"The Eagle," of each of which there are some excellent parodies. The old legend of Lady Godiva has recently been sadly vulgarised by the processions at Coventry, and the following poem describes the scene in which a somewhat prominent actress stooped to sustain the part of the Lady Godiva. THE MODERN LADY GODIVA. I journeyed by the train to Coventry; I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge, NOT even were it to remove a tax Could a Godiva ride abroad to-day As she rode forth a thousand summers back: Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her And she-for eggs and toast had made her bold-"Ay, that will I ! ' Then he: "Tis well!" and went And whistled as he walked. She, left alone, When the effect of eggs and toast had gone, And on it was a placard calling all Then knew she that undressing time had come, So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs, Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness, And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow, : BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 'BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me." "O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!" "And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! " "Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me," And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter, Who gets a fresh order each day; Who are in the said china-man's pay. And my stately vases go To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed. Break, break, break! At the foot of thy stairs in glee; But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed Will never come back to me. E. B. IWAN-MULLER. The Shotover Papers. Oxford, 1875. ACHE! ACHE! ACHE! ACHE! ache! ache! In my throbbing jaw, O tooth! And I would that my tongue could utter How he shouts with his sister at play; How he howls in the street all the day, And the terrible ache will go on Till the dentist's chair I fill, But oh! what a wrench by that savoury hand Ere this jumping nerve is still. THE BATHER'S DIRGE. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! And I hope that my tongue won't utter O well for the fisherman's boy, If he likes to be soused with the spray! O well for the sailor lad, As he paddles about in the bay! And the ships swim happily on To their haven under the hill: But O, for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, And a kick-for I'm catching a chill! Break, break, break, At my poor bare feet, O Sea! But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes Will never come back to me. From Funny Folks, 1879. The two following are taken from Punch: THE MUSICAL PITCH. BREAK, break, break, O voice!-let me urge thy plea ! O lower the Pitch, lest utter Despair be the end of me! 'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, The bassoon to grunt in its play: 'Twere well had I lungs of brass, Or that nothing but s rings gave way! Break, break, break, O voice! I must urge thy plea, For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G! TENNYSON AT BILLINGSgate. (Apropos of the Ring of Wholesale Fish Dealers.) TAKE! Take! Take! O grabber of swag from the sea, That he toils for a trifle all day, But it's O for the number of poor men's lives Take! Take! Take! Oh grabber of swag from the sea, But you'll render a reckoning one of these days To the Public and Mr. P. It In June, 1882, the Editor of The Weekly Dispatch awarded a prize of Two Guineas to M. Percivale, for a parody on Locksley Hall. appears to allude to Mr. Oscar Wilde, who had recently published a volume of poems. COUSINS, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excei ; Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at luncheon bell!" 'Tis the place (but rather older)-I was in my eighteenth year, When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear! How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me; Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D-? * As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town; How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down! How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner! Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner. Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and I go. BACCHANALIAN DREAMINGS. CRONIES leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend, Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend, 'Tis the place I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part; Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart. This old house is situated in a street well-known as High ; Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky. Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering care, Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair. In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know, Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius flow. Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine. For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway, Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay. Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold, I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold. Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore, Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore. Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell, Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear, If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer. White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine, And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine. In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold. From The Modern Athenian, 18th March, 1876. BLIGHT. JOHNSON, mix another tumbler; Johnson, light a fresh cigar, Don't be off to the Casino, but be happy where you are. Listen, Johnson, taking warning from my spirit-crushing tale, Taking, too, your muddy bluchers from that fender's polish'd rail. Proudly stands the house of Vivian Grey the Younger, Grosvenor Gate; Six doors off there lived a lady, and her christian name was Kate. Oh, the bright and fresh young morning; oh, the upward springing lark, Oh! the getting up at seven, to take a ramble in the Park. Cursed be the loud alarum, fixed at random over night, When one talks of early rising in a style absurdly light! Cursed be the maid who calls you-brings hot water to your door, Waking you at five because the sweeps have waked herself at four ! Did I lay that gravel walk down, did I plant those elms and oaks, Did I set those snug alcoves like traps for catching single folks? Many a morning did I meet her-I was always reading Locke, While she sat and gleaned a lighter mental food from Paul de Kock. Wherefore came a ribald urchin, in unseemly corderoy, Creeping near her, unsuspected, then uncouthly bawling, "Hoy!" Wherefore turned she pale and fainted, nearly falling from her seat? Wherefore howled he at the whopping which I tendered for his feat? Then I said, "O Miss. or Madame, you look white as any paper; Trust me, lady, he'll think twice before he dares encore that caper." Then the ice was broken, Johnson,-broken, Johnson, in a trice; Would my neck, before that day, had shared the fortune of the ice! Many a morning did I meet her, never more I brought my Locke, Never more she studied morals at the feet of Paul de Kock. But we sat and spake at first of divers inoffensive things, Opera music, Vernon pictures, Popes, and cattle-shows, and Kings. Then came on to closer matters, sympathy, and kindred thought, (Johnson, rogue, you understand it, though you know you didn't ought.) Finally with hands ingrappled, and with faces in a flame, Changed we vows, and other trifles, inexpedient to name. O my Kate! False hearted Kitty! Katty mia, most unkind; Kit-cats have but half a body, thou had'st only half a mind: Half a mind to share my lodgings (Brompton breezes gently fan 'em), Share my joys, and share my sorrows, and my £90 per annum. Is it well to wish thee happy, having known me, to recline On a heart whose owner's income's several times as large as mine? Thou hast been and gone and done it, thou hast wedded Herbert Brooks; Yesterday you spelt together one of Verrey's* indexed books. Yes, I saw you, as you entered. I was standing in the rainVerrey's room (I owe him something) never sees my face again. Ha! thy lord will treat thee often to a trip to Hampton Court, Or to dine at Waytes's, Gravesend, ere the days become too short. Go with him-it is thy duty; I had never done it, ha! Ninety pounds a year opposes to excursionists a bar. He will talk without a 16 purpose," easy things to understand; I had spoke high art into thee, Kant, and Goethe, and Merry farces he delights in, and will take his wife to see 'em One day thou wilt have a baby-well, 'twill serve thee very right; But beware, and don't baptise it Peter Nicodemus Blight. Johnson, you've had too much brandy, and my clock is rather slow; Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose For fine effect of light and shade, and placed O British Public, hearken ere I die! I heard great Heré. She to Paris made To all most welcome, seeing men in power O British Public harken ere I die! Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power Is a base burden) but to hold as law And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris, O British Public, many-headed Public, O British Public, harken ere I die. She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear, As she withdrew from forth the studio door, From Punch. December, 1879. There still remain to be quoted some amusing parodies of Tennyson's early poems, the first in order being Mariana. THE BOW STREET GRANGE. By Alfred Tennyson. WITH blackest mud, the locked-up sots Were splashed and covered, one and all. And rusty nails, and callous knots, Stuck from the bench against the wall. The wooden bed felt hard and strange; Lost was the key that oped the latch ; To light his pipe he had no match, Within the Bow Street station's range. He only said, "It's very dreary ;" The rain fell like a sluice that even; His Clarence boots could not be dried, But had been soaked since half-past sevenTo get them off in vain he tried. After the smashing of his hat, Just as the new police came by, He thought, I've been a precious flat. He only said, "The cell is dreary ;" Upon the middle of the night, Waking, he heard a stunning row; He only said, "The cell is dreary;" All night within that gloomy cell The keys within the padlock creaked; The tipsy 'gents' bawled out as well, And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked. Policemen slyly prowled about; Their faces glimmered through the door, But brought not, though he did implore, One humble glass of cold without. He only said, "The night is dreary;" At morn, the noise of boys aloof, Of cads upon the busses' roof, To Poplar bound, too much by half Did prove; but most he loathed the hour Then said he, "This is very dreary ;" :0: In 1855, Messrs. George Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled Mirth and Metre, which contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreäna, after The Ballad of Oriana; and another called Vauxhall, which imitated Locksley Hall. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, (the author of Lewis Arundel, Frank Fairlegh, and several other well-known novels,) who died in May, 1864. THE BALLAD OF BOREANA. I sit and curse my hapless fate, Boreana, |