I dreamt that footmen raised their hand,
And knock'd to a high degree,

With a noise few porters' ears could withstand,
But they wasted it all on me.

I dreamt that one of the noisy host
Came forth and bawl'd my name;

But I also dreamt that fast as a post
I slept there all the same.

I slept there all the same.

I dreamt that huge monsters—a fearful band—
Were staring to such a degree

That the sight was more than I could withstand,
For they turn'd all their eyes upon me.

And I dreamt that King John's unearthly ghost
Stepped forth my homage to claim,

When I woke and I found 'twas my bedstead's post,
But it frightened me all the same.

THE ALARMIST'S DREAM ABOUT THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

I DREAMT that I stood in the Crystal Halls,
With Chartists and Reds at my side.

And that all who assembled in those glass walls,
Came there the contents to divide.

Of riches too great to count it could boast,

And jewels of world-wide fame;

But I found, when I woke, which surprised me most,
They remained there all the same.

I dreamt the swell mob was there in a band

With thieves of every degree,

And with skill that no police could withstand,
They picked all the pockets of we.

And I dreamt that one of the scampish host

To grab the Koh-i-Noor came;

But I found when I woke, which surprised me most,

It was safe there all the same.

Punch. June 14, 1851.

LORD BROUGHAM'S DREAM.

"The foul, the false charge, that I have changed a single opinion."-Vicar of Bray,

I DREAMT that I dined in Conservative halls,
With Peel and the Duke at my side;

That I went like their shadow, to morning calls,
To concerts, the club, or the ride.

And seldom or never to meet, did I seem,
With a Whig or a Radical name;

And yet the most curious part of my dream-
My opinions were still the same!

And I dreamt of a Chancellor (strangely, of course,
For my senses were running a r!g,)

Who said that "Persuasion was better than force,"
As he dazzled my eyes with his wig.

"Oh, beautiful wig!" thought I, "could I for thee
Turn this coat? Ay, or part with my name?"
And yet the most wonderful matter to me-
My opinions were still the same!

Punch. April 13, 1844.

BALLAD.

I DREAMT that I sat in the House of Lords,
As Monteagle spoke at my side,
And into that sleep which his tone affords
I did imperceptibly glide.

There were lions too many to count-a host
Of creatures I knew not by name;
And I also dreamt-which puzzled me most-
That the figures were all the same.

DREAMS OF MABILLE BALLS.

(The famous Moulin Rouge Restaurant and Mabille disappear together from the Champs Elysées this month.) (RETROSPECTIVE BALLADS.)

(Sung confidentially by the Old "Bohemian Boy.")

I DREAMT that I danced at Mabille balls-
That again at the Cancan I shied :

But to judge from the set that now honoured those walls,

I had far best have Cancan'd outside!

For, spite JULES's antics, once good as a feast-
Spite Music, Nymphs, flare-still the same.

I noticed, what certainly pleased me the least,
That the whole thing seemed horribly tame,
Oh, so tame !

So depressingly, horribly tame!

Punch. March 4, 1882.

MARBLED BEEF.

(Ballad for the Modern Butcher, with acknowledgments

to the Shade of Bunn.)

I DREAMT that I dined on Marbled Beef,

And found it the best I had tried ;

And of all its good points I held this the chief,—

The figure at which 'twas supplied.

But when, as Prime English, I found it as nice
You tried on the same old game,

And though every carcass cost you half the price,
You charged me still the same!
You charged me still the same!

Punch. April 18, 1885.

:0:

BEAUTIFUL STAR,

BEAUTIFUL star! on each opera night,
Watching with wonder your diamonds bright,
And hearing your cadences echo afar,

I envy your fortune, fair opera star

Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I hear sad Amina's cantabile ring,

I see the bouquets which by dozens they fling;
Watch gaily Rosina her guardian cajole,
And weep when Medea entrances my soul-
Star of the evening, beautiful star.

I love thee in Norma and fair Marguerite,
And Lohengrin even thy tones can make sweet :
But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write
At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night—
Star of the evening, beautiful star.

Funny Folks.

BEAUTIFUL Pit, behind the stalls,
For treatment kind thy memory calls;
Who could fail to thy use admit,

Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

In fancy's eyes you seem to say,
Think of the Drama's bright hey-day;
When first-night critics would views emit

From the famed front row of the Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

To your cheap seats the people come

In a vigorous crowd with a hearty hum;
And where is the manager who'd permit

One seat to be filched from the Haymarket Pit?

