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THOMAS HOOD (continued).


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 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.

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


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 drink for man,

Drink, drink, drink,

Till the head reel round again.

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 floor 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.

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 :



With fingers never at rest,

With cuticle measly red,

A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head

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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 strutted on the stage,

An over-rated man.

He wore pink tights-his vest apart,

To clutch his manly chest ;

And he went at the knees in his old, old way,

Whilst his brow he madly prest.

So he whisper'd and roared, 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 !"

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.

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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 World, October 22, 1879:-


'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.


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.


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 accursed 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!

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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.

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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 :

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 Hare 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.

Into being we come, in ones and twos,
To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse,
Each destined to stand in another's shoes

To whose heels we may come the nighest ;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this-in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.

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