A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER.

Nor a mute one word at the funeral spoke
Till away to the pot-house we hurried,
Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke
O'er the grave where our "party" we buried.

We buried him dearly with vain display,
Two hundred per cent. returning,
Which we made the struggling orphans pay,
All consideration spurning.

With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest,
Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him;

And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest,

With his empty pomp around him.

None at all were the prayers we said,

And we felt not the slightest sorrow,

But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead,

Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.

We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed

That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter.

So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head,

For our gin, and our pipes, and

our porter.

Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone,
Now all due respect has been paid him;
Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on
Near the spot where we fellows had laid him

As soon as our sable task was done,

Nor a moment we lost in retiring;
And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun,
Gin and water each jolly soul firing,
Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down,

Singing song, cracking joke, telling story;
And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town,
Riding outside the hearse in our glory.

Punch, January 5, 1850.

At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. Punch, both in his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the undertakers.

The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850.

In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a facsimile of the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author of the poem.

It runs thus:

"I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much :

In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp.

Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood.

Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of Fun.

Of Hood's poems the fourmost usually selected for parody and imitation are, The Song of the Shirt; The Bridge of Sighs; The Dream of Eugene Aram ; and a pretty little piece entitled I remember, I remember.

It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the mostearnest and pathetic of Hood's poemsshould first have appeared in Punch. The Song of the Shirt will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal.

This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and readymade clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time.

As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of The Song of the Shirt and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature.

TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST.

In clothes, both muddy and wet,
Without hat-left on the fell;

A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait,
Refreshment at this hotel.

He'd walked a long and weary way,

O'er mountain-top and moor ;

And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain, As he approached the door.

"I walk! walk! walk !

First climbing hills, and then down
Where the people are not to be seen,
Many miles from village or town.
Oh! haven't I been a dupe,
Pedestrian pleasure to seek,
When so quiet I might have stayed
At Redcar all the week."

"I walk! walk! walk!

With my boots fast breaking up,

And walk! walk! walk !

Without either bite or sup. Oh! that again I was at home,

To feel as I used to feel,

And not as now, in hunger and thirst,
With a doubly-blistered heel."

"I walk! walk! walk!

Up to the knee in bog,

And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!'
Surrounded by clouds and fog.
I walk! walk! walk!

Till my head begins to spin;
Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out
The stream I tumbled in."

"I walk! walk! walk!

With cheeks all swollen and red;

A nasty aching within my ears,
Rheumatics in my head.

I walk! walk! walk!

In trousers tattered and torn! With every thread from foot to head Quite soaked since early morn."

"The day is fast wearing out,
And so are my boots and I;
The sleet blows in my face,
As with the breeze I sigh.
Although white fog I'm in,
Yet 'tis a dark look out

For one who hither has come for a change,
And cannot change a clout."

"I walk! walk! walk!

And nothing can find to see;
While water and mud from out my boots

Is squirting up to each knee.
Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff,
But the waterfall, I admit,
Is good, for it's running down my back,
And I've no dry place to sit."

"I walk! walk! walk !

With my throat quite parched and dry;
No spirit to rouse my spirits up;
With pulse quite fevered and high.
I've a dropsy got outside,

Whilst inside there's a drought;
Oh! for a good warm draught within,
As a check to the draught without."

"Walk! walk! walk!

I'll never come here again :

My holiday shall be spent elsewhere,

Free from fatigue and pain.
Or I'll stay at home with my wife,
Where a dry shirt I can wear ;
And worn out with misfortune's strife,
And almost weary of his life,

He sank in the old arm chair.

JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A.

THE SONG OF THE SPURT.

WITH hands all blistered and worn,
With eyes excited and red,

A boating man sat, in jersey and bags,
Awaiting the signal with dread.
Tug! tug! tug !

Every bone in his body is hurt ;
And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug,
He sang the "Song of the Spurt !"

"Work! work! work!

Till I shiver in every limb;

Work! work! work!

Till the eyes begin to swim
Steam, bucket, and pant,
Pant, bucket, and steam,
Till over the oar I almost faint,
And row along in a dream."

