Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.- Virgil. 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it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829.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. We nibbled it slily at dead of night, The sod with our pick-axes turning, But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed, Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone But half of our snatching job was o'er, When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling, Slily and slowly we laid him down, In our cart famed for staching in story; 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 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, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet of parchment they bound him, Few and short were the speeches said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, That the Radical soon would step over our head, But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, But half our heavy task was done, When the time came for ending the session, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, Figaro in London, 8th September, 1832. 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 :— LINES, (AFTER WOLFE) Written on the threatened Death (on the Floor of the House) of John O'Connell. Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, We looked at him slily at dead of night, Few and short were the speeches made, And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, For if we should tumble over his head, Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him. After Radical, Whig, and Tory; Punch, December, 1847. "GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM." "A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED." He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note And he felt in a deuce of a flurry. He thought how he'd read at dead of night, By the tallow-candle's flickering light, No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, Nor did indigestion wound him; But he said-as the worry was breaking his rest"That Examiner-confound him!" "What's the odds?" were the words that he said; But he choked not down his sorrow; For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, And he fancied that many a ravenous dun At the oak was sullenly knocking. He cautiously put out his head, and looked down JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. College Rhymes (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864. PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN Moore.” We escorted him home from the scene of dread, "Slowly and sadly we marched him down, These lines appeared in Notes and Queries June 27, 1868, and are said to have been written by Thomas Hood. THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF CANADA. On two "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 fell asleep again. 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, No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast, Not caring a straw what became of the rest, 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, At that moment, they surely had flay'd him ! Few and short were the words they said- But safe in New York, under FOSTER'S convoy, Judy, 22nd June, 1870. "RUNNING HIM IN." By a Good Templar in the Force. A groan was heard, like a funeral note, From a toper in mud half-buried, And our Serjeant "Drunk and incapable" wrote, When his form to the station we hurried. We hurried him swiftly at dead of night, And oft with our truncheons spurning, Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light, Through alley and crooked turning. In rags and tatters the toper was dressed, For in poverty drink had bound him. And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest, With little pigs squeaking around him. We lifted him up, but he fell as one dead, "He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!" Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, 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 head, And thirst that would drink up a billow. Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down, That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary, And wished that the dissolute youth of the town A warning might take from his story. Funny Folks. THE MURDER OF "MACBETH." Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell, And the sweat on his brow was bleeding. Though the people might sleep around him. We could only get home to our welcome bed, We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode, That a taste of his tragic genius he owed To our cousins far over the billow. Even there, though his fame before has gone; But little he'll reck, if they let him act on But half the heavy play was o'er When we seized the chance for retiring, Sadly we thought as we went away, 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 witnessed before condemning the actor. THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, “QUEEN." We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul And we knew by the distant and random growl That the foe was sullenly sneering. Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled (That Lowe's a most impudent monkey); For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said By the lips of some courtly flunkey. 'Twas fondly imagined a title of might, But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight, The Figaro, April 8, 1876. One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that Empress was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more constitutional, title of Queen. The lapse of but a few years has shown how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed. 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, The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night, 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 fled 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 dreadful Water, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, In our places and wouldn't refuse us. 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. NOT a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound, He'd come before to a parlous pass, Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour; It killed and buried him sitting there, 'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare, With the footlights brightly burning. His wired gardenia graced his breast, As he sat there sucking his stick with zest, A deep red groove in his puffy throat, 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. No thought worth thinking was in his breast, But few and short were the leers he gave The chaff of Purnand swept o'er him. And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick, They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death, That they next morning, with feverish breath, That their faith in the curried egg might go, Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low, They felt that the power to attention gain And that public contempt would let them remain 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. And they buried them there, where they first were born, In the mashing garbs that they long had worn- Blithely and gaily they laid them down, 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. NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR. (An old story by an Old Bachelor.} (With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's clothing.) I. He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, II. He tried to banish her face from his sight, III. But who'd have thought-ah, even guessedThat after she had caught and bound him; It was to be but a flirting jest, An impartia! joke to sound him. IV. Few and short were the words he had said, V. What was he to do? should he hate her instead? Or wiping away the tears he had shed, VI. Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens; Only to find his poor heart torn By devotion, which her hard heart hardens. VII. L'ENVOI. The moral of this I hope you won't shun, VIII. Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, And as I don't mean to alter my tone, I drink to all flirts "con amore." From Cribblings from the Pocts (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883. |