One of them had oxen got, which left but only ten!
Ten Irish Jurymen brought there by a fine,

One dreaded "Boycotting," then there were but nine!
Nine Irish Jurymen listening there in state,

One got a threatening note, and then there were but eight!
Eight Irish Jurymen not without some leaven,

One had had a Landlord, then there were but seven!
Seven Irish Jurymen sitting in a fix,

One feared the highway shots, and then there were but six !

Six Irish Jurymen in the legal hive,

One knew a murderer, then there were but five!
Five Irish Jurymen springing from the poor,
One of them half-witted, leaving only four!
Four Irish Jurymen wishing to be "fhree,"

One spouted treason, and then there were but three!
Three Irish Jurymen softly whispering "Pooh !"
One backed out of it, and then there were but two!
Two Irish Jurymen loving not the fun,

Tossed up a half-penny, then there was but one!
One Irish Juryman a verdict had to give,

Nobly said "Not Guilty," and was allowed to live!

10,000, 9,000, 8,000, 7,000, 6,000 soldier boys, 5,000, 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, 1,000 soldier boys.

Eight thousand soldiers to guard us all, good heaven! Can't we do with fewer men, and show up only seven? Seven thousand soldiers to help us in a fix,

Let's reduce a little more, and bring them down to six.

Six thousand soldiers! as I am here alive,

I see no necessity for having more than five.
Five thousand soldiers, when there ain't a war!

The Reserve is ten thousand, we can't want more than four.

Four thousand soldiers-between you and me,

Don't you think we'd be quite safe if we had only three? Three thousand soldiers-between me and you,

I haven't got rifles enough for more than two.

Two thousand soldiers shooting with a gun,

I like doing things by halves, and half of two is one.
One thousand soldiers wouldn't be much fun,
Let's sweep them all away, then there'll be none.
When there's no more soldiers there'll be no more strife,
We shall live a little time a peaceful sort of life,
Till the Opposition come and kick us through the door,
Then they'll raise an army of a hundred thousand more.

10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 soldiers more,
60,000, 70,000, 80,000, 90,000, 100,000 soldiers more!

St. James's Gazette. June 29, 1881.

SMALL BY DEGREES.

TEN British Ironclads, floating on the brine:

Reed* went out of office, and then there were Nine !

* Sir E. J. Reed, M.P.

Nine British Ironclads to defend the State:
Reed cocked his eye at them, and then there were Eight!
Eight British Ironclads lying safe in haven:

Reed raked 'em fore and aft, and then there were Seven !
Seven British Ironclads, sound from keel to sticks:
Reed wrote a pamphlet, and then there were Six !
Six British Ironclads-hooray! Jack's alive!
Reed spoke in Parliament, and then there were Five!
Five British Ironclads cruising round the Nore:

Reed made a platform speech, and then there were Four !
Four British Ironclads ruling of the Sea:

Reed wrote unto the Times, and then there were Three !
Three British Ironclads buffeting the blue:
Reed had dyspepsia, and then there were Two!
Two British Ironclads, big in plate and gun :

Reed was snubbed by Brassey, and then there was One! Oh, make him Chief Constructor once again, whate'er befall;

Or soon of British Ironclads we shall have-none at all! Punch.

April 25, 1885.

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SEND A REMITTANCE FROM HOME. (Parody on "Write me a Letter from Home.") WRETCHED I sit here and cry,

Poorer than I've been for years,
Not a bad ha'p'ny have I,

Nothing but sorrows and tears.
Poor trust, at the cook-shop, is dead,
My creditors bully and foam,
Oh! how's a poor man to be fed,
Without a remittance from home.

Post Office Orders or stamps,
What shall I do till they come ?
Oh! go, wake the old people up,
To send a remittance from home.

I hope that they'll send a good lot;
The last time they wrote to me here,
A blessing was all that I got

From father and mother so dear.
They hoped I'd be honest and true,
And ne'er in extravagance roam,
But what's a poor devil to do
Without a remittance from home?
Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

I have not the money for stamps,
So when I write home ev'ry day,
They think me the worst of young scamps,
For twopence each time they've to pay.
My best suit is sold, I possess
But these clothes, one sock, and a comb,
And they, too, will vanish unless
They send a remittance from home.

Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

My candles are burnt, and my coals
Are out, but my taxes are in,
And as for my boots, poor old souls!

Like me, they've grown terribly thin.
Unless money comes I shall die,

And, chang'd to a goblin or gnome, Shall haunt the old people, and cry, "How 'bout that remittance from home?" Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

POST ME A PARCEL FROM HOME.

LONELY I sit here and long,

Charging the air with my sighs;
Whence comes a yearning so strong?
Fawcett, you know I surmise.
The products of garden and lea
Now haunt me wherever I roam,
Oh! tell the old people from me
To post me a parcel from home.

Have they forgotten my taste,

Or do they expect me to come? At any rate bid them with haste

To post me a parcel from home.

I think of the butter and cream-
I've "boshed" it for many a year-
Of the plums and the apples I dream,
Why shouldn't they comfort me here ?
Some paper and string, don't you see,
Can now bring me whiffs of the loam,
So do tell my people from ne

To post me a parcel from home.
Have they forgotten, &c.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,

For they didn't know how to make beds

They hadn't got huts, they dined upon nuts,
Which they cracked upon each other's heads.

They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,
Or towels, or kettle or fire.

They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes
Invent what they didn't require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,
Nor made any boots for his toes,

Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief,
For no ape thought much of his nose;

They had cold collations, they ate poor relations :
Provided for thus, by-the-bye.

No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang-
He couldn't, and so didn't try.

From these though descended our manners are mended,
Though still we can grin and backbite!

We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,
And tales are the fashion-at night.

This origination is all speculation

We gamble in various shapes;

So Mr. Darwin may speculate in
Our ancestors having been apes.

ANONYMOUS.

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

OVER and over again,

No matter which way I turn, I always find in the Book of Life

Some lessons I have to learn.

I must take my turn at the mill,

I must grind out the golden grain,

I must work at my task with a resolute will Over and over again.

The path that has once been trod
Is never so rough to the feet;
And the lesson we once have learned
Is never so hard to repeat.
Though sorrowful tears may fall,

And the heart to its depth be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all To render us meet for Heaven.

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
(As Parodied by Miss Seventeen.)
OVER and over again,

No matter whom I may send,
They always find in the old brown box
Some stockings for me to mend.

I must put up my fancy crocheting,
I must go for that horrid old yarn,
And set to work at it, smiling,
Though I hate it-learning to darn.

I never can measure the hole

In even the tiniest stocking,
Nor number the stitches giving way
Of the ornamental clocking;
But the hole must somehow be darned,
And the clocking must be replaced,
And done, too, in such a way
That the stocking be not defaced.

Over and over again

The yarn through the needle goes, And over and over again

I mend the heels and the toes;

Once doing will not suffice,

And the doing seems, sometimes, in vain When, after mending it twice and thrice, A stocking needs mending again.

But though socks that have once been darned Are never so soft to the feet,

And, mending, if twenty times done,

Is just as hard to repeat;

While sorrowful tears may fall

As my heart grows weary with strife;

I must forget all and darn,

Would I ever be somebody's wife.

I introduce my PICKWICK, the FALSTAFF of the time:
Imagine that rare hero engaging with a will,

A mob of men in buckram by moonlight on Gad's Hill!
For GAD'S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD'S HILL CHARLIE is my name.

All round the year men read me and faith! I mean to write,

So long as these clear eyes of mine are filled with living light,

So long as oddities abound, and laughter lingers still,
So long as there is magic in the memory of Gad's Hill.

For GAD'S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD'S HILL CHARLIE is my name.

Echoes from the Clubs. September 25, 1867.

:0:

OVER THE GARDEN WALL.
OH! my love stood under the walnut tree,
Over the garden wall,

She whispered and said she'd be true to me,
Over the garden wall.

