WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 5)

An Un-Æsthetic Love Song. A barrel of beer and a glass of gin hot Are goodly gifts for me; For my own true love a half-gallon pot Filled to the brim with tea. For thee a bloater from Yarmouth town (Fresh, O fresh, is a fish of the sea!); For me some beef, and, to wash it down, A pint of porter (ah me! ah me!). Sherbet and zoedone for thee (Teetotal drinks have taking names!); A cup of claret and pink for me (O! men are stronger than dames!)

Quite the Cheese. By a Wilde Æsthete. There once was a maiden who loved a cheese Sing, hey! potatoes and paint! She could eat a pound and a half with ease! O the odorous air was faint! What was the cheese that she loved the best? Sing, hey! red pepper and rags! You will find it out if you read the rest; Oh, the horror of frowning crags! Came lovers to woo her from ev’ry land— Sing, hey! fried bacon and files! They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand, O the joy of the Happy Isles. A haughty old Don from Oporto came; Sing, hey! new carrots and nails! The Duke Gorgonzola his famous name O the lusciously-scented gales! Lord Stilton belonged to a mighty line! Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones! He was “Blue” as china—his taste divine! O the sweetness of dulcet tones. Came stout Double Glo’ster—a man and wife Sing, hey! post pillars and pies! And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate; O the purple of sunset skies! De Camembert came from his sunny France Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls! He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance O the sighs of the soft sweet girls. Came Gruyere so pale! a most hole-y-man! Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice! But the world saw through him as worldlings can O the breezes from Isles of Spice. But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one Sing, hey! acrostics and ale! Save for single Glo’ster she love had none! O the roses on fair cheeks pale! He was fair and single—and so was she! Sing hey! tomatoes and tar! And so now you know which it is to be! O the aid of a lucky star! They toasted the couple the livelong night Sing hey! cast-iron and carp! And engaged a poet this song to write. O the breathing Æolian harp! So he wrote this ballad at vast expense! Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas! And, though you may think it devoid of sense, O he fancies it Quite the Cheese! H. C. Waring.

Blue Moonshine. By O’pshawnessy. Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe. Ay! for ever and for ever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever, Amber-like, the crystal deep; Shall the soul’s delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss. Francis G. Stokes.

“Frangipanni.” By O’Sh******sy. Untwine those ringlets! Ev’ry dainty clasp That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp That smiles to see men die. Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw Night’s curtain o’er the landscape of thy hair! I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law That dooms me to despair. I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips, I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath! I droop! I sink into my soul’s eclipse,— I fall in love with death! 84 And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes, Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze That smites to dusk the skies! Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee? Hast though no garland for this aching head That soon so low must be? No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is all forgot? Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein Thou call’st thy tresses! I shall stay thee not— My struggles were but vain! But shall I see thee far beyond the sun, When the new dawn lights empyrean scenes? What matters now? I know the poem’s done, And wonder what the dickens it all means! Judy. July 21, 1880.

On the River. It is sweet to sip the breezes In September; and it pleases Folks like me, whose work decreases When its hot, To depart from one’s landlady, Very shortly after pay-day, And to settle in some shady Kind of spot. In September I am lazy, And my thoughts are rather mazy, So I love the aspect hazy Of some glade, When the autumn moon uprises O’er the hill, and me surprises, Talking trash that full of sighs is, To that maid. She has eyes that seem to twinkle, Like the pin-impaled winkle, When the fish-wife dares to sprinkle It with spice; And her chestnut-tinted tresses, That provoke a man’s caresses, Haunt her swain till he confesses She is nice. Sometimes, when the day has faded, And the moonbeams have invaded Every nook that is unshaded From their gleam, Chloe, who is very knowing In the noble art of rowing, Vaguely drops a hint of going Down the stream. ’Neath the branches of a willow, With the drifted sedge for pillow, Cradled on the silver billow Lies a boat, Which I speedily untether, And we drift away together, Like two beetles on a feather That’s afloat. Couched in shadow that so still is, Dreamy, large-eyed waterlilies Stare astonished at us sillies Up above: Doubtless, with a timid flutter Of propriety, they mutter Sentiments I dare not utter, About love. Wretched things! with no affections, And with very bad complexions; We can suffer your objections And your snubs; By your taunts we won’t be maddened, And shall be surprised and gladdened, If our true love be not saddened By worse rubs. Anonymous.

“Georgy.” (After J. Ashby-Sterry.) I know you, little winsome sweet, You heroine of childish orgy; What dance would ever be complete Without our rosy, romping Georgy? Straight as a dart, of which the sting Lurks in a pair of pearl-gray eyes; Slight, but the roundest lissome thing As o’er the well-chalked floor she flies. Nor can I say there is concealed At ev’ry airy pirouette The frill (not often so revealed!) Of such a dainty pantalette! Her little boots with silver heels Ring on the boards as round she whirls— I wonder if the darling feels She cuts out all the other girls? There is a saucy cock of chin, A semblance of a conscious power To stake (with ev’ry chance to win!) The bud against the fallen flower. Who knows these little maidens’ dreams? Unsullied,—but with mischief fraught: How like a woman Georgy seems, Yet by what subtle instinct taught? The question’s vague!—some day, perhaps, She’ll find the answer, for the rogue is A match, at twelve, for most young chaps, And right away beyond us fogies. For me,—I sit and watch her twirls, Then wend me home and smoke my pipe, That whispers “These delightful girls, Thank goodness are in Sterry-o-type!” R. Reece. Judy. June 30, 1880.

Ballade of a Ballade Monger. You start ahead in splendid style, No stint of rhymes appear in view, With many a happy thought the while— You dash away as though you knew Enough to fill the thirty-two. Those lines, that need such careful filling, Yet you are lucky if you do— For ballade-mongering is killing. Now on your face may dawn a smile, To think that rhymes both neat and new, To end your stanzas will beguile Your pen—till “envoy” you must brew; But half the poem yet is due. And though she ready be and willing, To your shy muse you yet must sue— For ballade-mongering is killing. Here’s stanza three, and now they rile, Those end words that of every hue And form, all seem so poor and vile, You, weary of the hackneyed crew This one suggests the other’s cue. As fresh as—twelve pence for a shilling, No, never change can you renew, For ballade-mongering is killing. Envoy. Rhymesters! The Envoy you will rue, Since it should be supreme and thrilling; It’s ended, tamely it is true, For ballade-mongering is killing. Gleeson White. Judy. October 5, 1887.