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

The stalls are cynical, boxes sneer

At the warm applause to actors dear;

And the cheer that cometh their hearts to knit,

Is sent from the rows of the crowded pit.

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit!

So, Pit, last on! and hold your own,
Whatever else may be overthrown;
And let fond hands your each seat refit,
Pit of the Haymarket, Haymarket Pit!

Pit of the Haymarket, beautiful Haymarket Pit
Truth, Christmas Number, 1884.

(Old Play-goers still remember, with a sigh, that in the palmy days of Buckstone's management, the Haymarket Pit was the most comfortable in London.)

(published by Tinsley Brothers, London), which also contains one of the very best parodies of Swinburne ever written, entitled A Matcher.

The last verse of The Lost Cord as given in this volume differs slightly from the Judy version, it runs as follows:

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey,

Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only skedaddles
When he hears the organ-men!
It may be my truant monkey
Will come with that cord again;
It may be he only SKEDADDLES
When he hears the organ men !!

As mentioned above this parody was printed in 1880, but curiously enough, another rather similar parody has been sent in, dated December, 1879.

THE LOST APE.

SEATED one day on an organ,
A monkey was ill at ease,
When his fingers wandered idly,
In search of the busy fleas.

I know not what he was slaying,
Or what he was dreaming then,
But a sound burst forth from that organ,
Not at all like a grand Amen.

It came through the evening twilight
Like the close of the feline psalm,
But the melody raised by their voices,
Compared to this noise, was balm !
It was worse than Salvation's Sorrow
With their band of drum and fife,
And cut, like an evening Echo,"
The Tit-Bits out of "Life."

I upset my table and tea things,
And left not one perfect piece;
I gazed at the wreck in silence,

Not loth, but unable to speak!
Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,
The source of that terrible whine,
With his cracked and tuneless organ,
And its melodies undivine.

Of course there was no policeman
To move him away,-and men
Who grind organs smile demurely
At your curses, and smile again.
It may be that I could choke him—
Could kill him-but organ men
If you kill a dozen to-day,
To-morrow will come again!

When a knock at the door of my chamber.
Like the sound of the broker men!

It may be they thought I would open;
But I stepped through the window then,
Leaving one chair and a shirt front,
To amuse the broker men.

THE LOST KEY.

The following parody was written, composed, and sung with great success by Mr. George Grossmith. It carries the idea of "The Lost Chord" throughout, yet the air is different, and the quaint and laughable words form a strong contrast to the mystical language of the original, The music is published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

SEATED one day in her carriage,

She was lounging well back at her ease,
And her fingers wandered idly,

In her pocket for her keys.

She thought as the bunch was missing,
In her wardrobe it must be,

So she struck one note of discord,
Like the sound of a big, big D.
Like the sound of a big, big D.

She thought of the sweet little trinkets,
Whose loss she would sadly mourn,
Then she thought of her frocks and mantles,
Some of which she had not yet worn.
She thought of her precious diamonds,

She thought of the square plate-chest,
For at home, in that large old wardrobe,
She kept everything she possess'd.

Then she thought of the sweet love letters,
Received with many a ruse,

Then she suddenly thought that the servants
Those letters would surely peruse.
Then she thought, with a feeling of horror!
That the neighbours would surely be shown,
A piece of black hair neatly plaited,

Which was not exactly her own.

So she dived to the bottom of her carriage,
Turned the matting all upside down,
Then she dived beneath the cushions,"
And the lining of her green silk gown.
She dived in the depths of her mantle,
And into her muff dived she,
But only at home in her wardrobe,
Would be found that lost, lost key!

:0:

'TWAS ONLY A YEAR AGO, LOVE.
(Music by F. Paolo Tosti.)

IT came with the merry May, love,
That neat little billet doux,
And I much regret to say, love,
The measles and rates came too :
The passion may fade away, love,
But the rates I shall always owe.
'Twas only a year ago, love,
Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,
That tip for the big event;

I shall ne'er forget the day, love,

I plank'd on my ev'ry cent.

But the animal stopped to sneeze, love,
Which much increas'd my woe,
'Twas absolutely last, love,
Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love,
That big furniture van,

It took all my goods away, love,
It thwarted my fondest plan.