She'd beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair,

She was not very tall, so she stood on a chair,
And many a time have I kissed her there,
Over the garden wall.

Chorus-Over the garden wall

The sweetest girlof all.

There never was yet, such eyes of jet,
And you may bet, I'll never forget,
The night our lips in kisses met,
Over the garden wall.

OVER THE HANDLES.

ONE day I was riding my wheel so free,

Towards the garden wall;

A charmer was standing and looking at me,

From over the garden wall,

Her face was fair,

So saucy her air

I was rattled completely,

And right then and there

I took a bad header,

And flew through the air

Over the garden wall.

Chorus-Over the garden wall, a terrible, terrible fall; I never did yet a header get

That filled my soul with such regret,

As the time I struck, head-first in the wet,
Over the garden wall.

I picked myself up and said, "How do you do?"
Over the garden wall.

She said, "I'm certainly better than you,"

Over the garden wall;

Charles Dickens then resided at Gad's Hill, near Rochester, Kent.

"But much I should like,

To know why you strike,

And get so hot, and muddy, and dusty like,
And take such a header from off your bike,"
Over the garden wall, &c.

Chorus-Over the garden wall, &c.

"My dear," said I, “I can surely explain,”
Over the garden wall;

The case in a moment, if I may remain,"
Over the garden wall;

"Your glance was so shy,

I wished to be nigh,

So over the handles I went with a fly!

But now I'll beware of a saucy black eye,"
Over the garden wall.

The Wheeling Annual. 1885.

Let me tell you that already your mad speech has roused a storm!"

Said the Young Tory Leader, "Bah! you jest!"

Said the Old Tory Leader to the Young Tory Leader,
Jesting matter, Tory Leader, this is none!"

Said the Young Tory Leader to the Old Tory Leader,
"Do have done, Tory Leader, do have done!

For your talk at first amused me, but it now begins to bore,
So let me plainly tell you that I wish to hear no more;
Or you'll make me put my foot down, as I've put it down
before,

When, as you will not forget, I've always won!"

Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah, "That, our 'cuteness, Obadiah, but denotes !" For we turned them to some purpose; for example, in my

case,

Did I not receive, most promptly, from the Tories a good place?

Come, my worthy fellow-ratter, let us cordially embrace!"
Said the Union Obadiah, "Wait a bit!"

Said the Tory Obadiah to the Union Obadiah,
"But surely, Obadiah, I am right?"
Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,
"No, not quite, Obadiah; no, not quite !

It is true that when you 'ratted'-by the way, I hate that word

A by-no-means ill-paid office on you promptly was conferred
But that I have taken office, as a fact, I have not heard."
Said the Tory Obadiah, "But you might!"

Said the Union Obadiah to the Tory Obadiah,
"Self-respect, Obadiah, very strong,

Would compel me any offer from the Tories, Obadiah,
To reject, Obadiah, as most wrong!"

The Tory Obadiah merely winked with his left eye,
And the Union Obadiah, with one glance at his ally,
Fell back laughing in his chair so that he'd scarcely strength
to cry,

"Go along, Obadiah, go along!"

Truth, Christmas Number.

1886.

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OUR DEAR OLD CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

(Genuine Version.)

OUR dear old Church of England,
Let's rally round you now,
Though there's not the least occasion
For kicking up a row:

You know you're safe as ever,

And watched with loving eye,
But Dizzy (who's so clever)
Suggests a little Cry.

So, dear Old Church of England,
(And none can tell you cheap)
We'll make your name a war-cry,
For those who'd office keep.
Declare to win elections,

Old Mother Church so dear,
With these, our crack selections,
Yourself, and Gold, and Beer.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868.

SONG OF THE CHURCH UNION.
(AIR-"And shall Trelawney Die?")
AND shall they strike at Ritual rites?
Shall Tooth in durance lie?
Then fourteen thousand Union Men
Will know the reason why!

For Church and conscience James's days

Saw Bishop's sev'n confined;

But Cornwall's sons found means and ways,

To change the royal mind.