"O, men, with sisters dear,

O, men, with pretty cousins,

I must mind and keep my form for the endThey'll be there on the barge by dozens ! Pull! pull! pull!

What is poverty, hunger, or dirt, Compared with the more than double dread Of catching a crab in the spurt !"

Bo

Body, and legs, and feet, Rubbing at once with a double rub,

A skin as well as a sheet.

"My wife will see me no more

She'll see the bone of her bone

But never will see the flesh of her flesh,

For I'll have no flesh of my own:

The little that was my own,

They won't allow me to keep,

It's a pity that flesh should be so dear, And water so very cheap.

"Pack, pack, pack,

Whenever your spirit flags, You're doomed by hydropathic laws To be packed in cold wet rags :

Up, up, up,

In the morn before daylight,
The bathman cries, "Get up,
(I wish he were up for a fight).
While underneath the eaves,

The dry, snug swallows cling,

But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,
And see if they'll come next spring.

"Oh! oh! it stops my breath,
(He calls it short and sweet),
Could they hear me underneath,
I'll shout them from the street!

He says that in half an hour

A different man I'll feel

That I'll jump half over the moon and want To walk into a meal.

II.

"I have rung at the 'Refuge' bell,

I have beat at the workhouse-door, To be told again that I clamour in vain, They are full-they can hold no more. Starve! starve! starve !

Of the crowds that pass me by,

Some with pity, and some in pride, But more with indifference turn aside,

And leave me here to die !

III.

"Oh! you that sleep in beds,

With coverlet, quilt, and sheet,

Oh think when it snows what it is for those

That lie in the open street :

That lie in the open street,

On the cold and frozen stones,

When the winter's blast, as it whistles past,

Bites into the very bones.

IV.

"Oh! what with the wind without,

And what with the cold within,

I own I have sought to drive away thought

With that curse of the tempted-gin.

Drink! drink! drink!

Amid ribaldry, gas, and glare.

If there's hell on earth,

'Tis the ghastly mirth

That maddens at midnight, there.

V.

"Oh you, that never have stray'd, Because you have not been tried,

Oh look not down with a Pharisee's frown On those that have swerv'd aside.

And you that hold the scales,

And you that glibly urge

That the only plan is the Prison van,

The Treadmill, or the Scourge.

VI.

"Oh, what are the lost to do?
To famish, and not to feel?
For days to go, and never to know

What it is to have one meal?
They cannot buy, they dare not beg,
They must either starve or steal.

"Food-food-food!

If it be but a loaf of bread,

And a place to lie

And a place to die,

If it be but a workhouse bed!

If you will not give to those that live,

You at least must bury the dead!"

THE SONG OF THE STUMP.

Stump-stump-stump

Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt; Stump-stump-stump

With a greasy mob fast to his skirt; Having changed his coat to secure their vote,

Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt.
And if he but ends as he does begin,
There is little doubt he will change his skin,

On the stump-stump-stump.

Stump-stump-stump

Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton, Whilst after him shout a rabble rout Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?"

Stump-stump-stump

With the aid of rhetorical steam, Till over his speeches we fall asleep,

And hear him stump in a dream ;

Stump-stump-stump

For ever upon our ear.

Alas! that principle's so cheap,

And office is so dear!

Stump-stump-stump.

The Tomahawk, November, 1868.

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

WITH bosom weary and worn,
With eyelids painted and red,
A lady, just from a Duchess's ball,
Sat on the side of her bed.

Her sapphires were gleaming and rich,
And faultless her lace and her skirt,
And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!

When the lunch is scarcely begun! Flirt, flirt, flirt !

Till the sickening supper is done

Ball and dinner, and rout,

Rout, and dinner, and ball,

Till I long for my bed to rest my head, And in a wakeless slumber to fall."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!

Till the room begins to swim;

Flirt, flirt, flirt,

Till the eyes are starting and dim! Beam, and falsehood, and frown,

Frown, and falsehood, and beam, Till over my lyings I fall asleep, And flirt my fan in a dream!"

"Flirt, flirt, flirt!

