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A useful coffin enclosed his breast,
Which the Administration found him ; And he lay like a suicide sadly at rest,
With none of his friends around him.
Silent and secret they left him there,
The wound in his head fresh and gory ;
We thought as we hurried them home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him ; But little he'll reck if they let him alone,
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 ; And we judged from the knocks which had now begun,
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.
From the scene of his lame oratory ;
YELRAP. THE MARRIAGE OF Sir FREDERICK Boore. Not a laugh was heard, not a time-worn jest,
In the brougham in which we were carried ; Not one displayed himself at his best,
For our friend was going to be married.
THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. The drums were heard, and the funeral notes,
As his corpse to the City was carried ; The soldiers discharged their farewell shots,
Near the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him grandly in noon's full light,
The clay to earth's bosom returning; With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright,
And within the lantern burning. 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.
And we murmured last words of sorrow ;
And we sighed, “Who will lead us to-morrow?"
Of his struggles across the billows;
As a Captain above his fellows.
And grudge e'en the recompense paid him ;
In the tomb where a grateful land laid him.
And the masses were slowly retiring,
That for hours had been steadily firing,
With his roll of deeds famous in story ;
Calmly and sadly we stood that day,
To the sorrowful end of the story; But when all was o'er he hurried away, And left us alone in our glory.
As we off to the Healtheries hurried ;
Though the seedy young man appeared furried.
Slowly and sadly we dawdled down
From the Doultons, and dresses, and dairies, We carved not a name, we grazed not a stone, But went straight to our alleys and "aireys."
BOB RIDLEY. THE REMOVAL OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS. Not a sound was heard but a general drone,
As remorselessly onwards we hurried ; Not a soul but discharged a farewell groan
For the House where those zeros erst worried.
THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR. Nor a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried ; Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married. We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our Prayer-books turning, In the chancel's dimly religious light;
And tears in our eyelids burning. 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.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
But after our pleasant task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for assembling, We stood in the distance and scanned the fun,
As the Lords came suddenly trembling.
The fate of their famed upper storey ;
OR THE MAN IN POSSESSION. Not a sigh was heard, not a suneral note,
As the malice of Gladstone she parried : “No taxes from me: I pay not a shot !"
So her furniture off was carried.
For desk, tables, and chairs oft returning,
And a lantern dimly burning.
The man in possession ate, drank of her best,
In well-aired holland sheets he wound him ; And he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his pipe alight-confound him !
And he spoke not a word of sorrow;
As she bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smoothes down my lonely pillow,
If you don't want to wear the willow."
For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him ?
In the bed where Britannia had laid him. But half of the tyrant's task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring ; The minion quailed at the sound of the gun,
Which to signal her triumph was firing, of that spinster householder martyr's crown,
O, never shall perish the story :
J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. All the above are from Truth, July 31, 1884.
THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SOXATA.
(Executed by Miss---) Such a strum was heard-not a single right note,
When to make you play every one worried ;
As to the piano you hurried.
I knew not the piece you'd been learning ;
Your cheeks were with nervousness burning.
No pieces had any one found you ;
Though the people would talk around you.
And we listened in suffering sorrow;
You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow.
And wonder whoe'er could have made it ;
At the piece till she's thoroughly played it.
And no more such torture requiring,
And succeeded in quickly retiring.
Though you no doubt will think it a story ; 'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play, You will get neither money nor glory!
We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning ; By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.
In a sheet for a shroud we wound him :
With his four deal planks nailed around him.
And we shed not a tear of sorrow;
And we heed lessly thought of the morrow.
And smooth'd down its green turf billow ;
To night on his tenantless pillow.
At the “House," and maybe they'll upbraid him,
In the grave where his parish has laid him. But half of our thankless job was done,
When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring ; And the raindrops came pattering one by one,
And soon all the heavens were pouring.
In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary ;
SEFTON. “These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men.”- l'ide Sir Willrid Lawson's Speech. Not a snore was heard, not a slumberous note,
For my Lords are too awfully worried ; Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot,
Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried. They think of it sadly, at dead of night,
The thing in their mind's eye turning, By the somewhat foggy, misty light
'In their noble bosoms burning. No useless logic confused their heads,
'Tis but little they ever heed it ; But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds,
And one and all they d--d it.
The fact I record with sorrow;
And they wished there were no to-morrow.
Each word was a thorn in their pillow-
While they would be wearing the willow. Nightly they burn for their brothers to be
Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em ; And little they'll reck, till the “ rustic ”be free,
Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em. 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.
THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER. Nor 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.
Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
We had struggled, and we were human;
Poems and Parodies, by Phæbe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.
WE buried him slyly on Monday night, the sods with our
shooting-sticks turning, for he wrote a new poem, and read it with might, in spite of the Editor's warning.
