old man sudden turned, and so He spied me, and with scoop’d hand to his ear Attentive listened, glow’ring as I spoke. “Oh, age! Conglomerate youth! For such is age, If age be age amid the ages! For The ages know not age, but ever run In youth—yet youthless, for they bring us age— Why sit you in the sun that sinks to show Man’s self a parable; not inchoate Like something self-revolving on itself To something pre-sublime, co-ordinate With the eternal justice of the Poles!” To whom, with bitter smile, the enraptured sage Curling a blue spire from his hollow clay— “Oh, ax the Parson. I don’t know no French!” Judy. July 7, 1880.

Browning is—what? Browning is—what? Talent redundant, Verbiage abundant, —Where is his blot? Beaming his verses, but blank all the same. —Framework that waits for some reason to frame: What of his meaning?—Strive for an hour— Posies unreal, grapes that are sour! No neatness, completeness, O lyrical mummer! Panting for vagueness, unmusical strummer! Breathe o’er thy lyre, Apollo! and thence Into his mire Throw life, throw sense, Throw sense! H. W. Hancock.

Loving is—what? Loving is—what? Nothing material, Essence ethereal. —Say, is it not? More than a myth, yet unreal all the same. —Vapour electric with passion and flame; What is love’s glory, what is love’s power? Something devouring what nought can devour! Love, then, content discontentment, O lover! Feast on the phantom round which you hover! 50 Feed on the gleam Revealed from above, For youth’s fervid dream Is life, is love, Is love! Charles A. Cooper.

Wanting is—what? Lemon redundant, Sugar abundant. —Water made hot! Shining the glass, yet a blank all the same. —Framework that waits for a liquid to frame: What of the whisky, what of its power? Spirits devouring with nought they devour! Come, then, O bright brain!—bewildering body, Gleam through the goblet, and perfect the toddy! Who drinks may remark How all that was near Grows distant and dark, Grows dim, grows queer, Arows—queer! Mynie.

Wooing is—what? Wooing is—what? Sighing redundant, Blisses abundant. —What is it not? “Balmy”’s the word, yet it’s rough all the same. —Fretwork which warps both the mind and the frame: What of her temper, what of her dower? Posers o’erpowering which come in a shower! Come it, O pleasing perplexity, come it A trifle less strong, while I venture to sum it Up in one breath: The absence of gold To wooing is death— Calf-love grows cold, Grows cold! Exe.

Wanting is—what? (A Billiard Mystery. From the new volume “Jomilleria.”) Wanting is—what? Scoring addition, Getting position, Here on the spot? Seamy his clothes, yet a crack at the game. —Marker he knows, and addresses by name: What of the sharper, what of his power? Gloomily glowering with nought to devour! Come then, complete ignoramus, O comer, Flush in thy greenness, needy the bummer! One game he lets You make,—that’s enough! Trebles the bets, Goes slow, gives snuff, Gives snuff! A. S. W. From The Weekly Dispatch, April 1, 1883.

Come is the Comer! Wild Winter railing, Snow storms prevailing, Gone is the Summer! Bleak looks the world, Yet a something is here, A Picture, but waiting the Frame to appear. Bare are the branches, Ne’er a flower blooms, The Roses lie dead, unbemoaned in their tombs, Yet come has Completion! that marvellous tinter, That maketh a Paradise even in winter! Happiness rife, Though Death reigns around, For sweeter than Life Is Love when found, Gove’s found!

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allow’d: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, follow’d him, honour’d him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learn’d his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die!

They just for a handful of chocolate left us— Just for some sweetmeats to put in their throats: Of their sweet converse these girls have bereft us, Scorning Bard Browning, the deepest of “potes,” Once they professed they would worship the Master, And help to expound him to lit’rature clubs; But now—oh, most direful and dreadful disaster!— Those girls have in chocolate spent all their “subs.” Just for some mouthfuls of chocolate only, Quit they the Browning Society’s fold; Leaving their male fellow-worshippers lonely, Puzzling out lines of mysterious mould. Oh! say what is sweetstuff to sentences mystic, That Girton girls should thus forsake the true “cult”? Oh, when they might pore o’er B.’s lines aphoristic, Wherein can “sweets” makes girl-graduates exult! Oh! think what they might have taught Philistine readers, Expounding, maybe, Browning’s foggiest line! Instead of which now of mere worldly joys heeders, They look upon sweetmeats as something divine. Once as apostles our teaching they aided— Even contributing cash with much glee; But now to mere chocolate-worship degraded, On Sweets, not on song, do they spend £ s. d.! Fun. March 31, 1886.

