THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.

Recitative.

ORYNTHIA, my beloved, I call in vain!
Orynthia Orynthia! echo hears and calls again,
A mimic voice repeats the name around,
And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.

Air.

A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross'd me,
As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press'd ;
The aged man paus'd on his staff to accost me,
And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,

And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied,
"This virgin don't mean to be not no man's bride."
So I'm the victim of love, I'm the victim of love,
There's no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.

Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen,
You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls,
You shall ever wear the thingamys and your dear crinoline
Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls ;
"Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool,

I'd rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool,

So I'm the victim of love, I'm the victim of love, There's no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love.

Angelina! said I, "put an end to my woes,

My buzzum's a busting, nay, cut me not short,"
But all that she did was to turn up her nose,

And wagging her tail she then waltz'd down the court.
Like a blighted young flower expire I shall,

For I'd cast my infections on that there young gal,
So I'm the victim of love, I'm the victim of love,
There's no cure but extinction for the victim of love.

Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

BLOWSABEL. Recitative.

OH! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain,
Oh! Blowsabel! echo bears and squalls again;
Her horrid voice repeats my name around,
And with her bawling all the streets resound.

Air.

A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass'd me,
As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed ;
The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me,
And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest.
Oh no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,-

No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife's fury passes,

The "George and the Dragon" shall shelter thy head;
My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses,
If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed;
No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,-

No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

From Wiseheart's Merry Songster, Dublin.

(The same volume contains another parody, entitled Raw Lobsters, which is vulgar, and not funny.)

THE VICTIM OF LOVE.

Recitative.

ANGELINA, my chickabiddy!

I calls upon Angelina! Angelina !

A bobby hears, and says "Move on!"

His comic voice repeats the name around,

And with "Angelina" all the streets resound!

Air.

A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney, In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest,

This fair one I lov'd and I asked her to have me, Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!

THE SONG OF the Seedy COMMON-COUNCILLOR
AFTER A WEEK'S FESTIVITIES.

A DOCTOR who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me,
As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed;
The able man paused on his way to accost me,

And proffered advice that would give me some rest.
"Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C."
"Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes;
I'll send you some pills to relieve your aching head
The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses,
And rush fast away from the most tempting spread."
"Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C."
Punch. July 3, 1836.

PADDY FLINN! Recitative.

ОCH, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain
Judy dear Judy! I'm wet through quite with rain
The dirty children mock me all around

And with dear Judy' does each pig stye sound!

Air.

Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking, I met near the bog at the end of the town;

He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking, He was after knocking me up, but I knocked the varmint down.

'Och, now Patrick,' said he, what is it you'd be at? Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I've laid ye flat,

And remember when to Judy's you betake yourself again, There's sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn.

A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me,
As wayward and proud up Fame's mountains I pressed ;
The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me,
And offered-a sell !-in his Cabinet rest.
"Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait;
No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate."

"Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes;

Let's bow to the League and Parnell, its great head. You'll not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes? Come in, take your seat. Reform's banquet is spread." "Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I'm not caught with that bait.

No rest under you for the Pilgrim of Hate."

Punch. April 30, 1887.

:0:

THE VICAR OF BRAY.
IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high Churchman I was,
And so I got preferment :
To teach my flock I never miss'd,

Kings are by God appointed,
And damn'd are those that do resist,
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law I will maintain

Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtain'd the crown,
And Popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the Declaration :

The Church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my constitution;

And had become a Jesuit

But for the Revolution.
And this is law, &c.

When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation's grievance,
With this new wind about I steer'd,
And swore to him allegiance ;
Old principles I did revoke,

Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
And this is law, &c.

When gracious Anne became our Queen,
The Church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,

I damned their moderation,
Although the Church in danger was
By such prevarication.

And this is law, &c.

When George in pudding-time came o'er,
And moderate men look'd big, sir,

I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured.

From our new faith's defender;
And almost every day abjured,

The Pope and the Pretender.
And this is law, &c.

Th' illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant Succession ;
To these I do allegiance swear-

While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty;

I never more will falter,

And George my lawful king shall be-Until the times do alter.

And this is law, &c.

"The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire," says D'Israeli, in his "Curiosities of Literature, was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: "Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray."

In a note in Nichols' Select Poems, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that The song of the Vicar of Bray "is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller's regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.

As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories. According to one authority, "Pendleton, the celebrated Vicar of Bray," became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, in the City of London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, "I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies, takes no notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was Simon Alleyn or Allen. who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take."

Camden, in his Britannia, says of Alleyn: "This is he of whom is the proverb, The Vicar of Bray still.' " The song however, refers to an entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and lasting until "the illustrious House of Hanover." There was a Vicar of Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.

