"CHILDERS, SPARE THAT COIN."

[The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine shillings in gold.]

CHILDERS, spare that coin,
Historically grand,

Thou wouldst its tenth purloin,
But, prithee, stay thy hand.
It aye has held for me

A pure ten-shilling joy.
So, Childers, let it be,

Nor mix it with alloy. That old familiar piece,

Whose glory and renown Would straightway sink and cease, If thou shouldst chip it down! Childers, forbear this stroke,

'Gainst which we all protest; Oh, say that when you spoke, You only spoke in jest.

Oft, when a careless lad,

The golden chink I heard,

For I an uncle had

Who tipped me "like a bird."

On sweetstuff, apt to smear

One's clothes, the coin was spent ;

I ask thee with a tear,

Oh, drop thy ten per cent.

My heartstrings round thee cling
Close as thy rim, cld friend-
Remain a handy thing

To borrow or to lend.
Old piece, still circulate,

And, Childers, of thy grace, Think well and hesitate,

Ere thou our coin debase.

Funny Folks. May 10, 1884.

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THE IVY GREEN.

OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree !
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been ;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

This song first appeared in Chapter VI. of The Pickwick Papers, which were originally published in monthly parts, commencing in April, 1836. Ten years later Dickens started The Daily News, the first number of which was published in London on

January 21, 1846. For many years the paper had but a struggling existence. Although Dickens only edited it for a few months, it was well known that he was interested in its success, so that the author of the following poem, whilst sneering at The Daily News, had a motive in choosing Dickens's poem as the model for his parody.

THE DAILY NEWS.

OH! a dreary print is The Daily News,
And its life is a wonder to all.

It puts in advertisements others refuse,
But sooner or later must fall.

Its leaders are heavy, confused its page,
And dismal its general tone.

In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage
Is, when it is offered, shown.

Sent for nothing to all who choose,

A losing game is The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News began with a bang,
And was going to shut up The Times.

And twaddled that murderers never should hang,
And printed "large sympathy" rhymes.
But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed :

And still did "The People" refuse,

To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed,
In the sheets of The Daily News.

What large sums they have learnt to lose,
Who first embarked in The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News never publishes "wants'
Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks.

Nor many announcements of ships or of sales,
But only the Whitefriars books;
Which pretty well shows what everyone knows,
By no one it ever is seen,

And soon shall we, when it ceases to be,
Forget that it ever has been.
Let it abuse or praise if it choose,

There's nobody minds The Daily News.
The Man in the Moon. Vol. III. 1848.

GREEN PEA SOUP.

OH! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green, I for it often call;

And up it comes in a smart tureen,

When I dine in my banquet hall.

When a leg of mutton at ho.ne is boiled,
The liquor I always keep,
And in that liquor (before 'tis spoil'd)
A peck of peas I steep.

When boil'd till tender they have been,
I rub through a sieve the peas so green.
Though the trouble the indolent may shock,
I rub with all my power;

And having returned them to the stock,

I stew them for more than an hour;
Then of younger peas I take some more,
The mixture to improve,
Thrown in a little time before,

The soup from the fire I move,

Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green. Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been ! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm.

Smoking hot in a smart tureen,

A rare old soup is the true Pea Green!

Punch. 1852.

"OFFICIAL ROUTINE."

(A New Song to an oll Tune, as sung in the War Office.)

OH, a dainty growth is Official Routine,
That crawleth o'er systems old:

With red-tape tendrils clasping keen,
And choking where they fold!

What stores have rotted, what ships decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim!
How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head,
So terrible and so trim !

For knaves and fools a sheltering screen,
Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine.
He worketh his way, with men and things,
Alike by land and sea;

And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings
By the vis inertia.

You may see him trailing along the ground,

O'er an army's new-made graves;

Or barring their way that stand around
To save wrecked stores from waves.
At Balaklava all serene-

A flourishing growth is Official Routine!

Let men and ministers have their day,
And be as they had not been,
Official routine still holdeth sway,

In its mingled gray and green.

The brave old creeper, in these our days,
Still fattens, as in the past,

And the noblest host a nation could raise,
Hath fallen, its prey at last!

Creeping still where life has been-
A terrible plant is Official Routine!

Punch. February 10, 1855.

THE CABBAGE GREEN.

OH, a dainty plant is the cabbage green Wot grows in a garden bold;

With a gammon of bacon, half fat and lean,
He's good either hot or cold.

His heart must be tender and not decay'd,
To please your dainty whim;

And the chap as loves cabbage, I'll tell the blade
It's a precious meal for him.

Sprouting out of the ground is seen,
A rare old plant is the cabbage green;
Sprouting out of the ground is seen.
A rare old plant is the cabbage green.
Fast he sprouts, for he's food for kings,
And a nice white heart has he;

How close he sticks and how tight he clings
To the stump, till he's quite stumpy;

In a waggon he's jolted along the town,
And his leaves no longer waves.

