WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 6)

“These are the workmen, a busy array, Two thousand and more, as I have heard say, Who readily, steadily, toiled away, And finished before the first of May The Crystal Palace that Fox built.”

The Water that John Drinks. This is the water that John drinks. This is the Thames with its cento of stink, That supplies the water that John drinks. * * * * * (Millions of Money.) This is the price that we pay to wink At the vested int’rests that fill to the brink, The network of sewers from cesspool and sink, That feed the fish that float in the ink- y stream of the Thames with its cento of stink, That supplies the water that John does drink. Punch. 1849.

The Show that Sham Built. This is the Show that Sham built. This is the fault that lay in the show, &c. This is the fat that came of the fault, &c. This is the hog that eat the fat, &c. This is the press that worried the hog, &c. This is the swell, commercially born, who cursed the press, &c. This is the grammar, all tattered and torn, that belonged to the swell, &c. This is the feast of much decency shorn, that aired the grammar, &c. And this is the home, better known as Cremorne, Fit place for the feast of all decency shorn, That aired the grammar, all tattered and torn, That belonged to the swell (commercially born) That cursed the press, That worried the hog, That eat the fat, That came of the fault, That lay in the Show, That Sham built. The Tomahawk. Nov. 9, 1867. (Lord Mayor’s Day.)

This is the mine that Lyon struck * * * * * These are the Dupes who insanely tore To subscribe the Sum the Directors swore, Was worth a Million of Pounds and more, On the return of the Swell who was sent to explore, The mine by a general of the army corps, Who was backed by the Britishers, one, two, three, four, Who shared with the Yanks from the Eastern shore, Who joined with the men who had cleared out the ore, That lay in the mine that Lyon struck.

This is the land of Austra-lia, These are the mines of silver and gold, That lay in the land of Austra-lia. This is the mining captain so bold, Who prospected the mines of silver and gold, etc. This is the gallant Companie, founded eighteen and fifty-three, That sent on the mining captain so bold, etc. These are the lighthearted gentlemen, The worthy Board of Directors ten, to the gallant, etc. This is the gent with his ready pen, Who was “sec” to the light-hearted gentlemen, etc. These are the lawyers with their “little bill,” Messrs. Grab and Snatcher of Diddlegate Hill, Who got up and “rigged” that Companie, etc. These are the venturers rushing up stairs So eager to get an allotment of shares, etc. This is the Court of Chancerie, That swallowed that ill-fated Companie, etc. This is the total dividend, nil, Left after paying the lawyers bill, Messrs. Grab and Snatchem of Diddlegate Hill, etc. These are the shareholders, County and Town, Looking all of them “done” most uncommonly brown, As they gaze on the total dividend—nil, Left after paying the lawyers bill, etc. Edward Walford, M.A.

This is the Radical Bradlaugh. This is the Radical Bradlaugh, These are electors sturdy and strong, 105 Who greet him with hearty and welcoming song, Hurrah for the Radical Bradlaugh! This is the struggle of Right against Wrong, Thrice won by electors sturdy and strong, Who lustily echoed the welcoming song, Hurrah for the Radical Bradlaugh! * * * * * These are the people in whom we must trust To raise us our liberty out of the dust, To strive and diminish the deep-lying shame That now is affixed to the Englishman’s fame, To kick out the bigots so sorely dismayed And stop all the cowardly tricks of their trade, To fight in the battle of Right against Wrong, And aid the electors sturdy and strong, Who lustily echoed the welcoming song To get justice for Radical Bradlaugh. D. Evans. The Weekly Dispatch. March 12, 1882.

The Face that Art Made. This is the Face that Art made! This is the rouge for the modest blush, That is stippled on with a hare’s-foot brush, On the Maiden’s Face that Art made! This is the Blanc de Perle in paste That imparts a background purely chaste, For the Rouge that makes the modest blush, That is stippled on with the hare’s-foot brush! On the Maiden’s Face that Art made! This is the Grenadine that tips With a cherry red the pouting lips, To suit the Blanc de Perle in paste, That imparts a background wholly chaste, For the Rouge that makes the modest blush, That is stippled on with a hare’s-foot brush! On the Maiden’s Face that Art made! This is the Eau de Violette (Price 6s. 6d.), the mouth to wet, When the Grenadine so sweetly tips With cherry red the pouting lips, To suit the Blanc de Perle in paste, &c. On the Maiden’s Face that Art made! And here’s the Etui Mystérieux, With its Henna to use pour les beaux yeux, And its velvet Mouches, which so black will be, If stuck on the Crème de Fleur de Lis; And its House-leek Juice to warts remove, And its Walnut-water to hair improve, And its wonderful Incarnate de Chine, To hide where the wrinkle once has been, And its Powders to frost the locks of hair Which Sahara Wash has made more fair, And its bright Eau d’Or to turn to gold The locks that are bound in a massive fold Above the forehead, deprived of crease By the far-famed Crème de l’Impératrice, And covered as though with a beauteous calm, By the secret power of the Bagdad Balm; Above the pupils which Kohhl makes bright, And Belladonna augments at night, And to which the Crayon Noir supplies A finely-arched brow to match the eyes, And increase the effect of the Bleu pour Veines, Which imparts such a clear and delicate stain To the skin enamelled with Blanc de Cygne, And powdered over with Véloutine, That enhances the Grenadine, which tips With a cherry red the pouting lips To suit the Blanc de Perle (in paste) That forms a background whitely chaste For the Rouge’s sympathetic blush Stippled neatly on with a hare’s-foot brush On the cheeks, to which Styrian Lotion lends A plumpness that Nature far transcends, Of the Maiden’s Face that Art made! Truth. December 25, 1883.

Another View of a Rookery. This is the House that any one built! This is the Cadger who’d ruin the House that any one built.

The Bicycle that Jack made. This is the bicycle that Jack made. This is the lathe, all polished and true, That finished the work, kept under-weighed, For the bicycle that Jack made. * * * * * This the gas oxygen—that you cannot see Which proportions with iron in atoms three, To make the chemical of formulæ O₃ Fe₂. That combines in atoms of twenty-eight times two, To form the ore, gathered out of the pit, Which was melted in a furnace, blazingly lit, That made the iron “carbonised” and clean, Which was “blown” in the “converter” and “puddled” to steel, That made the metal properly “tempered” through, Which was put in the lathe, all polished and true, That finished the work, kept under-weighed, To complete the bicycle that Jack made. P. Howell. Wheeling Annual. 1885.

This is the house that Tithe built; This is the landlord, healthy and lithe, That made the tenants under him writhe, 106 That sent their servants to pay the tithe, That abused the parsons, all so blithe, That ruined the men that worked the scythe, That earned no cash, That obtained the meat That they had to eat, That parsons were sent, That lay in the house that Tithe built. Lexicon. Truth. September 30, 1886.

These are the Michelstown Murders. These are the constables brutal and base That committed the Michelstown Murders. This is the party that, clinging to place, Will back up the constables brutal and base That committed the Michelstown Murders. This is the bloody undying disgrace Attached to the party that, clinging to place, Will back up the constables brutal and base That committed the Michelstown Murders. This is the callous, insensible brute That ordered his men to be “ready to shoot,” Who shares in the bloody, undying disgrace Attached to the party that, clinging to place, Will back up the constables brutal and base That committed the Michelstown Murders. * * * * * These are the Radicals sturdy, with votes, Who very soon down the Conservative throats Will cram all the lies that the cowardly crew Unblushingly utter to carry them through— Will kick out the callous, insensible brute That ordered his men to “be ready to shoot,” Who shares in the bloody undying disgrace Attached to the party that, clinging to place, Will back up the constables brutal and base That committed the Michelstown Murders. D. Evans. The Weekly Dispatch. October 2, 1887.