A Story of Girton. Oh, the scholary girls, too blue, Who lived at Girton, down by the Cam, Just where the Cam bids the town adieu! And who would ever have thought them a sham— These girls, and the lots they knew? Too blue, for the colour of health is red; And their eyes had the dull, boiled-gooseberry look Of maids who are meant to go to bed When down from their laps flops the out-spread book, But consume night’s oil instead. Yet I noticed, like a flowering shrub A bloom in a desert, one striking grace: They might “screw” like mad when afloat in a “tub,” And never get up the ghost of a pace, But they had a “Browning Club”! So, when one waxed ill, it did not seem strange That the Lady Principal sighed, and said, “A stoppage of work I must arrange; To studies recondite she’s too much wed, And from books she needs a change.” “Not my books,” the patient cried; “Take not the desk that my books contains! For o’er the ‘Browning Club’ I preside, And the mystic masterly fruit of his brains Is my solace, glory, and pride!” Her request being granted, asleep fell she; The Lady Principal joyed at that; But when the Doctor dropped in, said he, “It’s only a bilious attack, that’s flat. Brain trouble? Fiddle-de-dee!” The desk, it chanced, was not quite closed: “Why does she clutch it so?” asked the leech; The Lady Principal supposed That to have her dear Bard within reach Consoled her as she dozed. “Let’s look inside!” And at once—oh, dreams Of “Female Culture,” and the rest! They found—no masterly mystic themes, No Pippa, no Duchess, but—who would have guessed?— A box of Chocolate Creams! * * * * *

It was roses, roses all the way, With myrtles mixed in my path like mad. The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels, But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward what else?” * * * * *

A Parody. It was pouring, pouring, all the way, As we scampered along the road like mad; The trees were a mist of shadows grey As past them we swept—such nags we had!— A week ago, on the Gold Cup Day. The air was rent with a myriad yells, Our ears were shocked with the crowd and cries, As they strained for the sound of the saddling bells; The sun was a-sulk in the clouded skies, Though he shone out afterward. What else? What else? I know that the wrong horse won, Though over the luncheon I fell asleep, For I woke to find myself all undone; I had sown the wind, and I needs must reap The whirlwind after the race was run! There’s nobody on the Grand Stand now, Where a week ago such a concourse met; The best of the sight after all, I vow, Was the ladies lawn, with its luncheons set, Though that looks sad enough now, I trow! Gossamer. The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.

The Party Leader. A very old story. It was cheering, cheering, to the close O’ my speech that day I launched the Bill: From serried ranks the row uprose, And hats are waved, and voices thrill; And I!—I thought I’d dished my foes. * * * * *

A Parleying with a Certain Person of no Importance in His Day. No, Joseph Chamberlain, near Premier, no. You promise Gladstone quarter? Not for Joe. Perpend this allegory—pauca verba. A vagrom Viper, latitans in herba, Seeing a grand old Mongoose passing, cried, “Come, let’s be amicable—side by side Excogitate alliance—great and good, Rule the whole roast, dukes of this wandering wood.”— “With pleasure,” put in t’other. While they went En camarade, ostensibly content, Serpens, observing all associates own Obedience to his brother-beast alone, Waxed parlous wrath, within adumbrate Vale Bit unsuspecting Mongoose sharp on tail. “Excuse me Sir,” rejoinder came unshaken, “Meseems such step’s thaumaston hôs mistaken. Quid hoc?”—one! two! a momentary flummock— X (quadruped) sat an Y (snake) his stomach. “Spt, spt—grr, grr—awk, awkrr,” spluttered latter, “You mar my meaning monstrously. No matter. Get off my epigastrium. Make amends. Brr—give me breath (confound you, brute!)—Be friends.” Verb. sap.—What quotha grand old Mongoose?—Oh, 52 Referred said reptile-thing to Jericho.— Explain? Not I, save this much; then I’m dumb: Snake, Mongoose, Vale, equal Joe, Gladstone, Brum. Pall Mall Gazette. March 17, 1887.

Two Sides. Browning’s. Love-making, how simple a matter! No depths to explore, No heights in life to ascend—no disheartening before— No affrighting hereafter. Love will be love evermore. Ours. Love-making, how awful a matter! We’ve been there before; The father determined we shouldn’t—the mother watching the door; Till even the girl was affrighted, and wrote us to see her no more.

