There was another short parody of the same song in The Weekly Dispatch of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House of Lords, and concluded:

"So bend and mend, proud peers, or end
In signal dissolution."

THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY.

(Mr. Gladstone Loquitur.)

IN good King William's peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant,

A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment;

To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed

To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.

And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever parties reign still I'll in office stay, sir.

When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in fashion,

Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation. The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution;

And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.

When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory,

A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory. The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation, And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication. And this is law, &c,

When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic,

I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic.

Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation;

Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation,

And this is law, &c.

OLD TOWLER.

BRIGHT Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,

Arise the burden of my song,

This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, chevy!

Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy !
Hark! hark! tantivy !

This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,

O'er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.

With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,

The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,

But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.

With a hey, ho, &c. ANONYMOUS.

THIS DAY A STAG MUST DIE.
(An imitation of "Oll Towler.")
THE Op'ning morn dispels the night,
Her beauties to display,

The sun breaks forth, in glory bright,
And hails the new-born day;
Diana like, behold me then

The silver arrow wield,

And call on horses, dogs, and men,
Arise, and take the field.

With a hey ho chivy,
Hark forward tantivy !
Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise,
This day a stag must die.

O'er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales,
The fleet-foot coursers fly,

Nor heed whate'er the sport assails,
Resolved a stag shall die!

Roads, trees, and hedges seem to move,
Such joys does hunting yield;

While Health a handmaid deigns to prove,
When huntsmen take the field,

With a hey ho chivy, &c.

Thus virgins are by man pursued,
And beauty made his aim,
'Till, by his wily craft subdued,
He hunts for other game;
And since e'en life is but a race
We run till forced to yield;
Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase,
Arise, and take the field.

With a hey ho chivy, &c,

SONG OF THE MATCHMAKING MAMMA.

BRIGHT chandeliers the room adorn,
Each thing's arranged with care,
And gayest smiles and silks are worn
This night to catch the Heir.

With a heigho! Letty!

Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty,
To-night we hunt the He-c-e-i-r-
To-night we hunt the Heir!

Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore,
We read it in your face;

If you'll propose to one-no more
You'll find us give you chase.

With a sigh from Letty!

Or forward, too forward Miss Betty!
No more we'll hunt the He-e-e-ir-
No more we'll hunt the Heir!

From George Cruikshank's Comic Almanack for 1848.

HUMANITY HUNTING SONG.

"OPENING MEET OF THE WINDSOR GARRISON DRAGHOUNDS.-On Saturday, in miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting season. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and Saturday) during the season."-Morning Paper.

WE'RE going to have a glorious run,

This murk and mizzling morn.

Our Hunt inferior is to none,
Except not even the Quorn.

A substitute will, scent as strong
As Reynard's own, supply.
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!
Chorus-

With a hey, ho, chivy ;

Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Excuse the burden of my song;

This day a Drag must die!

Because, although a herring red
May, like a fox, be tracked,
The Drag is absolutely dead
In point of literal fact.

Yet hounds and horses after go,
With huntsmen's horns, and cry
Of "Yoicks!" and shout of "Tallyho!"
This day a Drag must die!

Chorus-With a hey, hɔ, &c.

A Drag's as good to ride behind
As ever a fox's tail,

Well drawn about, with turn and wind,

O'er many a hill and dale.

Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate,
The rider's pluck will try,

As much as though 'twere true to state,
This day a Drag must die!

Chorus-With a hey, ho, &c.

Each man as much risks life or limb

As when a fox is slain;
The sport is all the same to him,
And we give no animal pain.
Humane excitement whilst we seek,
No victim in our eye;

Except as now, when so to speak,
This day a Drag must die!

Chorus-With a hey, ho, &c.

Note.-WILLIAM COBBETT, in one of his charming works, tells a delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy's vexation.

They spared the bones and strength of men,
They hammer'd, wove, and spun;

There was nought too great, too mean, or small,
The giant STEAM had power for all ;—
His task was never done.

IV.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:

Quoth he, "We travel slow;

I should like to roam the wide world round,
As fast as the wild winds blow."
And he call'd for his skilful engineers;
And soon through hills and vales,
O'er rivers wide, through tunnels vast,
The flying trains like lightning pass'd,
On the ribs of the mighty Rails.
V.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul is he;

May he never fail in the land we love,

Who has made us great and free!

While his miners mine, and his engines work,

Through all our happy land,

We shall flourish fair in the morning light,

And our name and our fame, and our might and our right, In the front of the world shall stand!

OLD KING COAL paid a very high toll,

And a very high toll paid he;

And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl,

In green fat, callipash, callipee.

What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people, What a wrong that this should be!

And there's none whate'er that can compare

To the sons of gluttony.

Old King Coal paid a very high toll,

And a very high toll paid he:

And the City of London eat up the whole,

By consent of the Powers that be.

This won't do, this won't do, this won't do! says the people;
This must not, shall not be;

And we now declare we'll no longer bear
Such a monstrous robbery!

Punch. November 29, 1851.

(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch's virtuous indignation the City of London still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.

HENRY COLE, C.B. *

"We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C. B. !!

Gentle Public pity us!