This is the Toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent This is the Boy That played with the toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent. This is the Pain That worried the Boy ’Till he played with the Toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent. This is the Doctor who tried in vain To take away the distressing Pain That worried the Boy Till he played with the Toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent. This is the Nurse who worked amain To help the Doctor, who tried in vain, With treatment repeated again and again To take away the distressing pain That worried the Boy Till he played with the Toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent. And this is the Fund Truth’s friends maintain, To try to ease dire poverty’s strain, And to aid the Nurse who works amain To help the doctor who tries in vain With treatment repeated again and again, To take away the distressing pain That worried the Boy Till he played with the toy That was packed in the hamper Truth sent. Truth. December 2. 1886.

The Boat that Jack Built. This is the boat that Jack built. This is the girl that sat in the boat that Jack built. This is the youth that loved the girl that sat in the boat that Jack built. This is the man that hated the youth that loved the girl that sat in the boat that Jack built. * * * * *

The Domicile Erected by John. By A. Pope. Behold the mansion reared by Dædal Jack! See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack, In the proud cirque of Ivan’s Bivouac! Mark how the rat’s felonious fangs invade The golden stores in John’s pavilion laid! Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides; Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent, Whose tooth insidious Johann’s sackcloth rent! Lo! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe’s assault! That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt, Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall, That rose complete at Jack’s creative call. Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn, Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through The textile fibres that involved the grain That lay in Hans’ inviolate domain. Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew 107 Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn, The baying hound whose braggart bark and stir Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur Of puss, that, with verminicidal claw, Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw Lay reeking malt, that erst in Juan’s courts we saw. Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth, To long a prey to Chonos’ iron tooth, Behold the man whose amorous lips incline Full with young Eros’ osculative sign, To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands Drew albulactic wealth from lacteal glands Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn Distort, to realms ethereal was borne The beast catulean, vexer of that sly Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die The old mordaceous rat that dared devour Antecedaneous ale in John’s domestic bower. Lo! Here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked In Hymen’s golden bands the man unthrift Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift, E’en as he kissed the virgin all forlorn Who milked the cow with implicated horn, Who in fierce wrath the canine torturer skied, That dared to vex the insidious muricide, Who let auroral effluence through the pelt Of that sly rat that robbed the palace that Jack built. The loud cantankerous Shanghai[12] comes at last, Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast, Who sealed the vows of Hymen’s sacrament To him who, robed in garments indigent, Exosculates the damsel lachrymose, The emulgator of the horned brute morose. That on gyrated horn, to heaven’s high vault Hurled up, with many a tortuous somersault, The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursued The scratching sneak, that waged eternal feud With long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smack On farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls of Jack. Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length, Whose cereal care supplied the vital strength Of chanticleer, whose matutinal cry Roused the quiescent form and ope’d the eye Of razor-loving cleric, who in bands Connubial linked the intermixed hands Of him, whose rent apparel gaped apart, And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart, Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flow Of nutriment from that cornigerent cow, Eumenidal executor of fate, That to sidereal altitudes elate Cerberus, who erst with fang letiferous Left lacerate Grimalkin latebrose— That killed the cat That ate the malt, That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the Farmer who’ll blow his horn—(John Bull.) When he hears the Cock that’ll crow one morn,—(Justice to Ireland.) And rouse John Morley shaven and shorn, That stands by the Peasant tattered and torn, That loves poor Erin all forlorn, That cheers the Bull with a lofty scorn,—(Sir W. V. Harcourt.) That tosses the Pup,—(Lord R. Churchill.) That snaps at the Cat,—(W. E. Gladstone.) That’ll kill the Rats,—(Goschen and Chamberlain.) That swallow the Stuff, That lay in the Bill The Tories built.

Sing a song of Sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, The birds began to sing; Was not that a dainty dish To set before the King! The King was in the parlour Counting out his money; The Queen was in the kitchen Eating bread and honey; The Maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes, Down came a blackbird And perched upon her nose.[13]

Carmen Denarium. Incipe cui titulo ‘Denarius,’ incipe cantum! Huic tumido loculo massa secalis inest; Sex quater in patina merularum corpora, crustum Queis super impositum pista farina fuit, Procubuere simul; sed quando adaperta farina est, Concordes merulis insonuere modi: Mirum opus harmoniæ! nonne inter fercula posset Haec vel regificae laux placuisse gulæ? Rex erat in camera, numerans sibi pondera nimmi, Pondera plebeio non numerando viro; Mel maudit panemque morans Regina culina; Dulcia plebeia non comedenda nuru. Ad solem vestes siccans Ancilla per hortum Ibat; et expansas aere funis habet; Quum merula, affini descendens arbore, nasum Ancillæ insilluit seque ibi constituit. From Arundines Cami. Cambridge, 1841.

The Song of the Cover. “Sing a song of half-a-crown— Lay it out this minute; Buy the book, for half the town Want to know what’s in it. Had you all the cares of Job, You’d then forget your troubles,” Cried Cupid, seated on the Globe Busy blowing bubbles. Rosy summer, pretty spring, See them scattering flowers— “Catch who can!” the song they sing; Heart’s-ease fall in showers. Autumn, tipsy with the grape, Plays a pipe and tabor; Winter imitates the ape, Mocking at his neighbour. 109 Bentley, Boz, and Cruikshank, stand, Like expectant reelers— “Music!” “Play up!” pipe in hand, Beside the fluted pillars! Boz and Cruikshank want to dance, None for frolic riper, But Bentley makes the first advance, Because he “pays the piper.” “Then sing a song of half-a-crown, And make a merry race on’t. To buy the book, all London town; There’s wit upon the face on’t. Had you all the cares of Job, You’d then forget your troubles,” Cried Cupid, seated on the globe, Busy blowing bubbles. Dr. Maginn.

Cantus Sex Denariorum. Sex denariorum Cane cantilenam, Viginti quatuor merulis Artocream plenam. Artocreâ apertâ, Aves canebant grege; Nonne erat bonum hoc Locare coram rege? Rex erat in conclavi Nummos putans bellè, Regina in coenaculo Edens panem melle. In horto vestes regias Ancilla suspendebat; Quum pica fortè veniens Nasonem rapiebat. The Hornet. 1872.

Chansonnette de six sous, La poche pleine de blé, Vingt-quatre merles, tous Cuits dans un pâté. Quand on y mit le couteau, Les merles chantérent, ma foi! N’était-ce pas un spectacle beau Mettre devant le roi? Edward A. Morton. Mirth.

Children’s Corner. Sing a song of Christmas, A pocket full of pie, Four-and-twenty puddings Oh how ni’—how ni’!— When the feast is over, Then the doctor comes, Twirling golden eye-glass, Twiddling both his thumbs. Little Jack Horner, Glum in a corner After his Christmas Pie, He wants more to stuff, But Ma says “Enough! Little pig, or you’ll certainly die!” Mary had a little doll With curls as white as snow, And whersoever Mary went That little doll must go. But brother Billy, back from school, To Mary he cried “Bo!” Then smashed that little doll to bits And in the fire did throw!

Nursery Song in Pidgin English. Singee songee sick a pence, Pockee muchee lye; (rye) Dozen two time blackee bird Cookee in e pie. When him cutee topside Birdee bobbery sing; Himee tinkee nicey dish Setee foree King! Kingee in a talkee loom (room) Countee muchee money; Queeny in e kitchee, Chew-chee breadee honey. Servant galo shakee, Hangee washee clothes; Chop-chop comee blackie bird, Nipee off her nose! Anonymous.

