At first he only said, "Oh deary! The post is late," he said; . "Of waiting I am rather weary, I would my Punch I'd read." About the middle of the day The postman's form its shadow cast, The door he sought with footsteps gay, The Times and Punch are here at last. Out with them; but 'tis very strange, The envelope is open torn'Tis but the Herald of the morn; His paper they have dared to change. He only said, "The Herald's dreary, Dreary, indeed," he said; "It's very look has made me weary; It never can be read." Upon some stones-a hillock small, He gazed till it was nearly dark, "While I for want of them am weary, They're elsewhere being read." And even when the moon was low, And the shrill winds a game did play, Blowing the sign-boards to and fro, As if 'twould blow them right away; He'd with the spider, as it climbs, Hold converse-asking if 'twould tell The weekly Punch and daily Times. All day within the dreamy house His shoes had in the passage creak'd ; Or listen'd at the open doors, To hear his footsteps tread the floors She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary! The crickets chirrup on the hearth, The slow clock ticking—and the sound Of rain upon the gravel path That hems the Exile's cottage round; Punch, January 22, 1848. LORD TOMNODDY IN THE FINAL SCHOOLS. WITH blackest ink the books around Were thickly blotted one and all; The very nails looked half unsound That held the pictures to the wall. The dismal scene was wrapped in gloom, Sported was the unsocial oak: Seedy and torn and thick with smoke The curtains hung athwart the room. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my head. Of Ethics I am very weary; I shall be ploughed," he said. His sighs came with the lightening heaven, He drew his casement curtain by, And half asleep he heard forlorn Came to him-but he held aloof. He sat and darkened all the air, With smoke up-wreathing from his weed: All day, half-dreaming in his chair, He sat and read-or seemed to read Or from the window peered about. For hours he sat, without a pause, Both these his brain did obfuscate. This Euclid racks my brain. Mansell and Mill are very dreary; I shall be ploughed again!" H. C. I., QUEEN's College, Oxford. College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1868. A FRAGMENT. They lifted him with kindly care; They bore him safely to his bed. They drew the sheets, and tucked them in, II. Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red, As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed. From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot, And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot. III. What say you? "Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns, "The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns; Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill, Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill." IV. There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane, I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again. I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more, I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er. V. I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now, You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go. Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt, You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt, VI. I'll bring back dinner, if I can, in a brace of cock and hen, But if you do not see me, you will know I've dined with Ben. If I cannot speak a sober word when I come back from the toddy, Just tuck me into bed, Willie, like a canny Hicland body. VII. Good-bye, you rascal, Willie; call me earlier in the morn, Will-o'-the-Wisp, August, 1869. MALA-FIDE TRAVELLERS. (Unlicensed by the Laureate.) LATE, late, past ten, so dark the night and chill. No thought had we the night was so far spent, Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! No beer, though late, and dark, and chill the night. A glass of gin to-night would be so sweet. Punch, November 16, 1872. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (continued.) The following imitation of Tennyson is of interest as having appeared forty years ago, when the poet was comparatively unknown: A FRAGMENT-COMPOSED IN A DREAM. BY A. TENNYSON. In Hungerford, did some wise man Above the people rose its piers, Their shadows on the waters fell; Year after year, for many years, All unapproachable! And filmy wires through æther spread, Wafted by the waveless tide, Which 'neath those slender wires did flow, Upturned their eyes, and sighed— ̧ "If that air bridge," they whispered low, "Vos broad enough to let us pass, Ve'd not av so much round to go, As now ve av-alas !" THE M.P. ON THE RAILWAY COMMITTEE. (Dedicated to Alfred Tennyson). With shareholders in anxious lots, The rooms were crowded, one and all, The speech began before eleven, And thought of the Kilkenny cats. Until the middle of the night, He'd heard the Irish Members crow; The House broke up in broad daylight, Heavily he to bed did go, CIRCUMSTANCE. (After Tennyson). Two children on Twelfth Night, all mirth and laughter, The Man