THOMAS Hood (continued).

THE SONG OF THE LINES.
With Gradus dirty and worn,

With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode

For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,

'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and lines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord

He sang the Song of the Lines.
Wait, wait, wait,

When the bell is ringing aloof,
And wait, wait, wait,

When we leave our Grinder's roof,
And it's oh to be a Jib

In the Godless College of Cork,
Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize,

If this be Christian's work.
Oh, Fellows with pupils dear,

Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons,
It is not paper you're tearing up,

But Senior Freshman's Duns,
For the Duns are growing rude,

Because of the Bills I owe,
Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude,

Jude and Kinsley and Roe.
Wait, wait, wait,

Till term after term fulfils,
And wait, wait, wait,

As minors wait for wills,
Week after week in vain

We've looked at the College gate,
For how many days? I would hardly fear

To speak of ninety-eight.
With Gradus dirty and worn,

With heavy and weary eyes,
A Freshman sat who had written an ode

For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,

'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord,
(Would that its tones could reach the Board),
He sang the Song of the Lines.

C. P. MULVANY. Kottabos, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

It's oh ! to be a beast,

Without a soul to save,
With no fear to stay the drunken feast,

And no Hell beyond the grave.
Brandy, and gin, and rum,

Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wild delirium come,

And we rave in the pit of sin.
Oh ! men with children dear,

Oh! men with starving wives,
It is not gin you are drinking there,

But your wives and children's lives.
Drink, drink, drink,

Let them all be ragged and bare, Drink, drink, drink,

Is the drunkard's only care. Drink, drink, drink,

Our guzzling never flags, And our wages go, and our homes are woe,

And our children skulk in rags.
Forced by day to starve or steal,

By night a Noor their bed,
And all their life is a life of vice,

And where are they when dead ?
Drink, drink, drink,

Let us fight and curse and swear, Drink, drink, drink,

'Till our breath pollute the air. Brandy, and gin, and rum,

Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wasted frame and fever come,

And the sorrows of Hell begin. Drink, drink, drink,

'Till staggering home we go, Drink, drink, drink,

'Till we blast that home with woe. Drink, curses, murder, and shame,

Make up the drunkard's life, With the rags and vice of a starving child,

And the groans of a sickly wife. With body shrivelled and worn,

With eyeballs glaring and red, A savage man in plight forlorn,

Lay, raving loud on his bed. Drink, drink, drink,

In racking fever and pain, And still he raved of his murderous drink,

'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in The Catholic Herald (Jersey), about forty years ago :

THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.
With body shrivelled and worn,

With eyeballs bloodshot and red,
A man in plight forlorn,

Lay moaning sore in bed.
Drink, drink, drink,

In poverty, fever, and pain,
And still he sang of his favourite drink

Mid the whirlings of his brain.
Drink, drink, drink,

Oh! there's nothing like Crink for man,
Drink, drink, drink,

Till the head reel round again.

A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season :

The Song of “THE PRICKLY HEAT."

I.
With fingers never at rest,

With cuticle measly red,
A heat-oppress'd victim capered about,

Itching from ankles to head

Scratch, scratch, scratchAt a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch Thus sang he of“ Prickly Heat.”

II. “ Itch, itch, itch, Till my brain begins to swim,

And scratch, scratch, scratch, Till I bleed in every limb.

Thighs, and body, and arms, Back, and body, and thighs,

Till weary with scratching I fall asleep, And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes.

III.
“Oh! white men banished here !

Oh! men all greedy of wealth !
It is not money your sweating out,
But your precious, precious health !

Itch, itch, itch,
Through years of monotonous rack,

Sowing at once with a double seed,
Disease as well as a Lakh !

Though goulard water might ease my pain

The antidote I dread,
An idle day might affect my pay,
And physic claims a bed.”

IX.
With fingers never at rest,

With cuticle measly red,
A heat-oppress'd victim capered about,
Itching from ankles to head.

Scratch, scratch, scratch,
At a rate sew North-Britons could beat,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch (Would that its tone could cure the itch !) Thus sang he of “ The Prickly Heat.”

The Calcutta Englishman, 1859.

There was another parody of Hood's Song of the Shirt, written by Mr. Clement Scott, entitled The Song of the Clerk. The Editor of this col. lection would be glad to know when, and in what work it appeared.