The Tanner’s Chant. Carol forth a canticle of demi-solidus With grain in a commensurate degree, Two-dozen darkly-feathered victims of a blunderbuss, All coarctate ’neath pastry made with ghee, By patient terebration, the aperture of the pie Was effected with a lever-handled spoon; When, judge the consternation of the monarch sitting by, All the birds set up a sympanising tune. They were only slightly wounded—chiefly suffering from surprise (It was fortunate the oven had been slow) And the warmth, though it alarmed them, which it’s useless to disguise, Made them quickly convalescent from the blow. Now, shortly after this the mighty monarch of the land Was ensconced with heaps of bullion untold, Engaged in what he evidently didn’t understand— Rhabdologic computation of his gold. Her Majesty, his spouse, was in her boudoir far away, Employed in manducation of her lunch; On a dessicated loaf she gave her appetite full play, Which, with honey, was as much as she could munch. The feminine domestic was just then in the parterre, Suspending some habiliments to dry, When a darkly-feathered victim saw her standing on a chair, And amputated her olfactory.

Sing a song of Season, Pockets full of naught, 110 Four-and-twenty Prince-lings Don’t make up a Court. When the Season’s opened, They’ll represent the Crown;— Isn’t that a shabby dish To set before the town? The Queen is absent—somewhere, Saving up her money, The Prince is in a Nile boat— The Prince he is so funny. So there’s left but Christian To play the King at shows, And if he does, a blackbird, We trust, will have his nose! The Tomahawk. March, 1869.

American Version. Sing a song of dollars, A pocket full of brass, Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in apple sass. When the pie was opened, The birds began a hovering, Wasn’t that a dainty dish To set before a Sovereign?

Sing a song of native art! A programme weak and dry; 4 P.M. to Albert Hall Her Majesty draws nigh. When the doors were opened, The dead heads all came in, And took up their positions Where they could see the Queen. The Queen was in the Royal box, And thought it quite too funny, That fools to come and look at her Parted with their money. Those who could not see her box Took a quiet doze, And half the people left the Hall Long before the close. The people and Her Majesty Said ’twas a frightful hash; If this was all Sir Cole’s big show, It wasn’t worth the cash. The Figaro. March 4, 1876.

Sing a song of gladness— “Dissolution” nigh— All the Tory party Eating humble pie. When the pie was opened What a mess beneath!— “Peace with honour” stewed with Turnerelli’s wreath. Dizzy, down at Hughenden, Scowling at his fate— “Imperium et Libertas” Just a little late; Staffy at the ’Chequer Looking very blue— Budget day’s approaching— Don’t know what to do! Hatfield’s lord, and Stanley, Cranbrook, too, and Cross, “Bag and Baggage,” clear out— What a dreadful loss! Ducal Richmond, also, Country’s cup’s too full. With Ireland and Afghan, Zulu and Cabul. Ere another Christmas Brings its frost and snows, In comes “People’s William!” Heals the nation’s woes! L. Probert. The Weekly Dispatch. December 21, 1879.

Sing a Song of Sixpence— Cabmen warm and dry— Four-and-twenty Cabmen, drinking on the sly; When they left the “Shelter” For fares they couldn’t shirk, The rain had come a pelter On beasts half dead with work: Sing a Song of Sixpence— Philanthropy’s awry, Which leaves these wretched cattle To shiver till they die. Punch. November 26, 1881.

The Song of Science. Trilobite, Graptobite Nautilus pie, Seas were calcareous, Oceans were dry, Eocene, miocene, Pilocene, tuff, Lias and trias, And that is enough. O, sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four-and-twenty follicles In the van of time. When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Men began to reign. Rev. Joseph Cook Free Press Flashes. 1881.

The English Illustrated Magazine. Sing a song of sixpence! A pocket full of gain! Edited by Comyns Carr! Wrapper drawn by Crane! When the pie was opened Swinburne ’gan to sing. Allen on a Dormouse, What a pretty thing: 111 Maitland’s down in Westminster Dreaming ’mid the cloisters, Huxley’s in his oyster bed, Counting out his oysters! Miss Yonge among the “Armourers” No ’prentice talent shows; Let’s hope the little Black-bird Won’t peck off her nose! The St. James’s Gazette. October 4, 1883.

The Healtheries. Fifty thousand nimble shillings, Plus a hundred and thirteen, That’s the latest of the takings, Checked by Maskelyne’s Machine. So Sing a Song of Turnstiles, As they twist away; Fifty thousand shillings Taken in a day! When the Show was opened, The crowds at once were thick; Wasn’t it a pretty sound To hear the turnstiles click? The people in the gardens still Are sampling cream and honey; But we to the Pavilion Bear the bags of money! Truth. December, 1884.

Sing a song of Jingo (Chorus, fife and drum), Twenty thousand Arabs Sent to kingdom come. When the trouble’s over, And glory’s cup is full, There’ll be a pretty butcher’s bill To lay before John Bull. Bondholders in the City Are passing sleepless nights, The Arabs in the Soudan Are fighting for their rights. The whole affair’s a muddle That daily thicker grows, Why we e’er went into it Is what nobody knows. H. B.

Sing a song of dynamite— What a mighty scare! A London railway-station In pieces in the air. Bags and pistols, clockwork, Nasty cakes of brown— Weren’t they dainty dishes To find about our town? Government and railway folks Didn’t think it funny; They to find the plotters Offered lots of money. Perhaps across the sea they’ve gone, In other suits of clothes; Perhaps they’re living quietly Right under London’s nose. Jane Jones. The Weekly Dispatch. April 13, 1884.

Sing a song of eightpence, Income tax is high; Four and twenty blunders In a Gladstone pie; When the pie is opened Won’t there be a shout, When two dozen blunders All come flying out. Gladstone’s in the Treasury, Counting coin in lumps; The Queen is in her castle— Her people in the dumps. Judy. May 13, 1885.

The Jubilee Coinage. Sing a song of sixpence, they struck it all awry, “Four” and “twenty” pieces, too, were faked in the die; When the dies were opened the folks began to sing, “Why, there ain’t a money value set on this ’ere thing.” The bankers in their parlours were laughing at the money; The Queen looked at her portrait and thought it very funny; The G.O.M. at Hawarden said, sniffling through his nose, “When I was Master of the Mint we made no coins like those.” Darjew. The Weekly Dispatch. October 2, 1887.

Sing a song of sixpence, a packetful of news, Just a dozen wordlets all that you must use. When the packet’s open’d, the news begins to ring, A birth, a death, a dainty dish of gossip doth it bring. The husband’s in his counting-house losing all his money, The wife is in the pantry eating bread and honey; The daughter’s in the garden, undreaming of the news, When “rat-tat” comes a telegram—they’re shaking in their shoes. Repealer.

Sing a song of saving, A pocketful of tin, Telegrams for sixpence A surplus will bring in. When the cover’s opened, We feel inclined to sing: “It’s all abbreviations, We can’t make out a thing.” Hecla.

Sing a song of Gladstone, and make the Tories sigh, Who, in the coming contest, will have another try, When the House assembles shan’t we do a grin, If Tories take a back seat, and Gladdy should get in. 112 Salisbury in the Upper House, pulling faces funny, Cocky little Randy looking anything but sunny; Will, as Premier, back again, sitting on his foes, Staffy up aloft, and indulging in a doze. William Tyrrell. Truth. October 15, 1885.

Sing a song of scaffolds! a pocket full of twine! Sixty applications to “enlist men in the line!” When old M. departed, the names came pouring in,— Isn’t that a pretty way to earn a lot of tin?— Marwood’s in the churchyard, as dead as any mummy; The Queen she wants a hangman, which sounds a little rummy! The tender-hearted maiden says “hanging’s out of date!” When down comes a black cap upon the Judge’s pate! F. B. Doveton. 1886.

Sing a song of gunnery, a science full of slips, Three-and-forty tonners packed into our ships; When the guns were fired, the tubes began to burst— Wasn’t this a clever thing not to know at first? Truth. September 30, 1886.