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose: But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! (Three verses omitted.) Envoy. Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! Andrew Lang.

A Ballade of Primitive Woman. An American Parody. She lived in a primitive way, She lived in a hut made of trees, With never a moving in May, Unless when invaded by bees, Her husband had never night keys, Lodge nights were not then to deceive; Nor was he addicted to sprees— What a life led our relative, Eve! He hadn’t for bonnets to pay, Which accounts for his efforts to please; Nor did he growl round every day, O’er his trousers that bagged at the knees, Unheard of were fashion’s decrees Her dolmans she knew how to weave From grape-leaves with greatest of ease, What a life led our relative, Eve! Her stew-pans she wrought out of clay Her knives were the shells of the seas, 86 And she dined on a spicy entrée Of grapes and some ape-fricassees. To sleep with the toes to the breeze Was considered the cheese, I believe, Which was healthy, no one but agrees— What a life lead our relative, Eve. Envoy. Cast off fashions gay panoplies, “Sassiety” maiden, retrieve; Learn, while apeing our “first familees,” What a life led our relative, Eve! Anonymous.

This is the age of glorified jingle, Honour is only to rhyming pranks; Deftliest who their assonants mingle, They shall walk first in Poesy’s ranks: They shall recline upon Helicon’s banks, Fountain of bards who have conquered Time; (Others must do with inferior tanks) This is the era of run-mad rhyme. Cold though their verse as the sea-shore shingle, Common and cheap as the nails in the planks, Empty as frothiest blather of Fingal, Pointless as ends of the cats of the Manx, Still the mere fact that their lines are not “blanks” Helps them the Mount of Parnassus to climb, Strengthens their unwinged Pegase’s shanks: This is the era of run-mad rhyme. Who shall reign over us sole and single? He who his rhyme-web’s intricate hanks Wears like a collar of bells that tingle, Not like the links of a chain that clanks: He who his burden of quips and cranks Bears with the step of a light-foot mime, Figure erect and unwavering flanks,— This is the era of run-mad rhyme. Muse, I presume you object to “spanks,” Word—I admit it—beneath the sublime. Pray then excuse me the Envoi. Thanks! This is the era of run-mad rhyme.

Austin Dobson.—Andrew Lang. Ah me! how many Fate makes mourn Unhonoured in our midst to dwell, Tho’ Epics write they, and—in scorn, Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Blank verse they scan—at times, as well, In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang, But fail to reach the pinnacle Of Austin Dobson—Andrew Lang, Dear brothers these, whose names adorn Their roll, who spread Poesy’s spell, Their sweetest strains heartward are borne In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Yet did no rival e’er excel Their efforts in the realms o’ sang;— The Laureate’s self bears not the bell From Austin Dobson—Andrew Lang. Their’s not the heaviness men spurn, Light as the breeze in fairy dell The flights of fancy that they turn To Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; From them we never flee pell mell, Ne’er close their volumes with a bang; O! naught our happiness can quell With Austin Dobson—Andrew Lang. Envoy. How soothed our souls—what words can tell? With Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle, How robbed of many a bitter pang By Austin Dobson—Andrew Lang.

Rondel. You bet! you hear me. I tell you I, Whistler, Sir, has fetched this town Onto a copper, a renown, He scratches in, Sir; yes a few! Your critics they may hop the flue, Your painting critturs, Sir, may frown, I, Whistler, Sir! has fetched the town, You bet you hear me, I tell you. His bowie, Sir! is bright and new, He licks ’em up, he licks ’em down I guess, he gives ’em Fits in Brown, Yes, Sir! and plays Old Hell in Blue! You bet! you hear me! I tell you!

Rondel. We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles, Passion his frame contorts and gnarls, The gods and women grip him hard. Observe him bearded like a pard, Furious and fair as northern jarls; We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles. He has a dungheap in his yard, Mixed with the most offensive marls, No wonder Mrs. Grundy snarls, Faustine, Dolores, Chastelard, We have a most erotic bard. From London. 1877.

That dear old Tune. (A Rondeau written in a rage.) That dear old tune I loved of yore! Indeed I love it still; 87 But never save by this one Bore (Who lives upon my basement floor) Have heard it played so ill. Alas, what penance for my sins. I seek my desk, and soon Once more the tootling Fiend begins That dear old tune! All vainly I expostulate; He tries it morn and noon, I vow in sheer distress of hate To learn the ‘loud bassoon’ ‘I rage—I burn’—I execrate; That dear old tune! Austin Dobson. Saturday Journal. 1874.

In Re Rondeau. In corsets laced, in high-heeled shoes, Too fine a woodland way to choose, With mincing step and studied strut, Is this an English Goddess? Tut— Some masker from the Parley-Voos! O, Poet! thou of sinewy thews, Wilt thou free ways and walks refuse, To mince instead through paths close shut, In corsets laced? I cannot—for I’ve old-time views— Follow the poet who pursues The Rondeau, with its rabbit scut, Or Triumphs in a Triolet, but— There may be those who like the muse, In corsets laced.

Roundel. The Cat that sings at dead of night I pelt with bricks, and boots and things, Oh, for the luck to kill outright The Cat that sings! It is as when at evening rings Melodeon-music, only slight- ly worse it tears your bosom-strings. And if at last you chance to smite Him over,—as to life he springs, He simply screeches with delight— The Cat that sings.

The Villanelle. (For the original Villanelle, by Jean Passerat, see page 66.) Jean Passerat, I like thee well— Thou sang’st a song beyond compare— But I’ve not lost a tourterelle: Nor can I write a villanelle— Thou did’st—and for that Jewel rare, Jean Passerat, I like thee well. Now many a twittering hirondelle The plumes of thy lost dove would wear— But I’ve not lost a tourterelle. Could not, indeed, true turtle tell— If real or mock I could not swear: Jean Passerat, I like thee well. True heart that would go “après elle—” And sure thy sentiment I’d share— But I’ve not lost a tourterelle. And am content on earth to dwell— There are some men they cannot spare: Jean Passerat, I like thee well, But I’ve not lost a tourterelle! Charles Henry Webb.

It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, As easy as reciting A. B. C. You need not be an atom of a poet. If you’ve a grain of wit and want to show it, Writing a Villanelle—take this from me— It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it. You start a pair of “rimes” and then you “go it” With rapid running pen and fancy free, You need not be an atom of a poet. Take any thought, write round it or below it, Above or near it, as it liketh thee; It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it. Pursue your task, till, like a shrub, you grow it, Up to the standard size it ought to be; You need not be an atom of a poet. Clear it of weeds, and water it, and hoe it, Then watch it blossom with triumphant glee, It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, You need not be an atom of a poet. Walter W. Skeat. The Academy. May 19, 1888.