For he's pack'd like a conwict, and quite done brown,
As his way to Common Garden he paves.

Sprouting out, &c.

Full wages have fled, hard work's ill paid,
And grub werry scarce has been ;
But the rare old cabbage shall never fade
From being a chap wots green.
The hearty old plant in future days
Shall fatten you up so fast;
For the best of wegables man can raise,
Is a cabbage, my boys, at last,
Sprouting out, &c.

From Sharp's Vauxhall Comic Song Book.

THE YARD OF CLAY.

A FINE old thing is the yard of clay, The zest of a social throng,

J. LABERN.

It driveth the clouds of grief away,
From the old as well as the young.
The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care,
Or with joyous mirth be crown'd

But a lofty hope, for the spirit's wear,
In a yard of clay is found,

Puffing all our cares away,

A fine old thing is the yard of clay.

God Bacchus hath many a trophy won,
From the pipe for his glorious shrine,
And till his career on the earth is done,
It ever must be divine.

It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor,
It beareth no factions sway,

And where is a friend in the world so sure
As this fine old yard of clay?

Puffing, &c.

("I. V." is short for John Villiam.)

OH, a rare old toper was I. V. GREEN,

With his nose so fiery and bold;
'Twas redden'd by dips in the tankard, I ween,
That had grown in his service old.

Drunk, when he should not have been,
A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

Though I. V. GREEN he pull'd so hard,
'Twas mostly at something "short ;"
He was half-seas over within the bar,
And yet never got into port.

Sober never was he seen :

A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

He needed no bier to carry his bones,
For he carried his beer in his head;

And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found
"Three sheets in the wind," when dead.

Dead? dead drunk is what I mean:
A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN!

Judy. April 19, 1876.

MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE.
(Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley.)

THEY told him gently he was made
Of nicely tempered mud,

That man no lengthened part had played
Anterior to the Flood.

'Twas all in vain; he heeded not,
Referring plant and worm,

Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,
To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear
To think his kind allied

To all those brutal forms which were
In structure Pithecoid;
Whether he thought the apes and us
Homologous in form:

He said, "Homo and Pithecus

Come from one common germ."

They called him "atheistical,"
Sceptic," and "infidel.”

They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell,

But he with proofs in no way lame,
Made this deduction firm,
That all organic beings came
From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noàchian flood,
'Twas long ago disproved,
That as for man being made of mud,
All by whom truth is loved.
Accept as fact what, malgré strife,
Research tends to confirm-
That man, and everything with life,
Came from one common germ.
Tinsley's Magazine. 1868.

Contrast this refined jeu d'esprit with the following specimen of the kind of literature that is sold by street ballad singers. It was printed at Taylor's Song Mart, Brick Lane, Bethnal Green, and sold for one half-penny :—

And for blacking a big policeman's eye
She was sent up for a week.
Outside the Court the old man watch'd

Her into the van with sorrow;
Says he, "If I take you home to day,

You will be here again to morrow.

They took her straight to Tothill Fields, To grind wind on the mill,

But she scream'd aloud for a drop of g L, They gave her an extra drill.

Six days after the old man saw

Her through the bars with sorrow; Says she, "Old boy, I'm lock'd in now,

I shall be out again to-morrow."

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WINGS.

(Composed by DOLORES.)
WINGS! to bear me over

Mountain and vale away;
Wings to bathe my spirit
In morning's sunny ray.
Wings! that I may hover
At morn above the sea;
Wings! thro' life to bear me
And death triumphantly.

Wings like youth's fleet moments
Which swiftly o'er me pass'd,
Wings like my early visions,
Too bright, too fair, to last :
Wings! that I might re-call them
The lov'd, the lost, the dead;
Wings! that I might fly after
The past long vanished,

Wings! to lift me upward,
Soaring with eagle flight,
Wings! to waft me heav'nward

And back in realms of light.
Wings! to be no more wearied,

Lull'd in eternal rest. Wings! to be sweetly folded

Where faith and love are bless'd.

From the German by PERCY BOYD.

CURLS.

(A Parody by a Flirt.)
CURLS, that I might roll them

In paper coils at night;
Curls that I might hide them,
Away till morning light.
Curls, to hang in clusters,
Of silken texture fair;
Curls, to kiss me gently,
In evening's balmy air.
Curls, that I might sever
For my own lover true;
Curls, perhaps to give one,
To other lovers too.
Curls, that all may see them,
Curls, reaching to iny knee;
Curls, that men might press them
To hearts that beat for me.

Curls of jet or golden,

I care not which they be ;
Curls, to waft me lovers

In shoals triumphantly.

