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Slowly and sadly we ail walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story ;
And we left him alone in his glory.
* * claimed them- he told stories.
away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the period :
ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE
“Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its prototype."
Not a moan was heard—not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the devil they hurried,
O'er the grave where our idol was buried.
With their threats our remonstrance turning,
In the brazen socket burning.
In a sheet of parchment they bound him,
With schedule A around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
And thought of the coming morrow.
And laid him at rest on his pillow,
And we be turned out by the bill-oh !
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid hiin,
In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him.
When the time came for ending the session,
That the King was now in procession,
From the further defence of the Tory,
But we left him alone in his glory.
The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the British Museum, bearing the imprint :-"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the “Charleys,” a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and “ Burking,” were not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc. :
Not a trap was heard, or a Charley's note
As our course to the churchyard we hurried,
As a corse from the grave we unburied.
The sod with our pick-axes turning,
And our lanterns so queerly burning.
And we felt not a bit of sorrow,
And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.
And then in regimentals bound him,
With his lobster togs around him.
Our snatching trick now no look sees ;
And we far away towards Brooks's.
And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him ;
In a place where a snatcher has laid him.
When a pal tipt the sign quick sor shuffling, and we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar
That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling.
In our cart famed for staching in story ;
For we bolted away in our glory.
There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay :
(AFTER WOLFE) Ilritton on the threatened Death (on the Floor of the House)
of John O'Connell,
As down on the floor he hurried ;
Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried.
At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient constitution of the country would be swept
He cautiously put out his head, and looked down
From his room in the second story :
JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. College Rhymes (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864.
We looked at him slily at dead of night,
Our backs adroitly turning,
By the lights so brightly burning.
Nor in argument we wound him ;
With his Irish clique around him.
And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him
He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow. (for dead, We thought, we'll be careful where we tread,
And avoid him where he's lying ; For if we should tumble over his head,
'Twould certainly send us flying. Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone,
Ani p’rhaps for his folly upbraid him; But little he'll care, and again try it on,
Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.
When the time arrived for retiring,
Our attendance to watch him requiring.'
Aster Radical, Whig, and Tory;
Punch, December, 1847.
PARODY ON “THE BURIAL OF Sir John MOORE.”
“Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note,
As our friend to the bridal we hurried ;
As the bachelor went to be married.
Our heads from the sad sight turning ;
To think he was not more discerning.
And shy of the sex as we found him,
Be caught in the snares that bound him.
Though of wine and cake partaking ;
While his knees were awfully shaking.
From the first to the lowermost storey ;
Whom we left alone in his glory.
“ GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM."
"A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED."
He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note
Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry,
And he felt in a deuce of a furry.
The page of Herodotus turning,
Or the moderator burning.
Nor did indigestion wound him ;
“That Examiner-confound him!”
But he choked not down his sorrow;
And pictured the “ Governor's horror.”
And dashed his head down on the pillow,
And would quickly be sending his bill, oh!
"Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him ; But nothing he'll get : I'll be off to Boulogne,'
And he went, out of Britain to shade him.
As the clock struck the hour, was mocking,
At the oak was sullenly knocking.
THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF
CANADA. “ GENERAL O'NEILL, who, at the head of the Fenian forces recently invaded Canada, seems to combine, together with his love for Ireland, a certain amount of affection for the ordinary enjoyments of life ; for one complaint against him is, that the morning of the attack, when awakened at three o'clock by a captain belonging to his quarters, he merely said, “ All right !” and sell asleep again. On two subsequent occasions he was awakened with no more practical result, and on being called a fourth time, got up. Even then, however, he declined to proceed at once with the glorious work of liberating Ireland, but said, “He guessed he would wait till breakfast." After - breakfast this great patriot advanced at the head of his forces, but being surprised by a party of Canadian Volunteers, who fired upon the Fenians, immediately retired to his quarters, where he was found very comfortably lodged, and was arrested by General Foster, the United States Marshal, for a breach of the neutrality laws.”
Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note,
As over the border he hurried ;
Only looking tremendously flurried.
As over the ground he jolted ;
He unhesitatingly bolted.
And snug in his quarters, at dead of night,
The Yankee General found him ; His bed all ready, his candle alight,
And bottles of whisky around him.
And when at his door came the clanking and noise,
His courage all sank to zero; For, though at the head of the Fenian “bhoys,”
He wasn't exactly a hero.
When the Britishers find that he really is gone,
In impotent rage they upbraid him;
At that moment, they surely had Aay'd him !