The Wail of the “Personally Conducted.” Integral were we, in our old existence; Separate beings, individually; Now are our entities blended, fused, and foundered— We are one Person. We are not mortals, we are not celestials, We are not birds, the upper ether clearing, We are a retrogression toward the Monad: We are Cook’s Tourists. All ways we follow him who holds the Guide Book; All things we look at, with bedazzled optics; Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble Call us the Cookies. Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside, Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows: “Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow Out for an airing.” 88 Him to Manhattan, or the beach of Brighton, Gaily he hieth, or if, fate accurséd, Lives he in Boston, still he may betake him Down to Nantasket. Happy the mortal, free and independent, Master of the main spring of his own volition, Look on us with the eye of sweet compassion, We are Cook’s Tourists. H. C. Bunner. Scribner’s Monthly. November, 1879.

In the Original. Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.

As Austin Dobson Writes It. Triolet. A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet (For a little lamb had Mary, sweet) And it tagged her ’round with a pensive bleat, And wherever she went it wanted to go— A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.

As Mr. Browning Has It. You knew her?—Mary the small, How of a summer—or, no, was it fall? The latter, I think—a lamb she received? You’d never have thought it—never believed, But the girl owned a lamb last fall. Its wool was subtly, silky white, Color of lucent obliteration of night— Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild’s arm!— You’ve seen her arm—her right, I mean— The other she scalded a-washing, I ween— How white it is and soft and warm? Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true and tender, Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender, There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting, That passionate lambkin—her soul’s heart delighting— Ay, every place that Mary sought in That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.

As Longfellow Might have Done It. Fair the daughter known as Mary, Fair and full of fun and laughter, Owned a lamb, a little he-goat, Owned him all herself and solely. White the lamb’s wool as the Gotchi— The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm. Hither Mary went and thither, But went with her to all places, Sure as brook to run to river, Her pet lambkin following with her.

How Andrew Lang Sings It. Rondeau. A wonderful lass was Marie, petite. And she looked full fair and passing sweet— And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guess What pet can a maiden so love and caress As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat And mud upon his dainty feet, And a gentle veally odour of meat? And a fleece to finger and kiss and press— White as snow? Wherever she wandered—in lane or street As she sauntered on, there at her feet She would find that lambkin—bless The dear!—treading on her dainty dress, Her dainty dress, fresh and neat— White as snow.

Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne’s Idea. Villanelle. Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair, Maiden and lamb were a sight to see, For her pet was white as she was fair. And its lovely fleece was beyond compare, And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie, Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair. Its warped wool was an inwove snare To tangle her fingers in, where they could be (For her pet was white as she was fair) Lost from sight, both so snow-white were, And the lambkin adored the maiden wee— Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair. Th’ impassioned incarnation of rare, Of limpid-eyed, luscious lipped, loved beauty— And her pet was white as she was fair. Wherever she wandered, hither and there, Wildly that lamblet sought with her to be— With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair, And a pet as white as its mistress was fair. A. C. Wilkie.

Thoughts may abide in the brain, yet how few have the wit to extract them; Many may know of Proverbs, yet could not for worlds have devised them. All are not gifted the same: there are brains that are stupid and addled; There are those that are clear as the stream,—the pellucid water that floweth Under the bridges, that bind the Surrey shore unto London. Philosophy cannot be taught, unless you can meet with a teacher: I am the teacher of this the nineteenth century of being. Philosophy I can expound in a way hitherto undream’d of; Witness my book of Proverbial Platitudes, and its Editions; Book beloved by women—women of intellect feeble; Book that is lauded by old maids, and Evangelical parsons; Book that by school-girls is worshipped, and ranked with The Pilgrim’s Progress; That is read by bachelor curates, to maidens at Dorcas meetings; Designing curates, who choose the chapters on “Love” and “Marriage,” And read the soft nothings therein, with smirks and murderous gusto. I have written of Proverbs, turned everything to a Proverb, Even my name as an author, proverbial is it with many, Who, in braying derision, call me “Sweet Singer of Beadledom,” Let those laugh who win! my Proverbs have eighteen editions! Eighteen editions bring fame, and—what is better—money.

Punch’s Proverbial Philosophy. Introductory. Come along, old fellow; follow me as a friend, from the midnight streets; Leave awhile the cold and muddy Strand to loiter in the tavern of the Coal Hole. Come into this quiet box, with hot water in a batter’d pewter jug, Over whose beer-stain’d table are strewn many particles of crust; Here, upon this wooden peg, hang up thy hat and Chesterfield, Order a pint of stout, or a go of grog, and rest for half-an-hour. Behold! I would stop a short time in this buzzing crowd of visitors, Though wrapp’d up in a mackintosh, yet are the seams and pockets pervious; But into the foam of this goodly glass I dip my beak, And receive its contents as nectar, yet the tap is Barclay’s. Under its cheerful influence I shall, before long, get loquacious, And mingle the fashion of my speech with froth-built snatches of philosophy! Of Gifts. I had a seeming friend:—I gave him a licking—he was gone! I had an open enemy:—I stood a pint—and won him! Common friends require presents; monkeys more kicks than halfpence; But the scorn of anyone melteth at a barrel of Quin’s oysters. A foe may get spiteful, and incline to call thee a humbug, But send him a turbot, and he saith,—“He’s a good fellow, after all!” Policemen will not oft refuse a drain, if absent the inspector, And policemen’s friendship should be courted in the event of rows. The larker, held by the collar, may be released by half-a-crown, And thy own bed is better than the stone sofas of a station house, Or, being James Edwards, compelled to call thyself John Brown. There is not one crusher who is proof against the waistcoat pocket, And the same font of happiness hath even power over reporters. I saw a beggar in St. Giles’s, and another beggar punch’d his head, For the first had collected more coppers at his crossing than the other His broom fell into the mud, and he swore an oath. Anon a baked potato-man came up, with a high-pressure can, And gave him of his store; the first beggar was grateful. He, poor stricken cadger, picked up his broom with a curse, And, turning to the potato man, asked what he would take to drink. And so the sprat had been set, and the herring had been caught!