So we'll resist Tait, Cairns, and Pen,

And Law, in them, defy,—

We, fourteen thousand Union men,
And not men to say die.

Matters of moment still we'll make,

Of chasuble and stole ;

With Tooth, in teeth of Law, we'll take

The Mass of Rome for goal.

While we scorn Tait and Cairns and Pen,
And power of Law defy,-

In Union's name Disunion Men,
Though with no reason why.

Our Roman candles high shall flare,
On Romish altar-plate,

And lace and flowers and frontals fair,
While Mass we celebrate.

So using tooth and tongue and pen
The Law Courts to defy,
We fourteen thousand Union Men
Will hang each other by !

We'll under-creep or over-leap
All Acts our course that bar;
Obedience to our Bishops keep,

But while with us they are,

And till we stump Tait, Bench, and Pen,
Against the three we'll cry:

If Law dares thwart Church-Union Men,
Shall they be bound thereby?

Punch. February 3, 1877.

:0:

EX-PARLIAMENTARY.

(AN IMAGINARY DIALOGUE THAT MIGHT BE TRUE) Gladstone." OUR party's doing very well,

Amending ev'ry bad law,

I've silenced the O'Donnell's yell,
And now I'll shut up Bradlaugh.
My copious flow of words each night
Would any good-sized pan fill;
And what I say is always right-
"You think it is," says Granville.

Granville." I fear we've not done much as yet,
And daily I'm affrighted

That one of us may p'rhaps forget

We all should be united.

Against our party house of glass

That Harcourt's thrown a bad stone.

I hope no damage, but

"Alas!

He's smashed a pane," says Gladstone.

"A penny on the Income Tax

Who's mean enough to grudge it,
When duties they on malt relax?
Indeed, a glorious Budget!

And ev'ry night my words fall fast,
Like hammer blows on anvil,
While wond'ring hearers gape aghast-"
"They do indeed," says Granville.
"Yet somehow certain words you speak
Require explanation ;

And when their Premier eats the leek
It don't much please the nation.

You may not like our old Whig ways,

But we don't like your Rad's tone,

Nor can we bear your talking craze-"

"You'll have to, though," says Gladstone.

Judy. June 23, 1880.

There was also a parody, of the same original, in

I always hurry home to them when once the curtain's down,
'Twould kill me were mamma to weep or step-dada to frown.
My servants fully understand "No followers allowed,"
And o'er my spotless domicile there rests no scandal cloud.
Chorus. For we're a happy familee, &c.

When interviewers visit me (I know not why they call),

I rattle in my artless way, and tell my little all;
How I work hard for mother dear, and teach my brother Jo.
And how we spend our happy hours, and where to church
we go.

Chorus. For we're a happy familee, &c.

Yet people dare to say that when a soap I recommend,
It's not because I merely wish the maker to befriend ;
And that when I am photographed (in somewhat scant attire),
'Tis not twelve copies for myself alone that I require.
Chorus. Yet we're are a happy familee, &c.
Truth, Christmas Number.

1884

A LAY OF THE LAW.

THE CRUSTED OLD BENCHER sings.

WE are a Corporation rich, with coffers filled with gold;
Our aspirations high we pitch; we're proud and close and
old;

We hold our honour very dear, our services likewise;
But 'tis a thumping sum per year most fervently we prize!
And so that we may get the more incessantly to waste,
Those blocks law students took of yore, we're pulling down

in haste;

And in their stead are running up palatial flats, wherein Rich snobs can pose as barristers and reputation win. Chorus (supported by all the performers).—To always take, our motto is, to give-we seldom can; For he who gives the least, of course, becomes the richest man ;

Ours is a strange morality, peculiar to the bar; We are a grasping family-we are! we are! we are! THE POPULAR COMMON-LAW BARRISTER Sings. We never ask for any fees, oh no, we've too much pride; But we've a clerk who always sees our briefs have cheques inside;

Who duns attorneys when they shirk refreshers to renew In short, does all the dirty work we'd rather die than do.