A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN loq. Not a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught,
As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried ; Not a fielder but was a famous shot,
At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried,
The sods with our willow-bats turning :
And our cheeks with shame were burning.
Not in cut or in drive I found them ;
With a line drawn all around them.
And we spoke many words of sorrow,
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And reckoned the meagre scoring,
And we, far behind them, deploring.
And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us;
And the rain further playing forbade us.
When the clock struck the hour for refraining ; And we saw by the distant and setting sun,
That the light was steadily waning. 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.
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
On the spot where the fellow was married.
Our faces paler turning,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.
Nor over-dressed we found him ;
With a few of his friends around him. Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
With spite and anger dying,
With only half our trying.
Trot, trot, trot !
Trot, trot, trot !
Trot, gallop, and run,
That our dreadful task were done.
More favoured than we two !
Soft, soft, soft !
Hard, hard, hard !
(Eight verses omitted).
Many years ago The New York Herald had a long parody of the “Song of the Shirt," entitled The Lament of Ashland. It commenced :
“With brows all clammy and cold,
With face all haggard and wan,
And uttered a fearful groan ;
They are sent by the high and the low
By the noble, and many a scamp, Who has to steal the envelope,
And cadge for the penny stamp!
Wake, wake, wake!
Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed ;
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,
With post-bag heavy alway, A postman tramped on his twentieth round,
On good St. Valentine's day. Rat-tat ! rat ! tat!
At every knocker almost, Each time, in a voice that was somewhat fat,
Ile sang the “ Song of the Post !" Tramp ! tramp! tramp!
When the sweep is up the flue ; And tramp! tramp! tramp!
Till the supper beer is due. It's oh ! to be a slave,
Along with the barbarous Turk, Where Scudamore can verse outpour
For Britons, besides his work !
Oh ! could I but finish my task !
That I for my feet might care,
I've had this day to bear.
To feel as I used to feel,
Bluchers” cobbled and worn,
On good St. Valentine's day.
At every knocker almost ; And still, in a voice that was somewhat flat, (Many wondered whate'er he was at), lle sang. the “Song of the Post !" (Fourteen vcrses in all).
Truth, February 8, 1877.
THE SONG OF THE DANCE,
Trudge ! trudge! trudge !
Till I'm trodden down at heel; Tru«lge ! 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, men who want to get wives !
You're wearing out postmen's lives!
Don't post them by tens and twelves ; Or, if you do, I would pray of you
To deliver them yourselves ! 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 your tardy ways you keep ;
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 IVorld, January 31, 1877,
With arms a-wearied of fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,
Wishing herself in bed.
Turn, twirl, and turn,
And suill, as she sleepily gazed on that throng,
Till I hear the milkman's cry ;
Till the sun is seen on high.
It's O to be a nigger,
If civilised folk will try how little
Till the heat is horrid to bear ;
Till I long for a cushioned chair.
Waltz, gallop, and waltz ;
Till the whirl and the music make me doze,
Have ye no eyes to see
By your kin ne'er worn should be?
Morality, where art thou?
Are those of the ball-room now !
Tramp ! tramp! tramp!
Through street, and terrace, and square. Rap! rap! rap!
Valentines everywhere! Maid, and master, and miss,
Miss, and master, and maid ; There are some for them all, as they come at the call
Of the knocker, so long delayed.
There's none too poor or base
A Valentine to send-
That will serve to spite a friend,
But why do I talk of morality
Since Fashion its morals makes?
So Purity never quakes.
And we know that cup is made of gold,
They never tired appear :
May fall on their foolish ear,
The work of the midnight air ;
And show false locks of hair !
How sweetly they keep time, As they dance, dance, dance,
In a measure quite sublime !
Keep time to the glorious band ;
And pressure of many a hand !
With eyelids heavy and reil,
Wishing herself in bed.
With hop, and glide, and prance,
CECIL MAXWELL LYTE, London Society, November, 1877.
THE SONG OF THE PEN,
With a throbbing aching head,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.
He'd filled it again and again,
He sang this “Song of the Pen.”
Though iny 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 ;
And then the report of a fire.
Who rendered efficient aid ;
To the chief of the Fire Brigade.
I'd need be a writing machine ;
I've no Leisure Hour between,
Though my inkstand is nearly dry,
With MORRELL for a fresh supply.
To see them strangle a sinner ;
As they take their breakfast or dinner.
Or marvellous sarsaparilla ;
(Three verses omitteit.) With a weary, swimming brain,
With a throbbing, aching head,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.
They're asking for “copy” again ;
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,
With eyelids heavy and red,
Plying her needle and thread.
'Twas plain she was most expert ;
The “Song of the Soldier's Shirt."
There's no rest in youth or age!
For a cruelly lessen'd wage !
And never my duty shirk,
Than this cheap Government work.
My labour never flags,
A crust of bread-and rags.
That ever the world has known,
My body and soul my own.