I thought I could shoot the moon, love,
But destiny grunted "No";

They were there a bit too soon, love,
Only a year ago!

It came with the merry May, love.
That beautiful big black eye,
The kick I received for aye, love,
Will live in my memory,

And oh! I have got such a bruise, love,

I regret I'm unable to show,

I have to stand up to my meals, love,

Though it's over a year ago.

It came with the merry May, love,

It looked about forty three,

And much to my dismay, love,

It fixed itself on to me.

I know that it foolish sounds, love,

I promised and breached, you know.

It cost me five hundred pounds, love,
Just over a year ago!

FREDERICK BOWYER.

(This parody was sung, with great success, by Mr. Arthur Roberts, in the Burlesque of Kenilworth at the Avenue Theatre in 1885.)

-:0:

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
The woods or steepy mountains yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls,
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs ;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat,*

As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF all the World and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,*
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,*
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain; that's only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could Youth last, could Love still breed,
Had Joy no date, had Age no need ;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

In The Complete Angler Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition (preserving the old orthography) of The Complete Angler, published in 1653:

"As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, 'twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast away all care, and sung like a Nightingale; her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted for it; 'twas that smooth Song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh, in his younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age: THH MILKMAID'S SONG.

COME live with me, and be my Love,
And we wil all the pleasures prove
That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields,
Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.

Where we will sit upon the Rocks,
And see the Shepherds feed our flocks,

*These three verses are often omitted.

By shallow Rivers, to whose falls
Mellodious birds sing madrigals.

And I wil make thee beds of Roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a Kirtle,
Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.

A Gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull,
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivie buds,
With Coral clasps, and Amber studs ;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may_move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.

THE MILKMAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWer.

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue?
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The Rest complains of cares to come.

The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy Cap, thy Kirtle, and thy Posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivie buds,
Thy Coral clasps and Amber studs,
All these in me no means can move

To come to thee, and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date. nor age no need ;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

A little farther on Viator observes:"Yes, master, I will speak you a coppie of verses that were made by Doctor DONNE, and made to shew the world that he could make soft and smooth verses, when he thought them fit and worth his labour; and I love them the better, because they allude to rivers and fish, and fishing. They bee these:

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sands, and Christal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks,

There will the River wispering run,
Warm'd by thy eyes more then the Sun;
And there th' inamel'd fish wil stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath
Most amorously to thee will swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, beest loth,
By Sun or Moon, thou darknest both :
And, if mine eyes have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with Angling Reeds,
And cut their legs with shels and weeds.
Or treacherously poor fish beset;
With strangling snares, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest,
The bedded fish in banks outwrest;
Let curious Traitors sleave silk flies,
To 'witch poor wandring fishes eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait ;
That fish that is not catch'd thereby,
Is wiser far, alas! then I.

THE MILKMAID'S SONG.

COME live with me, and be my spouse,
We'll keep a cottage, pigs and cows;
And I will dress in lace and silk,
While you shall pig, and dig, and milk.

There you will work and hoe all day,
While I enjoy myself. away.

If this you'll do, we'll have no rows,
Come live with me, and be my spouse.

From The Incomplete Angler, by F. C. Burnand. 1876.

THE PASSIONATE STATISTICIAN TO HIS LOVE. "For my part, I am a passionate Statistician . . . Go with me into the study of statistics, and I will make you all enthusiasts in statistics."

Mr. Goschen at Whitechapel.
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That facts and figures can supply
Unto the Statist's ravished eye.

And we will sit 'midst faction's shocks
And calculate the price of Stocks,
The music of whose rise and fall
Beats most melodious madrigal.

We'll learn how the last Census closes
And the art of counting noses;

And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn,
Of abstract brief, and lengthy column.

We'll tot the figures fair and full
Relating to the price of wool,
The annual range of heat and cold,
The death-rate, and the price of gold.

Per-centages shall stir our blood
Analyses as clear as mud.

Oh, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Song: Mr. Whalley.

Tune: "Won't you tell me why, Robin ?"
Oh, won't you tell me why, doctor,
You are so stern and strange?
Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor,
What 'tis has made you change!
You never come to see me now,
As once you used to do;

I miss you at the Tichborne fetes,
Where once I went with you.

Chorus. Won't you tell me why, doctor,
Won't you tell me why;
Won't you tell me why, doctor,
Oh, won't you tell me why?