My Kate. (On Miss Kate Vaughan’s quitting the Gaiety Company in order to come out in a New and Serious Line.) Her air has a meaning, her movements a grace, You turn from the fairest to gaze at her face; And when you have once seen her dance, ’tis a treat That you may encore, but which she won’t repeat— My Kate! Renouncing burlesque, she’s about to enact The fair Amy Robsart—I hope ’twill attract. And when thou art gone, who will here take your part, While you’re starring the country as Amy Robsart, My Kate? We praise you as charming, and ask if you mean To give up burlesque and play Tragedy Queen? The Mashers will cry, o’er this doleful event, “The charm of her presence was felt when she went!”— Our Kate! Punch. June 16, 1883.

Lays of a Lover. (A Roasting, after Browning.) Oh, to be out of London now that no one’s here, For who ever sleeps in London dreams each morning of a pier, And a flowing sail, and a burnished sea, And an azure sky that is not for me, While my darling sings at the Seagul’s bow In Venice now. For after Goodwood, when Cowes follows, And the blue-blood leaves us like the swallows, Hark! where the blooming flower-cart in the street Leans ’neath its weight and scatters for the drover Petals and old clothes—’neath the bovine feet. That’s the harsh voice: that cries each ware twice over Lest you should miss the purport of his jargon, And this cheap matchless bargain. For though our streets are hot, and skies are blue, The air is not so fresh as breathed by you; The butterflies are thirsting for a shower; The milk of human kindness turning sour. Fun. August 13, 1884.

Post Chronology. A chronologic skull sir! ’twas a poet’s; But ’tother’s wasn’t my friend’s friend’s, I say. Our first, a Lombard, were the wind to blow its Loudest, could not daunt him, loved to pray Too, in all the English language is no rhyme Describes him thoroughly. You should have watched him knit Those brows of his, black brows, sir, scarred by time And scowling like a pent-house. But your sonnet Should have a moral, let’s to it, tooth and nail. You’d never catch it, were you to fall on it Without premeditation. Work like a snail Gnawing a lotus leaf, you’re on the brink of it— How now Sir Numbskull turn and think of it.

Fifty years’ flight! wherein should he rejoice Who hailed their birth, who as they die decays? This—England echoes his attesting voice; Wondrous and well—thanks Ancient Thou of days.

Seventy-five years! Wherein do they rejoice Who read his work, who, as he writes, decays? This—plain folk echo their protesting voice— “Wondrous! but no more, thanks! old thou of days.”

The Poets at Tea. Tennyson, who took it hot. I think that I am drawing to an end, For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

Swinburne, who let it get cold. As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer’s beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading! O coldness, ineffably gray! O hear us, our hand-maid unheeding, And take it away!

Browning, who treated it allegorically. Tut! bah! We take as another case— Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule. (A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, sir)—so perhaps you’ll Excuse the digression—this cup which I hold Light-poised—bah! its spilt in the bed—well, let’s on go— Held Bohea and sugar, sir; if you were told The sugar was salt would the Bohea be Congo? * * * * *

Angelo orders his Dinner. I, Angelo, obese, black garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder’s dainties, where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o’ the top, Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill! (You say,) but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we’ll say, (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,) And you’ve an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that’s my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblets’ oils, an Ararat Uplift o’er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah’s vineyard,—... crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forego,— You understand? A venison haunch, haut gout, Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew, And sprigs of anise, might one’s teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,—my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body’s verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

Any Pleader to any Student. Now, you’re my pupil! On the good ancient plan I shall do what I can For your hundred guineas to give my law’s blue pill (Let high jurisprudence which thinks me and you dense, Set posse of cooks to stir new Roman soup ill): First volume of Smith shall give you the pith Of leading decision that shows the division Of action on case from plain action of trespass Where to count in assault law benignantly says “Pass.” Facts o’ case first. At Milborne Port Was fair-day, October the twenty and eight, And folk in the market like fowls in a crate; Shepherd, one of your town-fool sort, (From Solomon’s time they call it sport, Right to help holiday, just make fun louder), Lights me a squib up of paper and powder, (Find if you can the law-Latin for ’t) And chucks it, to give their trading a rouse, Full i’ the midst o’ the market-house. It happ’d to fall on a stall where Yates Sold gingerbread and gilded cates (Small damage if they should burn or fly all); To save himself and said gingerbread loss One Willis doth toss the thing across To stall of one Ryall, who straight an espial Of danger to his wares, of selfsame worth, Casts it in market-house farther forth. And by two mesne tossings thus it got To burst i’ the face of plaintiff Scott. And now ’gainst Shepherd, for loss of eye, The question is, whether trespass shall lie. * * * * * Well—liquor’s out, why look more at old bottle? Gulp down with gusto, you that are young, These new Rules’ ferment, tastes ill in my throttle Since Justice, in nubibus no more on high sitter Descends to speak laymen’s vulgar tongue. So be it! Explicit-parum feliciter.

