Here is another in a similar vein, from Punch's Almanack for 1884 BREAK, break, break, O slavey, my crock-e-ry! And I would that my tongue dared utter The wrath that's astir in me, O well for the labourer's wife, Who can wash her own tea-things each day! O well for the labourer's self Who has no servants' wages to pay! But the breakages here go on, And I have to settle the bill; And its oh! for the shards of my vanished cups, And my saucers dwindling still, Break! break! break! A week from this you shall see, But the dishes and plates you have smashed [since you came, Will never come back to me ! -:0: OUR MISCELLANY (which ought to have come out, but did'nt), edited by Edmund H Yates and R. B. Brough, published by G. Routledge & Co., in 1857, contains a number of parodies, amongst others of Lord Macaulay, E. A. Poe, Longfellow, and Dickens. Of Tennyson there are two imitations of Maud; one, nine verses in length, of In Memoriam, and one entitled A Character, which is a rather close parody of a poem having the same title, published in Tennyson's 1830 volume. It will be remembered that at the time Our Miscellany appeared, M. Jullien's Promenade Concerts were in the full tide of their prosperity, and that the little fopperies and vanities of the clever Chef d'orchestre, and his importation of French military bands were then the talk of the town. A CHARACTER. (Fullien.) WITH half a glance upon the house, He led a solo-ne'er perhaps He led a polka-round his skull He waved the rhythm of the charm, And stamped, and shook his dress-coat skirts, And then he went and changed his shirt! And so he drove a thriving trade, As she comes to the garden gate, It is early morning, my Maud, In the daffodil dawn to wait. I must cut my stick, and vacate. IN MEMORIAM. RICHMOND 1856 I HOLD it truth, when I recall Last London's season's joyous spell, 'Tis better to have danced not well, Than never to have danced at all. I am a bachelor, I know; But tell me not, I can forget, One little smothered scream-we stopped- Were met by one beam from her eyes, Heart-life how few can understand, Great rivers from small fountains flow; The season's past; alone at Basle Tis better to have danced not well, The two imitations of Maud are scarcely sufficiently interesting to quote at length. -:0: The Shilling Book of Beauty, by Cuthbert Bede, (J. Blackwood, 1853), has also a parody of Maud, in ten verses, it is entitled :-- MAUD IN THE GARDEN. By Alfred Tennison, Esq. SHE is coming, my own, my sweet; She is coming, my life, my fate; I hear the beat of her fairy feet, As she trips to the garden gate; In 1856 a little sixpenny pamphlet was published by J. Booth, of Regent Street, entitled “AntiMaud, by a Poet of the People." Tennyson had been accused of fanning the warlike spi.it then rampant in the land, and his Maud contained many of the stock arguments in favour of war and glory. The "Poet of the People," in Anti-Maud, adopted the other, and less popular view. The author asserts that Anti-Maud is not merely a jeu d'esprit, but something of a more earnest character, and he disclaims any intention of depreciating the Laureate's poetry. I can quote a few only of the best of the fifty odd stanzas: I have quoted so much of this parody because it was one of the first to draw attention to the Laureate's love of war, a bellicose spirit which breathes quite as fiercely in his later writings, as in his early songs; in all cases, indeed, where he has attempted any Patriotic poem, the main idea seems to be a bloodthirsty hatred of some other nation. For many years it was France, next it was Russia, and latterly some of his writings have been well calculated to revive our long forgotten animosity to Spain. In so doing Tennyson has narrowed the circle of his admirers, for the poet, who would be loved of all, should avoid controversial topics. The Laureate's patriotic muse has certainly sung a few noble songs, but many which have been deservedly ridiculed; in his official capacity he has written some of the most exquisite lines in which adulation of Royalty has ever been expressed; for whilst we know that his laurelled predecessors credited the Stuarts and the Georges with precisely the same virtues which he has ascribed to members of the present Royal Family, their official poems were laughed at at the time, and are now forgotten; whilst his have been greatly admired, especially in high quarters. Hence the coronet, which, whilst it rewards his poetical loyalty, confers on him and his descendants a perpetual right to legislate for the people of Great Britain. :0: THE LAST PEER. Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar? "Is not a poet better than a lord ?" Robert Buchanan. ALFRED the Loved, the Laureate of the Court, And as they voyaged homeward to the shores The prince of all the poets of our time, Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs "Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords, Turn those whose wealth has gathered into hoards; Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me, Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore, One that, mayhap, may live for evermore; 'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be. Turn into lords the owners of broad lands, Turn him who in the path of progress stands, And he who doeth service to the State. Leave the name that all the people know. Made by myself, and not by station, great." Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then, And one who knew the name, and honour'd it, *The song in Enid, here alluded to, runs thus:- Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate. Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. O fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream, Until they came, a Kingdom's pride, with thee; But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb, From The Echo, Dec. 7, 1883. ·:0: BARON ALFRED VERE De Vere. BARON Alfred Vere de Vere, Of me you win no new renown; The last of some six hundred Earls Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, We thought you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for ours, Too proud to think a title fame. We hail the genius-not the lord : We love the poet's truer charms. A simple singer with his dreams Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, I see you march, I hear you say, "Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!" Is all the burden of your lay. We held you first without a peer, And princely by your noble wordsThe Senior Wrangler of our bards Is now the Wooden Spoon of lords. Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head; For just five decades now have flown Since we all mourned young Arthur dead. Oh, your wet eyes, your low replies! Our tears have mingled with your tears: To think that all such agony Should end in making you a peer! |