Slike strani

And so he soon resolved to do the same
As in the book he read that Enoch did.
To carry out his plan he sent word home,
By trusty shipmate, to his Susan Ann,

That he was drowned. He really did not care
A great deal for his once-loved Susan Ann,
Who, when the knot had but been tied a year,
Had clearly showed that she could be the boss.
So time sped on, and artful Hunky Sam
In foreign climates had a jolly time
For several years.
"I think I'll homeward sail,"
One day he said, "and see how Susan Ann
Gets on; like Enoch, I will softly glide
Towards the cottage there upon the cliff,
And see how she makes out with her new man,
For she is doubtless wedded once again,
Just like that Mrs. Arden in the book."
Away he sailed across the sounding surge
(A good expression that, but not my own),
And soon he reached his village on the coast.
'Twas night. He crept towards the little cot

Where once he'd dwelt. A light was burning clear;
He peered in through the window. Susan Ann
Was there, but t'other fellow was away.

His wife glanced up: she saw the faithless Sam;
She sprang towards him-grabbed him by the hair
And held him there, whilst with her other arm

She dealt him myriad thwacks with broomstick stout.

66 You would," she cried--". you would say you were dead, And with your foreign gals go cuttin' up;

And leave me here to take in washing-eh?

You wretch! take that, and that, and that, and that !" Each "that" being followed by a sickening thud.


The curtain falls on this delightful scene,
As space is precious and will not permit
Of further details; but this goes to show

That things don't always turn out just the same
As those we read about in poets' yarns.
Another thing it shows-that Susan Ann
Had learned a trick when playing at being wed
Upon the seashore in her youthful days
That stood her in good stead in after years-
The wielding of the broomstick here is meant.

Scraps, August 1884.


And Willy, with Franchise horn, is gone to blow in the North!

Sturdy, though white, and strong on his legs, bravely holding forth;

And Willy's wife is with him-she ever was true and wise, Always a wife for Willy-he often takes her advice.

For madame, you see, is clever; she loves her Franchise Bill,

And he can talk so ready, and manage the Scots with skill.
Pretty enough, very pretty! I won't say against it for one.
Eh! but my Lords shall fear him-when Willy his task has

Willy, my beauty, my chieftain true, the flower of the flock,
Never a lord can move him, for Willy stands like a rock.
He has always a word for the weak, for crofter and fellaheen

There ne'er was his like in the land, since Eighteen-thirty


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I STEAL by lawns, to check the train
Of meditations started
By seeing duns that come in vain
For happy men departed.

By empty rooms I hurry down,

So stumbling down the staircase;
The cads within the sleepy town

Think mine a very rare case.

I hail a boat, and down I row
Along the lonely river,
For other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

I murmur under moon and stars,
I feel in lunar phrenzy,

I chide the cursed fate that bars
My exit from B. N. C.

I slope, I slouch, I speed, I stop,
And scan the empty High Street,

I turn me into Boffin's shop,

To cheer me with an ice-treat,
Till ice and sad reflection slow
My diaphragm make quiver,
For other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

I roam about, and in and out
Poke eyes with envy yellow,
And here and there I spy a scout,
And here and there a fellow.
And here and there a good mamma,
Her squalling baby nursing,
Looks on me pitying, with an
Poor fellow, how he's cursing!"
For, sailor like, I storm and "blow
My eyes" and "timbers shiver,"
That other lucky men may go,
But I seem here for ever.

College Rhymes, 1870.



After Tennyson (and a long way after, too).

WITH many a care my life's beset,
My charms are growing mellow,
And I have not secured as yet
An eligible fellow.

I sing, I play, and through the dance
I skim like any swallow;
The ladies look at me askance,
And say I'm vain and shallow.

I chatter, chatter as I go,

And some pronounce me clever.

But the men that come they're awfully slow,
And pop the question never, never.
Pop the question never, never,
Pop the question never.

I gad about, and in and out

My hopeless fate bewailing;
And think with secret pain and doubt
Of youth and beauty failing.

A youth there is for whose dear sake
To distant lands I'd travel;
I thought he would an offer make
One evening on the gravel.
He spoke in accents soft and low,
But word of love came never.
The men that come are sure to go,
And some take leave for ever,
Some take leave for ever, ever,
Some take leave for ever.

I strive by many cunning plots,
Their feelings to discover,
And sometimes sweet forget-me-nots
Present to backward lover;

And though with costly gems from far,
I deck my shining tresses,

And though I sing of love and war,
And sport becoming dresses,

'Tis all in vain this idle show,

I'll gain their favour never.

For men may come and men may go,
But I'm stuck fast for ever,

I'm stuck fast for ever, ever,

I'm stuck fast for ever.

