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Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her
arm. Comes a va pour from the margin, blackening over heath
and holt, Cramming all the blast before it,-guess it holds a thunder
bolt : Wish it would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail,
or fire, or snow, Let me get my horses started Uncle Pele-ward, and I'll go.
Poems and Parodies, by Phæbe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.
To him one end of old cheroot
Were sweetest root that ever grew.
For Our Superior Honey-Dew.”
Would buy all fruits of Paradise ;
“ Prince Alfred's Mixture” fetch a price Above both Prince and Galatea.
Sudden he said, “No more be dreary !
The dray has come !" he said.
And then I'll go to bed.” Miscellaneous Foemis, by J. Brunton. Stephens. (Macmillan and Co., London), 1880.
This book contains several other amusing parodies of the poems of Swinburne, E. A. Poe, and Coleridge, which will be quoted in future parts of the collection. They all relate to Colonial life, and are now difficult to meet with, as all the unsold copies of the book have been returned to the author, who resides in Australia.
The SQUATTER's 'Baccy FAMINE.
In blackest gloom he cursed his lot ;
His breath was one long, weary sigh ;
That only baccy could untie.
The deuce a puff was left him there ;
A hollow sucking sound of air Was all he got his lips between.
He only said, “My life is dreary,
The Baccy's done,” he said,
By Jove, I'm nearly dead."
The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
Into each pocket plunged his fist; His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
Ilis mouth awry for want ot twist. He idled with his baccy knife ;
He had no care for daily bread :
A single stick of Negro-head Would be to him the staff of life.
lle only said, “ My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done,” he said.
I'd most as soon be dead."
THE VOICE AND TIE PIQUE.
(Amended Edition, by the P- L-.) Tue Voice and the Pique !
It was once a beautiful Voice
Who made my heart rejoice.
Against me took a Pique,
As she thought-and the voice grew a squeak. Hast thou no voice, O Pique ?
Thou hast, uncommonly shrill : And I know that a Maiden meek
May grow to a wise with a will.
To all who wear fleshly felteis;
Punch, October 17, 1874.
Books had no power to mend his grief;
The magazines could tempt no more ;
That he had cared to ponder o'er.
And then from sofa back to chair ;
But in the depths of his despair
And still he said, “My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys,” he said.
I'd just as soon be dead.”
His meals go by, he knows not how;
No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish ; There's not a dish could tempt him now,
Except a cake of Caven-dish. His lile is but a weary drag ;
Ile cannot choose but curse and swear,
And thrust his fingers through his hair, All shaggy in the want of shag.
And still he said, “ My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys,” he said.
I'd rather far be dead.”
THE PLAINT OF THE PLUMBER AND BUILDER. (In the case of Dee v. Dalgairns, the plaintiff, a plumber by trade, sued the defendant Dalgairns, a Civil Engineer, for the sum of thirty pounds for the erection of a lavatory: The defendant made a counter claim of one hundred and twenty pounds, on the ground that the work being improperly done, sewer gas escaped into the house, and caused ihe illness of six members of the household, and the death of his son. lle, therefore, claimed the doctor's bill and other expenses. The Judge struck out the plaintiff's claim, and gave judgment for the de:endant).
SOLO BY THE PLUMBER.
I am an artful Plumber;
You'll sniff it in the summer.
Yet, still my eloquence shall flow
Like some loquacious river ;
England, September 27, 1884.
“I dig, I delve, I patch, pry,
And lay the pipe, so badly,
And tenants chatter madly." (Here the Jerry Builder breaks in with his Jeremiad).
“I build my floors on rags and bones,
Or lush organic matter ;
Grows greener and grows fatter.
My slates let in the water ;
And there you have my mortar.'
So shrewd as to astound one ;
And here and there a sound one.'
The Artful Plumber resumes his plaint ;“The sewer-pipe I love to lay,
Connecting with the cistern ;
The tenant should have his turn?"
Finale by the Pair :“Why, here's a Judge who would restrain
Our right to scatter sever !
We can't scamp on for ever!”
I agitate the vapours,
And all the morning Papers ;
Since Chambers's began,
And all degrees of man.
With half a ship the freight of;
Times ten an hour the rate of.
And flash o’er twenty runnels,
And vanish in the tunnels.
Pursue my destination ;
And stop at any station.