The Queen of Oude. (NOT) By Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq. The Queen of Oude, Which is so proud, She never will get boozy, Has crossed the seas, And, if you please, Will serve out Lord Dalhousie. The Queen of Oude, She cries so loud For justice, like a Q. C. And claims her right, And wants to fight The Marquis of Dalhousie. * * * * * The Queen of Oude Shall save her gowd, 90 And this she’d do, me duce, She’d give a lunch, To me, and Punch, And ask my Lord Dalhousie. The Queen of Oude, Which is so proud. Would find her lot adouci, To hear the wit That we’d emit. Me, Punch, and Lord Dalhousie.

Proverbial Philosophy. By Farthing Tarquhar Mupper, Esq. Beer, that hath entered my head, and peopled its inner chambers, The addling outcome of barrels, the dream-inspiring malt and the hop-juice, Amber-tinged wine of the Briton, with the headache and biliousness after, Heaven-brewed draught of immortals, oh! sweeter than ever was nectar, Such extend I unto thee, thou docile child of a pot-house: Commend thy mouth to the tankard, and grudge not to drink of the liquor, Nor scorn its yellow flood for the sake of the Bacchus of Cruikshank. Lo! now, I stand not forth, laying hold on spear and on buckler; I come, as the cask of pale ale, to comfort thee, and to succour: With soft and mellowest taste to charm the lips which are eager; With the balmy breath of fellowship to touch thy heart sympathetic. Let us drink together as friends, in the happy smoke of tobacco, Nor judgment take her seat until we are happy as lordlings, That the fumes of good strong beer may override all argument, And charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for brothers. Anonymous.

Going to The Wash. (Lines written on Monday morning.) BY M. F. T. I really must look to my washing this week, I must watch how my shirts are got up; For I feel that in matters like this I’m too meek, And I don’t keep my pluck enough up; I ought to be brave, and to speak my mind out, For of sheep, sure the male is a Tup, And I am a Tupper, so quite to the rout I must put Mrs. Sarah Hiccup. Let me see; five fine shirts as ever was seen, Five collars (not paper) to match, With four pairs of socks, some blue and some green, Will make up a beautiful batch; Then of handkerchiefs seven seem semblant to see, And two or three neckties so white! Every clear starcher’s soul will be strangled with glee, When on my sacred things they set sight. Stop, I’ve nearly forgotten two jerseys (quite thin), And two flannel shirts too I vow! In this weather its right to wear flannel next skin, At least I do truly so trow; One nightshirt, if modesty lets me to add, In my list I must also include, I would mention my nightcap, but soberly sad, Society sneers that it’s rude. Mrs. Sarah Hiccup now I hope will take care, And return all the things that I send; But trumpets of treachery tickle the air Till I know not where Treason will end! What if Ritualist robbers should recklessly join My shirts, to make copes with, to seize; Or the pattering Papist my parcel purloin His priests so prehensile to please? The Tomahawk. August 22, 1868.

Mr. Tupper in the Clouds. I, the proverbial philosopher, sing of “electrical storage,” As discovered by Thompson (Sir William), a philosopher whose name is also proverbial. Pride is a horrible sin, and I am no sinner; So I do not hesitate to extend my hand in greeting to Sir William, Trusting that he will not overmuch presume on my affability. Hitherto I have been sorely flouted not only by eagles, But also by that ridiculous creature the gnat—in Latin ’tis called culex pipiens. 91 Laughter was good for the gods of Homer; but we are not gods nor Homeric, And laughter too audibly laughed betrays the void mind of the laugher. Therefore, instead of cachinnating, I smile with supernal sarcasm To think that a gnat should dare to flout the stringer of proverbial pearls On silken threads of verse, strengthened and made indestructible By wax from philosophy’s beehive warmed in the sun of experience; But oh! Raptorial Bird! oh, vilest of all the culicides! Emblems both of the critics, carnivorous and sharp-stinging reviewers, I will be even with you now. I’ll fly, but not on waxen wings like silly Icarus— Not in a balloon, or in anything on the levitation principle: That was all very well for Mr. Green and M. de Montgolfier, But I say that levitation is all my eye and my elbow. (Proverb that verges on slang, but its uses hath slang, like adversity). No levitation for me; but force like that of a cannon-ball. Not that I mean to be shot out of a twelve-pounder like Zazel at the Aquarium, But to be propelled by tame gunpowder. “How shall I tame it?” Have you never heard of Carter the Lion King, or of Myn Heer Van Amburg? Did not they tame furious mammalia? And did they tell you how they did it? So shall I not tell you how I intend to tame this “villanous saltpetre.” But I’ll do it, or have it done for me by “our mechanicians,” They shall invent a machine to be loaded with domesticated gunpowder (I patenting the discovery, of course, as the author of the suggestion), That shall enable me to reign in the blue empyrean and complete the subdual of the planet Which is and has been for ever so long my heritage. Wo, then, wo to the gnats! wo to the Jewish-nosed eagle! I put the least first and the greatest last, partly to snub the King of the Falconidæ, And partly because it better suits my rhythm— I will not say my metre because I condemn all trammels, Pouring out my soul in lines of unequal lengths occasionally relieved by hexameters. Wo, wo, wo! to the eagle! Now you see I reverse things again, Vice-versa-ing my apostrophe—’tis a common trick of versemen and orators— Soon the eagle of song will soar ever so much higher than the eagle who can’t sing; And he won’t like that—the other eagle I mean, of course: So he’ll let himself fall into the sea like a thunderbolt. (That last idea is not mine, but a Mr. Tennyson’s; have you heard of him?) While as for the gnats—they are the critics, as I hinted just now, you know. Sting for sting, my hearties, then! buzz for buzz! bite for bite! And, as of course I am ever so much bigger than you are, I’ll shrike you as the humming-bird shrikes the honey-bee—that I will. St. James’s Gazette. June 27, 1881.

’Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek— She died before her time. Awake! she cried, thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave: Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. This is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break. Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flattering tale? That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you. 92 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red; Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret’s body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapped her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret’s name, And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more!