WHO'S YOUR RATTER?*
IN Mr. Gladstone's powerful days,
When Tories were a faction,
We used his every word to praise,

And glorify each action.
To teach our readers we ne'er miss'd,
Their William was perfection,
And traitors those who dared resist,
Or move his bill's rejection!
But this the law is we'll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,

We'll still on the strong side bray, sir!

The People's William lost his place,
And Dizzy was victorious;
The Tories we had called so base

Replaced the Liberals glorious.
But soon we found 'twould never do
To still support the latter;
We'd vow'd to do so, it is true,

But still that did not matter.
For this the law is we'll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,

That whatsoever party reign,

We'll still on the strong side bray, sir!

And see how well our "ratting" pays,
For Ministers are grateful,

And from their table drop some scraps
Enough to fill a plateful.
And when we up back stair-ways creep,
To Salisbury see, or Dizzy,
They rarely kick us down again,
Unless they're very busy.

So this the law is we'll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,

We'll still on the strong side bray, sir!

Another fight will soon begin,

And p'rhaps, as some allege, sir,
The Liberals will th' elections win,
In that case we must hedge, sir.
For should the Tories have to yield,
They would no further use be;
Oh, wouldn't my Lord Beaconsfield
Rare subject for abuse be!

For this the law is we'll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,

That whatsoever party reign,

We'll still on the strong side bray, sir! 1879.

Truth Christmas Number.

BRADLAUGH'S BRAY.

IN good Victoria's palmy days,
When Chartism was prating,

I joined the Democratic craze,

And practised stump orating.
To teach my mob I never missed
That King-made law is bad law,
And damn'd be all who dare resist
The rise of righteous Bradlaugh.

For this is law, I will maintain,
Until my dying day, sir,
That over Parliament I'll reign,

Or there'll be the devil to pay, sir.

Alluding to the complete and sudden change in the political creed

of The Daily Telegraph. (london.)

When first my stump career began,

Rank heresy I spouted,

Belief in God as Lord of man,

As lunacy I scouted.

Disguised as great "Iconoclast,"

In wrangling I waxed foxy,

Blew my own trumpet's brazen blast,
And started my new 'doxy.

For this is THE true faith, I swear,
Nor dare to say me nay, sir,
Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell's heir,
And for his triumph bray, sir.

But finding Atheists weak and thin,
I sought a higher mission,

And found much greater profit in

The vending of sedition.

Though mobs can't think, they shun a bore,
They love a bright variety,

Which proved to me my forte was more
For politics than piety.

So this is law I do declare,

In this my trying day, sir,

That none shall judge me by my acts,
Nor yet by what I say, sir.

So down with Kings and Queens and Priests,
And Church and State and Pensions,

And up with Dilke's Republic, and

My grand Freethought Conventions; Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant-these Are lights this dark world's needing,

So up with population checks,

And down with all good breeding.

For if this had but been the law

In my good father's day, sir,
One nuisance less of print and jaw,
Had not now blocked the way, sir.

Sometimes a nation's destiny

By cobbler's wax-end hangs, sir, I found myself an M. P. by

M.P. rical harangues, sir,

And though my "lay

was strong and bold,
(For "takings" flowed in thereby)
The Crown I'd cursed-I'll now uphold,
The Book I'd scorned I'll swear by !
For this should be the law, I say,
And shall do to my grave, sir,
A man may swear his soul away,
His path to power to pave, sir.

Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir,
And Protestant succession.

To each I will allegiance swear

(While they can keep possession),

So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer,
Have pity on my grievin',

Please let me on that Bible swear

By Him I don't believe in.

And when I'm Lord Protector, sir,
I'll make the law to be, sir,
That whatsoe'er a man shall swear,
His conscience shall be free, sir.

From Blasts from Bradlaugh's own Trumpet. By ION. London, Houlston & Sons.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

WHEN bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate,
And sued for his divorce, sir,

He cast about, and found in us

His willing tools, of course, sir.

What for her grief? We laughed at that,
And left her in the lurch, sir,
While every one of us grew fat
By plunder of the Church, sir.

To hold a candle to Old Nick
Has ever been our way, sir,
And still we'll play the self-same trick,
So long as it will pay, sir.

Two other queens that underwent
"The long divorce of steel," sir-
Do you suppose that e'er we wept,
Or for their fate did feel, sir?
We only sought to please the King,
And his worst wishes further;
And gaily did our order join
In each judicial murther.

For us no trick was e'er too base,
No crime too foul to shock, sir,
Nor innocence availed to save
E'en women from the block, sir.

When Mary came with fire and stake
Poor pious folks to kill, sir,

No single protest did we make,

But let her work her will, sir;

But when the Church reclaimed her lands,
And looked for smooth compliance,
We quickly raised our armèd bands
And gave her bold defiance.

Thus did the Queen her error learn,
To think (how gross the blunder!)
That, though we let her rack and burn,
We'd e'er restore our plunder.

