But yet there's no complaining;
Rheumatics we defy,

And though cats and dogs it's raining,
We keep our powder dry.

Little think the small boys shouting

"Who shot the dog?" in our ears, What an inward fire flares up to inspire Us London Volunteers.

Then a fig for showers and sneerers,
Let's show Sir Robert yet;
We can laugh at fire and fleerers,
As we've laughed at heavy wet.

And we hope to teach the foeman,
Who on our shore appears,

If home rains we've borne, French reins we scorn,

As London Volunteers.

Three cheers for all who're willing

To be wetted through and through!

For those who stick to drilling

Till all is damp and blue.

May none of us blow our heads off,

Whether privates or brigadiers,

And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day,
For reviewing the Volunteers.

Punch. June 16, 1860.

The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an exceptionally wet season,

THE SOIREE OF THE CIVIL ENGINEERS.

SOME talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose,
Of Daedalus, Hephaestus, and such great swells as those,
But of all the men of genius there's none can prove a peer,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil
Engineer!

Those ancient men of science, ne'er saw the power of steam,
Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream;

But ours are far more knowing :—their triumphs skill uprears,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil
Engineers!

Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car—
These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres,
Can't come in competition with the Civil Engineers!

Whene'er their skill's demanded, great works are to be made,

Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade;

And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil

Engineers!

And when their Soirée's given, to George Street they repair,
And all the men most noted you're sure to meet with there;
The most distinguished people adorning modern years,
Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers !

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these,
Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please,
For enterprise and genius we'll gladly raise three cheers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil
Engineers!

Fun. June 9, 1866,

HAXELL'S VOLUNTEERS.

(Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps).

COME all ye dilettanti bold

Who fear not Gladstone's frown, Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled (The fee is half a crown.)

The uniform is cheap and bright,

And ought to last for years,

For it's likely they'll not have to fight

In the Haxell's Volunteers.

To stem the Russian's reeking tide
We've pilots stout of limb;

We've Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side,
And Captain Bedford Pim!

The Bard of Peterborough-court

With odes our efforts cheers,

And music-hall trouvères support
The Haxell's Volunteers.

Think of old England's righteous claims,
Her noble-minded fils;

Make haste and put down all your names-
They're just concluding peace!
For craven Muscovite and Sclav
Are quaking with their fears;
Ah, what a muster we shall have
Of the Haxell's Volunteers!

So seize a gun, the times are ripe
For Englishmen to act;

You're bound to keep your names in type,

And eke your skins intact.

Perhaps there may be some brigade

Worth ours in distant spheres,
At least we're mighty in parade,

We Haxell's Volunteers.

Funny Folks. May, 1878.

Written during the War Fever, when some of the news

papers were clamouring for war with Russia. It was then proposed to form a Corps of Active Service Volunteers, but the Government discouraged the idea.

STANZA BY A SERGEANT-MAJOR. IN Egypt there's an old stream A long time known to fame; But now beside the Coldstream, The Nile must yield his name. For of all the finest fellahs

There's none for to compare (With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol) To the British Grenadier!

Punch, September 16, 1882.

THE BRITISH HOUSE OF PEERS.
SOME swear by Wilfred Lawson,
And some by Labouchere,
And some applaud Joe Chamberlain,
While some by Bradlaugh swear.
Down, down with cant and caucas,
Let's greet the right with cheers,

And praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers.

For when they were commanded

To pass a Franchise Bill

They bade a tyrant Premier

Inquire the nation's will,

John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh,
And Rogers vent his sneers;

Let's praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers,

The Morning Post. August, 1884.

THE ASTON RIOT.

(During the Birmingham Election in 1884.)

