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On the Saints, who had long
Withstood such attacks, The foe came out strong
With their tortures and racks. At last, by the Governor's order,
Their heads were cut off with an axe.
"Do we sleep? do we dream ?”
All the witnesses shout ;
Or is witchcralt about?"
Rose up, and began to walk out !
Tuck'd it under his arm,
Caused surprise and alarm ;
As if by some magical charm.
Like a flower to its stalk,
When he first tried to walk :
Or Webb-by a very long chalk.
Led his footsteps along ;
Their chorus of song ;
To see that he didn't go wrong.
That this story is fact,
And refuse to retract ;
And wish to preserve it intact.
And my statement is true-
And for deeds that out-do,
And the same I have proved unto you.
Istamboul was the spot
Where we played, and you'd guess
Found himself in a mess.
We sat down to the game,
DUFFER-IN took a hand;
He could not understand ;
My cards were well stocked,
As no doubt you'll believe, -
I'd "a bit up my sleeve.”
But the hands which were played
By that dog DUFFER-IN,
Were a shame, and a sin,
Then I felt that my guile
Was but simple and slight,
And he said, “ That's all right!
In the little game there
I may not take a hand;
He is gentle and bland,
Be the game short or long,
He's ne'er flurried nor stuck.
He has Sheitan's own luck ;
Which is why I remark,
Though I own it with pain,
Masked by manners urbane,
Punch, November 11, 1882.
FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.
Do I sleep ? do I dream ?
Do I wander and doubt?
Or is visions about ?
Or is the Caucasian played out ?
BRET HARTE. And, thought I, this is odd !
To turn round in this way :
Or, so they all say -
Which isn'ı to my mind, fair play.
Like this in a day :
In the same kind of way;
They praised in-well, “Hamlet,” I'll say.
And would wish to maintain,
And a voice that was pain-
The Figaro, March 4, 1876.
REMARKS ABOUT OTHELLO. Do I sleep? Do I dream?
Do I wonder and doubt?
Or is libels about?
Or is the tragedian played out ?
Yet I would but imply
To get a reply-
Or, leastways, they seem so to I.
I needn't relate;
He owed Colonel Bate-
The fact that his genius was great.
Perfection was he,
He was as good as could be-
Like a melodramatic J. C.
O'er this Eminent I.,
And thought it good fun ;
He never had had such a run.
As though in a trance ;
Booked their stalls in advance ;
His triumph to further enhance.
Its hand on its heart,
Its love of high art ;
And murmured, “O here's a droll start !"
'Twas “Othello” you'll guess ; And thought I (well I might),
" Ah! another success !" But the papers next morning-O pizen !
They upset this view, I confess. For I dare not repeat
The things that were said :-
In one weekly I read-
And the mop dipped in ink for the head.
That his voice wasn't clear, And the more the Moor barked,
The less he could hear; Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene,
To a curate whose dreams had been queer. Scarce a paper I scann'd
Had the old-fashioned praise ;
I read with amaze,
Not frequently giv'n in these days.
Galahad. “A superficial imitation is easy enough, but I shall certainly fail to reproduce his subtle wit and pathos." (Reads.) TRUTHFUL JAMES'S SONG OF THE SHIRT.
Which his name it was Sam ;
He had sluiced for a while
Till he got a good pile,
Two thousand or more,
For he seed it was ore
And, says he, it's a game
That's got but one stake ;
It'll bust me or make.
I've entered my pile,
I'll let soak for a while,
Tom Fakes was the chum,
Down in Frisco, of Sam ;
These here telegram :
Come down by the train !"
'Twas whistlin' quite plain,
He had no time to sarch,
But he grabbed up a shirt
And a coat with less dirt.
As the train shoved away,
And likewise was swep,'
All galliant and gay,
Seven minutes, to pass
Through the hole by the Flat !
If I can't shift in that !
Only three was enough, -
He was stripped to the buff
What else? Here's to you !
Which he sold of his feet
And the same I repeat :
They likes to divert,
Of Sam and his shirt,
Diversions of the Echo Club.
But when the fun was over in there,
Bob ran a-muck in the street ;
As he chanced to meet.
They thought it safer, you see-
That was settin' down to tea.
To that lather and mother's surprise :
The tother between the eyes. Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
Jist meanin' to knock out its brains ; But at that moment there reach'd his ear
Some long-forgotten strains.
Some soft and touching music this,
Music solemn and sweet, Played by a common organ-man
Down at the end of the street. And it went straight home to the digger's heart,
And he did not squelch the child, But lay it down in its little cot,
And rocked the same—and smiled ! Talk sost! They say the angels
That night smole down on Bob; And a sorter radiant halo
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
And it do seem a queerish start ;
Bob hadn't a tender heart !
The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of Fuiiy. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor :
THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH. It war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
They know'd him on Poker Flat ;
But no one complained o' that.
Forty I've heern 'em say ;
In a loosish sorter way.
And the Bible it warn't his book ;
Or blarmedly I am mistook ;
And he'd got a heart you could touch ; And he never draw'd iron** on boy or man
As didn't pervoke him much.
War counted among his sins ;
More nor fifteen whisky skins.
Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
So he just sliced off Haggarty's ear.
Instead of a holding his jor ;
And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
And shot Joe Harris instead ;
'Bout knee-deep in rel.
Since Part VII. appeared, containing the parodies on the above, a correspondent has kindly sent the following, which recently appeared in a Durham newspaper :
A MOONLIGHT FLIT.
As a van down the back way they hurried ;
And looking confoundedly furried.