ABOUT THE WEATHER.

(4 Fragment). I remember, I remember,

Ere my childhood fitted by,
It was cold then in Lecember,

And was warmer in July.
In the winter there were freezings-

In the summer there were thaws;
But the weather isn't now at all
Like what it used to was !

The Man in the Moon, Vol. 5.

IV. “They say it is not disease,

This villanous pimply glow, If not disease's tangible shape,

'Tis deuced like it though,

'Tis deuced like it though, If healthy skins are pale.

Oh, God! that suns should be so strong And flesh and blood so frail.

V.
“Scratch, scratch, scratch,

My labour never flags;
And what are its wages ?-a carcass raw

Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags,
This tortured head, and this body fayed,

Dyspepsia and gloom alway, And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank Who drones me through the day.

VI. “ Itch, itch, itch,

When good dinners glad the sight, And scratch, scratch, scratch,

When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite,
When under silver roofs

Rich viands my servants bring,
As if to show me their dainty shapes,
And twit me for lingering.

VII.
“Oh ! but to breathe the breath

of the cowslip and primrose sweet, Where the sky above one's head

Is not of this melting heat ; For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel Before I knew Calcutta's suns Flay men as men the eel.

VIII.
“Oh! but for one short hour

A respite just to snatch !
No blessed leisure for love or lark-

But only time to scratch.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of.school : There were some that ran and some that leapt,

Like troutlets in a pool.

That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,

Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS IIoon.

THE FALL OF THE EMINENT I. 'Twas in the prime of autumn time, An evening calm and cool, And full two thousand cockneys went To see him play the fool ;-And the critics filled the stalls as thick As the balls ir, a billiard pool.

Away they sped when the play was done,
Scarce knowing what to say ;
So they passed the butter boat around
In the simple, usual way.
Smoothly ran their glowing prose
In the daily press next day.
The Eminent I. they raved about
Till their gush to columns ran;
Condoning a fiasco great,
As friendly critics can ;
And he still strutteil on the stage,
An over-rated man.
He wore pink tights-his vest apart,
To clutch bis manly chest ;
And he went at the knees in his old, old way,
Whilst his brow he madly prest.
So he whisper'd and roare I, and gasp'd and groan’d,
As with dyspepsia possest.
Act after act he ranted through,
And he strode for many a mile,
Till some were fain to leave the house,
Too weary even to smile ;
For acting the murderer's part so oft
Had somewhat marred his style.
But he took six more hasty strides
Across the stage again-
Six hasty strides, then doubled up,
As smit with searching pain ;
As though to say, " See me create
The conscience-stricken Thane !"

When Mr. Henry Irving produced The Iron Chest, at the Lyceum Theatre, the Editor of The World offered two prizes for the best two parodies on the subject, the model chosen being Hood's Dream of Eugene Aram. The successful parodies were printed in The IVorld, October 22, 1879:-

FIRST PRIZE.
'Twas in the Strand, a great demand

For seats was quite the rule ;
The pit and gallery were crammed,

The stalls and boxes full.
One man remained who could not find

A solitary stool.
From gods to stall, he paced them all,

Unable to find rest;
A burning thought was in his heart,

Beneath his spotless breast.
He'd eaten pork, and knew full well

Pork he could not digest.
With hollow sound the curtain rose,

And then he found a place,
Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see

The great tragedian's face —
He was so prest, for the Iron Chest

He hadn't any space.
He saw how Irving walked the stage

With ill-dissembled care,
To keep the limelight on his brows

And on his flowing hair,
While all the rest were in the dark-

You only heard them there.
His voice was hollow as the grave,

Or like an eagle's scream-
Murderers, you know, talk always so --

His eyes like theirs did gleam-
He'd done this sort of thing before.

But then 'twas in a dream.
He showed how murderers start and gasp

When conscience pricks them sore ;
He dragged his shirt-front out by yards,

And strewed it on the floor ;
He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast-

He'd done it all before.
If anybody mentioned death

Or foul assassination,
He started up and groaned or shrieked

With obvious perturbation.
'Twas very strange this sudden change

Provoked no observation.
And when at last four acts were past

Of stares and glares and guggles,
And in the chest they found the knife

Which he so neatly smuggles' 'Twas ecstacy to see him die

Of aggravated struggles.