SOME talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

But Chamberlain's commander

Far, bigger far than these;

For he commands at his demands,

A power rather tough;

In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape
The blackguard Brummy Rough!
Chorus-With a blackguard Brum,
And a Brummy black,

And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

The Radical of Brummagem
Possesseth strength to bray,

With his beery mouth and black pipe stem,
In a beastly sort of way;

But we'd never known how bad he's grown,
Had he not shown such stuff

At the Aston storm, in his proper form,
As the blackguard Brummy Rough!
Chorus-With a blackguard Brum,

And a Brummy black,

And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

England. October, 1884.

And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool!

With a row-dow- at them now!-Jenny show the stool!

"And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny's valiant hand,

Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool,

But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool! With a row-dow-yes, I trow!-she conquered by the stool!" By Professor JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

The Inverness Courier. January 8, 1885.

OUR BRITISH PREMIER.

SOME talk of Bright and Cobden,

And some of Palmerston,

Of Chamberlain and Goschen,

And some of Hartington.

But of all old England's heroes,

There's none that can compare

To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,

Our British Premier !

Then up! for now he bids us

To rout the renegades.

Our Hawarden star is quenchless
By "Harden Star-Grenades!"
Up, up! with shouts and cheering
We'll stun the traitor's ear,

For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier !

So, fill, fill up a bumper,

His health let none refuse;

Who wears the high, high collar,

Who wears the plaided trews.

Long may he live-our jewel,

Our stone without a peer;

The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,

Not I desire that vulgar sprawl

To rudely kiss the dust. No, I'll recline as gracefully As if twas by a spell,

And they that stay and see shall say,
"He like a feather fell."

Yes, from the pig skin I'll descend.
And on the dust recline

So gently, that a smiling friend
May claim it all sublime.

But the pig skin I shall try to keep,
For to part like that's a sell,

Yet they shall say, if we part that way,
"He like a feather fell."

Yes, the vile cropper I despise,

The gentle I admire,

And all are free to criticise

The spill that I desire.

Eut when I tumble give the song,

And true that song shall tell,

How through what space, and with what grace

"He like a feather fell."

LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.

O, LET me like a soldier fall,
Upon some tented plain!

This breast expanding for the ball,
To blot out every stain.

Brave manly hearts confer my doom,
That gentler ones may tell,
Howe'er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell.

I only ask, for that proud race,
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last, and not disgrace,
Its ancient chivalry.
Although no banners o'er me wave,

No trumpet requiem swell
Enough, they murmur o'er my grave,
He like a soldier fell.

LET ME LIKE A FEATHER FALL. YES, let me like a feather fall, If tumble then I must ;

THE WIVES THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM.

WE cheer our soldiers on their way,

We crowd and we huzza them, And as they go to seek the fray

Effusively Ta-ta" them.
Then ere they're safe upon the foam,
And distance serves to blind them,
We cry,
"Turn out of house and home,
The wives they've left behind them."

And so our fighters meet the foe,

And bleed, should duty bid them;
A thrust may come to lay them low,
Of life a bullet rid them.

Oh, gladly must these heroes face
The dangers that may find them,
Who know how we, to our disgrace,
Treat those they've left behind them.
We don't think much of Tommy A.'s―
Indeed, we rather scout them

In times of peace-yet these are days
When we can't do without them.
In future, let us recollect

This fact, and oft remind them
That England's ready to protect

The wives they've left behind them,

Funny Folks, March 7, 1885.

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.

WHEN the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of strife,

Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for his life;

When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds and scars,

There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars.

They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and swoop,

With a "Follow me, lads!" from the Colonel, and an answering roar from the troop;

From the Staff, as the troopers pass'd it, in glory of pride and pluck.

They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, "Good luck!"

Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain,

The man who'd led them often, but was never to lead again.
Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse!
To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White
Horse!

An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still,

He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will;

And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade,

He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade;

For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General's praise,

Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper Hayes ;

He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed, alone,

And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his

"There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to own!

He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to groan;

If I've done aught to deserve it,"-then the General smiled, "Of course!"

"Give back to the Tenth their Colonel-the Man on the old White Horse!

