Slike strani

Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her


Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,

Cramming all the blast before it,—guess it holds a thunderbolt :

Wish 't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or snow,

Let me get my horses started Uncle Pete-ward, and I'll go.

Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.


IN blackest gloom he cursed his lot;
His breath was one long, weary sigh;
His brows were gathered in a knot
That only baccy could untie.
His oldest pipe was scraped out clean;
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,
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
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,
His 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.

He only said, "My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd most as soon be dead."

Books had no power to mend his grief;
The magazines could tempt no more;

"Cut gold-leaf" was the only leaf
That he had cared to ponder o'er.

From chair to sofa sad he swings,

And then from sofa back to chair;
But in the depths of his despair
Can catch no "bird's-eye" view of things.

And still he said, "My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys," he said.

He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
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 life is but a weary drag;

IIe 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.

He said, "I am aweary, aweary ;
I'd rather far be dead."

To him one end of old cheroot
Were sweetest root that ever grew.
No honey were due substitute

For "Our Superior Honey -Dew."
One little fig of Latakia

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.
He said, "I'll smoke till I am weary,―
And then I'll go to bed."

Miscellaneous Poems, 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.

(Amended Edition, by the P— L—.)

THE Voice and the Pique!

It was once a beautiful Voice From a girl with roseate cheek,

Who made my heart rejoice.

But the Voice-or the girl-ah, which?
Against me took a Pique,

Because I was not so rich

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 wife with a will. Ah, misery comes, and miscarriage, To all who wear fleshly fetters; She's made a Capital marriage-

I mourn in Capital Letters.

Punch, October 17, 1874.

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 the illness of six members of the household, and the death of his son. He, therefore, claimed the doctor's bill and other expenses. The Judge struck out the plaintiff's claim, and gave judgment for the de:endant).


"I SCAMP the joints. I scamp the drains.

I am an artful Plumber;

You'll feel my hand in winter's rains,
You'll sniff it in the summer."

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I'VE spouted o'er the land o' Burns,
I've made a gushing sally,
Although I fear, with true Returns,
My speeches will not tally,

From town to town I've hurried down,
I've talked on hills and ridges;
At railway stations played the clown,
And gabbled from their bridges.

I've chattered over stony ways.

I've chattered through the heather,

I've doused and soused the Rads with praise, To keep myself together.

I chatter, chatter, my words flow

As fast as any river;

Tho' some men's language may be slow,

I can talk on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
I bolster up each failing;

But though I wheedle, brag, and shout,
There's nothing like plain sailing.
Oh! bless me, what a lot of plots
My tongue elastic covers;
Though Tories ain't forget-me-nots,
Nor Rads precisely lovers.

The Franchise is my party cry,
The Lords my latest craze is,

And till they both are settled-why,
All things may go to blazes!

Yet, still my eloquence shall flow
Like some loquacious river;
For men may come and men may go,
I gabble on for ever.

England, September 27, 1884.


I COME from haunts of Smith and Son,
I agitate the vapours,

I take in Judy, Punch, and Fun,
And all the morning Papers;
And all the magazines besides,
Since Chambers's began,
And all varieties of guides,
And all degrees of man.

I roll away like "thunder live,"
With half a ship the freight of;
Six hundred miles a day at five
Times ten an hour the rate of.
Twice twenty streets I intersect,
And flash o'er twenty runnels,
With many loops the towns connect,
And vanish in the tunnels.

And out again I curve, and so
Pursue my destination;

For men may come and men may go,

And stop at any station.

I echo down the mountain pass,

I pass fine ruins over,

As light as harebell in the grass,

Or leveret in the clover.

Like Orpheus the trees I charm,
And set the hedgerows dancing;
With here a forest, there a farm
Retiring and advancing.

I draw them all along, and thread
The counties everywhere,

As men must have their daily bread,
So I my daily fare.

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.

SONG SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY MR. BURNE-Jones. "Come into my studio Maud,

If you've chalk'd your face, my own;
Come into my studio, Maud,

I am here at the easel alone;

And the pot-pourri's odour is wafted abroad,
And the scent of the patchouli blown.
"For I've shut the bright morning out,
With a saffron yellow blind;

And I've thrown my brick-dust velvet about,
And the sage-green curtain untwined;
So haste, my darling, the sun to flout
In your rust-red robe enshrined.
"All night, as you may have heard,
I've toss'd in a fantaisie,

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Whether to paint my dear little bird
As a 'Nocturne or Symphony ;'
But now I have pass'd my æsthetic word,
An arrangement' you are to be.

"I said to the corpse: There is to be one
Who'll be ghastly as your cold clay;
Aye, bluer than you before I have done,
And with hair like glorified hay.'
Come, Maud, it is time that we had begun,
So hasten, my love, I pray,

Or we shan't be able to keep out the sun;
Don't bismuth yourself all day.

"I said to our surgeon: 'You often go
Where women suffer and pine,

But I bet that a painted face I'll show
Of a love-sick model of mine,

That will beat them all for hopeless woe

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And cadaverous design!

'And our surgeon said, 'No doubt you will, 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!

"Oh, come! for I've managed to mix
A charnel-house-ish hue;

Oh, come! that your lord may fix

This cholera-morbus blue!

The patchouli whispers: 'She's near, she's near!'
And her musk-drops say: 'Tis true!'

And the creak of her slippers, I hear, I hear,
They're the colour of liquid glue.

"She is coming, my bilious sweet;

I can see her tawny head;

Her 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.


A very Ideal Idyl of the (we hope not very remote)

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.

For a breeze of morning blows,

Yet my hand is not compelled

To hold up my handkerchief close to my nose,

As it had to be always held,

When the shops in the market of old would unclose,

And the cry of the porters swelled.

All night have the suburbs heard

The wheels of the waggons grind ;

All night has the driver, with seldom a word,

His horses nodded behind;

And your waggoner is as early a bird

As in Babylon one may find.

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To block up the street and stay

Till the hum of the City hath well begun."

I chortle in joyaunce gay.

"Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone,

And half to the North. Hooray!

Low on the wood, and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away."

I say, this is better now, goodness knows,
Than it was but a short time syne.
Oho! my Lord Duke, I am glad to suppose
That much of the credit is thine,

And that I need not go softly and hold my nose,
Or feel sick like a man on the brine.

No scent of rank refuse goes into my blood
As I stand in the central hall;

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And long in" the Garden" I've strolled and stood,
Without feeling qualmish at all.

And I say, "This is really exceeding good,

An improvement that's far from small.'

The paths, roads, and gutters are almost sweet,
And the stodge, like foetid size,

That used to impede one, and foul one's feet,
No longer offends one's eyes.

'Tis a pleasantish place for two lovers to meet-
Quite an urban paradise.

So, sweetest, most sensitive-nostril'd of girls,
Come hither !-the stenches are gone.

Foul dust blows no more in malodorous whirls,
No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun,

Damp-reek from choked gutter won't straighten your curls,
So come 'twill be really good fun!


Punch, December 16, 1882. Punch has long been calling attention to the disgraceful condition of Covent Garden Market, but hitherto without the slightest success. 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.


(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 ;
And I said: "O Fish, a dainty dish,

Is there aught that is worth the trolling?"
Fishes enough there are rising,
Nibbles so often cajoling,
Matter enough for surmising,

But aught that is worth the trolling?
Waves at my feet were rolling,
Winds o'er the Rye were sailing,
But, alas! for all my trolling
For wily trout and grayling!


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 O. 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.


(Addressed to Professor O. C. Marsh, by a Non-uniformitarian.)

BREAK, break, break

At thy cold, grey stones, O. C.!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the five-toed horse!

That his bones are at rest in the clay :
O well for the ungulate brute!
That he roams o'er the prairie to-day.
Thy rocks bear the record of life,
Evolved from Time's earliest dawn.
But O for the view of a vanished form,
And the link that is missing and gone!
Break, break, break

At thy fossils, and stones, O. C. !
But the gentle charm of Uniform Law
Can never quite satisfy me.


(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--
Tears at the thought of that Hyde Park affair
Rise in the eye, and trickle down the nose,
In looking on the haughty EDMOND Beales,
And thinking of the shrubs that are no more.
(Three verses omitted).

Punch, August 25, 1866.

In one of the early Christmas numbers of Fun there appeared a parody entitled "The Dream of Unfair Women." It concluded thus:

"A MAID, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,
And flashing forth a winning smile, said she :
"Tis long since I have seen a man, come here,
Play croquet now with me!'"

"She spooned, and cheated, and had ancles thick.
I let her win, the game was such a bore,
Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick,
Touched-and-we played no more.'

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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."

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.

THE hale John Sprat-oft called for shortness, Jack-
Had married-had, in fact, a wife-and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances;
His love shone out in every act he did;
E'en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he-liking no fat himself-he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o't,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.
At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef--a prize joint !-little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean in fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said:
"O, husband! full of love and tenderness !
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me? I like it not !
Nay! loathe it-'tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"
Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,
Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. O, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us :
How all the fat sent down unto the maid-

Who likes not fat-for such maids never do-
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servants' perquisite !
O, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be nor fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat-the lean to me

Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"
So henceforth-he that tells the tale relates-

In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,

And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.

The Figaro, February 12, 1873.


(An Idyll of the Ninth of November).

So through the morn the noise of bustle roll'd
About the precincts of the Mansion House,
Until at last M'Arthur, the Lord Mayor,
Was with his Secretary left 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,

Delight 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."

Slowly M'Arthur answer'd from the coach:
"The old Mayor changeth, yielding place to new,
Lest one good citizen have all the fun.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
My reign is o'er, nor may it do thee harm
If thou dost never see my face again.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou see'st-if, indeed, we can
(For narrow and becrowded is the route)—
Before the new Lord Mayor to Westminster,
Where many worthies are awaiting us ;
Thence the brave Show must citywards return
To be dissolved at the famed Guildhall,
And I at length in limbo shall repose-
Limbo of Aldermen who've passed the chair."
So said he; and the gallant coach-and-four
Moved off, like some prodigious equipage
That seems quite natural in pantomime,
But strange in real life. Sir Soulsby stood
Long meditating, till the gold cock'd-hats
Those lackeys wore, looked like a single spark,
And down Cheapside the cheering died away.

The St. James's Gazette, November 9, 1881.


(An Idyll of the Queen).

GARNET the Brave, GARNET the Fortunate,
GARNET the Victor, made by Ashantee,
Heard once again War's summons to the East,
Heard and rejoiced, and straightway set himself
To strenuous strife, and subtle shift, to toil
All-various, and the crowning of his fame,
For from the sand-flats hard by Nilus' shore
Arose Rebellion's clamant voice, rang out
The cry of slaughtered Britons, echoed soon

By thunderous bellowing of brave BEAUCHAMP's guns.
Then peaceful GLADSTONE sudden stood and smote
With rounded fist the Council-board, as though

It were the Commons' Table, and his foe,
DIZZY, once more before him, smote and cried,
"By Jingo, this won't do!!!"-lapsing in heat
To passing invocation of a name

Late odious in his ears. Whereon arose
Conflicting chorussings of praise and blame-
This atrabilious, half-ironic that-

From doubting Tories, dubious Liberals,
Much gibing GREENWOOD, pert, implacable;
And peevish PASSMORE, Sourly posing sole
As Abdiel -with the hump.

But GARNET, glad
With a great gladness Sand-boys may not match,
And cheer beyond the chirping cricket's, set
His face toward far Pharaoh-land, where still,
Pyramid-perched, the Forty Centuries
Of the thrasonic Corsican looked down,
Twigging the coming Pocket-Cæsar.

"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,

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