in the Moon, Volume 4, 1848. THE PALACE of Art. (A Parody, which it is requested may not occur to anybody during the Inauguration of the Exhibition, 1862). I BUILT my Cole a lordly pleasure house, I said, "O Cole, make merry and carouse, (Here follows an exquisite description of the said pleasurehouse, also known as the International Exhibition. After four hundred and ninety-seven verses comes the last). But Cole, C. B., replied, "'Tis long, your story, Dilke walks in glory with a Hand that's Gory, SHIRLEY BROOKS. The following parody graphically describes that singular phase of modern English art, known as the Esthetic School, originated by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, namely, Dante G. Rossetti, Holman Hunt, J. E. Millais, and Thomas Woolner. The works of the disciples of this school have recently found a home in the Grosvenor Gallery, founded by Sir Coutts Lindsay : THE PALACE OF ART. (New Version). PART I. I BUILT myself a lordly picture-place I said, "Let others cricket, row, or race, I will go in for Art!" Full of great rooms and small my Palace stood, Hung round with pictures such as I thought good, The pictures-for the most part they were such The quaint, the queer, the mystic over-much, One seemed all black and grey-a tract of mud, One showed blue chaos flecked with falling gold. A painter's splash-board might more meaning hold And one, a phantom form with limbs most lank, The Genius of Smudge, with spectral shank Nor these alone, but many a canvas bare, Fit for each vacuous mood of mind, The gray and gravelike, vague and void, were there Most dismally designed. Or two wan lovers in a curious fix, Wreathed in one scarf by some queer charm, Upon the margin of a caverned Styx Stood shivering arm-in-arm. Or by a garden-prop, posed all askew A chalk-limb'd Eve and snake of porcelain blue Nor these alone, but all such legends fair Would pick from Mythus' shadowy realm, were there, With ample space assigned. To women weird and wondrous, long of jaw, No raven so delighteth in its song, And to myself I said, "All these are mine. Who feels no mystic mediæval want, "O Medieval Mystery, be it mine Then my eyes filled, my talk waxed large and dim "Quaint immaturity to reach with him," I cried, "is Art's true aim. "To plunge, self-blinded, in the mystic past, If eyes artistic be not backward cast, Punch, July 7, 1877. PART II. YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks · All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks, And I felt-far from well. * Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames, As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames, Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate Moved me to sighs and groans. Queer convolutions of dim drapery I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, I howled aloud, "I would no more behold A witch, an angel, or a saint. Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, Or cinque-cento quaint. "It may be that my taste has come to grief, But if the spectral, dismal, dry, Do constitute High Art,' 'tis my 99 belief High Art is all my eye.' So when four weeks were wholly finished, I from my gallery turned away. "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood" I said, "Fresh air and light of day. "I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart Of the affected, strained, and queer. What was to me Ambrosia of Art Hath grown as drugged small-beer. "Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare : When Art abjures the crude and dim, I yet may house the High Ideal there, Purged from preposterous Whim!" Punch, July 14, 1877. The following poem appeared in The Times for May 9, 1859, and although not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever :— THE WAR. THERE is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day, Form! form! Riflemen, form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Form! form! Riflemen, form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form, be ready to do or die! Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! But only the devil knows what he means. Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! T. INTO THEM GOWN.** A Wicked Parody on RIFLEMEN FORM. THERE was a sound of "Town" from afar, Storm of town, and thunder of gown, And town have got with them " Brummagem Bill." Ready, be ready to meet the clown, * Alluding to Napoleon III. Suggested by a paragraph in The Times, November, 1859. Be not afraid of the peelers' staves, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Leave your wines for a moment or so. Than "La Belle Science" be left in the lurch. Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them Gown. Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care, Gown! Gown! into the Town, The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of Royalty, contained in his later poems. It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere' was written more than fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured admission. The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the20th and last Earl of Oxford. |