“L’Ombre de Marguerite.” Dans la nuit, à l’heure effrayante Où l’airain frémit douze fois, Des spectres la famille errante Sort des tombeaux à cette voix. Edmond, que le remords agite, Cherchait le sommeil, qui le fuit: L’ombre pâle de Marguerite Vient s’asseoir au pied de son lit. Regarde, Edmond, c’est moi, dit-elle, Moi qui t’aimais, que tu trompas, Moi dont la tendresse fidèle Vit encore apprès le trépas. J’en ai cru ta fausse promesse, Je t’ai fait maître de mon sort; Hélas! pour prix de ma tendresse Fallait-il me donner la mort? Jadis de la rose naissante J’avais l’éclat et la fraîcheur: Pourquoi sur sa tige brillante Ton souffle a-t-il séché la fleur? Mes yeux brillaient de tant de charmes, Ingrat, alors que tu m’aimais; Pourquoi donc les noyer de larmes, Pourquoi les fermer à jamais. Hier dans un palais superbe, Aujourd’hui dans un noir cercueil; Mon asile est caché sous l’herbe, Et ma parure est un linceul. De quel forfait suis-je victime? J’aimai, j’ai cru l’être mon tour; Qui me punit d’un pareil crime? L’objet même de mon amour. De ton inconstance cruelle Le jour fut à tous deux fatal; Quand ton cœur devint infidèle, Edmond, il se connaissait mal: Tu m’abandonnes, je succombe; Mais enchaîné par le destin, Le remords vient d’ouvrir ma tombe; Tu dois y descendre demain. J’entends le coq; sa voix encore Pour nous est un signal d’effroi; Je ne dois plus revoir l’aurore, Et c’est la dernière pour toi! Adieu. Celle qui te fut chère Te plaint, te pardonne, et t’attend… L’ombre à ces mots perce la terre, Et disparaît en gémissant. Edmond immobile, en silence, A vu ce prodige effrayant: De son lit soudain il s’élance, Défiguré, pâle et tremblant. Il court, il cherche Marguerite; Sa voix s’échappe en cris aigus; Sur sa tombe il se précipite; On le relève: il n’était plus!

Dr. Johnson’s Ghost.[4] ’Twas at the solemn hour of night, When men and spirits meet, That Johnson, huge majestic sprite, Repaired to Boswell’s feet. His face was like the full-orb’d moon Wrapt in a threatening cloud, That bodes the tempest bursting soon, And winds that bluster loud. Terrific was his angry look, His pendent eyebrows frown’d; Thrice in his hand he waved a book, Then dashed it to the ground. “Behold,” he cry’d “perfidious man! This object of my rage: Bethink thee of the sordid plan That form’d this venal page. “Was it to make this base record That you my friendship sought; Thus to retain each vagrant word, Each undigested thought? “Dar’st thou pretend that, meaning praise, Thou seek’st to raise my name; When all thy babbling pen betrays But gives me churlish fame? “Do readers in these annals trace The man that’s wise and good? No!—rather one of savage race, Illib’ral, fierce, and rude: “A traveller, whose discontent No kindness can appease; Who finds for spleen perpetual vent In all he hears and sees: “One whose ingratitude displays The most ungracious guest; Who hospitality repays With bitter, biting jest. “Ah! would, as o’er the hills we sped, And climb’d the sterile rocks, Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead, Or steeple, spar’d by Knox! 93 “Thy adulation now I see, And all its schemes unfold: Thy av’rice, Boswell, cherish’d me, To turn me into gold. “So keepers guard the beasts they show, And for their wants provide; Attend their steps where’er they go, And travel by their side. “O! were it not that, deep and low, Beyond thy reach I’m laid, Rapacious Boswell had e’er now Johnson a mummy made.” He ceased, and stalk’d from Boswell’s sight With fierce indignant mien, Scornful as Ajax, sullen sprite, By Sage Ulysses seen. Dead paleness Boswell’s cheek o’erspread, His limbs with horror shook; With trembling haste he left his bed, And burnt his fatal book. And thrice he called on Johnson’s name, Forgiveness to implore! Then thrice repeated—“Injured fame!” And word—wrote never more.

Giles Scroggin’s Ghost. Giles Scroggin courted Molly Brown, The fairest wench in all our town, Fol de riddle lol, de riddle lido. He bought her a ring with a posy true, If you loves me, as I loves you, No knife can cut our loves in two. Fol de riddle, etc. But scissors cuts, as well as knives, And quite unsartain’s all our lives, Fol de riddle, etc. The day they were to have been wed, Fate’s scissors cut poor Giles’s thread, So they could not be mar—ri—ed. Fol de riddle, etc. Poor Molly laid her down to weep, And cried herself quite fast asleep, Fol de riddle, etc. When standing fast by her bed-post, A figure tall her sight engrossed, It cried, “I be Giles Scroggin’s ghost,” Fol de riddle, etc. The ghost it said all solemnly, “Oh! Molly, you must go with I, Fol de riddle, etc. All to the grave your love to cool.” Says she, “Why, I’m not dead, you fool,” Says the ghost, says he, “Vy, that’s no rule.” Fol de riddle, etc. The ghost then seized her all so grim, All for to go along with him, Fol de riddle, etc. “Come, come,” said he, “e’er morning beam.” “I von’t,” says she, and screamed a scream, Then she awoke, and found she’d dream’d a dream. Fol de riddle, de riddle lido.

A Polished Version. Young Giles the fair Maria wooed; Flower of the village maidenhood; Heigho, alack, and well-a-day! His pledge this legend bore inlaid,— Love, that two hearts hath mutual made, Defies the knife of keenest blade; Heigho! &c. But keen, alas! as knives are shears And dubious all our fleeting years, Heigho! &c. The morn that should have made them one, Fate’s shears the bridegroom’s thread outspun, Sever’d; and bridal there was none, Heigho! &c. Maria sought her couch to weep; Till grief, exhausted, sank in sleep: Heigho! &c. When stood, her lonely pillow nigh, A figure more than mortal high; And cried—“Behold, my love, ’tis I” Heigho! &c. All solemnly the spirit said, “Away with me unto the dead,” Heigho! &c. “To cool thy passion in the tomb!” —“What, ere my days of earthly doom?” “No matter!” cried the shape of gloom, Heigho! &c. Grimly the phantom clutch’d the fair, To death’s dark realm his prize to bear, Heigho! &c. “Hence! hence!” he cried, “ere morning’s light;” “Begone!” she shriek’d, and with the fright Woke. ’Twas a vision of the night. Heigho! &c. Punch. April 13, 1844.

“Six years had pass’d and forty ere the six, When time began to play his usual tricks; My locks, once comely in a virgin’s sight, Locks of pure brown, now felt th’ encroaching white; Gradual each day I liked my horses less, My dinner more—I learn’t to play at chess.”

