SONG BY FUSBOS.

My lodging is in Leather-lane,

A parlour that's next to the sky;
'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain,
But the wind and the rain I defy:
Such love warms the coldest of spots,
As I feel for Scrubinda the fair,
Oh! she lives by the scouring of pots,
In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.
Oh! was I a pint, quart or jill,

To be scrubb'd by her delicate hands;
Let others possess what they will,

Of learning, and houses and lands;
My parlour that's next to the sky

I'd quit her blest mansions to share;
So happy to live and to die

In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square.

And, oh! would this damsel be mine!
No other provision I'd seek;

On a look I could breakfast and dine,
And feast on a smile for a week.
But ah! should she false-hearted prove,
Suspended, I'd dangle in air;

A victim to delicate love,

In Dyot-street, Bloomsbury Square,

From Bombastes Furioso, by William Barnes Rhodes.

But the heart ne'er feels in sorrow shrouded,
The light of other days.

The leaf which Autumn's tempests wither,
The bird which then take wing,

When Winter's blasts are past, come hither,
To welcome back the Spring.

The very ivy on the ruin,

In Spring new life displays;

But the heart alone sees no renewing

Of the light of other days.

ALFRED BUNN.

THE COAT OF OTHER DAYS.

THE coat of other days is faded,
And all its beauty past :

My shoes no longer look as they did,
But, like it, are fading fast!
When first I sported it, a new one,

My uncles cash 'twould raise, But now no longer 'tis a new one, The coat of other days.

The cuffs and collar now are greasy, Not a bit of nap is there; 'Twas tight, but now it fits me easy, 'Twill soon be at Rag-fair!

My four-and-nine look rather rummy, Expos'd to Sol's bright rays,

And 'tis too late for renovating

The coat of other days!

Another parody of this song, by J. James, entitled The Foggy Gin-Fluenza Days occurs in Vol. II, of Punch's Popular Song Book, but it is slangy and vulgar.

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THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

ON Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass
A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;
I'd crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Mr. Upton, who wrote the above song, also wrote many others for the convivial entertain ments at Vauxhall Gardens towards the close of the last century. The music was composed by Mr. Hook, father of Theodore Hook, the celebrated wit and practical jokist.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND ILL.

[The Richmond Select Vestry, having sent to the Home Office a memorial with reference to the deplorable condition of the Thames in that district, Sir W.V. Harcourt has entered into communication with the Conservators, and has been informed by them that nothing can be done until a radical change is effected in the disposal of the London sewage.]

ON Richmond Hill there lives a lass
Who on a bright May morn,
By sweeps of sewage mud must pass,
On Thames's waters borne.

They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes

Were a merry sound to hear;

And pretend that the poor were regaled, galore,
With old English beef and beer.

That tale is all stuff, it is much too tough;

It won't even hoax an ass;

And don't we know, they who tell us so,

The New Poor Law allow'd to pass?

Then here's to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,

Who live for themselves alone;

And still live they, though no more to prey

On the country's blood and bone.

Punch. April 11, 1846.

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FRAGMENT OF A TRANSLATION
FROM SAPPHO.

BLESSED as the immortal gods is he,
The Youth who fondly sits by thee;
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd the subtle flame
Kan quickly thro' my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,

I fainted, sunk, and died away.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

A PARODY OF THE FOREGOING.

DRUNK as a dragon sure is he,

The youth who sups or dines with thee;
And sees and hears thee, full of fun,
Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.

'Twas this first made me love my dose,
And rais'd such pimples on my nose;
For while I fill'd to every toast,
My health was gone, my senses lost.

I found the claret and champagne
Inflame my blood, and mad my brain;
The toast fell falt'ring from my tongue,

I hardly heard the catch I sung.

I felt my gorge and sickness rise;

The candle danc'd before my eyes;

My sight grew dim, the room turn'd round,

I tumbled senseless to the ground.

I'm not to be stinted in pleasure; Then prithee, dear Betty be kind; For as I love thee beyond measure,

To numbers I'll not be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,
Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven;
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you've given,
I still will be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart, that dear Betty is thine;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent ;
But those who can number their kisses,
Will always with few be content.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

THE NUMBERING OF THE Clergy. COME, give us more Livings and Rectors, For richer no realm ever gave;

But why, ye unchristian objectors,

Do you ask us how many we crave?
Oh, there can't be too many rich livings,
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.