Sing a song of sixpence, Many of them shy. Four-and-twenty trippers To Newcastle hie. The Exhibition opened, The trippers crowded in; Wasn’t there a scramble To hear the band begin. They went into the coal mine, And thought it very funny; Also tried the switchback, Well worth the money. They strolled about the garden, In their Sunday clothes; Had a glass or two of Burton, And off home they goes. Perseverantia. Newcastle Chronicle. November, 1887.

Goschen to the Rescue. Sing a song of French pence, Tempers all awry; None will take the foreign “browns”— All are asking “Why?” Small shopkeeper, tramway-man, Pray keep up your pecker, You’ll have Goschen’s sympathy, Help from the Exchequer. To relieve you from your mess, Goschen says he’s willing; They shall go, like penny buns, Thirteen for a shilling. That shall wipe the ’busman’s eye, Pacify the nation, And, what’s better, purify John Bull’s “circulation.” Punch. April 23, 1887.

Nursery Rhyme for Young Italy. The King in the Quirinal, Feeling very funny; The Kaiser in a parlour, Tired after journey. The Pope was in the Vatican, Looking at his shoe; Up comes the Emperor, And says, “How d’ye do?” October, 1888.

Sing a song of sixpence, in pockets made to lie, One of forty art-birds, asked to shape the die; When the dye was token’d, all who saw the mien Sang—“This is not a dainty ‘tiz’[14] to set before the Queen.” The Queen was in her country house, counting up her money; Prince B.[15] was in the pantry, spreading his bread with honey; The Chancellor was in the garden, hanging out old clothes, When soon there came back word this “tizzy” to depose. Truth. June 14, 1888.

Sing a song of Chamberlain, three acres and a cow, Sent across the herring-pond cannot end the row; Breaking up his party in a fit of spleen, Wasn’t that the meanest dodge that any one has seen! Harty’s turned a Tory, fêted in the City, Jess and Bright are martyrs—isn’t it a pity? Goschen’s in the Cabinet, happy with the cash, Up will come the Radicals, and settle all his hash. Radix.

Sing a song of armaments, an empire all awry, Four-and-twenty critics raise a doleful cry; A capital defenceless, ships without guns or shot. When the threatened war breaks out, won’t Johnny get it hot! Johnny is busy in his shop, making and saving money, His women kind are humming round, like bees in search of honey; His crafty foes are scheming to bring matters to a close, By smashing up his ironclads, and pulling Johnny’s nose. W. H. T. Truth. June 28, 1888.

The Parnell Commission. Sing a song of tricksters, Commission all my eye! Walter’s dirty finger Traced in the pie; When the bill was promised It had an honest ring, But when it was printed ’Twas quite another thing. The First Lord in his parlour, As the bees suck honey, Was listening to Walter Giving testimony; 113 The pay for smashing Parnell ’S a peerage, I suppose; A few more bogus letters And “up the donkey goes.” H. M. Blane.

The Allegations Bill. Sing a song of libels, A session full of crimes, All the Tory Cabinet Stewing with the Times; When the case is ended Another tune they’ll sing— Won’t it be a pretty mess If they together cling? Goschen paying for the job With the people’s money; Smith and Walter swearing that The forgeries were “funny”; Chamberlain and Hartington Looking down their nose, And Parnell triumphant, Grinning at his foes. Jesse H. Wheeler. The Weekly Dispatch. August 12, 1888.

The Conspirators’ Chorus. Sing a song of Dynamite, pack it up in bags, Rattle it in railway trains, drop it on the flags; Let it go in luggage vans ’mid all harmless loads; Never mind the consequence if the stuff explodes. Here’s to Nitro-glycerine! store it in a cask. Making it, says Chemistry, is an easy task; Though it’s reckoned dangerous, let it flood the floors, Startling the detective coves prying at the doors. Fulminating Mercury goes off with a noise, Fit for little Fenians like a baby’s toys; Chlorate of Potassium’s not exactly placid, When it’s mixed with sugar, Sir, and sulphuric acid. This a merry business is, but your cruel laws Say we shan’t use Dynamite to advance the Cause; Yet we’ll mix our fulminates underneath your eyes, While the gay Conspirator blows you to the skies.

Gay go up and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town. Bull’s eyes and targets, Say the bells of St. Marg’ret’s. Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of St. Giles! Halfpence and farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin’s. Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement’s. Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of St. Peter’s. Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells at Whitechapel. Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate. You owe me ten shillings. Say the bells at St. Helen’s. Pokers and tongs, Say the bells at St. John’s. Kettles and pans Say the bells at St. Ann’s. When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I’m sure I don’t know, Says the great bell at Bow. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

What the New City Peal Says. You must pay up your “calls”— Say the bells of St. Paul’s! Stock rises and falls— Say the bells of St. Paul’s! City Companies’ hauls— Say the bells of St. Paul’s! Snug prebends and stalls— Say the bells of St. Paul’s! Blessings on these old walls! Say the bells of St. Paul’s!

Oranges and Lemons in the City. “Reformers are unpleasant,” Say the bells of St. Clement. “Yes, that is quite sartin,” Say the bells of St. Martin. “Do they want a sermon daily?” Say the bells of Old Bailey. “I’m sure I don’t know,” Says the great bell of Bow. “The Lords are in a fury,” Say the bells of Old Jewry. “Will they leave us in the lurch?” Say the bells of Abchurch. “I’ve a beadle and a clerk,” Say the bells of St. Mark. “Those two a church fill,” Say the bells of Cornhill. Punch. July 23, 1881.

“Poor Ireland’s enslavèd!” say the bells of St. David; “God help the poor creaturs!” say the bells of St. Peter’s; “Turned out of their dwellin’s,” say the bells of St. Helen’s; “And speed Home Rule on!” say the bells of St. John; “O, Tories, you rile us!” say the bells of St. Silas; “Confound your vagaries,” say the bells of St. Mary’s; “You’re always ridiculous,” say the bells of St. Nicholas; “And traitors besides!” say the bells of St. Bride’s; “You’ve earned our abhorrence,” say the bells of St. Lawrence; 114 “You’re fit for the gallows,” say the bells of All Hallows; “So get away from us,” say the bells of St. Thomas; “We want better men!” roars out old Big Ben; “You’ve had all your flukes,” say the bells of St. Luke’s; “Suspensions and brawls,” say the bells of St. Paul’s; “The session concludes,” say the bells of St. Jude’s; “Out you must go!” says the great bell at Bow. Robert Puttick. The Weekly Dispatch. October 2, 1887.

The Chimes. 1886. (For Bad Times.) “The Turks haven’t a shilling!” Said the gate bell of Billing. “And then Russia wants all!” Said a bell near Millwall. “And poor France has no power!” Said the bell of the Tower. “And that Egypt’s a sweep!” Cried the bell of Eastcheap. “And there’s Spain—a great sell!” Said St. Lawrence’s bell. “Oh, we’ve had a nice ride!” Said the bell of St. Bride. “And are ground in a mill!” Moaned a bell near Cornhill. “We must wait for high tide!” Mourned the bell of Cheapside. “It’s a regular hitch!” Clanged the bell of Shoreditch. “Shall we really lose all?” Asked the bell of St. Paul. “We should much like to know!” Tolled the big bell of Bow.

Who’ll teach the Prince? I, answered Punch, With my cap and hunch; And I’ll teach the Prince. Who’ll write his books? I, answered Brougham, With my goose-quill plume; And I’ll write his books. Who’ll make him dance? I, answered Peel, For I can turn and wheel; I’ll make him dance. Who’ll teach him logic? Says Hume, I’ve the right, I can vote black is white; So I’ll teach him logic. Who’ll teach him dancing? I, lisp’d Baron Nathan, ’Mongtht tea-cupth, jughth, and bathin: I’ll teach him dancing. Who’ll teach him writing? I, said Lord William, Because a copyist with a quill, I am; And I’ll teach him writing. Who’ll teach him politics? Said Graham, that will I, That he every side may try; So I’ll teach him politics. Who’ll pay the piper? I, said John Bull, On me will come the pull: I must pay the piper. Punch. September, 1843.