Elizabeth, the mighty Queen,

We quailed beneath her frown, sir, With nought but fear and hate for one

So worthy of the crown, sir.

As abject traitors round her throne
We fulsome homage paid her,

Though more than half of us were known
To plot with the invader.

To her for ducal coronets

We never were beholden;

To us the days of "Good Queen Bess"
Were anything but "golden."

When slobbering James of coin was short,
He baronets invented,

And to creating lords for gold

Right gladly he consented;

A handsome "tip" was all he asked
To make you duke or lord, sir-
No question ever of your worth,
'Twas what you could afford, sir.

To be a peer, "your grace,"
" 66
my lord,"
O, Lord! how fine it sounded!
And thus, by shelling out of cash,
Were noblest houses founded.
When Charles the First, the public right
To crush but now applies him,
And willing help he gets from us;
As friends we stand beside him.

His acts of tyranny and fraud
Scarce one of us opposes-
The fine, the prison, or the whip,
Or slitting people's noses.

To curb the tyrant of his will
Was no way in our line, sir,
All human rights were forfeited,

And merged in "Right Divine," sir.

The Second Charles just suited us,
We joined his lewd carouses,
And concubines became the source
Of many ducal houses.

And, as reward of services

That history rarely mentions,

You still enjoy the privilege

Of paying us the pensions;

And this we swear, by all that's blue,
Despite that prudes cry "Hush, sir!
That whatsoever we may do

You'll never find us blush, sir.

In James's Court we flourished still;
Like sycophants we vied, sir ;

To be a royal mistress formed

Our daughters' highest pride, sir;

For Whigs though tortures were devised,
Their legs with wedges broke, sir,

We ate and drank, and laughed and played,
But ne'er a word we spoke, sir.

For mingled cruelty and wrong
We never did upbraid him;

But when a paying chance came round,
Right quickly we betrayed him.

When William came, with righteous rule,
We proved but glum consenters;
The King we deemed was but a fool,
To tolerate Dissenters;

Whilst on his part his Majesty

Distrusted us with reason,
For 'gainst our chosen lord and king
We still kept plotting treason.

And so against all righteous things
We've struggled from the first, sir,
To vex and thwart the better kings,
And sided with the worst, sir.

In reign of Anne, 'twas one of us,*
Gave notice to the foe, sir,
Against his port and arsenal

We aimed a warlike blow, sir;
And thus were lost, in dire defeat,
Eight hundred sailors bold, sir-
But what of that, when France's bribe
Our "noble duke" consoled, sir?

Betrayal of the State's designs
By this colossal traitor-

What wonder now the lordlings praise
His humble imitator!

With George the Third it was essayed
To purge our code from blood, sir,
But we the arm of mercy stayed,
Its efforts all withstood, sir;
To hang for e'en a paltry theft-
Though tempted sore hy hunger-
Was God's own justice, so it seemed
To every boroughmonger.

*The Duke of Marlborough.

And so poor wretches, one or more,
At every fair or wake, sir,
Performed "the dance without a floor,"
Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.

Yet had the self-same laws been tried
On us without distinction,
Their action surely had implied

The peerage's extinction.
But while the gallows we upheld,
"Offence's gilded hand," sir,
Had all our lordly acres swelled
With thefts of common land, sir.

While wicked prizes thus we claw,
And justice shove aside, sir
"Not 'gainst the law, but by the law,"
Has ever been our guide, sir.

When Pitt the Irish Parliament
Resolved to bring to London,

He had to buy their peer's consent
Or else his scheme was undone,
So English coronets galore

Were scattered through their tribe, sir,

Besides a million pounds or more—

Their stipulated bribe, sir.

And by this opportunity

They drove their dirty trade, sir,

To show to all posterity

How lords and dukes are made, sir.

When Wesleyans and Baptists, too,

For right of education,

At public universities

Did press their application,

'Twas we their just demand refusedDenied their common right, sir,

And all our special powers abused

To gratify our spite, sir.

When Jews to sit in Parliament

Had duly been elected,

'Twas we kept shut the Commons' door,
Their right to vote rejected.

On Railway Bills our conduct calls
For no detailed narration;
No line could pass our lands without
Outrageous compensation.

Like gorging vultures at the feast,
Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir,
Our blackmail figured, at the least,
One hundred million pounds, sir,

Of pay-triotism we'll never tire,
For it we'll live and die, sir,
And, if the reason you inquire.
We spell it with a y, sir.

In reason's name or righteousness,
You vainly may reprove us,

For scorn, contempt, and threats possess
The only power to move us.
To mutilate, reject, delay,
Obstruct whene'er we dare it,
We'll persevere in our old way
So long as you will bear it.

Of this be sure, until that day
Such things shall ne'er be mended,
Till million voices join to say,
"The House of Lords is ended!"

The Weekly Dispatch. December 7, 1884.

C. F.