Count the cormorants hovering about,

At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin. Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,

Flock round when the harvest's in play, And not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,

On their way to some titheable shore; And when so many parsons you've given,

We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment,

For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.

THOMAS MOORE.

(Suggested by the Bishop of London's Charge, in which he said:-"We want more Churches, and more Clergymen.")

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LINES TO AN EDITOR.

(On sending a Book for Review.)

After Ben Jonson.

PRINT for me only just one word,

And I will pledge thee mine,

If thou wilt give a wholesome "puff," That I will not repine.

I think my work should be preferr'd ('Tis very large and fine),

Though dullards may not like my stuff, I would not change a line.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. (On the non-appearance of a Notice.) I SENT thee late my able book, Not so much honouring thee, As hoping something would appear That might bring L. S. D. But thou thereon did'st neither look Nor sent'st it back to me, Since when I feel inclined to swear Both at myself and thee.

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DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

(Adapted from Herrick.)

"There is nothing in the pit-brow work, nor in the costume necessitated, that tells against modesty. It makes fine, healthy, strapping women-not exactly after the pattern of Fenella or Miranda-but women who are the fit mates for the men whose wives and mothers they are."—Mrs. Lynn Linton on the "Pit-brow Women."

A FINE frank roughness in the dress,
Is better than La Mode's excess;
Flannel about the shoulders thrown,
A stayless bodice and loose zone;
Stout clogs or highlows and a pair

Of coarse hose much the worse for wear;
A kerchief-cap, and trailed thereby,
Wild locks that flow confusedly;

A dual garb deserving note,
As more - or less-than petticoat;
A leathern shoe-string in whose tie
The slattern speaks to every eye,
Do more bewitch me, for my part,
Than Regent Street with all its Art.
Punch, May 28, 1887.

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HERRICK IN THE HOUSE.

After Herrick's Lines to Ben Jonson.

(By a Troubled Tory.)

Aн, Ben!*

Say how or when

Shall we, thy sheep,
Less scattered order keep?

Or have such fun

As when you led us on, When we such musters had

As made us with great joy half mad?

Ah, sure one speech of thine

Outdid nine Randolphs and Smiths nine times nine.

My Ben!

Oh, come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus ;

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it.

Lest we that talent spend,

And, having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of will, wit, tact, our Party have no more!

Punch. February 5, 1887.

*To the shade of Benjamin Disraeli.

SONG.

On seeing the Speaker asleep in his Chair, in one of the Debates of the first Reformed Parliament.

(Parody of the well-known Lullaby in Guy Mannering.) "SLEEP, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair,

If you mayn't in your bed that you should in your chair; Louder and longer now they grow,

Tory and Radical, Aye and No,

Talking by night, and talking by day,

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, slumber lies

Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away,

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill;
You have more need of repose than they,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt, be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence;
Statesmen will howl and patriots bray :
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time
When loyalty was not yet quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood was a fool.
Lord! how principles pass away!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may."

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W. M. PRaed.

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I GIVE thee all,-I can no more,—
Though poor the offering be:

My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee:

A lute whose gentle heart reveals
The soul of love full well,
And better far a heart who feels
Much more than lute can tell.

Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life's clouds away,

At least 'twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay:

If ever care his discord flings

O'er life's enchanted strain.

Let love but gently touch the strings,'Twill all be sweet again. I give thee all, &c.

STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.

I GIVE thee all, I can no more,

Though poor the dinner be;

Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.

A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
It's early youth full well;

Punch.

And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.

Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One's hunger to allay;

At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay.

If seasoned Duck an odour bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.

I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd, before
You come to dine with me:

The Duck is truss'd from head to heels,
Then stew'd with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell.

When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,

A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:

A table-spoon of flour bring,
A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.

A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,

Two cloves-I make my language brief,

Then add your Peas you may!

And let it simmer till it sings

In a delicious strain,

Then take your Duck, nor let the strings

For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove,

Also the leaf of bay;

Dish up your Duck-the sauce improve In the accustom'd way,

With pepper, salt, and other things,

I need not here explain

And if the dish contentment brings,
You'll dine with me again.

