said to have been composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III. Under the Empire l'artant pour la Syrie was the officially recognised French national song, but it never became so popular as La Marseillaise.

Punch.

This point of honour, weight of swine, And ox as highly scored,

Club,

He proved it at the Smithfield
Before both squire and lord,
And cried as to the judges' view
He bore the monsters big,

"Now bain't this here the hugest ox?
That there the fattest pig?"

They owned his victory-due the palm-
And then the chairman said:
"The ox that is for honour grown,
On oilcake must be fed ;
On barley-meal, hog, boar, or sow,
And tubs of wash to swig;
That's how you cram the hugest ox,
And stuff the fattest pig."

So round his neck the prize was tied,
And then they went to dine,

Which makes a farmer's heaven on earth,
When beef and beer combine;
And every yeoman, lord, and 'squire,
Conservative and Whig,

Drank "Honour to the hugest ox,
Be praised the fattest pig!"

December 17, 1859.

To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summer days to take;
The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and beare away.
The tydings to Erle Douglas came,
In Scottland where he lay :

Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well in time of neede

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow,
Where Scottland's king did raigne,
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
Was with an arrow slaine.

O heavy newes, King James did saye,
Scottland may my witnesse bee,

I have not any captaine more
Of such account as hee.

Like tydings to King Henry came,
Within as short a space,

That Percy of Northumberland
Was slaine in Chevy-Chace :

Now God be with him, said our king,
Sith it will noe better bee;

I trust I have, within my realme,
Five hundred good as hee.

Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
But I will vengeance take:

I'll be revenged on them all,
For brave Erle Percye's sake.

This vow full well the king perform'd
After, at Humbledowne;

In one day, fifty knights were slaine;
With lords of great renowne :

And of the rest, of small account,
Did many thousands dye :

Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land With plentye, joy, and peace;

And grant henceforth, that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease.

CHEVY CHACE.*

GOD prosper long our noble King,

Our lives and safeties all:

A woeful story late there did

In Britain's Isle befall.

DUKE SMITHSON, of NORTHUMBERLAND,†
A vow to God did make,

The choicest gifts in fair England,
For him and his to take.

"Stand fast, my merry men all," he cried, "By MOIRA's Earl and me,

And we will gain place, wealth, and pow'r,
As arm'd neutrality.

Excise and Customs, Church and Law,
I've begged from Master ROSE;
The Garter too-but still the Blues

I'll have, or I'll oppose."

"Now God be with him," quoth the KING, "Sith 'twill no better be;

I trust we have within our realm,
Five hundred good as he."

The DUKE then join'd with Charley Fox
A leader ware and tried,

And ERSKINE, SHERIDAN, and GRAY
Fought stoutly by his side.

Throughout our English Parliament
They dealt full many a wound ;
But in his King's and country's cause,
PITT firmly stood his ground.

And soon a law like arrow keen,

Or spear, or curtal-axe.

Struck poor DUKE SMITHSON to the heart,

In shape of Powder-tax. +

Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,

This clever parody has reference to the attempt made by the Duke of Northumberland to evade the payment of Mr. Pitt's Income-tax. To mitigate the severity of the pressure on persons with large families, a deduction of ten per cent. was allowed to persons who had above a certain number of children. Amongst others the wealthy Duke of Northumber. land was not ashamed to avail himself of this clause.

+ Sir Hugh Smithson married the Lady Elizabeth, daughter and only child of the Duke of Northumberland, who died in 1750. In the same year he obtained an Act of Parliament, authorizing him to assume the surname and arms of Percy. In 1767 the King created him Earl Percy and Duke of Northumberland. The hero of this ballad was the eldest son of this marriage.

This alludes to Mr. Pitt's Tax upon Hair-powder, which turned out a failure; the public declining its use rather than pay the tax. Those who continued it were called “guineafigs," the tax being a guinea per head.

No guinea for your heads I'll pay,

Though Church and State should fall."
Again the taxing-man appeared-
No deadlier foe could be;

A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hands bore he.

"Yield thee, DUKE SMITHSON, and behold

The assessment thou must pay;

Dogs, horses, houses. coaches, clocks,

And servants in array."

"Nay," quoth the DUKE, "in thy black scroll,

Deductions I espye,

For those who, poor. and mean, and low,

With children burthen'd lie.