Who killed these Arabs? “I did,” said Graham; I’d orders to slay em— I killed these Arabs. Who saw them die? Allah on high, With all-seeing eye— He saw them die. Who’ll be their mourners? “We,” said the Tribes, “Although we’ve had bribes— We’ll be their mourners,” Who’ll pay the cost? “I,” said John Bull, “Because I’m a fool— I’ll pay the cost.” And who’ll wind it up? “The Rads!” cried the Nation; “If but firm in their station, They’ll wind it up!” George Mallinson. The Weekly Dispatch. April 13, 1884.

Who Killed Home Rule. Who killed Home Rule? I, said Joe Chamberlain; Simply by speaking plain, I killed Home Rule. 115 Who saw it die? I, answered Goschen— I gave it a potion, Then saw it die. Who made its shroud? I, said Lord Harty; Regardless of party, I made its shroud. Who dug its grave? I, Lord Randy cried, Making it deep and wide, I dug its grave. Who was chief mourner? I, said Parnell; When my hopes fell, I was chief mourner. Who was the parson? I, said Trevelyan; My text was “rebellion,” I was the parson. Who was the clerk? I, said John Morley, And I wept sorely, I was the clerk. Who tolled the bell? I, said John Bull; With a good hearty pull, I tolled the bell. The People. July 3, 1886.

The Grand Old Cock Robin. Who killed Gladstone? I, said Chamberlain, And I feel like Cain(e) I killed Gladstone. Who saw him die? I, said Goschen, Without any emotion I saw him die. Who caught his blood? I, said Caine, And it’s left a big stain; I caught his blood. Who’ll make his shroud? I, said Argyll, In superior style; I’ll make his shroud. Who’ll carry him to the grave? I, said County Guy, With a tear in his eye; I’ll carry him to the grave. Who’ll dig his grave? I, said Lord Randy, For I’ve got the tools handy; I’ll dig his grave. Who’ll carry the link? I, said John Bright, With my sweetness and light; I’ll carry the link. Who’ll be chief mourner? I, said John Morley, For I miss him sorely; I’ll be chief mourner. Who’ll sing a psalm? I, said Fowler, A regular howler: I’ll sing a psalm. Who’ll be the parson? I, said Hicks-Beach, For I can preach; I’ll be the parson. Who’ll be the clerk? I, said John Walter, For the Times may alter; I’ll be the clerk. Who’ll toll the bell? I, said Parnell: ’Twas for Ireland he fell; I’ll toll the bell. The Pall Mall Gazette. June 17, 1886.

Who won Miss Jenny? “I,” said young Bogle, “With my bow and Ogle. I won Miss Jenny!” Who heard him pop? “I,” said Miss Squeers, “With my two itching ears, I heard him pop!” Who made him do it? “I,” said Miss Jenny, “The bashful young ninny. I made him do it!” Who’ll tie the knot? “I,” said Dean B——. “For the sake of the fee,— I’ll tie the knot!” Who’ll be best man? “I,” said Jack Bate, “For I’ll kiss saucy Kate. I’ll be best man!” Who’ll tell his Dad? “I,” said Tom Hare, “And oh! won’t he swear! I’ll tell his Dad!”

Who killed Will Gladstone? “I,” said Joe C—; “The blow came from me; I killed Will Gladstone.” Who saw him die? “I,” said Lord Harty, “With my little party; We saw him die.” 116 Who’ll dig his grave? “I,” said Lord Randy; “I’ve got the place handy; I’ll dig his grave.” East Anglia. Truth. September 30, 1886.

Who’ll kill Coercion? “I,” cries Democracy; “Despite the Aristocracy, “I’ll kill Coercion.” Who’ll see him die? “I,” sighs each Tory; “Though in him I glory, “I’ll see him die.” Who’ll catch his blood? “I,” says Castle rule; “He is my favourite tool, “I’ll catch his blood.” Who’ll make his shroud? “I,” cries Trevelyan; “Would wager a million, “I’ll make his shroud.” Who’ll dig his grave? “I,” cries old Gladstone; “In Mitcheltown’s sandstone, “I’ll dig his grave.” Who’ll carry him to the grave? “I,” says Salisbury; (“But I am in no hurry), “I’ll carry him to the grave.” Who’ll bear the pall? Says Chamberlain and Goschen, “We are both of one notion, “We’ll bear the pall.” Who’ll carry the link? “I,” says John Bright, “To give you all light, “I’ll carry the link.” Who’ll be chief mourner? “I,” says Rack-renter; “My hopes in him centre, “I’ll be chief mourner.” “Who’ll be the parson? “I,” says gagging Smith; “Have the books to do it with, “I’ll be the parson.” Who’ll be the clerk? “I,” says O’Brien; “His grace to be eyein’, “I’ll be the clerk.” Who’ll toll the bell? “I,” shouts bold Parnell; “His end aloud to tell, “I’ll toll the bell.” Democrat. Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.

Who Stole O’Brien’s Breeches? Who stole O’Brien’s breeches? I, said Balfour, with the aid of a warder, I stole his breeches. Who stole his shirt? I, said Londonderry, and it’s made London merry, I stole his shirt. Who stole his coat? I, said Plunkett: I went and slunk it, I stole his coat. Who stole his socks? I, said King-Harman, for I wanted to darn ’em, I stole his socks. Who stole his boots? I, said Saxe-Weimar, and the joke is a screamer, I stole his boots. Who’ll wear the gaol clothes? Not I, said O’Brien, spite of all their tryin’! I’ll not wear the gaol clothes. Pall Mall Gazette. November, 1887.

Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down, and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.

Johannes et Gillia. Johannes atque Gillia Scandebant super clivo, Ut urnam aquæ gelidæ Haurirent ibi rivo. Johanni decidenti, heu, Tunc caput frangebatur; Et Gillia cadens etiam Johannem sequebatur. The Hornet. 1872.

A Song for Five Fingers. This pig went to market; This pig stayed at home, This pig had a bit of meat; And this pig had none; This pig said “wee, wee, wee!” I can’t find my way home.

In Quinque Digitos. Hic porculus forum pergebat, Hic, contrà, in domo manebat, Hic porculus carnem edebat Hic victu, heu, planè carebat. Hic porculus mœstè lugebat, Quod illum nox domo claudebat. The Hornet. 1872.

117 Hey! diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.

O but she was dark and shrill, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The cat that (on the First Aprill) Played the fiddle upon the lea. O and the moon was wan and bright, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The Cow she looked nor left nor right, But took it straight at a jump, pardie! The hound did laugh to see this thing, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) As it were parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye!) And underneath a dreesome moon Two lovers fled right piteouslie; A spooney plate with a plated spoon, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) Postscript. Then blame me not, altho’ my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savour of diddle and hey-de-dee.