Few and short were the words they said —
They only expressed their sorrow That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed
Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow.
THE MURDER OF " MACBETH." Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell,
Though of both 'twas surely deservingWhen, cruelly murdered, Alacbeth sel
By the hand of the eminent Irving. He murdered him, lengthily, that night,
With his new and original reading. Till his efforts left him in sorry plight,
And the sweat on his brow was bleeding. Five different garments enclosed his breast,
Five brand-new dresses were found him, Though in never a one did he look at rest,
Though the people might sleep around him.
Till we wished in fervent sorrow,
And we vowed not to come on the morrow,
And made us long for our pillow,
To our cousins far over the billow,
He may sind it melt in a minute ;
In a play with a murderer in it.
When we seized ihe chance for retiring, And left him grovelling about on the floor,
With his friends all inadly admiring,
From his acting so dreary and gory,
The Figaro, 16th October, 1875.
This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving in the part of Macbeth, But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the end of the play, which he should have wit. nessed before condemning the actor.
We listed him up, but he sell as one dead,
And we tumbled him into a barrow ; And the idle spectators shouted and said,
“ He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow !"
Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o’er empty bottles upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on
In the cell where the constables laid him.
No curtains had he to his lonely bed,
And a rough deal plank was his pillow; He will wake with parched throat and an aching lead,
And thirst that would drink up a billow.
The Burial Of The Title, “ QUEEN." Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note,
As the Bill to the tellers we hurried ;
When a title has to be buried.
To make it a question burning ;
The hate of all Englishmen earning.
(There's much of it still adhering), And we knew by the distant and random growl
That the foe was sullenly sneering.
With a “brilliant” lie we bedecked its breast,
In a "cloak of deceit we wound it, So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest,
With its weapons all around it.
In November, 1879, The Weekly Dispatch (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of “ The Burial of Sir John Moore.” It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following
(From a Tory point of view.) Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note,
As away from the House we all scurried Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot,
The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night,
For we had no hope of returning, By Reason's bright returning light,
And our hearts were sadly yearning. Few indeed were the words we said,
But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin fed
To inspire us with hope for the morrow, No gaudy star was upon his breast,
No ermine cloak was around him, Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest;
And he smiled at us all, confound him ! We thought, as we left with a silent tread,
Of Cross and his dreadsul Water,
And we far away from that quarter.
And of course they've a right to abuse us ;
In our places and wouldn't refuse us.
That image of humbug so gory ;
Lies bombast, false glitter, and glory.”
And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy :
'He thovght, as he holloa'd aloud in bed,
And pommelled bis lonely pillow,
And his sury was like the billow.'
THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER.
“Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in Blue Beard,' at the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems to be impossible.” - Daily Paper.
And they buried them there, where they first were born,
With gardenias on them clustered-
Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered.
Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there ; And they carved not a line and they raised not a stoneFor the Mashers were worthy of neither !
Truth, March 22, 1883.
Nor a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound,
As the song to an encore was hurried ; Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found,
On the night that the Masher was buried.
Sore stricken by TRUTH's endeavour ;
And finished him once for ever !
By ridicule on him turning ;
With the footlights brightly burning.
And sodden in scent one found him,
With his three-inch collar around him.
That collar's starched edge was flaying ; And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote,
Were the clocks of his hose displaying. Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place,
And his shirt-front's wealth of whiteness Made yet more sallow his pasty face,
More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness.
Nor on his dull brain was flashing,
Equipped for the evening's mashing.
At the chorus-girls singing before him ;
The chaff of Purnand swept o'er him.
Some hore from the “ Johnnies " to borrow ;
And most bitterly thought of the morrow. They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death,
And foreshadowed their doom so plainly, That they next morning, with feverish breath,
Might demand devilled prawns all vainly ;
And a cayenne salad not serve them,
Nor a fricassce'd oyster nerve them !
Would surely henceforth evade them,
In the grave where a Blue Beard” had laid them. And so, when Burnand his task had done,
And received a right warm ovation, Of all the Mashers was left not one;
'Twas complete annihilation.
NEVER Join MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR.
(An old story by an Old Bachelor.) (With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the
And, of course, exceedingly worried ;
She for whom he was yearning ;
That after she had caught and bound him;
Only this-only this, “ love be mine."
And laughingly left him to pine.
What was he to do? should he hate her instead ?
Or weeping wail, waly willow;
In arbours and in kitchen gardens ;
Don't be in your mind too enquiring,
And this is the end of my story,
I drink to all flirts “ con amore."