And though full sixty thousand pounds
My vassals pay to me,

From Cornwall to Northumberland,
Through many a fair countée;

Yet England's Church, its King, its laws,
Its cause I value not,

Compar'd with this, my constant text-
A penny sav'd, is got.

No drop of Princely PERCY'S blood
Through these cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur's castles, blazon, name,
I still am poor SMITHSON.

Let England's youth unite in arms,
And every liberal hand

With honest zeal subscribe their mite
To save the native land.

I at St. Martin's Vestry Board,
To swear shall be content,

That I have children eight, and claim
Deductions, ten per cent."

God bless us all from factious foes,
And French fraternal kiss;
And grant the King may never make,
Another DUKE like this.

From The Anti-Jacobin, March, 1798.

Another parody of Chevy-Chace, entitled
The Battle of Putney Hill appeared in the Morn-
ing Herald in 1799. It commenced thus:
GOD prosper long our noble King,
And guard our Statesmen all
From foul mishaps of every sort,
That vulgar folk enthral.

Two orators, whose venom tongues
Had left a point in doubt,
With weapons of more deadly mould
Resolv'd to fight it out.

The one a squire, of manners blunt,
A patriot staunch within ;

The other of a lordly breed,
A courtier tall and thin.

Forth went these wights one Sabbath morn; Ill luck such acts betide!

THE NEW CHEVY CHACE.

(On the occasion of the O. P. Riots.)

GOD prosper long our noble King,
Our cash and comforts all,

In Covent Garden, while I sing,
The row that did befal.

To chase the CAT with howl and horn
JOHN BULL went to the play;
And though she laughed him to scorn,
I trow he won the day,

THE KEMBLES, HARRIS, SON and Co.
Did vow to God-God willing
That for GRIMALKIN and their show
They'd touch-the other shilling!
For they a theatre had made,

This famous CAT to squall in ;

With "Annual Boxes" for the trade
No doubt of caterwalling;

JOHN's native drama to undo,

With foreign airs and vices

And so they e'en impos'd their New
And banish'd his " Old Prices."

Their bowmen bold from Bow Street brought,
All chosen men of might

Resolv'd to stuff down Johnny's throat,
Their prices-wrong or right.

But JOHN whose skull with brains is cramn'd,
Their schemes did soon unriddle,

"And if I have, may I be damn'd,
(Quoth he) your Cat and Fiddle!

"What! think you me to tax and gull,
"For building this here house!
"Or thinks a Cat to catch JOHN BULL
"Just as she'd catch a mouse?

"Your modesty, upon my soul,
"Much with the ton increases,

"That fain would cram each pigeon-hole

With seven-shilling pieces!

"No, no-it will not do, Black JACK "It shall not do, by Jingo;

"Old plays and prices we'll have back, And no outlandish lingo!"

The orchestra struck up in vain,
Macbeth and wife were hiss'd!
And "Birnham Wood to Dunsinane"
Unnotic'd pass'd, I wist.

For "banners on the outward wall"'
The tyrant had no use

Their scrolls within so thick did fall,
Though ne'er a flag of truce!

On Monday first the row begun,
Or call it what you may,
'Tis certain they kept up the fun
Until the Saturday.

The actors ran through every scene,

As fast as they could goAs it a pantomime had been Or eke, a puppet show.

And though the people that were there Most loud did roar and rage,

Their backs they all, with special care,
Did turn upon the stage.

O Jove! it was a grief to see,
For word you could not hear-
(Except the speech of Mister Leigh)
A tragedy so queer.

To catgut, cat-call did reply,
With bell and bugle brazen !
And all the Gods, that sat on high,
Help'd out the diapason.

Yet bides JACK KEMBLE on the bent,
A Don of thorough blood;

With aitches though his head was rent,
Firm as a mule he stood.

"Show me," said he, "what 'tis you want?
"What want ye here?" he cried

"We neither want your CAT or cant,"

Our Englishmen replied.

"Our notes, for her's you shan't command;
"And for her pipe, perdie,

"We trust we have within the land
"Five hundred good as she!"

With that there came a glorious roar,
Of rattles and of row-sticks;

As such there never did before
Confound the catacousticks!