Oh! Henry Cole, C. B., deal gently with us.

Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don't be too hard on us.

We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh ! inexhaustible Cole, consume us not in thine ire !

What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own? Listen while we praise thee.

Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.

Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C. B. Who is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C. B. Who is the greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest man of this age? Henry Cole, C. B. Who is the most immaculate statesman of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.

Oh! Henry Cole, C. B., will you forgive us now?"
The Coming "Strife."

OLD King Cole was a savage old soul,
And a savage old soul was he;
Captain Coles was his intimate friend,
And almost as savage as he.

Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be,

"My friend you must lend me a turret ship
In which I can put to sea?"

Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see,
"For what do you want a turret ship,
And why sail o'er the sea?"

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be ;

"I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash,
The Ed. of the TOMAHAWKIE?"

Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see;

"I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound,
Of the finest gunpowder tea!"

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be ;

"If you'll only lend me a turret ship,
I'll soon annihilate he!"

The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.

YOUNG KING COAL. +

New Version of an Old Song.

YOUNG King COAL was a merry young soul,
And a merry young soul was he;

"Old King Cole" as he was familiarly known, was a fussy little old gentleman who founded the clique, notorious as the "South Kensington Gang," which for the last twenty years has enriched itself at the expense of the nation,

† Lord Randolph Churchill.

He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.

There was CHAMBERLAININI, and HARTINGTONINI,
And, GOSCHENI to make up the three;
For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o,
Very fond of a trio was he.

Young King COAL left his rivals in the hole,
When he took the Chancelle-rie

Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker,
They slanged him unmercifull-y.

So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad
Part-y,

Young King COAL their old mantle stole,

And a very smart Rad made he.

Young King COAL loved "smoking" in his soul,
And his Brummagem Best Bird's-eye,

And his "Cavendish," went faster than was pleasing to the

master

Of the House where his new baccy's he would try.
And our young King C., and his fiddlers three,
Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume,

Mr. IRVING'S worst witch-riot in a Faust-scene's clear and quiet,

To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.

Young King COAL he called for his bowl,

And he called for his fiddlers three,

And he served 'em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin, And they all played a symphonee.

CHAMBERLAININI and GOSCHENI played like STRAUSS and like ZERBINI,

And then HARTING-TON-I-NI

Played "God Save the Queen!" and the others all joined in, In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.

Young King COAL he laid down his bowl,

And a dickens of a speech made he;

And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd,
And broke up the symphonee.

At least some (in the Chorus) cried, "This music can't be for us,"

But as for those fiddlers three,

Whilst the Chorus cried, "We're diddled!" they symphonically fiddled,

And muttered "O, fiddlededee!"

Young King COAL still waves his pipe and bowl,
Though they reek of Rad flavour still.

Some say it's far from right, that he'll set himself a-light,
And blow up like a gunpowder-mill.

But as for the whole of the "principles " of COAL,
When he was a true Toree,

If you want 'em you may see 'em in the British Museum,
Or the writings of Lord SALISBUREE.

UNIVERSIWhen this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land

Were much delighted then To have at their command

A crew of lusty men ;

Whic by their coats were known, Of tawny, red, or blue.

With crests on their sleeves shown, When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banish'd all,

Unto our lands reproach, When he whose means are small Maintains both horse and coach: Instead of an hundred men,

The coach allows but two; This was not thought on then, When this old cap was new.

ANONYMOUS, about 1666.

When this old joke was new,

Our literature was scant,
And litérateurs had no reviewers
With hearts of adamant ;

No wild-eyed poets raved of "Spring"
We had our tails it's true,

But novels were'nt a general thing
When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new,

We drew an easier breath;
For we had then no funny men

To make us long for death;
There was no Punch austere and flat,
To paint our faces blue;
They wouldn't have tolerated that
When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new,

We somehow hadn't hit

That loss of shame which builds a 6. name" On other people's wit.

Perhaps folks were more honest then ;

Had consciences a few,

And different from our race of men,

When this old joke was new.

The Detroit Free Press.

HAL BERTE,

-:0:

SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.

SAID a Smile to a Tear,

On the cheek of my dear,

And beamed like the sun in spring weather,

In sooth, lovely Tear,

It strange must appear,

That we should be both here together.

I came from the heart,
A soft balm to impart,

To yonder sad daughter of grief:
And I, said the Smile,
That heart now beguile,

Since you gave the poor mourner relief.

Oh! then, said the Tear,

Sweet Smile, it is clear,

We are twins, and soft Pity our mother :
And how lovely that face
Which together we grace,

For the woe and the bliss of another!

JAMES KENNEY.

An amusing parody of this song, entitled The Loves of the Plants will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster. Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in this collection.

WHEN THIS OLD JOKE WAS NEW.

WHEN this old joke was new,

This time worn heritage,

The monkey-man its points did scan

On pre-historic page.

His footmark was the only print;

His leaves were leaves that grew;

The only tint was Nature's tint

When this old joke was new,

THE STEAK AND THE CHOP.

SAID a steak to a chop,

On a hook in a shop,

In the dog-days, and very hot weather, "Dear chop, it is clear,

If we long tarry here,

We shall certainly melt both together."