My labour never ends;

And what are its wages? all true men's scorn, And a dreary dearth of friends.

That shattered life-and this broken heart

And yon smile that shrines a sneer ;

And a house so blank, my cousin I thank

For sometimes calling here!"

"Oh! but to scent the breath

Of an honest man on my browTo feel the throb of a worthy arm Winding around me now;

For only one brief hour

To feel as the pure can feel,

To staunch with the power of hearty love
The wounds that refuse to heal!"

With bosom weary and worn,

With eyelids painted and red,

A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball,

Knelt by the side of her bed.

Her rubies were ruddy and rich,

And perfect her bodice and skirt

She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch,

And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon.

College Rhymes (T. Shrimpton and Son), Oxford, 1872.

THE SONG OF THE WIRE.

With finger cunning and firm,

With one eye and a crooked back,

An old man, clad in an old pair of bags,

Was carving a profile in black.

Snip! snip! snip!

Cold, wet, or whatever the day,

And still, with a voice of a ludicrous crack, He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

"Wire! wire! wire !

While men to their lectures fly,

And wire! wire! wire!

Where the Turl runs into the High!

It's O, to be the Vice,

Or a Prince in his cap and gown,

It's O, to be able to pay the price

To be stuck round my hat's old crown.

"Wire! wire! wire!

Till the nose begins to be clear ;

Wire! wire! wire!

Till the lips and the chin appear !

Hair and shoulder and brow,

Brow and shoulder and hair,

Till over the likeness I chuckle and wait

For a gent who's a moment to spare.

"O, men, with sisters dear!

O, men, with mothers to please!

It is not for them my portraits are bought,

But for dearer far than these !

Snip! snip! snip!

With a point as keen as a dart,
Carving at once a likeness to suit,
And a place in the loved one's heart.

"But why do I talk of her?

The fair one of unknown name,
I hardly think she could tell the face,
They all seem much the same-
They all seem much the same,

Because of the types I keep;

'Tis odd that faces should be so like, And yet I work them so cheap!

"Wire! wire! wire!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? a copper or two,
Which I lose through the holes in my bags,
A nod of the head, or a passing joke, -
A laugh, a freshman's stare, -

Or a gent so bland, when I ask him to stand
While I carve him his portrait there.

"Wire! wire! wire!

In the sound of S. Mary's chimes, Wire! wire! wire!

As specials wire to the Times!

Hair, and shoulder, and brow,

Brow, and shoulder, and hair,

Till the trick is done, and I pocket the coin, As I finish it off with care.

"Wire! wire! wire!

In the dull month of Novem

ber-wire! wire! wire,

When Oxford is bright with Commem. While under light parasols,

The pretty girls slily glance,

As if to show how nice they would look
If they'd only give me a chance.

"Oh! but to catch that face

Which health and beauty deck

That hat posed on her head,

And the curl that falls on her neck;

For only a minute or two

To sketch as I could when I tried

To take off the Vice as he passed one day,
And the Prince in my hat by his side.

"Oh! but for a minute or two!

A moment which soon will have gone !

No blessed second for fair or brunette,

Nor even to copy a don!

A little sketching would bring some brass,
But in its musty case,

My scissors must lie, for I have but one eye
With which to look out for a face!"

With finger cunning and firm,

With one eye and a crooked back,

An old man clad in an old pair of bags,

Was carving a profile in black.

Snip! snip! snip!

Cold, wet, or whatever the day,

And, still with a voice of a ludicrous crack, Would I could describe its cadaverous knack --

He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

ARTHUR-A-BLAND.

This parody appeared in The Shotover Paper's for May, 1874 (J. Vincent, High Street, Oxford), it will certainly appeal more to old Oxford men, from its allusions, than to the general reader.

THE SONG OF LOVE.

WITH bosom weary and sad,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A maiden sat, in maidenly grace,
Thinking o'er pleasures dead.
Sigh! sigh! sigh!

In misery, sorrow, and tears, She sang, in a voice of melody, The plaintive song of her fears.

Love! love! love!

Whilst the birds are waking from rest;

And love! love! love!

Till the sun sinks in the west;