“The Cock and the Bull.” You see this pebble stone? It’s a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day. I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech, 54 As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia-play ’po’ words?) Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons! I purchased the concern, And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange— “Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term— One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir? What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sightsee—bard spit o’ rain!) In February, eighteen sixty-nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei. Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne. Such, sir, are all facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum—what you will— Of the impending eighty thousand lines. “Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit. * * * * *

Not that I care for ceremonies—no; But still there are occasions, as you see (Observe the costumes—gallantly they show To my poor judgment!), which, ’twixt you and me, Not to come forth, one’s few remaining hairs Or wig—it matters little—bravely brushed And oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tears And tweaks and wrenches people overflushed With—well, not wine—oh, no, we’ll rather say Anticipation, the delight of seeing— No matter what!—inflict upon you (pray Remove your elbow, friend!), in spite of being Not quite the man one used to be, and not So young as once one was, would argue one Churlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, what You please to say. So, not to spoil the fun— Comprenez-vous?—observe that lady there, ‘In native Worth.’ Aha, you see the jest? Not bad, I think? My own too! Woman’s fair, Or not—the odds, so long as she is dressed? They’re coming! Soh! Ha, Bennett’s ‘Barcarole’— A poor thing, but mine own! That minor third Is not so bad, now! Mum, sirs! (Bless my soul, I wonder what her veil cost?) Mum’s the word!

One Word More. (Written in a Gift-copy of “Parodies,” by a Contributor to its pages.) Take them, Chum, the book and me together; Where the heart goes, let the art go also. Hamilton collated many verses, Grouped and set them in sequential volumes, Wrote them, may be, with the self-same stylus Else he used for “The Æsthetic Movement.” Good for most, save one who in this volume (Who that one you ask?) did dreadful rhymings, Take it then to treasure for a life-time, Not to slumber, neighbour to my sonnets, But at times brought out, to tell its story. This is cheek, say you! Well, if it be so, Cheek me back again in self-same fashion, Then my cheek may turn you to a poet. You I think, would rather have this volume, Even though I sadly mar its pages, Would you not? Mate, linger over Ouida, Yea, man read, those very red Gaboriaus, Pall Malls, Globes, or blushing racy “Pink-un,” Dear to travellers on the Inner Circle. What of all this scribble? All this nonsense? This; no rhymer lives that loves and longs not, Often, more than once, yea, frequently, (Like the Major-General to the “Pirates”) To make fun, of stately solemn subjects, Turning upside down what’s art to others, Not, mind you, deriding its true nature, But the while its maker truly loving. Does he paint? then straight burlesque his picture, Does he write? then parody his poems, Show, as proof how well you know your author, Once, or twice, and then the last time going (Like an auction) then knock down your hero. Gain the fool’s laugh, dare the author’s sorrow. I shall never in the years remaining, Paint you pictures, lucky that for you, chum! Nor make music, that would send your fingers Straight to plug your ears, but my delusion This of rhyming letters, bear in patience Verse and worse, I have and still will send you, Others’ rhymes and others’ poems twitting, All their jokes and mine for you—my own chum. J. W. G. W.

St. James’s Street, of classic fame, The finest people throng it. St. James’s Street? I know the name, I think I’ve passed along it! Why, that’s where Sacharissa sigh’d When Waller read his ditty; Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, And Alvanley was witty. A famous street! To yonder Park Young Churchill stole in class-time; Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, And then recall the past time. The plats at White’s, the play at Crock’s, The bumpers to Miss Gunning; The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, And Selwyn’s ghastly funning. The dear old street of clubs and cribs, As north and south it stretches, Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs, And Gillray’s fiercer sketches; The quaint old dress, the grand old style, The mots, the racy stories; The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile— The hate of Whigs and Tories. At dusk, when I am strolling there, Dim forms will rise around me;— Lepel flits pass me in her chair, And Congreve’s airs astound me! And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, Look’d kindly when I met her; I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite Forgot to quite forget her. The street is still a lively tomb For rich, and gay, and clever; The crops of dandies bud and bloom, And die as fast as ever. Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, And slang that’s rather scaring,— It can’t approach its prototypes In taste, or tone, or bearing. In Brummell’s day of buckle shoes, Lawn cravats and roll collars, They’d fight, and woo, and bet—and lose Like gentlemen and scholars: I’m glad young men should go the pace, I half forgive Old Rapid; These louts disgrace their name and race,— So vicious and so vapid! Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed, Will then be quite forgotten, And all we much revere will speed From ripe to worse than rotten: Let grass then sprout between yon stones, And owls then roost at Boodle’s, For Echo will hurl back the tones Of screaming Yankee Doodles. I love the haunts of old Cockaigne, Where wit and wealth were squander’d; The halls that tell of hoop and train, Where grace and rank have wander’d; Those halls where ladies fair and leal First ventured to adore me! Something of that old love I feel For this old street before me. Frederick Locker. 1867.