Then look'd our manager, I trow,
Like one in doleful dumps;
His pride was humbled to a bow,
Almost upon his stumps.

As thus he said-" At length I yield,

"You've got what you have wish'd;

"You've won, JOHN BULL, you've won the field,
"And so the cat is dish'd!"

God save the King, and bless the land,
Our liberties and laws,

And thus may Britons ever stand,
United in their cause.

From The Morning Chronicle. September 30, 1809.

This parody refers to the most extraordinary series of disturbances, known as the O.P. Riots, which took place in the new Covent Garden Theatre, commencing on the opening night, September 18, 1809, and lasting, almost without intermission, till December 16, when the old charges were restored. John Philip Kemble, the tragedian, and manager of the theatre, was singled out for special disapproval, the outcries against the Cat (Madame Catalani) were also very bitter, as it was generally supposed the prices had been raised owing to her exorbitant salary. Madame Catalani's business agent used to ask five hundred guineas for her appearance at a concert, which was considered an enormous sum in those days.

Kemble (styled Black Jack, on account of his dark complexion and black hair), had a pedantic way of pronouncing ache as aitche.

A PROTECTIONIST PARODY.

GOD prosper long our noble Queen,

Our lands and purses all;

A woeful ruin once there did

In Parliament befall.

The sly Sir Robert Turnabout,*
A solemn vow did make,
To scout the aristocracy,

And make the farmers quake.

The Landowners to terrify,

The Corn-laws to repeal.

These tidings to Lord Bentinck came,
Who wished his country's weal.

He sent Sir Robert present word,
He shouldn't pass his bill;
Sir Turnabout, not fearing this,
Replied, "Indeed, I will."

For full three hundred backed him up,
A force in numbers strong,

Who knew full well in time of need

To give their votes a-wrong.

The "Turncoats" mustered in the "House,"
Taunts able to endure;

Their faces all that day were made
Of brass, you may be sure.

And long before midnight they had
Their pledges rendered vain ;
And when they'd dined, the whipper-in
Soon drove them back again.

Sir Robert went - his speech complete-
To view his friends so queer ;
Quoth he, "Lord Bentinck promised
This night should cost me dear":

Now, if I thought he would not come,
I'd have my Com-mit-tee."

With that, says Bright, "Friend Turnabout,
A sight you now may see.

Lo! yonder doth Lord Bentinck stand,
His friends replete with spite;
Two hundred stout Protectionists,
To cheer the live-long night;

All sturdy agriculturists,

True to their pledges still."

"Then leave your dinners," Bobby said,
"And Treasury benches fill,

And now with me, my Turnabouts,
Set forth fallacious words,

For never was there statesman yet,
In Commons House, or Lords,
That e'er did with statistics come,
But if he proved too strong,
I durst cook up some others quick,
To show that his were wrong."

Lord Bentinck, on his hobby-horse,
Most like an honest man,

Stood foremost of his company,

And straightway thus began:

"Show me," said he, "What right have ye,

The farmer's gains to steal,

Sir Robert Peel.

To rob the agriculturists,

The Corn-laws to Repeal?"

The man who longest answer made,
Was turn-coat Bobby, he

Who said, "We have the right of power
And of majority."

Forth stept a manufacturer

(Dick Cobden was his name)

Who said, "I would not have it told Unto The League' for shame,

That e'er this bill was fairly passed,
To make our traffic free,

And I took not that time t'abuse
The Aristocracy.

I'll jaw as long as jaw I may,
Although I'm proved quite wrong,
Whilst I have place in Parliament
I'll never hold my tongue."

The fight did last twelve live long nights, (The matter was so deep ;)

And when they cleared the gallery,
The Speaker fell asleep!

Two hundred men and seventy
That day remained true;
The rest did rat with Turnabout,
And voted black was blue.

Then tidings to Lord Stanley came,
That Bentinck's lord was beat,
And that at last Protection's cause
Had suffered sore defeat.

"Now heaven be with us," Stanley said, "And Robert, what is he?

I trust we have within this Isle,

Leaders more trustworthy.

Yet shall not Bob nor turn-coats say,

But we will vengeance take:

We'll be revenged upon them all,

For our good farmers' sake.

This vow full well the chief performed,
As Irish bills explain,

For Turnabout was then kicked out,
And won't come in again.