The Harborne Parish Church Bazaar News (Birmingham), September 26, 1874.

Flow down, old river, to the sea,

Thy tribute-muck deliver!

But take this comfort, Thames, from Me,

This shan't go on for ever!

Punch, August 23, 1884.

"Till last by Barking Creek I go,

A thick, pestiferous river;

And tides may ebb, and tides may flow,
But I smell on for ever!

"I fill with scum my little bays,
I coat with slime my pebbles;
The mud I leave on winter days
The summer drought soon trebles.
"With many a stench the air I fill,
With many an odour fetid ;
And epidemics I distil

Throughout the dog-days heated.

"I churn contagion as I go,

A foul, filth-sodden river; For tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever!

"I wind about, and in and out,
With here a dead cat floating,
And here a party seized, past doubt,
With sickness whilst they're boating.
"And Water Companies extract
My water as I travel,

Til! I for miles am nought, in fact,
But banks of mud and gravel.

"In short, if they thus pump me dry,
And list to reason never,
Whilst Londoners are talking, I

Shall just flow off for ever!

"As 'tis, the fish are well nigh killed
In all my urban reaches;
And places once with gudgeon filled
Are now too dry for leeches.

"I ruin lawns and grassy plots
By foul deposits spreading;

I blight the sweet forget-me-nots
From Twickenham to Reading.

"I crawl, I creep, I smell, I smear,
Amongst my oozy shallows;

I so pollute the atmosphere

It quite knocks-up the swallows.

"I grow each season more impure,
As every one's remarking ;

I am an open running sewer
From Teddington to Barking.

"And so upon my course I go,

A foul, pestiferous river,

And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever!"


"I COME from haunts of coot and hern,'
From 'neath green ferns I sally;

But into me they quickly turn
The sewage of my valley!
"By fifty sewer mouths I pass-
My surface black with midges;
And bubbles huge of sewage gas
Float down beneath my bridges.
"When first I babble o'er the lea,
As crystal clear I chatter;
But twenty towns soon poison me
With foul organic matter.

Truth, July 31, 1884.

THE (NORTH) Вкоек.
(Some Way After Tennyson).

'Tis an ill wind thus blows me out,
From home I must be sailing,
Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt,
The grouse with zest unfailing.

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"The House of Lords sat last night somewhat less than a quarter of an hour, during which no business was done."

PEERS, idle Peers, I know not what they do.
Peers from the depths of their luxurious chairs
Rise in the Clubs, and saunter into the House,
In-looking on the happy Hugh, Lord Cairns,
And thinking of the Bills that are in store.

Sure as the hammer falling at a sale,
That makes us travel by the Underground,
Sad as the feeling when our bargains prove
Not quite the treasure which we hoped to find;
So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore.

Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns.
The surliest knock of half-impatient dun
To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes,
The tailor slowly goes across the square;

So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store.

Drear as repeated hisses at your Play.
And drear as dreams by indigestion caused
To those that take hot suppers; dull as law,
Dull as dry law, and lost without regret ;

O House of Lords, the Bills that are a bore.
Punch, March 7, 1868.

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(During Dinner, and after Tennyson).
Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis ;
The wine may come again, and take the shape,
From glass to glass, of “Mountain" or of "Cape ;"
But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whisky I should die !
Ask me no more-for I prefer to live:
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me Hock again :
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,
Ask me no more.


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(General Hill fell in the battle before Petersburg, and was the last man buried with military honours on the eve of the evacuation).

LAY the stern old warrior down,
Deeply in his narrow bed,
Ere the conqueror sack the town,
Ere the foeman o'er him tread.
They who checked the battle-tide--
Hoary warriors weeping said,
"Foremost where the bravest died,
Foremost where his country bled."
Low they laid the Pride of War,
Soldiers sternly round him mourned:
"Glorious was our battle-star,

Glorious when the battle burned."

Loudly crashed the fierce farewell-
This of all his toil the crown:
Falling where his country fell,
Falling by the fallen town.
Turning from the warrior's side,
Spake a chieftain often proved :
Nobly for our land he died,
Nobly for the land he loved."

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A. R. EXETER COLL., Oxford.

College Rhymes, 1865 (J. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford).


HOME they brought her husband—“tight,”
She nor moved, nor uttered cry,

But the Peeler, winking said,
"Won't he get it by-and-bye.”

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Then they placed him on the bed,
Called him "Jolly dog,' 'old boy!"
Placed the pillows 'neath his head-
Yet she showed nor grief, nor joy.
Stole her daughter from her seat
Up to where her father slept,
Pulled the boots from off his feet,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Then the "Bobby" took his purse,
Placed it empty on her knee,
Rose her voice as if to curse-

"Not one sixpence left for me!”