ST. JAMES’S STREET. Old Ballad. St. James’s-Street, of classic fame, The finest people throng it! St. James’s Street? I know the name! I think I’ve passed along it! Why, that’s where Sacharrissa sighed When Waller read his ditty; Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, And Alvanley was witty. A famous street. It skirts the Park Where Rogers took his pastime; Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, And then call up the fast time. The plâts at White’s, the play at Crock’s, The bumpers to Miss Gunning; The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, And Selwyn’s ghastly funning. The dear old street of clubs and cribs, As north and south it stretches, Still smacks of William’s pungent squibs, And Gilray’s fiercer sketches; The quaint old dress, the grand old style, The mots, the racy stories; The wine, the dice; the wit, the bile, The hate of Whigs and Tories. At dusk, when I am strolling there, Dim forms will rise around me; Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair, And Congreve’s airs astound me, And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, Looked kindly when I met her; I shook my head, perhaps—but quite Forgot to quite forget her. The street is still a lively tomb For rich and gay and clever; The crops of dandies bud and bloom, And die as fast as ever. Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes And slang that’s rather rancid, It can’t approach its prototypes In tone—or so I’ve fancied. In Brummel’s day of buckle-shoes, Starch cravats, and roll collars, They’d talk, and woo, and bet—and lose Like gentlemen and scholars, But now young nobles go the pace With blacklegs, grooms, and tailors; And scions soon of noblest race May pass the night with jailors. Worse times may come, Bon ton, alas, Will then be quite forgotten, And all we much revere will pass From ripe to worse than rotten; Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones, And owls will roost at Boodle’s, And shame will echo back the tones Of Coachington, Lord Noodle. F. L. The Queen’s Messenger. August 12, 1869.

St. Giles. A London poet sang of late In exquisitely tender verses, How in their whirl the wheels of Fate, Changed cars of triumph into hearses. He said St. James’s wit and smiles Were trodden under foot by shoddy— Bah! let me sing about St. Giles, And chronicle the sin of toddy. Long years ago, St. Martin’s Fields Were ripe with grain and purple clover Where grisly thieves the kitchen shields, And yellow ’busses topple over. The very spot, where rose the lark To sing its song to all creation, Is given over after dark To deathly deeds and desolation. Just where the parson from his door Relieved the sorrows of the humble, The workhouse shields the houseless poor, Who execrate the mighty Bumble. A thousand nightingales in song Have warbled melodies for ages, Where now canary-sellers throng, And linnets chirp in tiny cages. Where Strephon sighed and sighed to win, And dainty Phyllis churned her butter, The costermonger shrieks for gin, And helpless rolls about the gutter; Where Sacharissa ’neath her fan Was smiling at his lordship’s raving, The ragged wife adores the man, Who beats her head against the paving. There’s not a spot and not a stone, But spoke a poem when we met it, That does not echo to the moan Of poverty—do we regret it? If we have sorrow for St. James, And sing about its loss of swelldom, We needs must weep St. Giles’s shames, Although we think about them seldom. Henry S. Leigh. Fun. November 16, 1867.

Yes, here, once more a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids and serving-men Receive me with a grin: Surely they can’t remember Me, My hair is grey and scanter; I’m changed, so changed since I was here— O tempora mutantur! * * * * * The curtains have been dyed; but there, Unbroken, is the same, The very same crack’d pane of glass On which I scratch’d her name. Yes, there’s her tiny flourish still; It used to so enchant her To link two happy names in one— O tempora mutantur! Frederick Locker.

Tempora Mutantur! No pea-shooters upon the way No careless chaff and banter No passing blows to take and pay! O Tempora mutantur! The traps go soberly along, Scarce one is in a canter, The language even isn’t strong— O Tempora mutantur! The times were very different when I went with my enchanter; Young men in those days were young men; O Tempora mutantur! Of course you’ll say its for the best (My Boy, pass the decanter!) But now your Derby’s lost its zest O Tempora mutantur! Catullus of Fleet Street.

