Slike strani

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;

"Are men what they seem?

Or is witchcraft about?"

For quickly the corpse of St. Denys
Rose up, and began to walk out!

He took up his head,

Tuck'd it under his arm,
And the same, it is said,

Caused surprise and alarm;

Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd

As if by some magical charm.

Cut down to his neck,

Like a flower to its stalk,

The Saint met a check

When he first tried to walk:

But soon he felt stronger than Weston

Or Webb-by a very long chalk.

And angels, we're told,

Led his footsteps along;
While heavenwards rolled
Their chorus of song ;

They led him two leagues from the city,
To see that he didn't go wrong.

I hope you'll believe

That this story is fact,
For I scorn to deceive,

And refuse to retract;

For truth I've a great reputation,
And wish to preserve it intact.

Which is why I observe

And my statement is true-
That for ways that unnerve,

And for deeds that out-do,

St. Denys of France was peculiar,

And the same I have proved unto you.

Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.) London, 1882.


(Flain Language from Artless Ahmed, Istamboul.) AIR-"That Heathen Chinee,"

SULTAN sings

I-aside-may remark,

And I mean to speak plain,—
That for games that are dark,

Masked by manners urbane,

That Infidel Earl licks me hollow-
And I am no novice inane.

DUFFER-IN is his name,

But I'm bound to deny,

In regard to the same,

What that name might imply.

Though his smile is so pleasant and placid, A Sheitan there lurks in each eye.

Istamboul was the spot

Where we played, and you'd guess That the Giaour got it hot

Found himself in a mess.

Yet he played it on me, did that Giaour, In a way that was loathsome-no less. We sat down to the game,

DUFFER-IN took a hand;

I felt sure that the same

He could not understand;

But he smiled as he sat at the table
With the smile that was placid and bland.

My cards were well stocked,

As no doubt you'll believe,—
And I felt-don't be shocked !—

I'd "a bit up my


For when playing with sons of burnt fathers
Our duty's to dupe and deceive.

But the hands which were played

By that dog DUFFER-IN,
And the tricks that he made,

Were a shame, and a sin,

Till at last I was "bested" completely,
And the Giaour scored a palpable win.

Then I felt that my guile

Was but simple and slight,
And he rose, with a smile,

And he said, "That's all right!

Think I'll take the next turn with dear TEWFIK !"

And he started for Cairo that night.

In the little game there

I may not take a hand ;
But, my TEWFIK, beware!

He is gentle and bland,

Yet he'll probably give you a hiding,--
Few games that he'll not understand.

Be the game short or long,

He's ne'er flurried nor stuck.
His lead is so strong,

He has Sheitan's own luck;

And you'll find in this goose-as I thought himWhat occurs to geese—sometimes—that's “pluck.”

Which is why I remark,

Though I own it with pain,
That for games that are dark,
Masked by manners urbane,

That Infidel Earl licks me hollow,
And I don't want to play him again!

Punch, November 11, 1882.


Do I sleep? do I dream?
Do I wander and doubt?
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?

Is our civilisation a failure?
Or is the Caucasian played out?


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Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd
The fact that his genius was great.

Then 'twas said with one breath
Perfection was he,

From the "Belis " to "Macbeth"
He was as good as could be-

He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd-
Like a melodramatic J. C.

And all London went wild

O'er this Eminent I.,

Save a party that smiled,

And thought it good fun;

But as for the late William Shakespeare,

He never had had such a run.

And the public fell down

As though in a trance;

And the West-End of town

Booked their stalls in advance;

Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises,
His triumph to further enhance.

And the management, gaily,
Its hand on its heart,

Did advertise, daily,

Its love of high art;

Whilst FIGARO Smiled somewhat drily,

And murmured, "O here's a droll start !"

But at last came a night

'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 :

Of a mop-stem on feet

In one weekly I read

With its arms like a pair of pump-handles,
And the mop dipped in ink for the head.

And another remarked

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;

But on every hand

I read with amaze,

That the Eminent I. got a

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Not frequently giv'n in these days.

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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 Fudy. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor :—


IT war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
They know'd him on Poker Flat ;

He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,

But no one complained o' that.

He scored his stiffs on the heft of his knife

Forty I've heern 'em say;

It might have been more-Bob kept his accounts

In a loosish sorter way.

Bob warn't a angel ter look at,

And the Bible it warn't his book;

He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,

Or blarmedly I am mistook;

But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,

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.

And you can't say fair as drinking

War counted among his sins;
For at nary a sittin' would he put down
More nor fifteen whisky skins.
But one day we was drinkin' and jawin',
Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow,
So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear.

Then Haggarty went for him savage,
Instead of a-holding his jor;
And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife,
And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob,
And shot Joe Harris instead ;

And I take it the bar floor got at last
'Bout knee-deep in red.

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But when the fun was over in there,

Bob ran a-muck in the street;

And he speared and potted each derned cuss
As he chanced to meet.

And quiet folks shut up their doors-
They thought it safer, you see-
All but a man with his wife and child,
That was settin' down to tea.

Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
To that father and mother's surprise :
Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took
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 soft! They say the angels
That night smole down on Bob ;
And a sorter radiant halo

Gleamed brightly round his nob.
I can't swear to all this for certam,
And it do seem a queerish start;
But I won't set by and hear none o' you say
Bob hadn't a tender heart!

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SCARCE a sound was heard, not a word was spoke,
As a van down the back way they hurried;
For some tenants were bolting, not paying their rent,
And looking confoundedly flurried.