“Hey Diddle Diddle! the Cat and the Fiddle.” Ah! joy with me, my neighbours, joy with me, And let the air resound with glad acclaims, For she indeed, our furry feline friend, Hath shown herself disposed to music’s charms, And with the viol held in nimble paw, Scrapeth the tunes of mirthful melody. Meanwhile, aroused from out her careless mood, The Cow forgets her grazing on the grass, Forgets the blades most choice and succulent, Forgets the pail defrauded of its milk, Forgets the aim and tenor of her life, And rapt in rumination at the sound, Listens, until the sweet mysterious strains Fire her most inmost soul: then wildly forth In frantic frenzy speeds her wind-whirled way, Stirred by the notes of feline minstrelsy. But, louder comes the soul-inspiring sound, Till, boiling o’er with ecstacy, she leaps Far from the earth, and further still, away. I may not tell the distance of her leap, ’Twas all too far for mortal eye to trace; Yet afterwards her corse came hurtling down,— For in the mighty magnitude of space Through which she sprang with impulse unrestrained, Her very swiftness had abstracted breath— And on her hoof a substance green was found Which soon, ’twas marked, was nothing else than cheese; That so ’twould seem she had all but o’ertopped In that one bound the far far distant moon, A portion of whose substance there appeared Hoof-stricken, and adhering to its foe, To warn all others from such lofty leaps. Then was there mourning for the direful death; The horse, the hen, the labourer, and the lamb Flowed down in floods of saline tears sincere: While eke the cat hath stayed her viol’s notes, And wipes with trembling paw each streaming eye: But he, that very fiend in canine form, Brawls in a bluff brutality of mirth, Cries that “I’sooth it was a merry sport;” Aye laughs, as if each lateral wall of ribs Would burst asunder; for methinks that she While yet in life, our much-lamented cow, The while the dog was barking at her heel, With well-aimed kick erst stretched him on the plain; Wherefore at her mishap in spiteful spleen He now with cachinnations fills the air. Ah! would that I could end my tale aright, And give to something some good attribute. But no:—for in this wicked worthless world Seldom we see a soul untouched by taint:— Let me then hurry o’er the final scene, The shameful shift to make emolument Amid the wild confusion that prevailed. ’Tis said the earthenware receptacle, Surnamed the Dish, who, highly held in honour, Maintained the meats, and lived a lordly life, Struck by a sudden guilty greed of gain, And noting furthermore that none espied, Clutched in his grasp the partner of his trade, The Spoon yclept, and, hurrying hastily, Bore him away right down into the street, And reached by stealth the pawnbroker’s at length, Whence,—for the spoon was one of Mappin’s make,— He went back richer by a good round sum, Nor told to anyone his shameless sin.

At the Inventions. Hey diddle diddle, Piano and fiddle, The fountains sprang up towards the moon, The people all flocked to see the fine sight, And sipp’d Indian tea with a spoon. Chickweed. Truth. October 15, 1885.

Mistress Mary, Quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells And cockle shells And hyacinths all of a row.

Domina Maria. O mea Maria, Tota contraria, Quid tibi crescit in horto? Testae et crotali Sunt mihi flosculi, Cum hyacinthino serto. Henry Drury. From Arundines Cami. Cambridge. 1841.

118 A Revised Edition. Mary, Mary quite contrary, How does your garden grow? Do red rose and sweet mignonette Make quite a summer show? Twice seven days since we have met, But it seems years ago— Mary, Mary, so contrary, Why do I love you so! Mary, Mary, in your airy Summer gown of snow, Folding fragrant linen fair, Through your house to go; Full of self and full of care Will you heed my woe— Mary, Mary, so contrary, Why do I love you so? Mary, Mary, in the dairy, Setting pans in row, Jingling keys and silver bells, Marching to and fro, Learned in all your household spells— (Wise you are we trow), Tell me Mary, still contrary, Why do I love you so! Ah! my Mary comes a fairy, Whispers soft and low, All the sweet and sudden truth Heart to heart must owe; Be it joy or be it ruth, Only this I know— ’Tis because you are contrary That I love you so! S. Frances Harrison.

From W. E. G. Joseph, Joseph, quite contrary, How do your acres grow? Some with weeds and some with seeds, But ne’er a one with a cow. Truth. September 30, 1886.

Harty, Harty, what of your party, How does your Union grow; Primrose belles, and Radical swells, Coercionists all in a row. Newcastle Chronicle. November, 1887.

“Master Joey, Quite too showy, How does your party grow?” “There’s Collings, and Dick, And Mister Kenrick, And myself, the boss of the show.” P. Q. X. Truth. June 28, 1888.

“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone; But when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.”

“Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone.”

“But when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.”

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, And said, “What a good boy am I!”

Versio Altera. Horner Jacculo sedit in angulo Vorans, ceu serias ageret ferias, Crustum dulce et amabile; Inquit et unum extrahens prunum— “Horner, quam fueris nobile pueris Exemplar imitabile.” Henry Drury. From Arundines Cami. Cambridge, 1841.

Johannis Hornerii Jactatio. Hornerius Johannes In angulo sedebat, Et ibi in silentio Artocream edebat. Extraxit prunum digito Et statim se jactabat— “Ecce quam bonus puer sum!” Hornerius clamabat. The Hornet. May 29, 1872.

Studious Jack Horner, of Latin no scorner, In the second declension did spy How nouns there were some, Which, ending in um, do not make their plural in i. Chessmen. Truth. September 30, 1886.

The Modern Jack Horner. Little Jack Horner, on the street corner, Smoked up his last cigarette; Saying, “When this is done, I’ll to the saloon And wet up my whistle, ‘you bet.’” Little Jack Horner is now the chief mourner To head a policeman’s procession. The infantile dude became far too rude In trying to follow the fashion. Detroit Free Press. December, 1886.

Little Lord Randy Turned up quite handy, Speaking his mind so spry; He slashed right and left, Both weavers and weft, And he said, “What a statesman am I.” M. B. B. Truth. June 28, 1888.

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house, and stole a shin of beef: I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow bone. I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in, Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin; I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed, I took up a poker and flung it at his head.

120 Staffy was a poor man, Staffy was a chief; Staffy in the Lower House Often came to grief; So Staffy to the Upper House Hurriedly has flown, And left ’em the Lower House To stay and pick the bone! Jesse H. Wheeler. The Weekly Dispatch. July 5, 1885.

Neglected Wails. Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy had a farm, Taffy wouldn’t pay his tithes, but kept ’em in his palm; His Vicar lowered Taffy’s tithes, for the sake of quiet, Taffy had rejoicings, ending in a riot. The Landlord sent his Agent, and doubled Taffy’s rent, Taffy’s now for Welsh Home Rule, and Disestablishment! Punch. December 4, 1886.

What are little boys made of, made of? Snaps and snails, and puppy dog’s tails; And that’s what little boys are made of. What are little girls made of, made of? Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice; And that’s what little girls are made of, made of. What is an Englishman made of? Roast beef and jam tart, And a pint of good Clar’t, And that’s what an Englishman’s made of. What is a Frenchman, pray, made of? Horse steak and frog fritter, And absinthe so bitter, And that’s what a Frenchman is made of.

What are some young Misses made of? Poker and Bang, Second-hand slang; Plenty of face, Air without grace; Bustle and flounce, Brains half an ounce; Dreams but of pelf, Thoughts but of self; Life all a lie, Hang by-and-bye! That’s what some Misses are made of. What are most young Johnnies made of? Needless toothpicking, Stage door heel-kicking; Long lemon squashing, Prodigal washing; Stock-seller’s model, Hairdresser’s noddle; Old schoolboy vices, Love-lingering for “nicies”; Blasé pretended, Unbegun—ended! That’s what most Johnnies are made of! Judy. January 3, 1883.

“Dickory,” à la française. Diggoré, doggoré, doge, Le rat monte à l’horloge, Une heure se frappe Le rat s’échappe Diggoré, doggoré, doge. Boys Own Paper. March, 1884.

Mus in Horologio. Quatit terrore domus, Est horologio mus. Tunc hora prima sonuit, Et murem sic attonuit; Caret terrore domus— Non horologio mus. The Hornet. June 19, 1872.

A Song of a Sell. Hickery, dickery, dare! The Socialists met in the Square; Warren nabs one, Away the rest run, Hickery, dickery, dare!