“————one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still,”

’Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks, Touch’d by the lamplighter’s Promethian art, Start into light, and make the lighter start; To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane; While gradual parties fill our widen’d pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches to late-comers doom No room for standing, miscall’d standing room. Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling “Pit full!” gives the check he takes; Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram, Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam. See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair— Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair! In unison their various tones to tune, Murmers the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Tang goes the harpsicord, too-too the flute, Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French-horn, and twangs the tinkling harp; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in, Attunes to order the chaotic din. Now all seems hush’d—but no, one fiddle will Give, half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil’d in his crash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man: Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go. Perchance, while pit and gallery cry, “Hats off!” And awed Consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above: Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler’s curl; Who from his powder’d pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes. Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues? Who’s that calls “Silence!” with such leathern lungs? He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence!” hoots, Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. 95 What various swains our motley walls contain!— Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane; Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court; From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain, Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane; The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark, The full-price master, and the half-price clerk; Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, With pence twice five—they want but twopence more; Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. Hard is the task who edits—thankless job.[5] A Sunday journal for the fractious mob: With bitter paragraph and caustic jest, He gives to turbulence the day of rest; Condemn’d, this week, rash rancour to instil, Or thrown aside, the next, for one who will: Alike undone or if he praise or rail (For this affects his safety, that his sale) He sinks at last, in luckless limbo set, If loud for libel, and if dumb for debt. Critics we boast who ne’er their malice baulk, But talk their minds—we wish they’d mind their talk; Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live— Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give; Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Where scowling Fortune seem’d to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire; But when John Dwyer listed in the blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs’s shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Up as a corn-cutter—a safe employ; In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred (At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s Head: He would have bound him to some shop in town, But with a premium he could not come down. Pat was the urchin’s name—a red-hair’d youth, Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe, The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn’d the one to settle in the two, How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door, Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, “Take my handkerchief.” “Thank you,” cries Pat, “but one won’t make a line.” “Take mine,” cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, “Take mine.” A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris’ bow, down darts the painted clue, Starr’d, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver’s band— Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeign’d, Regain’d the felt, and felt what he regain’d; While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch’d the ransom’d hat.

“Let hoarse Fitzgerald bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall.”

“The troubled shade of Garrick, hovering near, Dropt on the burning pile a pitying tear.”

Britons, to arms! of apathy beware, And let your Country be your dearest care, Protect your Altars! guard your Monarch’s Throne. The cause of George and Freedom is your own! What! shall that England want her Sons support, Whose Heroes fought at Cressy … Agincourt? And when Great Marlborough led the English Van, In France, o’er Frenchmen, triumphed to a man! By Alfred’s great and ever honored name! By Edward’s Prowess, and by Henry’s Fame! By all the gen’rous Blood for Freedom shed! And by the ashes of the Patriot Dead! By the Bright Glory Britons lately won, On Egypt’s plains beneath the burning sun. Britons, to arms! defend your Country’s cause; Fight for your King, your Liberties and Laws! Be France defied, her slavish Yoke abhorr’d, And place your safety only on your Sword. The Gallic Despot, sworn your mortal Foe, Now aims his last, but his most deadly blow; With England’s plunder tempts his hungry slaves, 96 And dares to brave you on your native waves, If Briton’s rights be worth a Briton’s care, To shield them from the sons of Rapine, swear! Then to Invasion be defiance given, Your cause is just, approved by earth and heaven, Should adverse winds our gallant fleet restrain, To sweep his bawbling[6] vessels from the main, And fate permit him on our shores t’advance. The Tyrant never shall return to France: Fortune herself shall be no more his friend, And here the history of his crimes shall end, His slaughtered legions shall manure our shore, And England never know Invasion more.

Loyal Effusion. BY W. T. F. “Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant, Laudo id quoque,” Terence. Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work! God bless the Regent and the Duke of York! Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox, Grant me in Drury Lane a private box, Where I may loll, cry Bravo! and profess The boundless powers of England’s glorious press; While Afric’s sons exclaim from shore to shore, “Quashee ma boo!”—the slave-trade is no more! In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony, Since ruined by that arch-apostate Bony), A Phœnix late was caught: the Arab host Long ponder’d—part would boil it, part would roast; But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies, Fledged, beak’d, and claw’d, alive they see him rise To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed, Then by old renters to hot water doom’d By Wyatt’s trowel patted, plump and sleek, Soars without wings, and caws without a beak. Gallia’s stern despot shall in vain advance From Paris, the metropolis of France; By this day month the monster shall not gain A foot of land in Portugal or Spain. See Wellington in Salamanca’s field Forces his favourite general to yield, Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont Expiring on the plain without his arm on; Madrid he enters at the cannon’s mouth, And then the villages still further south, Base Bonapartè, filled with deadly ire, Sets one by one our playhouses on fire. Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon; Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, Next at Millbank he cross’d the river Thames; Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![7] pass’d in a trice, Boil’d some black pitch, and burnt down Astley’s twice; Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum, Turn’d to the left hand, fronting the Asylum, And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry— (’Twas call’d the Circus then, but now the Surrey). Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork (God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!) With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas, And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos? Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise? Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies? Who thought in flames St James’s court to pinch? Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?— Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke, Reminds me of a line I lately spoke, “The tree of freedom is the British oak.” Bless every man possess’d of aught to give; Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole live; God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet, God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte; God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff, God bless their pig-tails, though they’re now cut off; And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel, England’s prime minister, then bless the devil!