Curls, that girls may gaze on

With longing, wond'ring eyes; Curls, to flit before them

And draw their envious sighs.

Curls, that men might hover
Around me lovingly;
Curls, that I might conquer
Mankind, and yet be free.

The Cheltonian. June, 1873.

-:0:

HARPER.

IT CAME WITH THE MERRY MAY, LOVE.

A Parody by the G. O. M. (Solo).

IT came with the joyful June, love,
That vote against taxing beer;

And your William resigned eft soon, love,
The place that he held so dear.

To the nation it seemed like a boon, love, But to me it was bitter woe ;

Only a year ago love,

Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,
The smash of my Irish Bill,
And again as a poor gone coon, love
You wept for your fallen Will.
The majority it was more, love,

Than that which struck the blow, And made me so very sore, love, Only a year ago,

Solo resumed

It came with the joyful June, love,
My need for the Irish vote;

I was not such a witless loon, love;
But I knew how to turn my coat;

So I vowed that the men of reason
Were Mr. Parnell and Co.,

Though I thought they were steeped in treason.
Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love.

My love for the National League.

And morning and noon and night, love,

I revelled in dark intrigue.

The worth of their vote had risen,

So I felt my affection glow

For the men I'd have clapt in prison

THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION

(Answered with great wisdom by a Black-haired Beauty.) My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue,

Which women now so often wear,
And Nature never grew.

She bids me at their chignons peep,
And see how fair are they :
But will dyed hair its colour keep?
And won't it soon turn grey?

I see girls in the gay saloon,
Or on the grand parade,

And wonder in my heart how soon
Their hair's light hue will fade.
Each night before they go to sleep
They dye it, I dare say:

But will dyed hair its colour keep?
And won't it soon turn grey?
My hair is like the raven's wing,
So jet black are its curls :
What if away my fears I fling,
And dye, like other girls?
In potash if my head I steep,
I may be fair as they :
But will died hair its colour keep?
And won't it soon turn grey.

And then, who knows? "Revenge!"

Soon outraged Nature's call,

may be

And, haply, on fair heads you'll see

The blight of baldness fall!

While such dread thoughts upon me creep,

O ne'er say Dye; Ma, pray!

'Twere best my own black hair to keep, Till old age turns it grey.

Punch. January 6, 1866.

THE GIRL (NOT) OF THE PERIOD. (After the jolly HAYDN.)

Kohhl,

Rouge

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My mother bids me dye my hair

The fashionable hue;

And change my chataigne locks with care
To red-through green, or blue!

"You can't," she cries, " my dear, do less-
Or what will people say?

But, ah! I only wish that PIESSE

And LUBIN were away!

[An interval of two years is supposed to elapse.

'Tis sad to think the colour's gone.
That men have called so dear;

I leave unturned, I'm sure, no stone,
But sigh for my head-gear!
How I shall look, I dare not guess.
Perhaps quite white or grey!

And folks will laugh aloud when PIESSE
And LUBIN are away.

Fun. May 30, 1868.

16

THE LANCET" BIDS ME BE A PEER.

[The Lancet urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which leadership of the Commons necessarily involves,]

THE Lancet bids me be a Peer,
With robes of gorgeous hue,
Tie up my form in lordly gear,
And act on Beaky's cue-
Tie up my form in lordly gear,

And act, and act on Beaky's cue.

For why, it hints, sit still and bear
The tease of Tories gay?
Alas! I own it has me there,
And long to get away-
Alas! I own it has me there.

And long, and long to get away.

'Tis sad to think how Randies clown,
And Wolffs and Wartons jeer;

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,
And sigh when none can hear-

I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,
And sigh, and sigh when none can hear.

And while the gargle I apply,

Which really isn't nice.
"The counsel's good," I almost cry
To Lancet-framed advice-
"The counsel's good," I almost cry
To Lan, to Lancet-framed advice.

Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.

Song.-CINDErella.

My mother bids me pinch my waist
Another inch or two,

For, though already tightly laced,
She says it will not do!

And, oh! she says that I must wear
A body cut so low-

My cheeks will flame with honest shame
As through the streets I go !

She says I must expose my charms,

And cause the roughs rare sport.
And leave quite bare my neck and arms,
Because we're going to Court;

But I have heard our Court is pure

I know our Queen is so-
She cannot, then, require, I'm sure,
Poor me half-dressed to go!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

SMOKE not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay,
Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers;

Things that are doomed no duty e'er to pay,
Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours.
Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not smoke not! the weed you smoke may change,
The healthiness of your stomachic tone;

Things to the eye grow queer, and passing strange,
All thought seems undefined-save one-to be alone.
Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! the tradesman whose weeds you smoke may die,
May perish from the cabbage bearing earth;

The sordid dun may to your chamber hie
Sent by the Trustees in their tinless dearth.
Smoke not! smoke not!