Multiplication is vexation, Division is as bad; The Rule of Three, it puzzles me, And Practice drives me mad!

Transubstantiation is vexation, Consubstantiation is as bad; Archdeacon D. doth trouble me, And I rather think he’s mad. J. B. Cantuar. 1856.

The Khedive’s Summing Up. Abdication is vexation, Deposition’s twice as bad; The Rule of Three it bothers me, And Bismarck drives me mad. Punch. June 28, 1879.

A Sum of Sorrows. The Iligant Nation Is a vexation, But Gordon’s twice as bad: From Redistribution Comes bitter confusion, And Egypt’s driven me mad.

By a Publican. “Application” is vexashun, “Compensation” ’ll prove bad; Terms o’ years three is a muzzle for me, Them practices drives me mad. Danehill.

121 Lord S. loqr. Compensation’s tribulation, The wheel-tax is as bad, By Jokin G— And Licensed V, I’m fairly driven mad. Baritone. Truth, June 14, 1888.

Mobilisation’s desperation, Inaction is as bad; The Admiraltee it puzzles “we,” The Horse Guards drives us mad. Truth. June 28, 1888.

Shakespeare and Bacon are vexation Donelly is as bad, His Cryptogram it puzzles me, His Cypher drives me mad. Scott Surtees. 1888.

Please to remember The Fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot; I know no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot. (About 1651.)

Mitchelstown. Please to remember The ninth of September, Mitchelstown’s murderous shot. I see no reason Why Government treason Should ever be forgot. Balfour blacksheep, Have you any gruel? Yes sir, yes sir, Three plates full. One for the Parson, One for the Dame, And one for the man who joins The Plan of Campaign. Ding, dong, dell, Dillon’s in a cell, Who put him in? Servants of the Queen. Who’ll pull him out? G. O. M. no doubt. Newgate. Truth. June 14, 1888.

Remember, remember, the recreant member Who with Tories has cast in his lot, I see no reason why Chamberlain’s treason Should ever be forgot. Clever, smart, and spry, With his eye-glass in his eye, Send him to the House of Lords And there let him lie! A Tory place the traitor to pay; True Radicals scorn to lash him; Old Ireland’s curse on his soul to lay, And the next election to smash him. John Bull. The Weekly Dispatch. November, 1888.

A Lay for the Fifth of November. Remember, remember, the fifth of November, And gunpowder treason plot; I know no reason why winking at treason Should ever be forgot. So, holloa, boys, holloa, and bring out the guys That every true Englishman needs must despise. Instead of Old Guy, who in years long gone by Used gunpowder kegs for a tool, We’ve a certain old man who does all he can To break up the House with Home Rule. Bring the effigy out, and take it about; On to the Bonfire with laughter and shout, And all the good people who see it will cry, “Holloa! boys, holloa! for Gladstone the Guy.” Remember, remember, the fifth of November, As years have rolled on we have got Fresh guys for the season of gunpowder treason So now let us bring out the lot. Here’s Charley Parnell, and Dillon as well, With Labby so fond of abuse, And Harcourt may find a place close behind With a jar of the Parnellite juice. And give to each one a moonlighter’s gun, A mask, and some powder and shot, With Fenian dynamite somewhere concealed To finally blow up the lot. Holloa, boys, holloa, and pile the chips well, For Gladstone of Hawarden has plenty to sell. Bring the effigies out and take them about, On to the bonfire with laughter and shout, With cheers for the empire, with hooting and cries Of “Holloa! boys, holloa! boys, down with the guys!” J. E. Clarke. Judy. November 7, 1888.

The Husband’s Revenge. A Warning to wives who will keep bad Cooks. Provisions raw Long time he bore, Remonstrance was in vain; To escape the scrub He join’d a club; Nor dined at home again. Punch. March 1, 1856.

Epitaph on a Locomotive. Collisions four Or five she bore, The signals wor in vain; Grown old and rusted, Her biler busted, And smash’d the Excursion Train— “Her end was pieces”

122 Monody on Protection. Protection sore long time we bore, Seditions were in vain; But now his friends have given him o’er, He’ll never wake again.

“Sing a song of wheeling, Mind that no one squeals— Four-and-twenty black boys Riding on their wheels, When down hill they ventured, They ‘braked’ it rather rash, And four-and-twenty cripples Resulted from the smash!”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little light Struggle through the murky night, Round about the corners trot Many a blue for-get-me-not (i.e., the Bobby), Who would drag me to the Beak For a fine or for a ‘week,’ And they’d always serve me so If you did not twinkle so!” “Little Jack Jumber Sat on his Humber, Waiting till cows go by, When one in a flurry Sent him in a hurry Sow-so into the old pig-stye!”

“Ride a machine to What’s-the-name Green, To see whatever there is to be seen, Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes!”

“Jack and Jill Rode down the hill, With joke and jeer and laughter, Jack fell down, And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after!”

Jack and Gill came down the hill Upon a Humber tandem, Jack turned round to Gill and frowned, “Eugh!” you don’t understand ’em Put up your feet, stick to your seat, I’m going to do a ‘flyer,’ For goodness sake don’t touch the brake. We’re spilt! oh Jeremyur! Wheeling Annual. 1885.

Questions for Sir Charles. O where, O where, are your little wee dogs, O where are they gone, Sir C.? Says Chawles “Down in Surrey, They fled in a hurry, And never came back to me,” And where, O where, were your merry men gone That people should murdered be? “O, my men were ‘all there,’ In Trafalgar Square, Looking most militaree.” But Chawlie, O Chawlie, where were you? Why didn’t you travel down E.? “I was up to my eyes In a Christmas Prize Composition for Newnes’s T. B.”

Cock Warren. Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said the gin distiller; “I’m the tyrant killer, I killed Cock Warren.” Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said the Pall Mall; “I set him up as well, Then I killed Cock Warren.” Who killed Cock Warren? “I,” said Mr. Graham, “I’m the hound to bay ’em; I killed Cock Warren.” Who killed Cock Warren? “We,” said the people; “Clash the bells in the steeple; We killed Cock Warren.” H. W. M.

An Epitaph. Here lies Sir Charles Warren, Formerly Chief Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. During his Tenure of Office He Lectured on the Holy Land, And Trampled Under his Feet Our Free and ancient laws, Daily insulting the law-abiding people of London. Contrary to the Regulations of the Service He wrote an article in Murray’s Magazine, The grammar of which was shaky, And the spelling of which is said to have been corrected By the Printer’s Devil. He resigned rather than submit to Merited censure. Forbear, pious reader, To spit upon his tomb, For though his actions were despotic, His resignation brought joy and gladness To the homes of thousands. “When the wicked perish there is shouting.”

123 The Romaunt of Humpty-Dumpty. ’Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps Upon the garden sward: My lady in yon turret keeps Her tearful watch and ward. “Beshrew me!” mutters, turning pale, The stalwart seneschal; “What’s he that sitteth, clad in mail, Upon our castle wall?” “Arouse thee, friar of orders gray; What, ho! bring book and bell! Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say; And, look ye, ban it well. By cock and pye, the Humpty’s face!”— The form turn’d quickly round; Then totter’d from its resting-place— * * * * * That night the corse was found. The king, with hosts of fighting men, Rode forth at break of day; Ah! never gleam’d the sun till then On such a proud array. But all that army, horse and foot, Attempted, quite in vain, Upon the castle wall to put The Humpty up again.

The Ballad of Babye Bunting. The Knight is away in the merry green wood, Where he hunts the wild rabbit and roe: He is fleet in the chase as the late Robin Hood— He is fleeter in quest of the foe. The nurse is at home in the castle, and sings To the babe that she rocks at her breast: She is crooning of love and of manifold things, And is bidding the little one rest. “Oh, slumber, my darling! oh, slumber apace! For thy father will shortly be here; And the skin of some rabbit that falls in the chase Shall be thine for a tippet, my dear.”