George Barnwell. George Barnwell stood at the shop-door, A customer hoping to find, sir; His apron was hanging before, But the tail of his coat was behind, sir. A lady, so painted and smart, Cried, Sir, I’ve exhausted my stock o’ late; I’ve got nothing left but a groat— Could you give me four penn’orth of chocolate? Rum ti, &c. 97 Her face was rouged up to the eyes, Which made her look prouder and prouder; His hair stood on end with surprise, And hers with pomatum and powder. The business was soon understood; The lady, who wish’d to be more rich, Cries, Sweet sir, my name is Milwood, And I lodge at the Gunner’s in Shoreditch. Rum ti, &c. Now nightly he stole out, good lack! And into her lodging would pop, sir! And often forgot to come back, Leaving Master to shut up the shop, sir. Her beauty his wits did bereave— Determined to be quite the crack O, He lounged at the Adam and Eve, And call’d for his gin and tobacco. Rum ti, &c. And now—for the truth must be told, Though none of a ’prentice should speak ill— He stole from the till all the gold, And ate the lump sugar and treacle. In vain did his master exclaim, Dear George, don’t engage with that dragon; She’ll lead you to sorrow and shame, And leave you the devil a rag on, Your rum ti, &c. In vain he entreats and implores, The weak and incurable ninny, So kicks him at last out of doors, And Georgy soon spends his last guinea. His uncle, whose generous purse Had often relieved him, as I know, Now finding him grow worse and worse, Refused to come down with the rhino. Rum ti, &c. Cried Milwood, whose cruel heart’s core Was so flinty that nothing could shock it, If ye mean to come here any more, Pray come with more cash in your pocket: Make Nunky surrender his dibs, Rub his pate with a pair of lead towels, Or stick a knife into his ribs— I’ll warrant he’ll then show some bowels. Rum ti, &c. A pistol he got from his love— ’Twas loaded with powder and bullet; He trudged off to Camberwell Grove, But wanted the courage to pull it. There’s Nunky as fat as a hog, While I am as lean as a lizard; Here’s at you, you stingy old dog! And he whips a long knife in his gizzard. Rum ti, &c. All you who attend to my song, A terrible end of the farce shall see, If you join the inquisitive throng That follow’d poor George to the Marshalsea. If Milwood were here, dash my wigs, Quoth he, I would pummel and lam her well; Had I stuck to my prunes and figs, I ne’er had stuck Nunky at Camberwell. Rum ti, &c. Their bodies were never cut down; For granny relates with amazement, A witch bore ’em over the town, And hung them on Thorowgood’s casement. The neighbours, I’ve heard the folks say, The miracle noisily brag on; And the shop is, to this very day, The sign of the George and the Dragon. Rum ti, &c.

Sam Soapey stood at his Palace door, Promotion hoping to find, Sir; His Apron it hung down before, And the tail of his wig behind, Sir. A Lady, so painted and smart, Cried “Pardon my little transgression, But I know what is next to your heart, Now, what do you think of Confession?” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. Her face was rouged up to the eyes, And red was her ladyship’s toggery, And folks who are thought to be wise, Recognised a professor of roguery. A bundle of Keys at her waist— Says she, “I can help you, Sir, that I can, In the South I am very much graced, And I live at a place called the Vatican.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. Her language his wits did bereave, She proceeded to carney and gabble on, And at last (which you’d hardly believe) He smirked at the Lady of Babylon. Says he, “I should get in a scrape, Could my late and respectable Sire hark; He’d frown should a Wilberforce ape A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. Says she, “Don’t be frightened at names, You’ve always to Rome had a tendency! Stand up for Confession; your game’s To struggle for priestly ascendency. Cut the priest a back-way to the house, And you’ve cut through the Isthmus of Darien: Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. * * * * * This counsel he took from his love, And in Parliament’s very next Session He pleaded, with voice of a dove, For “the excellent rite called Confession.” 98 But Premiers are wary, and they can see Whom ’tis expedient to fish up; Lo! an archiepiscopal vacancy, And Sam is not made an Archbishop. Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. “If that Woman were here, dash my wigs.” Cried he, “I’d come Luther and Knox at her, I’d slate the old mother of prigs, And raise my episcopal vox at her. I fancied I’d made such a rare book, And now I’m in just the wrong box for ’t; Had I struck to my Anglican Prayer-book, H should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. Moral. (Too obvious to need telling.)

(By Dr. Reginald Heber, 1783-1826,) From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Where Afric’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error’s chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon’s isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strewn, The Heathen in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone.

Song by Prince Gortschakoff. From Cashmere’s icy mountains, From Bombay’s coral strand, Where Cawnpore’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many a Punjab river, From groves where fire-flies flame, To make us Russians shiver, The Indian regiments came. In ships across the ocean, The dusky warrior steam’d. ’Twas Beaconsfield’s own notion, And this is what he dream’d: That at the apparition Of cut-throats such as these, My master would petition For mercy on his knees. Yes, he was so benighted This Earl, who governs you, To think we should be frighted, At his assorted crew. Sensation, too, sensation! That also was his game; And o’er the British nation The Jingo spirit came. Tell, his’try, tell the story, Whilst future ages jeer, Of how to gain fresh glory He brought these Indians here. And how, when once at Malta, They back again were sped; Whilst England paid for carriage A hundred pounds per head! Truth Christmas Number. December 1879.

To English Women Missionaries. From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Comes no distinct appealing For England’s helping hand; The poor benighted savage Compelled unclothed to dwell, Without our cost-price Bibles Enjoys life very well. What though the spicy breezes Are very nice and dry, And every prospects pleases A missionary eye? In vain with lavish kindness The Gospel tracts are strewn, The heathen in his blindness Does better left alone. A happy, soulless creature, He lives his little day; Directly on conversion, It seems, ensues decay. Why seek the cheerful heathen To tell him he is vile? Ah, leave him gay and godless Upon his palmy isle. * * * * * From England’s greatest city, Through all her pomp and pride, One bitter cry rings ever, Unsilenced, undenied: From Stepney’s crowded alleys, From Bethnal Green’s close lanes, Men call us to deliver Souls from the Devil’s chains. 99 O women! sister women— Do you not hear the cry Of these who sin and suffer— Are damned in life, and die: Of these whose lives are withered, Whose youth is trampled down, The victims and the scourges Of every Christian town? By life that is—and is not— By life that is to be, By baby lips yet speechless, By all life’s misery— They call: their lives adjure you By all your lives hold dear— What foreign mission calls you? Your mission work is here! E. Nesbit. The Weekly Dispatch. July 10, 1887.

A New War Song. From Chatham’s pleasant mountains, From Aldershot’s bare plain, Where the British flag floats proudly, And the lion shakes his mane. From barracks and from messroom Resounds the bugle’s notes, Calling to arms, to cross the seas And cut some heathen throats. What tho’ from every pulpit We daily Christ proclaim And bend before the Prince of Peace, And worship in His name, In vain in adoration We bow before the throne, These heathens are possessed of lands That we must make our own. Blow, gently blow, ye breezes, Let the war smoke upward curl While bathed in blood and glory Stands forth our Premier Earl; But weep, oh! weep for England, And bow the head in shame, For sullied is her honour, And tarnished is her name. J. C. A. The Bath Herald. May, 1879.