I pass fine ruins over,
Or leveret in the clover.
And set the hedgerows dancing ;
Retiring and advancing.
The counties everywhere,
Chambers' Journal. Another imitation (and a very long one) of the same original, appeared in Punch, October 11, 1884, and a parody entitled The Mill was in Fudy, April 26, 1884.
(Apropos of Mr. Gladstone's visit to Scotland). A LONG WAY AFTER LORD TENNYSON's “ BROOK."
I've spouted o'er the land o' Burns,
I've made a gushing sally,
My speeches will not tally,
I've talked on hills and ridges ;
And gabbled from their bridges.
I've chattered through the heather,
To keep myself together.
As fast as any river;
I can talk on for ever.
I bolster up each failing ;
There's nothing like plain sailing.
My tongue elastic covers ; Though Tories ain't forget-me-nots,
Nor Rads precisely lovers,
The Lords my latest craze is,
All things may go to blazes !
SONG SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY MR. BURSE-JONES. “Come into my studio Maud,
If you've chalk'd your face, my own ;
I am here at the easel alone ;
And the scent of the patchouli blow
With a saffron yellow blind ;
And the sage-green curtain untwined ;
In your rust-red robe enshrined.
I've toss'd in a fantaisie,
As a 'Nocturne''or • Symphony;'
An'arrangement 'you are to be.
“ I said to the corpse : 'There is to be one
Who'll be ghastly as your cold clay ;
And with hair like glorified hay.'
So hasten, my love, I pray,
Don't bismuth yourself all day.
Where women suffer and pine,
Of a love-sick model of mine,
And cadaverous design !
For the epicene women you paint Are bilious ghosts in want of a pill,
With undoubted strumous taint ; So hollow-eyed and cheek'd, no skill
Could save them from feeling faint.' “Queen Corpse of my graveyard garden of girls,
Come hither, o'er carpets dun, In your rust-red robe and you're soot-black pearls ;
Queen, spectre, and corpse in one ! Shine out, corpse candles, above her curls,
And be the picture's sun !
A charnel-house-ish hue ;
This cholera-morbus blue !
And her musk-drops say : •'Tis true!'
They're the colour of liquid glue. “She is coming, my bilious sweet ;
I can see her tawny head ; ller footsteps are far from fleet,
She's tied back till she scarce can tread ; But yet shall her face yours meet,
When the months of the winter have fled, On the walls of the Grosvenor hung complete In dissecting-room blue and red ?"
Truth, December 26, 1878.
I say to myself, “No, there is not one
To block up the street and stay
I chortle in joyaunce gay.
And half to the North. Hooray!
The last wheel echoes away.”
Than it was but a short time syne.
That much of the credit is thine,
Or feel sick like a man on the brine.
As I stand in the central hall ;
Without feeling qualmish at all.
An improvement that's far from small.'
And the stodge, like fætid size,
No longer offends one's eyes.
Quite an urban paradise.
Come hither !--the stenches are gone.
No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun,
Punch, December 16, 1882. Punch has long been calling attention to the disgraceful condition of Covent Garden Market, but hitherto without the slightest success. The Duke of Bedford appears to totally ignore the fact that property has its duties, as well as its privileges; and it seems probable that even the simplest remedies and improvements on his estate will be neglected, until public attention is drawn to the foul market and its adjacent slums, by the outbreak of some epidemic.
There was another parody of “Come into the Garden, Maud,” in Punch, May 23, 1868.
COME INTO “THE GARDEN," MAUD !
For the Mudford blight is flown ; Come into "the Garden,” Maud !
I am here by the “Hummums " alone ; No garbage stenches are wafted abroad,
And the slime from the pavement's gone.
Yet my hand is not compelled
As it had to be always held,
And the cry of the porters swelled.
The wheels of the waggons grind ;
His horses nodded behind ;
As in Babylon one may find.
ANGLING IN THE RYE. (A wicked parody on Tennyson's “Old and New Year.")
I stood by a river in the wet,
Where trout and grayling often met,
And waters were rushing and rolling ;
Winds o'er the Rye were sailing,
E. H. RICHES, L.L.D. College Rhymes, 1868 (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford.
The following scientific jeu d'esprit is wafted to us all the way from San Francisco. Professor 0. C. Marsh, of Yale College, is a champion of Darwinism. He has, however, few followers in America, where Agassiz, Dawson, and other men of science, hold more orthodox views.
Break, break, break
TEARS, IDLE TEARS. (The Right Hon. Spencer Walpole, Home Secretary, shed tears when he heard that the Hyde Park Railings had been pulled down by the people to whom he had denied access to the Park).
Tears, idle tears — a sweet sensation scene--
Punch, August 25, 1866.
In the second volume of “Echoes from the Clubs" several instances are given of plagiarisms committed by Tennyson; whilst in "The Figaro” of October 27, 1875, whole passages from his tragedy of Queen Mary are shown to have been borrowed.
Long extracts from the second scene, of the second act, are printed side by side with similar passages taken from the twenty-eighth chapter of Ainsworth's old novel, “The Tower of London,” showing conclusively that Tennyson had either appropriated from Ainsworth without acknowledgment, or that both authors had gone to the same source for inspiration. Again, the beauties of “ The Idylls of the King ” are generally insisted on without any mention being made of the fact that in all the main incidents the poems simply retell the old “History of King Arthur, and of the Knights of the Round Table," as compiled by Sir Thomas Malory more than four centuries ago. Indeed, some of the most pathetic passages of the old original have been utterly marred; their simple charm and quaint pathos being lost in the over elaboration of detail affected by the Laureate. The beauty of his blank verse is admitted, and the Idylls have been frequently parodied. Unfortunately, most of the parodies are too long to quote in full in this part.
AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE.
“A MAID, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,
Play croquet now with me!'”
Touched-and-we played no more. The trick of Tennyson's blank verse, as displayed in some of his early and lighter poems, was admirably imitated by Bayard Taylor in the “ Diversions of the Echo Club," (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus). The parody is entitled “Eustace Green; or, the Medicine Bottle."
Who likes pot fat-for such maids never do-
The Figaro, February 12, 1873.
Slowly M‘Arthur answer'd from the coach :
The St. James's Gazette, November 9, 1881.
THE PASSING OF M'ARTHUR.
(An Idyll of the Ninth of November). So through the morn the noise of bustle rollid About the precincts of the Mansion House, Until at last M‘Arthur, the Lord Mayor, Was with his Secretary lest alone. Then Mayor M'Arthur to Sir Soulsby spake : “ The sequel of to-day doth terminate The goodliest series of civic jaunts Whereof my mind holds record. Of a truth, It was a glorious time! I think that I Shall never more, in any future year, Lelight my soul with welcoming to feasts, And taking chairs, as in the year just gone ; For my Chief Magistracy perisheth. But now delay not ! to the window run, Watch what thou see'st, and lightly bring me word.” Then did the bold Sir Soulsby answer make : “No call have I to follow thy behest; Look for thyself—thine eyes are good as mine !" To whom replied M'Arthur, much in wrath : "Ah, miserable and unkind, and untrue, Ungrateful Secretary! Woe is me! Authority forgets the late Lord Mayor, When he lies widow'd of official pow'r That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art ; Thou think'st with thine old master to have done, And wouldst neglect him for the new forthwith. Yet, for a man may fail in duty once And presently repent him, get thee hence : But if thou spare to go and bring me word, I will arise and clout thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Soulsby, and he ran To the great window by the street, and cried : “Your lordship, I perceive a gallant coach, Drawn by four glossy horses, waits below, With well-fed coachman sitting on the box. And gold-laced lackeys hanging on behind." Then groaned M'Arthur,“ Take me to the coach," So to the coach they came. There lackeys three Leap'd to the ground, and seized his Lordship's arms, And hitch'd him up, and closely shut the door. Then loudly did the bold Sir Soulsby cry: “Ah ! my Lord Mayor M.Arthur, dost thou go? Shall I not show my sorrow in my eyes ? For now I see thy glorious time is dead, When every morning brought some famous scheme, And every scheme resulted in success. Such time hath not been since I first became, A sort of fixture in the Mansion House. But now thy term of office hath expired, And I no longer serving thee, must stay To travail 'mong new faces, other minds."
(An Idyll of the Queen).
By Jingo, this won't do !!!”—lapsing in heat
But GARNET, glad
*Punch, October 7, 1882,
(After Tennyson). WITHIN the limits of well-ordered law They lived, this thrifty squire and eke his spouse ; No discord marred the genial dinner hour, Where union rooted in dis-union stood,