What changes meet my wistful eyes In quiet little Bramble-Rise, The pride of all the shire; How alter’d is each pleasant nook;— And used the dumpy church to look So dumpy in the spire? This village is no longer mine; And though the Inn has changed its sign, The beer may not be stronger; The river, dwindled by degrees, Is now a brook, the cottages Are cottages no longer. The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, The pound has tumbled out of date, And all the trees are stunted: Surely these thistles once grew figs, These geese were swans, and once these pigs More musically grunted. Where boys and girls pursued their sports A locomotive puffs and snorts, And gets my malediction; The turf is dust—the elves are fled— The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread To photograph and fiction. Ah! there’s a face I know again, There’s Patty trotting down the lane To fill her pail with water; Yes, Patty! but I fear she’s not The tricksey Pat that used to trot, But Patty,—Patty’s daughter! * * * * * Frederick Locker.

A Song at Sixty. My boyhood’s home! How clearly rise Thy varied scenes before mine eyes In fair perspective. I hear the bull-frogs in the pond— The whippoorwill’s weird notes respond To thoughts reflective. 58 Again I see the old “worm fence,” Around the pasture-lot from whence The cows lowed over At milking time, as if they smelled The many-windowed barn, that held The corn and clover. I see, beyond the garden-gate The gray bull-calf, that used to wait To “hook” that gate off— And flower-beds, where browsed the bees ’Neath overhanging cherry-trees Whose twigs he ate off. ’Twas there, above the hollyhocks, The blue birds thronged the martin-box That wrongly housed them. There too, from out the red oak grove, Their brother bandits came and strove In vain to oust them. And there, a flock of noisy geese Down to the brimming pond in peace Would oft meander— To come again when day declined, Wide-waddling homeward, strung behind Their valiant gander. All’s past—I only thought to spin Gold thread of sunny dreams within This cushioned “rocker.” My blood’s too slow—too weak my nerves For poaching on the choice preserves Of Frederick Locker. C. H. L. The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.

His Girl. Oh, she wears a sealskin sacque, When it snows; And her stunning suit is black As a crow’s; Short; and thinks it is a pity, Charming, jolly, wise, and witty: Has a retroussé—so pretty— Little nose. In her basket phaeton, When it blows, With her striking glasses on, Out she goes; And she’s just as sweet as stately, And she sits there so sedately, With her cheeks and lips so greatly Like a rose. She plays Chopin, Liszt, and Spohr For her beaux. And she speak of “Pinafore”— Heaven knows! With a naughty “D” and “Never!” But she’s awful nice and clever; If she liked me, I’d endeavour To propose. Detroit Free Press. 1882.

Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly; The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face, And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely. The Romans are an easy going race, With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly; I see them at their doors, as day is closing, Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing. * * * * * Frederick Locker. 1863.

Mr. Gladstone in Rome. “Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,—Non c’e latte. This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.” Clough in 1848. 1. Old Rome in December. Take out your umbrella For we picnic no more with Cæcilia Metella, While flirtation is wholly unheard in the sheeny And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini. Mr. Locker, to Rome a poetical rover, Has, sketched us the flirts, and the croquet moreover, He’ll smile as he sees, in the shade of St. Peter’s How coolly we’ve stolen his phrases and metres. 2. But though English are few on the Pincian Hill, One grave politician is lingering still; From Montorio looks down on the Tiber, and thinks That the problem of Rome beats the crux of the Sphinx; That no one can tell us the ultimate bias Of the city of Cæsar, and Pasquin, and Pius; That the milk of the She Wolf meant bloodshed and sorrow; And—will there be milk at the Caffè to-morrow? The Globe. London.

They tell me I was born a long Three months ago, But whether they are right or wrong I hardly know. I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl, But I can cry— At present I am rather small— A babe am I. The changing lights of sun and shade Are baby toys; The flowers and birds are not afraid Of baby-boys. Some day I’ll wish that I could be A bird and fly; At present I can’t wish—you see A babe am I. Frederick Locker.

From the Cradle. They tell me I was calved a long Three weeks ago; But whether they are right or wrong I hardly know. 59 I sleep, I suck, I cannot bawl, But I can cry; At present I am rather small— A calf am I. With changing food from swede to blade, My mammy toys, Nor she nor I are yet afraid Of butcher-boys. Some day I’ll wish that I could be A bird, and fly. At present I can’t wish, you see— A calf am I. Funny Folks, May 15, 1880.