I. With soaring voice and solemn music sing, High to Heaven’s gate let pealing trumpets ring! To-day our hands consolidate The Empire of a thousand years. Delusive hopes, distracting fears, Have passed, and left her great, For Britain, Britain, we our jubilant anthems raise, Uplift your voices all, worthy is she of praise! III. No more we seek our Realm’s increase By War’s red rapine, but by white-winged Peace; To-day we seek to bind in one, Till all our Britain’s work be done— Through wider knowledge closer grown, As each fair sister by the rest is known, And mutual Commerce, mighty to efface The envious bars of Time and Place, Deep-pulsing from a common heart And through a common speech expressed— From North to South, from East to West, Our great World Empire’s every part; A universal Britain strong To raise up Right and beat down Wrong— Let this thing be! who shall our Realm divide? Ever we stand together, Kinsmen, side by side! V. First Lady of our British Race! ’Tis well that with thy peaceful Jubilee This glorious dream begins to be, This thy lost Consort would, this would thy Son, Who has seen all thy Empire face to face And fain would leave it One, Oh, may the Hand which rules our Fate Keep this our Britain great! We cannot tell, we can but pray Heaven’s blessing on our work to-day. Uprise, oh, Palace fair, where every eye may see This proud embodied Unity! For Britain and our Queen one voice we raise, Laud them, rejoice, peal forth, worthy are they of praise!

The Inaugural Ode as it Ought to have Been. (With Apologies to Mr. Lewis Morris.) With partial pomp and sounding bands of brass, And Royalties—both first and second class—, To-day the Queen, in semi-state, Consents a project to befriend Which for so long seemed doomed to end In a fiasco great! But at last, at last, the Prince his labour finds repaid— The Imperial Institute’s foundation stone is laid! When first the grasping “Gang” its birth decreed, And greedily made Kensington its site, The project’s progress was but small, indeed, And the subscriptions strangely light. And though the Prince to the occasion rose, And summoned all the Mayors to town; 100 Though hints of knighthood, too, were given to those Who’d put their names for large donations down; Though soldiers, too, and sailors, side by side, Were fiercely dunned throughout the Empire wide; Though everywhere subscription-lists were sent, O’er stormy sea, through distant continent; And though, worked artfully from Kensington, The “screw” was universally put on, The Empire set itself against the craze, And the new Institute was loath to raise. But was the “Gang” disheartened? Nay; It persevered, and gathered here to-day, Where “jobs” have in the past been done, It sees, we fear, one more begun, For, spite of all that has been said, Upon this latest subject light to shed; Spite of the promises which have been made That the new Institute shall foster trade; Spite, too, official zest and skill, And of the fervent hopes express’d, From North to South, from East to West, That it will some good end fulfil, And make the Empire yet more strong, We fear such hopes will all prove wrong, And that this building, with its tower so tall, Will only be the biggest “job” of all! Yet do we dare to-day, As in this solemn rite we here engage, To hope the future will our fears gainsay, And make this place a glorious heritage For all our people, and a source of strength Throughout the teeming Empire’s breadth and length. But, if we this would see, Then, by a stern decree, This Institute must be forthwith set free From greed and jobbery! Those who would batten on it must be told At once to loose their hold, So that it may uprise a Palace free and fair, In whose great benefits an Empire wide may share. First Lady of our British Race, We’ll Hope that with thy peaceful Jubilee We of this dream may a fulfilment see, For this, were thy lost Consort with us still, Yon scene of pomp and pageantry to grace, Would surely be his will; And this we fain would trust thy son, Undoing what he’s done, Will also help fulfil. Time this must show, but we can pray That higher motives from to-day May strengthen those who execute The business of the Institute; That from to-day its end and aim May be the country’s wealth and fame. That flunkeys, toadies, snobs may find It is not for their sake designed; Whilst Kensington, forced to admit It has no lot nor part in it, No more will claim to such extent What is for all the Empire meant. Then will the Palace fair, by patriotism planned, Be hailed a glory of the land, And, as the Empire joins its walls to raise, Its people, one and all, will loudly sound its praise. Truth. July 7, 1887.

Poet and Poetaster. If this kind of thing goes on, Sir, I shall have to change my name; ’Tis an odious position to be in; Though the other Mr. Morris may be better known to fame, I am Mr. Lewis Morris, of Penbryn. He was christened after Shakespeare, but his other name is mine; Yet, though critics are so quick at me to quiz, I can honestly asseverate I never wrote a line That could fairly be compared with one of his. When I wrote an ode to praise the life our precious Prince has led, Though I must confess it fell a little flat, There were certain silly editors who ignorantly said Mr. William had been capable of that. Now I happen to be certain it would take him all his time To indite an ode on Royalty’s affairs, For disloyalty to Princes isn’t reckoned any crime, ’Mong the people whose society he shares. In a word he is a poet, and a Socialist to boot, One whose company ’tis wiser to eschew; For although I am a person of importance and repute, It is certain I am neither of the two. J. L. J.

In form of feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother That folks got taking me for him And each for one another, It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reach’d an awful pitch: For one of us was born a twin And not a soul knew which. * * * * *

In the Strand. In form and feature, face, and limb, He tried to build a double, And folks got taking it for him, For want of taking trouble. “A bitter-minded cynic this!” Said those who argued blindly. He took their finding not amiss, Nor thought it meant unkindly. He dreamed long dreams, and meant to do A heap of great grand work; ’T is p’r’aps the same with me and you, And still the race we shirk. Another face gone from the Strand, A voice we hear no more; We miss the pressure of a hand, Oft pressed on this Leigh shore.

Three blind mice, see how they run! They all ran after the farmer’s wife, Who cut off their tails with the carving knife, Did you ever see such fools in your life? Three blind mice.

This is the house that Jack built. This is the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. * * * * * This is the farmer sowing his corn, That kept the cock that crow’d in the morn That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tatter’d and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

1. A kid, a kid my father bought, For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid. 2. Then came the cat and ate the kid, That my father bought For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid. 3. Then came the dog, and bit the cat, That ate the kid, That my father bought For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid. 102 4. Then came the staff, and beat the dog That bit the cat, That ate the kid, That my father bought, For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid. 5. Then came the fire, and burned the staff That beat the dog, &c.,—as before. 6. Then came the water and quenched the fire. That burned the staff, That beat the dog, &c. 7. Then came the ox, and drank the water, That quenched the fire, &c. 8. Then came the butcher and slew the ox That drank the water, &c. 9. Then came the Angel of death And killed the butcher That slew the ox, &c. 10. Then came the Holy One, blessed be He, And killed the Angel of death That killed the butcher That slew the ox That drank the water That quenched the fire That burned the staff That beat the dog That bit the cat That ate the kid That my father bought For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid.

This is the House that Josh burnt, These are the sticks that heated the bricks, That set fire to the house that Josh burnt.