IX PARODY (continued 2)

HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON

How do the daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily, Tenderly, Fairily, Gingerly, Glidingly, Slidingly, Slippingly, Skippingly, Trippingly, Clippingly, Bumpingly, Thumpingly, Stumpingly, Clumpingly, Starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And tottering and staggering, And lumbering and slithering, And hurrying and scurrying, And worrying and flurrying, And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping; Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all— Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all, Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing all Balmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all; Feats of activity— Nymphs on declivity— Mothers in extacies— Fathers in vextacies— Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on, Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on, Any fine afternoon, About July or June— That's just how the Daughters Come down at Dunoon! H. Cholmondeley Pennell.

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

DURING DINNER AND AFTER TENNYSON

Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis; The wine may come again, and take the shape, From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;" But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, Ask me no more. Ask me no more: what answer should I give, I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; I feel if I took whisky I should die! Ask me no more—for I prefer to live: Ask me no more. Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, And I have striven against you all in vain. Let your good butler bring me Hock again: Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, Ask me no more! Unknown.

CREMATION

BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire—against a sea of zealots— And by consuming, end them? To Urn—to keep— No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to—'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn—to keep— To keep! Perchance to lose—aye, there's the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use. For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize—a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death— That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns—weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of? This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all. And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation. William Sawyer.

AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery. Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink. There's little Will, a five years child— He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:— He hath conversed with sun and shower And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,— The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long. Catharine M. Fanshawe.

THE LAY OF THE LOVE-LORN

PARODY ON TENNYSON'S "LOCKSLEY HALL"

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had! Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes— Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons! See—the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow—all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old, And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne. What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no— Bless your soul, it was the salmon—salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he—pay thee with a lover's glances? Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge. Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres—doubly cursed the want of tin! Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson—cursed be the whole concern! Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster; much I'm like to make of that. Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat." But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness? Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two; When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side; When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans'; Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years— Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain; Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade. I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields. Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents! There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will take some savage woman—nay, I'll take at least a dozen. There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard, Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon. I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses. Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad. I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces! I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near— To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer! Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away. Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. Morning Post (The Times won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement—that's a never-failing plan: "Wanted—By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman. Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming! "Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the letters." That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy. Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy! Aytoun and Martin.

ONLY SEVEN

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death. Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside! "I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, "What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, "Only seven!" "And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!" "If that's the case," I stammer'd out, "Of course you've had eleven." The maiden answer'd with a pout, "I ain't had more nor seven!" I wonder'd hugely what she meant, And said, "I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles. "Now, if you won't reform," said I, "You'll never go to Heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!" POSTSCRIPT To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, "Lines after Ache-Inside." Henry S. Leigh.

'TWAS EVER THUS

I never rear'd a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle. I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away. I've dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on— I would he were a tree or flower! Henry S. Leigh.

FOAM AND FANGS

O nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante— To this, my embrace! The foam and the fangs and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage Of a poet as pinion'd in powers As a condor confined in a cage! My heart in a haystack I've hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden— I gaze and I die! I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent, I've doated on devilry's daughter, And murmur'd much more than I meant; I've paused at Penelope's portal, So strange are the sights that I've seen, And mighty's the mind of the mortal Who knows what I mean. Walter Parke.