And, having no thought of returning,
or the paraffin-lamp lett a-burning. But just as they'd got the loading done,
And with the last chair were retiring, They heard the butcher (that son of a gun)
Ai the door for his money inquiring. Sharp and short was the answer he got
They told him “ It gave them much sorrow; It wasn't convenient to settle just then,
But they'd certainly do so to-morrow."
From that snug little house of one storey,
And left it alone in its glory.
We buried him, sadly, one Friday night,
For our hopes were gone past returning ;
By the foot-lights dimly burning.
On that luckless stage we found him—
With armour and mobs around him.
To soothe the tragedian's sorrow;
Us hope they would fight on the morrow.
That of all the dreadful messes,
Had never disgraced the Princess's.
And he said that Macready had made him Ah! litile attention the “Eminent” said,
But coolly let Maddox upbraid him.
Our sleep-moving drama retiring,
Which the foe were constantly firing.
That a poem, which is famed in story,
The Man in the Moon, Volume
Two old parodies of the same original, on theatrical matters, may also, for the sake of completeness, be inserted here. They are both taken from The Man in the Moon, which was a small comic magazine, edited by the late Angus B. Reach, with many funny illustrations by Hine, Sala, and other humorous artists. The Man in the Moon was started in 1847, and five volumes in all were issued; its contents are now, of course, somewhat out of date, but there are some clever parodies which will be inserted in this collection-many of these parodies were, no doubt, from the facile pen of Albert Smith, who was one of the principal contributors to.the magazine.
THE BURIAL OF PANTOMIME.
Stanzas of 1846-7.
As its corpse to oblivion we hurried,
On the pantomime going to be buried.
The folks from our galleries turning,
Of the star in the last act burning.
How splendid the public had found it.
With a very wet blanket round it.
When they found neither sense nor reason ;
And we bitterly thought of next season.
As we pass’d old Covent Garden,
And we not be worth half a farden.
As they always do, of past actors ;
Was as bad as a malefactors.
For we knew that we couldn't make bad well,
The Man in the Moon, Volume 1.
THE BURIAL OF THE BILLS. (A Parody apropos to present circumstances, August, 1884.)
Not a joke was heard, not a troublesome vote,
As the bills into limbo they hurried ;
O’er the grave where the Jew-Bill was buried.
For bed all the members yearning ;
And GREEN's parliamentary learning,
Nor did truth nor talk confound them ;
They burked them just as they frund them.
The supplies marked the hour for retiring ;
At the grouse, in his dreams, was a-firing.
So they settled the Bills-other folks' and their own-
Never destined to figure in story;
THE BURIAL OF PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.
(Princess's Theatre). Not a house was drawn-not a five-pound-note
So his run to its closing we hurried ; Not a listener could follow his hazy plot,
So the dreary abortion we buried.
A TALE OF A TUB.
As the cask to the orchard they barrowed ;
Where some ground had been recently harrowed.
The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair check,
While Ned sobbed aloud in his fustian, And Marian's feelings forbade her to speak
For fear of spontaneous combustion. They gazed on his coat of cerulean blue,
And silently gauged his dimensions,
To balk the sly foxes' intentions.
With their hearts overladen with sorrow :
Said Ned, “We must tap him to-morrow." Alas! Ere the dawn of another to-day,
There only was weeping and wailing ; That beautiful tub had been carried away,
Or had leaked ihrough a gap in the pailing, And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads,
And said, “Since sor advice you must ask us,' Don't bury your casks in your strawberry beds, Lest men take them by Habeas Caskus!”
JOHN E. ALIEN. (The touching incident described in these affecting lines occurred to some friends who, for fear of an explosion, buried a cask of paraffine oil in their garden; a midnight robber despoiled them of their spirit, and they could not make light of it.)
lowed in this further collection, and the parodies
REVIVAL OF A DULL OLD FIVE-ACT PLAY,
Was thickly peopled one and all ;
The prompter gave against the wall.
Unresting was box-keeper's key,
She only said, “ It readeth dreary ;
No pathos and no fun."
Before it hath begun.
Her yawns came ere the third was tried.
With nought to praise, nor to deride,
Which very soon they ceased to do,
She drew the box's curtains too,
She only said, “ The play is dreary ;
No pathos, and no fun,"
I would that it were done.'
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Poet LAUREATE. The first four parts of this collection were devoted to parodies of the works of the Poet Laureate, a few examples being given of the imitations of each of his more important poems. Numerous subscribers have requested that the collection should be continued, so that the first volume might contain as nearly a complete set of parodies on Tennyson's works as it is possible to form. With this view many additional con. tributions have been sent in; whilst some that have quite recently appeared, and a few that were previously omitted as being too lengthy, will now be included. Independently of the amusing nature of many of the parodies still to be given, collectors of Tennysoniana will appreciate the completeness thus to be obtained, and it will be seen that very few of Tennyson's poems have escaped parody.
Although it may appear that the imitations now to be given will come somewhat out of order, no inconvenience will eventually result, as the index will show, in a tabulated form, under the head of each original poem every parody of it. The order adopted in the recent editions of the Laureate's poems will be fol
The hazy nature of the plot;
The box locks clicking; and the sound Which to the actors on the stage
The prompter made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the power
Which could get acted such a play,
When they would nothing have to say
very dreary !
THF EXILED LONDONER, Since I have been at this place I have lost as many as three copies of The Times in a week, while Punch was as regularly stolen as it was posted."— Times, January 10.
With black ennui the Exile sits,
Watching the rain-drops as they fall ;
That ate the peach on the garden wall.
Unlifted is the iron latch ;
That gives his days their only change.