Vagrant Leaves, Part I, October, 1866. (A clever little illustrated magazine, of which only three numbers were issued; they are now exceedingly scarce).

Home the "worrier" comes ! We read

All his words, nor uttered sigh;

But the Tories, sneering, said,
"He must talk or he would die."
Then we praised his speeches long,
Called them worthy to be heard-
Brilliant thoughts and language strong;
Still the Tories cried, "Absurd!"

Stole Lord Random from his place,
Lightly to the "worrier" stept;
Tried to fool him to his face-

Back into his hole he crept.

Came a host of stupid peers,

Swore the franchise should not be ; Like rolling thunder rose our cheersGrand Old Man, success to thee !


The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

"The Charge of the Light Brigade" is still one of the most popular of Tennyson's poems, in spite of its many faults, and defective construction. Some of its lines are, indeed, ridiculous, whilst many are ungrammatical, but the metre is pleasing, and the words have the ring of the battle about them. Tennyson, however, can claim no credit for these merits, having boldly appropriated them from Michael Drayton's poem on the Battle of Agincourt, in which the following lines occur:--

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Conceited without a doubt,
Sing-song he brought it out,
Had he not learnt to spout,
Rolling his eyes about,

Amongst the two hundred.
Was not the lecture good,
His for great minds the food!
See how erect he stood,
Teaching his Townsmen,

Whilst Horncastle wondered!
Surrounded by Kith and Kin,
Did he not give it in?
Light" was the very thing
Whereon our faith to pin.

Misled by Forbes Winslow,
The Doctor who blundered --
Then he sat down amid

Cheers from two hundred.
Kinsfolk to right of him,
Kinsfolk to left of him,
No one behind him

Listened and wondered.
Other orbs, great and small,
Took fresh light, one and all,
In the great lecture hall

From Light's special envoy.
These were but few, indeed,
Of the two hundred.
Honour Professor bold,
Long shall the tale be told;
Aye, when our babes be old,
How he enlightened us!



HALF a yard-half a yardHalf a yard onward, Through the first crush-room Pressed the Four Hundred. Forward-the Fair Brigade ! On to the Throne, they said: On to the Presence Room Crushed the Four Hundred.


Forward, the Fair Brigade!
Was there a girl dismayed?
E'en though the chaperons knew
Some one had blundered.
Theirs not to make complaint,
Theirs not to sink or faint,
Theirs--but words cannot paint
Half the discomfiture

Of the Four Hundred.


Crowds on the right of them,
Crowds on the left of them,
Crowds all in front of them,

Stumbled and blundered:

On through the courtier-lined
Rooms-most tremendous grind-
Into the Presence-Room,
Leaving their friends behind,
Passed the Four Hundred.

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Stormed at with jeer and yell,
Truncheon and helmet fell,
Back rushed they all, pell melt,-
How the force wondered;
Many a pretty maid,
Down in the area shade,
Weeps for her Bob betrayed,

Weeps for her Blue Brigade,
Knowing they blundered.

Funny Folks, December 25, 1875.


(No. 2.)

(At the Alexandra Palace Banquet, given to the survivors of the Battle of Balaclava, on October 25, 1875).

PAYING sight! Left and right,

Crowds pressing onward,

Sharp Alexandra Board

Dines the Two Hundred !

"Free passes grant them all!"

Veterans, short and tall-
Sharp Alexandra Board-
(Profits will not be small)—
Dines the Two Hundred !

"Go it, the Light Brigade !"
Toast-Master, sore dismayed,
Queered by those heroes' chaff,
Boggled and blundered.
Theirs not to speechify,
Still less to make reply;
Theirs but to drain all dry,―
Into the drinkables

Walked the Two Hundred !

Bottles to right of them,

Bottles to left of them,

Bottles in front of them,

While the band thundered;

They knew no

"Captain Cork "

Boldly they went to work,

After the eatables

Fell to their knife and fork,—
Thirsty Two Hundred !

A La Russe might surprise,
Still they knew joints and pies,
Clearing the dishes there,
Relevés and entrées, while
Scared waiters wondered;

Then, plunged in 'bacca smoke,
Glasses and pipes they broke-
Comrades long sundered,

Big with old lark and joke,
Gleefully met again-
Jolly Two Hundred !

Trophies to right of them,
Trophies to left of them,
CARDIGAN'S charger's head,
Piously sundered!

Back they reeled, from the spread,

Straight as they could, to bed

They that had dined so well-—

Nothing to pay per head-
Happy Two Hundred!

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