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns took he
Now up the stage, now down the stage,
And now beside Miss B. ;
And, looking off, he saw her ma,
As she read in the R. U. E.

“Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read ?". Ask'd he, with top-lip curving.

Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills, Or something more deserving ?" Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, “It is · The Fall of Irving !'” “ His fall !" gasped he, “in sooth you jest ! O, prithee say what mean ye? Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, And speak of his style as Kean-y? On the modern stage he stands alone.” She murmur'd one word—“ Salvini !" “ Avaunt !” he cried ; "that name again! Its mention ne'er will cease ; Does he still dare my throne to share, And threaten my fame's short lease?" But here the call-boy came to say, That his absence stopped the piece.

Q.

One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep
Had still’d the City's heart,
Two bill.stickers set out with paste
And play-bills in a cart,
And the Eminent I. had his name on them,
In a melodramatic part.

The Figaro, October 9, 1875.

SECOND PRIZE. The sky was clear ; no ripple marked

The course of silver Tyne;
And all was still, save for the bells

On the necks of the grazing kine.
On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked,

Last of an ancient line.

a

His face was fair, but it did not wear

The sign of a soul at rest ;
Anon a shudder shook his frame,

A sigh broke from his breast;
He seemed as seems a man by some

O'ermastering woe oppressed.
“And yet among thy peers is known

Than thine no prouder name,
And wealth is thine and friendship’s joy,

A scutcheon void of blame;
All this is thine, Sir Edward ; why

Thus bow thy head in shame? “Men call thee good, they know thee kind

Yet more, if aught beside
There lacks thy happiness to crown,

Thou hast a peerless bride ;
Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head ?"

A mocking demon cried, “Hell-hound ! and art thou here to taunt

My last-Yet 'tis thy meed : 'Twas thou that in this fevered breast

Wrath and revenge didst feed, Till-woe unutterable !-I

Wrought the accursèd deed.
“ 'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt,

I learnt this lying art ;
O God, that I - that I could stoop

To play this loathly part !
O God, that with a face so calm

I cloak so black a heart !

“If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain !

But, 'fore I tell thee, swear-
And he swore and he swore and he swore again,

Till on end arose our hair ;
And I couldn't help thinking what sines he'd have paid

If there'd been a magistrate there.
And that very night, when a somnolent snooze

Was exciting the murderer's nose,
Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away

In a scanty assortment of clothes ;
And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk,

As we do when our “general ” goes.
And there he hid a fork and spoon

In a most ingenious way,
And a ring or so and a deed or two,

And Wilford was tried next day ;
But the KNIFE had slipped in, and-ha, ha !--'twas found !

Yet the end is gained and the secret sure :

They shall lay the tortured clod
Of this vile clay in the open day

With honour beneath the sod.”
That night 'twas known that a felon's soul
Had gone to meet its God.

PORTIONISTA.

The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell in The Thread of Life. This poem (the last in Puck on Pegasus) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts can give but a faint idea :

The following was also published :'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit

(And, O, that pit was hot)
That several hundred folks did sit,

And I amongst the lot ;
And some drank ale and some drank stout,

From mug or pewter.pot.
We watched the jovial robber-crew,

The merry poaching clan,
Chasing the sportive deer about

As only robbers can ;
While the keeper kept himself at home,

A conscience-stricken man.
His hair was long and his dress was dark,

And he strode with Irving's stride ;
A crime unconfessed he hid

in the chest Kept ever by his side ; Much painting had made him very pale

And wan and hollow-eyed. And he saw his secretarial clerk,

One Wilford (Norman Forbes), Go prying about in the ancient room

Hung round with family daubs ; And he “ went" forthwith for that timid clerk,

Whose name was Norman Forbes,

LIFE! What depths of mystery wide
In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride,
That mingle in Tribulations tide,

To quench the spark – VITALITY !
What chords of Love and “bands” of Hope
Were “made strong" (without the use of rope)

In the thread - INDIVIDUALITY.
LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes
The Alchemy of ExisTENCE knows;
What “weals within wheels” (and woes without woahs !)

Give sophistry a handle ;
Though Hiare himself could be dipped in the well
Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,
It would throw no more light on the vital spell
Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,

Or the dip-a ha'penny candle.