They'd packed up in silence at dead of night,
And, having no thought of returning,

Had nailed up the shutters to keep in the light
Of the paraffin-lamp left 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)
At the door for his money inquiring.

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Loudly they'll talk of the tenants now gone,
And the landlords will say they were rum 'uns;
But little they'll care if he lets them alone,
And don't find them out with a summons.


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.


Stanzas of 1846-7.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a topical joke,
As its corpse to oblivion we hurried,

Not a paper a word in its favour spoke

On the pantomime going to be buried.

We buried it after the Boxing night,

The folks from our galleries turning,

For we knew that it scarcely would pay for the light

Of the star in the last act burning.

No useless play-bill put forth a puff,

How splendid the public had found it.

But it lay like a piece that had been call'd " Stuff," With a very wet blanket round it.

Stoutly and long all the audience hiss'd,

When they found neither sense nor reason;

But we steadfastly dwelt on the points we had miss'd
And we bitterly thought of next season.

We thought, when we felt it was really dead,
As we pass'd old Covent Garden,

That Opera and Ballet would take up its place,
And we not be worth half a farden.

Loudly old gentlemen still will prate,

As they always do, of past actors;

But we know that poor Mathews' and Howell's fate Was as bad as a malefactors.

Slowly and sadly we laid it down,

For we knew that we couldn't make bad well, And we felt that the prestige was vanish'd at last, But we drank to the health of poor Bradwell. The Man in the Moon, Volume 1.

We buried him, sadly, one Friday night,

For our hopes were gone past returning; And the manager's pangs were a moving sight, By the foot-lights dimly burning.

All bare and exposed to the critics lash,

On that luckless stage we found him

On that stage where he deemed he should cut such a dash,
With armour and mobs around him.

Few were the words which the manager said,
To soothe the tragedian's sorrow;

But they glared at each other with looks which made
Us hope they would fight on the morrow.

They doubtless thought, though their tongues they held,
That of all the dreadful messes,

A sadder than Philip Van Artevelde,

Had never disgraced the Princess's.
Loudly the manager told what he spent-

And he said that Macready had made him -
Ah! little attention the "Eminent " paid,
But coolly let Maddox upbraid him.
But now was our dreary duty done—
Our sleep-moving drama retiring,
From the distant jeer and the cutting pun,
Which the foe were constantly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid it down

That a poem, which is famed in story,
Be it writ in a book, be it carved on a stone,
Should be left there alone in its glory.

The Man in the Moon, Volume 3.


(A Parody apropos to present circumstances, August, 1884.)
NOT a joke was heard, not a troublesome vote,
As the bills into limbo they hurried;
Not e'en INGLIS discharged a farewell shot,
O'er the grave where the Jew-Bill was buried.
They buried them darkly at dead of night,
For bed all the members yearning;
With the aid of the Speaker to keep them right,
And GREEN's parliamentary learning.
No vain discussion their life supprest,

Nor did truth nor talk confound them;
They passed a few, and as for the rest,
They burked them just as they found them.
For most of the Session's task was done,

The supplies marked the hour for retiring;
And as August drew near, each son of a gun,
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;

They shed not a tear, and they heaved not a groan,
But they burked them alike, Whig and Tory!
Punch, 1850.


NOT a house was drawn-not a five-pound-noteSo his run to its closing we hurried;

Not a listener could follow his hazy plot,

So the dreary abortion we buried.


Nor a cackle was heard, or matitudinal crow,
As the cask to the orchard they barrowed;

And gently and tenderly laid him below,
Where some ground had been recently harrowed.

The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair cheek,
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,
Then covered him up with a hurdle or two
To balk the sly foxes' intentions.

Then slowly and sadly they turned them away,
With their hearts overladen with sorrow:
Said Emma, "Bedad! he is safe for to-day.'
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 through a gap in the pailing.

And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads,
And said, "Since for advice you must ask us,"
Don't bury your casks in your strawberry beds,
Lest men take them by Habeas Caskus!"


(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.)

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.


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 contributions 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

lowed in this further collection, and the parodies will illustrate Mariana; Circumstance; The Palace of Art; Riflemen Form; Lady Clara Vere de Vere; The May Queen; The Dream of Fair Women; "You Ask Me Why;" "Of Old sat Freedom;" Tithonus; Locksley Hall; Lady Godiva; The Lord of Burleigh; The Voyage; Enoch Arden; The Brook; The Princess; Alexandra; In Memoriam; Maud; Hands All Round; and the Idyls of the King.

With kindest friends, each private box
Was thickly peopled one and all;
The busy tongues fell at the knocks
The prompter gave against the wall.
The grand tiers' heads look'd old and strange,
Unresting was box-keeper's key,

For those who something came to see,
Within the dismal five-acts' range.

She only said, "It readeth dreary;
No pathos and no fun."

She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
Before it hath begun.

Her yawns came with the first act even;

Her yawns came ere the third was tried.
She had been listening from seven,

With nought to praise, nor to deride,
After the friends forgot to clap,

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Which very soon they ceased to do, She drew the box's curtains too, And thought, "I'll take a little nap.' She only said, "The play is dreary; No pathos, and no fun,' She only said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that it were done."

The hazy nature of the plot;

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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
To pieces of the present hour.

Then said she, "This is very dreary!
This must not be," she said;
"Sooner than feel again so weary,

I'd go right home to bed."

The Man in the Moon, Volume 2, 1848.


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;
The bluebottle about him flits,

That ate the peach on the garden wall.
No Times nor Punch, 'tis very strange;
Unlifted is the iron latch;

Of papers he's without the batch

That gives his days their only change.

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