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When shall their glory fade?
Honour the Charge they made-
Hearty Two Hundred !
Punch, November 6, 1875.
ON THE RINK.
HALF a mile, half a mile,
Came the fair trio.
Oil them well before they go,"
Forward the fair trio !
Some one had tumbled.
Admirers to right of them,
Over the smooth rink
Flash'd all their eyes so bright,
'Waltzing" and "Mercury stroke,"
Twisting and turning,Then they skate back, but not,
Not alone the fair trio.
Admirers to right of them,
Admirers to left of them,
Admirers on all sides of them,
Wonder'd and wonder'd. Refreshed with coffee and tea,
Sweet cake, but no
They whom none excel,
They who deserve so well,
They who no scandal tell,
Away o'er the rink
Glide the fair trio.
"When can their beauty fade?"
Oh! the grand show they made, All the rink wonder'd;
Applaud all the skill displayed, Admire the fair trio, Charming fair trio.
The Figaro, April 10, 1876.
A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.
(As the Laureate might have adapted it to the opening of the Alexandra Palace).
Muswellian Palace far over the lea,
Welcome it, Times and Telegraph fleet;
- Blazon advertisements, concert and play,
Flash, ye rockets, in showers of fire,
Flaming comets shoot swift on the wire
Welcome it, welcome it, land and sea ;
O joy to the populace yet unknown,
We come to thee, love, and make thee our own--
We are all of us Muswell in welcome of thee,
There have been numerous imitations of In Memoriam, and Mr. William Dobson, in his "Poetical Ingenuities," speaking of parodies, observes " One appeared in Punch a number of years ago, called Ozokerit,' a travesty of Tennyson's 'In Memoriam,' which has been considered one of the finest ever written." It is unquestionably very clever. Singularly enough it did not appear in the body of Punch at all, but on the outside wrapper, as an advertisement, so that many people who have bound sets of Punch will not find the parody, which was as follows:
(By A. T., or some one who writes as well as he).
Wild whispers on the air did flit,
Wild whispers, shaped to mystic hints, When bright in breadths of public prints Shone that great name "Ozokerit."
And much the people marvelled when
That embryon thing should leap to view!
And one his thought would thus declare,
Thereat one wiselier-" Watch and see
Shine forth yet undiscovered star!
Shed largess of all precious balms!
In vain, and lulling doubt to sleep:
Of regions haunted by the Hun;
Thence baled with cost of countless gold
Whose radiance is as that of moons
IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM.
I count it true which sages teach-·
Like childish wreaths too lightly held,
Shall moan about the belted bay,
To swelter in the rolling seas,
Vere Vercker's Vengeance. By Thomas Hood, the younger, 1865.
A NEW CHRISTMAS SONG.
(Adapted to the Times from In Memoriam).
That wet shod if the Old Year must go
Wring out my mouchoir, damp with flow
Punch, December 28, 1872.
A NEW RING.
Ring out, glad bells! with clappers strong;
Ring out the squabbles at the Zoo!
Ring out the women's "tie-back" frocks!
Ring out th' oppressors of the poor
The rinderpest and Ouida's books!
Ring out all rates without delay!
Ring in the Law Courts, if you can!
Ring out Kenealy, right away!
O. P. Q. P. Smiff, in The Figaro, January 5, 1876.
Detached portions of Tennyson's Maud have frequently been parodied, but the only case in which any attempt appears to have been made to imitate all its varying styles, and phases of thought, occurs in a small volume published in 1859, entitled Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns.
Unfortunately, the mere trick of imitating the metre only does not constitute a good parody, and this one lacks both in interest and humour. It is, besides, very long. The following are some of its best verses :
THE POET'S BIRTH:
A MYSTERY. By the P-t L-te. I.
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town,
At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime, Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the crown
By consuming th 'excised weed,-parent of smuggling crime! II.
'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets dreaming,
Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try;
But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming, Like a policeman, to help her, turns on his bull's-eye.
There's a hovel of mud, and the crone, mudded and muddled,
"Come in." Knocks, and an oxidized hinge creaks a rusty There are now in the hovel,- —a woman in bed-gear huddled, A careworn man, and a midwife, her functional fee to win.
Midwives are hard as millstones: Expectant father's emotions Are dragg'd by the heart's wild tide, like seashore shingle, Shrieking complaint, when the fierce assaults of the ocean Beat them all round, without an exception single.
DARKNESS! Darkness! Darkness !
Ebon carved idol of wickedness!
Guilty deeds do love thee,
Innocent childhood fears thee;
An unbless'd thing!--Who hears thee,
Grisly, gaunt, and lonely,—
Darkness! Darkness! Darkness!
Thy brother Silence only!
Lightness! Lightness! Lightness !
Great quality in small things,
A pudding, above all things!
Great quality in great things,
And whitenessAre but lackness
From the plate, in shoals,
When they're put to warm in front of the coals ;
For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern.
Of that horrible man with the wooden leg.
Sing it, ring it, yelp it—
That is if you can help it.
CHIRRUP, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter,
Warble, flutter, and fly away;
Dicky birds, chickey birds-quick, ye bird,
Shut it up, cut it up, die away.
Maud is going to sing!
Maud with the voice like lute-strings, (To which the sole species of string
I know of that rhymes is boot-strings).
Still, you may stop, if you please ;
Roar as a chorus sonorous,
Robin, bob in at ease;
Tom-tit, prompt it for us. Rose or thistle in, whistlin',
(What a beast is her brother!)
Maud has sung from her tongue rung;
Echo it out,
From each shoot shout,
From each root rout"She'll oblige us with another."
AN EXTRACT (NOT) FROM TENNYSON'S "MAUD.”
BIRDS in St. Stephen's garden, Mocking birds, were bawling"Lord, Lord, Lord, John!"
They were crying and calling.
Where was John? In a fix!
Birds in St. Stephen's sang, Chattering, chattering round him"John is here, here, here,
Back too soon, confound him!"
They saw his dirty hands!
Meekly he bore their punning; John is not seventy yet,
But he's very little and cunning.
He to show up himself!
How can he ever explain it ?
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (continued).
COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner horn.
'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house ;
Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as
neat as wax,
And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their backs.
Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest, Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west; Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees,
Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would freeze;
Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime;
When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed,
When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed.
When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see,
Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest; In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib;
In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib. Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old,
And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold. And I said, "My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,
"Better believe it, I have eaten all the apples from one tree."
On her kindling cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night; And she turned,-her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie;
She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye,
Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,"
Saying, "I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping I shall go it strong."
She took me up, and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done,
And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run; She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might,
And before another minute, I was free, and out of sight. Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet, Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what
Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick,
And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick. O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds, O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds, Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung,
I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue,
Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine?
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinnerhorn,
They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn;
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing;
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite,
Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight. Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. Here at least when I was little, something, O, for some retreat
Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat, Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard, I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard. Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet, On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete,
Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighbourhood,
Greater breadth of field and woodlands, and an orchard just as good.
Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there;
Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare. Hangs the heavy-fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like.
'Tis a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near
To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear.
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space.
I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my
Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes;
Let them mate with dirty cousins-what to me were style or rank,
I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank? Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load,
Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of road;
Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give us chase :
Better seven years at Uncle's than fourteen at Granny's place.