A Gallery of Fair Women. Mrs. Golightly. Her piles of hair are ultra-blonde; Her tints are ultra-splendid; Her eyes are shallow, brilliant, fond, And belladonna—friended. An air of langorous command About her always lingers. She has a very shapely hand, With long, bejewelled fingers. Her foot is neat—not oversmall, But exquisitely booted. Her figure, faulty after all, Is admirably suited. Her teeth are good, and if her lip Glow with a warmer crimson Than lovers care to see or sip, Why, blame her woman, Simson. A bishop’s daughter, born to dare, She made a reckless marriage. She has a cottage in Mayfair, No children, and a carriage, And is an universal pet, An innocent Bohemian, A Dian feigning to forget The legalised Endymion. With many a bachelor she plays A dainty little whimsy, Like Musset’s acts, or Locker’s lays, Brief, elegant, and flimsy. She loves to woo, to win, to part; Forsaken and forsaking, Her heart—she says she has a heart— Will bear a deal of breaking. She shines in all things strange and new— Plays, pictures, Prince’s, polo. She gives the odds on either Blue, She never answers “Nolo.” To-day she raves of Rubinstein, To-morrow of Albani; To-day “Aïda” is divine, To-morrow “Don Giovanni.” But dress is, after all her dream, Her veritable passion. Her costume’s always an extreme, A nightmare of the fashion. The style that now-a-days we know, Has from the first revealed her As ruthlessly as long ago Its opposite concealed her. She waltzes well, she does not sing, She loves to chatter, chatter Of anything and everything— It really doesn’t matter! She skims a novel now and then To get at the sensations, And thinks Invention made the pen To answer invitations. Her little head’s so vain and light It whirls in all directions, And yet you smile on her, despite Her host of imperfections. Her heaven is one of summer skies, And dreams that bloom to wither, And like a love bird, when she dies, Her little soul will thither. London, 1877.

Something Praedesque. I’ve many sweethearts; which shall I Make just a pretty bit of rhyme to, Now as the midnight moments fly, And I have the caprice and time to? “Be,” says my editor, “Praedesque: That is, omit the fiery particle.” He thinks my heart is in my desk— Indeed, I have not such an article. And of my sweethearts, one or two Would almost fly into a passion, If I desired their lips to woo In that old easy worn-out fashion. Praed, though no poet, had some power; He is defaced by many a mocker: I’m criminal this very hour, And so is Dobson, so is Locker. “O give us something new and fresh!” The girls exclaim, they’re right, the beauties, To catch their hearts in merrier mesh Is chiefest of a lover’s duties. How easy is this rambling rhyme! Eight syllables, with rhymes that double; It makes one fancy at the time That neither rhyme nor love’s a trouble. No trouble ’tis to scribble off Verse to the girls you little care for; To flatter, satirize, or scoff, Amused, and hardly knowing wherefore. But love—or hate—or be afraid Of any woman … when you greet her, It won’t be in the rhythm of Praed; You’ll have to find Peculiar Metre. Mortimer Collins.

London’s ‘Suez Canal.’ What pretty girls one sees about At rink and race, at ball and rout, At drums and dinners! In books, where Ænids find Geraints, In pictures Mr. Millais paints In church—I’m fond of such young saints And sinners. A score at least one’s sure to meet From Charing Cross to Oxford Street, Or climbing hilly St. James’s, where of clubdom sick, Old fogeys voted at old nick, Fond glances turn at four towards Pic- —cadilly. Muse-favored haunt of all that’s gay! Whose every stone has had its day Of loves and graces! Your triumphs many a bard can tell, Fred Locker sings them passing well— I know you bear away the bell For faces. Along your Strand converging flow The social tides to Rotten Row, Beloved and shady; Old Gouty trundles with his pair, De Bootle saunters, cane in air— I’m wondering, who’s that golden hair- ’d young lady? What fools we are!—Le Follets’ page Makes yellow ringlets all the rage, And willy nilly, Poor ebon poles must cut their stick And silver change its ‘plaiting’ quick, Now only ‘gold’ is picked in Pic- —cadilly! But whether black or gold or grey Fashion declares her slaves shall say The dernier goût is You bear your motley freightage well, And East and West your convoys swell— A sort of Cockneyfied canal Of Suez! A neutral ‘cut’ where every man’s A vessel bound to pay the trans- —it dues and duty,— Dues stricter than e’er Lesseps took— Love’s tribute levied on a look, And duly noted in the Book Of Beauty. * * * * * And now whilst ice enwraps you still, And snow’s on Constitution Hill— Like some old Pharaoh, Sun shaded ’mid the fervent rays I bask away the balmy days, And write these verses to your praise In Cairo. Across the desert ridges high Long lines of camels track the sky, The pink lights flicker,— The day has run its golden race— The Mussulman kneels in his place— The pilgrim turns his patient face To Mecca.… All here’s aglow with summer sun; There hugs black frost his mantle dun In winter chilly: Yet could I stand on “Simla’s” deck And Westward—ere this watch’s tick Old England ho! for me, and Pic- —cadilly! H. Cholmondeley Pennell. Temple Bar, January, 1876.