"I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave old tars,

I've fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth Hussars;

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.
(Not to-day, Baker.)

WHEN the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of strife

Where the woman fought for her honour-far dearer to her than life;

When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside the cars,

It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars. He was "6 charged" in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal troop,

With a "Follow me sharp!" from the "Bobby," which made him tremble and droop;

And his staff, as the "Peeler "shewed it in glory of pride and pluck,

Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!"

Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain,

Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain. Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse! When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white horse.

An alien, not a stranger, but yet 'twould be stranger still, Tho' he's borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good will;

For when Teb's battle was over, and thousands there were slayed,

He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade ;

But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General's praise,

A thick and thin thoro' Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze;

He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone,

He'd had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a General car-
For once the swell and Private could speak as man to

man;

And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General's praise,

Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper Blaze.

"Speak out,' said the splendid Colonel, "if you've anything, lad, to say ;

Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you've done to-day!"

But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his head;

"Speak out, old man," said his comrades, and here's what he should have said

I'm proud of the fine old regiment!"-then the Colonel shook his hand

"So I'll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land!

"If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck, And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed illluck

That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and scars,

The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth Hussars!"

Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the sand,

And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native land,

Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel Prince will praise

The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayest

Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that live;

For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word "Forgive!"

Punch. March 15, 1884.

THE "JINGO" WAR SONG.

"THE men of action got a nickname, they were dubbed the Jingo Party. The term, applied as one of ridicule and reproach, was adopted by chivalrous Jingoes as a name of pride. The Jingoes of London, like the Beggars of Flanders, accepted the word of contumely as a title of honour. In order to avoid the possibility of any historical misunderstanding hereafter about the meaning of Jingo, such as we have heard of concerning that of Whig and Tory, it is well to explain how the term came into existence. Some Tyrtaeus of the tap-tub, some Körner of the musichalls, had composed a ballad which was sung at one of these caves of harmony every night, amid the tumultuous applause of excited patriots. The refrain of this war song contained the spirit-stirring words :

'We don't want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do

We've got the ships, we've got the men, we've got the money too.' Some one whose pulses this lyrical outburst of national pride failed to stir, called the party of its enthusiasts the Jingoes. The writer of this book is under the impression that the invention of the name belongs to Mr. George Jacob Holyoake. The name was caught up at once, and the party were universally known as the Jingoes. The famous adjuration of the lady in the Vicar of Wakefield' had proved to be too prophetical; she had sworn by the living Jingo,' and now indeed the Jingo was alive."-A History of Our Own Times, by Justin McCarthy, M. P.

1882.

So much for the words, as to the melody, which was not unmusical, Sir William Fraser wrote to Notes and Queries in May, 1886, saying that it was taken from Mozart's Twelfth Mass. But next week the following denial appeared in N. & Q., "I beg to state, as author and composer of the above song, that this statement is unwarrantable and devoid of truth, and in justice to my reputation as a composer, I must request that you will insert this my denial.-G. W. HUNT." ON THE WARLIKE NEWSPAPERS.

Punch.

WE don't want to fight,

But by Jingo! if you do,

We've got the ink, we've got the pens, And we've got the papers too.

SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES ! (On the return of Lord Beaconsfield from Berlin with "Peace and Honour.")

SEE, the Conquering Jingo comes
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Let all Jingodom rejoice,

And raise to heaven its cheerful voice.

Come and join the rabble rout;
Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout!
Britons! hail his glorious feats;
Drag him, drag him through the streets!
Safe from lowering Channel fog:
Safe from Bismarck's biting dog;
Safe from tedious long discussions
With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians.
On his brow are leaves of laurel-
Victor in the bloodless quarrel.
Honour sits upon his crest,
Secret treaties in his vest!

All his foemen swiftly dwindling,
Dished by most successful

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
See, the Conquering Jingo comes !

The Echo. July 17, 1878.

LINGO.