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EARNEST REMONSTRANCE.

Addressed to the Young Lady World, on the "Fringes" now in Fashion.

AIR.-"Long, Long Ago."

TWINE me the curls I delighted to see

Long, long ago-long, long ago; Bring the old curling-tongs hither to me

Of long ago, long ago!

Since they are gone, all my grief has begun ;

Those queer "waving fronts" do not please me, for one;

I pine for the hair as it used to be done

Long, long ago, long ago!

Don't you remember the ringlets that flow'd

Long, long ago-long, long ago;

The beautiful ringlets that then were the mode,

Long, long ago, long ago?

Some called them "corkscrews "'—a gross malaprop,

Save that when met at a squeeze, or a hop,

Lovers, like corks, would come out with a pop,

Long, long ago, long ago!

Oh, if the Whigs their old fame would renew, (Quite rococo-quite rococo)

And rival the glories of Brian Boroo,

Long, long ago, long ago.

Let them but give us, our thanks to secure,
Instead of a Bill for removing the Poor,
A Bill for removing the shady coiffure
Now all the go, all the go!

Punch.

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THE BEAUTIFUL MAID.

A Parody of Liston's "Beautiful Maid."

My fishmonger he swore that his soles were most dear, I trembled to hear what he said;

For salmon and shrimps 'twas the wrong time of year, So I pitched on a beautiful maid;

I brought home my beautiful maid:

"Here, cook! dress this beautiful maid;

Go boil it, don't spoil it,

But see it well done,

And I'll dine on my beautiful maid!"

But an ugly black cat, I speak it with grief,

My delicate tit-bit waylaid,

The cook turned her back, and the long-whiskered thief

Ran off with my beautiful maid;

She clawed up my beautiful maid;

She swore o'er my beautiful maid;

Oh, pussy, you hussey,

Oh, what have you done?

You have eaten up my beautiful maid !

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OH! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART IS BOUGHT.

From the Opera of

"Clari, the Maid of Milan,"
OH! say not woman's heart is bought
With vain and empty treasure.
Oh! say not woman's heart is caught
By every idle pleasure.

When first her gentle bosom knows
Love's flame, it wanders never,
Deep in her heart the passion glows,
She loves, and loves for ever.

Oh! say not woman's false as fair,
That like the bee she ranges !

Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare,
As fickle fancy changes.

Ah! no, the love that first can warm,
Will leave her bosom never;

No second passion e'er can charm,
She loves, and loves for ever.

T. L. PocoCK.

OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS CAUGHT.

OH, say not that my heart is caught,

By Mary's face bewitching;

For other charms my love has bought,
Those charms her mind enriching;
Unfriendly fate may soon us part

And fickle fortune sever,

But she who holds this throbbing heart
I'll love and love for ever.

IIE DRINKS, AND DRINKS FOR Ever.

OH, say not life is dearly bought
By him who seeks for pleasure;
Oh, say not joy is wrongly sought
When whiskey's thought a treasure!
When first a youthful toper knows

Its fumes he wanders never;
He gladdens at his rosy nose,

He drinks and drinks for ever.

Oh, say not whiskey does impair,
Nor like a poison rages;
Still seeking ev'ry vein to tear,

Nor cause such deadly changes!
Oh, no! the draught that first can warm
Will leave his stomach never,

Though all his friends may rant and storm, He'll drink, and drink for ever.

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ANONYMOUS.

DUNOIS THE BRAVE.

IT was Dunois the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons

Before St. Mary's shrine !

"Oh! grant, immortal queen of heaven,
Was still the soldier's prayer,
"That I may prove the bravest knight
And love the fairest fair.'

His oath of honour on the shrine,
He graved it with his sword,
And followed to the holy land
The banner of his Lord.
Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry filled the air :

Be honoured, aye, the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair.

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege-lord said,

"The heart that has with honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid.

My daughter Isabel and thou

Shall be a wedded pair;

For thou art bravest of the brave,-
She, fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot,
Before St. Mary's shrine,

That makes a Paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine.
And every lord and lady bright,
That were in chapel there,
Cried, 66

Honoured be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair."

This is a translation by Sir Walter Scott, of the French song Partant pour la Syrie, written by De Laborde, to music