Songsters of the Day. The Bard of Society. There, pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned; My conscience! how one’s cabman charges! But never mind, so I’m returned Safe to my native street of Clarges. I’ve just an hour for one cigar What style these Reinas have, and what ash!), One hour to watch the evening star, With just one Curaçao-and-potash. Ah me! that face beneath the leaves And blossoms of its piquant bonnet! Who would have thought that forty thieves Of years had laid their fingers on it! Could you have managed to enchant At Lord’s to-day old lovers simple, Had Robber Time not played gallant, And spared you every youthful dimple! That robber bold, like courtier Claude, Who danced the gay coranto jesting, By your bright beauty charmed and awed, Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. No feet of many-wintered crows Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle; Your sunny hair has thawed the snows That other heads with silver sprinkle. I wonder if that pair of gloves I won of you you’ll ever pay me! I wonder if our early loves Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy! I wonder if our childish tiff Now seems to you, like me, a blunder! I wonder if you wonder if I ever wonder if you wonder! I wonder if you’d think it bliss Once more to be the fashion’s leader! I wonder if the trick of this Escapes the unsuspecting reader! And as for him who does or can Delight in it, I wonder whether He knows that almost any man Could reel it off by yards together! I wonder if—What’s that? A knock? Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me! 61 How time has flown! Its eight o’clock, And here’s my fellow come to dress me. Be quick, or I shall be the guest Whom Lady Mary never pardons; I trust you, James, to do your best To save the soup at Grosvenor-gardens. Fritteric Lacquer. Time, June, 1880.

On Frederick Locker. Of Locker what? Apollo in the fashion. Humour and pathos suits, no touch of passion. From Suckling, Lovelace, Prior, Luttrell, Praed, Locker inherits his inspiring Maid: Not nude and passionate, not fast and flighty, Like Swinburne’s rosy-bosomed Aphrodite; Not icy-cold, as Parian sculpture is, Like Tennyson’s blue-stockingéd Artemis: Not erudite and sapient, grimly frowning, Like the Athena that’s adored by Browning: But just the Period’s girl, a pretty creature, Of dainty style, though inexpressive feature, Who carefully reserves her choice opinions For length of petticoats and bulk of chignons, In whom no tragic impulse ever rankles, Who always says her prayers, and shows her ankles.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew, This was the Pompadour’s fan. See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through. Courtiers as butterflies bright. Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke—to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue— This was the Pompadour’s fan. Ah! but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great Ministers do; Things that, may be, overthrew Those in whose brain they began, Here was the sign and the cue, This was the Pompadour’s fan! Envoy. Where are the secrets it knew Weavings of plot and of plan? But where is the Pompadour too?— This was the Pompadour’s fan? Austin Dobson.

A Ballade of the Grosvenor Gallery. Art, fled from earth, Sir Coutts and Co. Lured back to hold her state benign, With all the newest masters know Of magic colour, nude design, Set in soft shade or mellow shine Of dexterous curtain, clouded pane, And tricked men so to deem, in fine, Restored her grand Saturnian reign. Thus passed ten grey-green years, when, lo! What gurgling as from flasks of wine; What whirl of revellers to and fro; What lust of eight per cent., or nine, 62 Or ninety, broke her dream divine, Her reverie of æsthetic pain. Musing—can any care of mine Restore the grand Saturnian reign? Then said she; “Shall they flout me so? Shall mortals in my presence dine, Nor heed, for molluscs and clicquot, The masterpieces on the line? Forth from the temple, Philistine! Fling out the banner—Art, not gain! Carr, Hallé, and Burne-Jones combine; Restore my grand Saturnian reign!” Envoy. Priest of the desecrated shrine, Which drum and rout and dance profane, Drive hence the Bacchant bands malign; Restore the grand Saturnian reign! Alltiago (J. C. Woods.)