H. Dumpteii Tristis Historia. Humptius Dumpteius Sedebat stulte muro: Humptius, heu, decidit Nec fatum in obscuro. Non omnes equi regii, Non viri potuere Pristinam rectitudinem Dumpteio præbere.

Ad Infantem Buntinii. Buntincule beate! Pater venatur catè. Pellem feret cuniculi, Ut vestis sit Buntinculi. The Hornet.

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; February has twenty-eight alone, All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting leap-year, that’s the time, When February’s days are twenty-nine.

“En avril, en juing, en septembre A .xxx. jours et en novembre: Tout li autre ont .xxxj jour, Fors fevriers qi est li plus cour, En soi que .xxviij. jors n’a, Ne plus ne meins n’i avra ja Fors en l’an qe bissextres vient, Adont en a, einsi avient, .xxix., de tant est creüs, L’an que bixestres est cheüs.” Dirty days hath September, April, June, and November; From December up to May, The rain it raineth every day. All the rest have thirty-one, Without a blessed gleam of sun; And if any had two-and-thirty, They’d be just as wet, and twice as dirty. Figaro. 1873.

A Summery Summary. Thirty-one days hath the month of May, Most of them chilly, and none of them gay, June—less obnoxious by one day—has thirty, Every one, more or less, dirty and squirty. Thirty plus one are the “whack” of July, None of them sunny, and few of them dry, Three months of gloom that each year groweth glummer! That sums the sell that is called English Summer!

Useful Mems. for 1885. January is first month (It commences with the oneth). February’s days are twenty-eight (Wanting more, four years you wait). In March you find mad hares and Lent (25th’s the day for rent). April’s days are only thirty (And even most of those are dirty!) Thirty-one there are in May (24th’s Victoria’s day). Thirty days are there in June (Rent-day the 24th—too soon!) Thirty-one days in July (A month for eating greengage pie). In August thirty-one you’ll find (If you don’t care, well, I don’t mind). Thirty days, please, hath September (And 29th’s the rent, remember!) Thirty-one days hath October (Quite enough, if you keep sober!) 124 November it has thirty (why?— You’d best ask some one else than I). December—thirty-one (contrive To scrape up rent by 25).

The Three Jolly Ratsmen. (With Apologies to the Memory of Randolph Caldecott). It’s of three politicians, and a rattin’ they did go; An’ they ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ they blew their horns also. Look ye there! An’ one said, “Mind yo’r een, an’ keep yo’r noses reet i’ th’ wind, An’ then, by scent or seet we’ll leet o’summat to our mind.” Look ye there! (Portraits of Chamberlain, Goschen and Hartington.) They ratted, an’ they ranted, an’ the first thing they did find Was a Grand Old Statesman in a field, an’ him they left behind. Look ye there! One said it was a Statesman, an’ another he said, “Nay; It’s just a Liberal Party, that has been and gone astray.” Look ye there! They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was a gruntin’, grindin’ grindlestone, an’ that they left behind. Look ye there. One said it was a grindlestone, another he said, “Nay, It’s nought but a fossil Quaker that’s gone an’ roll’t away.” Look ye there! (Portrait of John Bright.) They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find Was a bull calf in a Tory fold, an’ that they left behind. Look ye there! One said it was a bull calf, an’ another he said, “Nay, It’s just a little jackass that has never learnt to bray.” Look ye there! (Lord R. Churchill). They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find Was a two-three children leaving school, an’ these they left behind. Look ye there! One said they were children, but another he said, “Nay, They’re no’ but little Radicals, so we’ll leave ’em to their play.” Look ye there! They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was a poet singing in a ditch, an’ him they left behind. Look ye there! One said it was a poet, an’ another he said, “Nay; It’s only just a poor young man whose wits are stole away.” Look ye there! (A. C. Swinburne.) They ratted an’ they ranted, an’ the next thing they did find, Was two young lovers in a lane, an’ these they left behind. Look ye there! One said that they were lovers, but another he said “Nay; They’re two poor wandering lunatics: come, let us go away.” Look ye there! (Erin and John Morley.) So they ratted an’ they ranted till, the setting of the sun, And they’d naught to bring away at last when election time was done. Look ye there! Then one unto the other said, “This rattin’ doesn’t pay; But we’n powler’t up an’ down a bit, an’ had a rattlin’ day.” Look ye there! Pall Mall Gazette. July 7, 1886.

There were three jovial Welshmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a hunting Upon St. David’s day. All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find, But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind. One said it was a ship, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a house, With the chimney blown away. And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind. One said it was the moon, The other he said, nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o’t cut away.

Three children sliding on the ice Upon a summer’s day, It so fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away. Now had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drown’d. You parents all that children have, And you that eke have none, If you would have them safe abroad, Pray keep them safe at home.

Carmen Caninum. Labentes super glaciem, In medio æstatis, Tres pueri sunt mersi, et Succubuêre fatis. Ah, si in terrâ lapsi sint, Vel domi si mansissent Sestertium ad denarium Non aquâ periisent. 125 Parentes quibus nati sunt, Et vos qui non habetis Si salvos vultis foris hos, Clausos domi servetis. The Hornet. 1872.

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Ev’ry day and ev’ry night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, They perhaps will make it sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.

To a Pet Reptile. Thank you, pretty spotted snake, Thus to as your mistress try me. What a charming pet you make, Cold and creepy, damp and slimy! How you wriggle up my sleeve. How you coil around my shoulder Causing visitors to leave, Terrifying each beholder. Come, then, where your breakfast waits, Reptile of eccentric habits; Come, and seal the several fates Of these frogs and two plump rabbits.

I love little Pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm; So I’ll ne’er pull her tail, nor drive her away. But pussy and I together will play; She shall sit by my side, and I’ll give her some food, And she’ll love me because I am gentle and good.

To my New Pet. I love my ichneumon, Its tongue is so queer, Its ways are so human, It has such a leer. ’Tis fond of the emmet For dinner and tea; But ere you condemn it, Pray listen to me. And know that though ants it Delights in so much; Its fiercest foe grants it An uncle won’t touch.

“Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs, And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese, And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese. Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive, Be merciful to mussels, don’t skin your eels alive; When talking to a turtle don’t mention calipee— Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.”

Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes; He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases. Alice in Wonderland. Speak when not spoken to, Sulk when you’re chid, Bang the door after you Good little kid!

Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, ’Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama, And had several mouthfuls of thee! Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depth of his badgerly soul? And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp O’er the fast and the free flowing bowl. Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack. Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your “bridal” shall come, Do give the poor birdie a “bit.” Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee. Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair! Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird, And humor its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays! Figaro’s Natural History. (O. P. Q. Smiff.)

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go. 126 He followed her to school one day,— That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. (Two verses omitted.)

Dot Lambs vot Mary haf got. Mary haf got a leetle lambs already: Dose vool vas vite like shnow; Und every times dot Mary did vend oud, Dot lambs vent also oud vid Mary. Dot lambs did follow Mary von day to der school-house, Vich was obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster, Alzo, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house. Und so dot schoolmaster did kick dot lambs quick oud, Likevise, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides, Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud Undil Mary did come also from dot school-house oud. Und den dot lambs did run right away quick to Mary, Und dit make his het on Mary’s arms, Like he would said, “I dond vos schkared Mary would keep from droubles ena how.” “Vot vos de reason aboud it, of dot lambs and Mary?” Dose schillen did ask it, dot schoolmaster; Vell, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already, Dot schoolmaster did zaid. Moral. Und zo, alzo, dot moral vas, Boued Mary’s lambs’ relations: Of you lofe dose like she lofe dose, Dot lambs vas obligations.