Honour to you, Protectionists,
Bob and his lot shall fall,

For if they kept their places, you

Have kept your pledges all!

To lead the House, with care and pain,
Grey Gladstone did essay.

The churl may shame that is unborn
The manners of that day.

The suave Sir Stafford1 to oppose

His devoir did with grace;

A gentler pair of gallant foes

Stood never face to face.

But forth there stepped a cheeky Squire, Randolpho was his name,

Who cried, "You don't call this a fight? Your style is much too tame!

"You shall not fool about like this,
And I stand looking on.

You be too muffs," Randolpho said,
I'd lick the pair alone!

"I'll do the best that do I may,
Although not Old or Grand.

All this punctilio is rot;

I'll fight for my own hand!"

Then straight arose a vulgar row,
Shaming good hearts and true;

Coarse words like poisoned arrows went,
And smirched where they not slew.

To still the storm, with broken voice,
Grey Gladstone did his best;
A Captain he of mickle might,
Who never stooped his crest.

But howls rose fast on every side,
No courtesy was found;
And yahoo yells of laughter rude,

His struggling accents drowned.

O Saints! it was great grief to see
How pale he did appear,
While flout and shout flew all about,
Rude laugh, and ruthless jeer.

This fight did last till Gladstone grey

Shamed some of such coarse fun.

Hoarse was that voice, erst like a bell, That long-tried strength foredone.

3

Lo! conscience pricks the brave Sir Hicks, " A Knight of courtesie;

On that black bench churl hearts might blench,
And fail of their cad glee.

For Randolpho needs must I wail
As one in doleful dumps,

Aping the rough who kicks his foe,
And on his body jumps.

Smart Squire, who well might be brave Knight,
Him pity 'tis to see

Hounding rude clowns on, in despite

Of gallant Chivalry.

Let Irish churls of small account

Thus play the unknightly lout ;

Let inarticulate Tory sumphs

Thus rudely yell and shout;

1 Sir Stafford Northcote.

2 Lord Randolph Churchill. Sir Michael Hicks Beach.

But one of brain and gentle blood
Should deem it less disgrace
To join some Cockney Epping Hunt
Than lead a Chevy Chase!

God save the Queen, and bless the land
With plenty, joy, and peace;

And grant henceforth that foul debate
'Twixt gentlemen may cease!

Punch. May 30. 1885.

:0:

LORD BATEMAN.

One of the best known of our old Ballads is Lord Beichan, or Buchan. This is corrupted in the modern English form to Lord Bateman; the ballad commences thus:

"Lord Bateman was a noble lord,

A noble lord of high degree;

He shipped himself on board a ship,

He longed strange countries for to see." Cruikshank collectors will remember that the artist chose this ballad for illustrating, and small as is the book, a copy of the original 1839 edition sold for £5 15s. at Sotherby's last year. Of course Cruikshank's version is comic, and the history of it is that he sang the ballad at a dinner of the Antiquarian society, to the air, and with the cockney pronunciation he had heard given to it by a street ballad singer. Dickens was present at the dinner, and offered to supply the illustrative notes (which are exceedingly humorous), Cruikshank etched the plates, and almost innumerable editions of the little book have been published; the most recent having been issued a few years since by Messrs. Bell and Daldy, London.

THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.

LORD BATEMAN wos a noble Lord,
Wot held Free Trade pure fiddlededee;
So he up and he moved in the House of Peers,
In favour of Sweet Reciprocitee!

He maundered here, he meandered there,
For a good two hours, or, some say, three,
In the style of oration called roundaboutation,
Until his hearers they wos wearee.

For forty long years he had held the opinion,
And still his belief in that same wos strong,
That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely,
Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong.

We'd abandon'd our old lady-love, Protection,
In favour of a minx wot wos far too free:

We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries,
Wich those foreign countries had failed to see.

He would not go back to the old love wholly,
He wosn't quite a Dodo, he wosn't-not he.
The name of Protection he would rayther not mention,
But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee.

Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce.
Wot man would marry an unloving bride?

He failed to see wy it wos only in trading
Reciprocity ought to be all o' won side.

Then up and answered another noble Lord,-
Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,—
And he "sat on 99
poor Lord Bateman in a scientific

manner,

Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee.