THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. We buried him grandly in noon's full light, Three costly coffins encased his breast, (In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest With his marshal compeers round him. Many and long were the prayers we said, And we murmured last words of sorrow; As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead, We thought as they filled in his narrow bed, And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead, Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone, And grudge e'en the recompense paid him : But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, In the tomb where a grateful land laid him. At length our grievous task was done, And the masses were slowly retiring, Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone, With his roll of deeds famous in story; We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone, OBSERVER. THE BURIAL OF THE BACHelor. NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, We married him quickly that morning bright, No useless nosegay adorned his chest, Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him. Few and small were the fees it cost, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we silently gazed on the face of the lost, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hurried them home to be fed, That the weather looked very like squalls overhead And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him; With his wife that the parson has made him! But half of our heavy lunch was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we led them down, We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, The man in possession ate, drank of her best, In well-aired holland sheets he wound him; And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead, He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed, But half of the tyrant's task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown-- J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. All the above are from Truth, July 31, 1884. THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA. SUCH a strum was heard-not a single right note, You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right, I knew not the piece you'd been learning; But I saw by the flickering candle-light Your cheeks were with nervousness burning. No useless music encumbered the rest; But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best, I managed to get to the open door, I've but one thing more in conclusion to say, THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER. NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note, As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, By the grave where our pauper we buried. MOZART. We buried him quickly at shut of night, No oaken coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet for a shroud we wound him : We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone But half of our thankless job was done, Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down, We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone, SEFTON. "These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."-Vide Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech. NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note, They think of it sadly, at dead of night, In their noble bosoms burning. No useless logic confused their heads, But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds, "Few and short were the prayers they said"- They thought of the day when the Bill would be read, They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said- Of laurels that still would encircle his head, Nightly they burn for their brothers to be But half of the weary night was gone, And my Lords were still busy enquiring, "The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?" And they found that the effort was tiring. A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN loq. At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried, No useless figures my scoring blest, Not in cut or in drive I found them; Few, too few, were the runs we could claim, And we spoke many words of sorrow, And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game, We thought as we watched how our wickets fell, That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well, Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for refraining; Slowly and sadly did we disappear, From the field of our shame-laden story; We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer, But we left them alone to their glory. FRIAR TUCK. The above are from Truth, August 7, 1884. THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH. By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, No useless watch-chain covered his vest, But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, Few and short were the things we said, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, We thought, as we silently stood about, How the merest stranger had cut us out, Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, In the house where his wife conveyed him. But our heavy task at length was done, Slowly and sadly we turned to go, We had struggled, and we were human; Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey. Wake, wake, wake! Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed ; And wake, wake, wake! Ere my hopes are all perished and fled." There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local interest, they are not here quoted. THE SONG OF THE POST. WITH "Bluchers" cobbled and worn, A postman tramped on his twentieth round, Rat-tat rat! tat! At every knocker almost, Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat, Tramp! tramp! tramp! When the sweep is up the flue; It's oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where Scudamore can verse outpour Trudge! trudge! trudge! Till I'm trodden down at heel; Trudge! trudge! trudge! Till I'm faint for want of a meal. Bell, and knocker, and box, Box, and knocker, and bell; Till over the letters I all but nod, And drop them in a spell. Oh, girls with lovers fond! Oh, men who want to get wives! It's not a mere custom you're keeping up; If you must send Valentines, Don't post them by tens and twelves; Or, if you do, I would pray of you But why do I pray of you, Whose hearts so hard must be, Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes, In spite of Lord M-'s decree? In spite of Lord M-'s decree, In your tardy ways you keep; Oh, crime! that boots should be so dear, And Valentines so cheap! "It really seems the ambition of each fashionable woman to render her dress more like a skin than that of her neighbour, besides exhibiting as large a portion of the real flesh as can be done without the apology for raiment absolutely dropping off!"-The World, January 31, 1877. WITH arms a-wearied of fanning herself, A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, Turn, twirl, and turn, With hop, with glide, and prance; And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng, She muttered the " Song of the Dance." Dance, dance, dance, Till I hear the milkman's cry; Dance, dance, dance, Till the sun is seen on high. It's O to be a nigger, Nor mind to clothless feel, If civilised folk will try how little They need their bodies conceal! Dance, dance, dance, Till the heat is horrid to bear; Dance, dance, dance, Till I long for a cushioned chair. Waltz, gallop, and waltz; A lancer, a stray quadrille, Till the whirl and the music make me doze, And dreaming I watch them still. O men with wives and sisters, Have ye no eyes to see That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl By your kin ne'er worn should be? Twirl, turn, and twirl; Morality, where art thou? The dance and the dress of the stage-and worse Are those of the ball-room now! But why do I talk of morality For Purity only takes Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills; They never tired appear : And all in hopes that a wished-for vow, The work of the midnight air; And the paint will trace on many a face, Dance, dance, dance; How sweetly they keep time, As they dance, dance, dance, In a measure quite sublime! They waltz, waltz, waltz, Keep time to the glorious band ; But, ah! there is many a blushing look, Thus wearied out with fanning herself, This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, While all were swinging with turn and twirl, She muttered this song to herself, and said, "Alas, where is morality fled, Since true is my Song of the Dance?" CECIL MAXWELL LYTE, London Society, November, 1877. THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER'S SHIRT. (In 1879 it was announced that the wages of the women working at the Army Clothing Department, Pimlico, had been reduced from 20 to 25 per cent.) WITH fingers weary and worn, A woman sat 'neath a Government roof, As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd, 'Twas plain she was most expert ; And she sang to herself in a voice low-pitch'd, Work! work! work! There's no rest in youth or age! And alas! I have now to work For a cruelly lessen'd wage! I sit at my task all day, And never my duty shirk, But slop-shop prices would better pay Work! work! work! My labour never flags, And yet with my pittance I scarce can buy A crust of bread—and rags. I work for the greatest Power, Yet my pay's so small that I cannot call Write! write! write! Though my head is ready to split ; Write write! write! Though I fall asleep as I sit. Write! write ! write ! When the summer sun is high! Write write! write! When the stars light up the sky. Write! write ! write! For my pen must never tire; First I've a railway smash to do, And then the report of a fire. I must put in a word of praise for those And, if time enough, I must give a puff, Write! write! write! I'd need be a writing machine; Though my inkstand is nearly dry, To see them strangle a sinner; And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach, (Three verses omitted.) With a weary, swimming brain, With a throbbing, aching head, Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone, Write! write! write! They're asking for " copy" again; While his goose-quill over the foolscap flew, He thought of the troubles each author knew, And sang this " Song of the Pen." ANONYMOUS |