THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH AS HE IS.

UNDER the spreading chestnut tree
The village blacksmith stands,

The smith an awful cad is he

With very dirty hands.

For keepers and the rural police
He doesn't care a hang.

He swears, and fights, and whops his wife,
Gets drunk whene'er he can;

In point of fact, our village smith's

A very awful man.

He goes on Sundays to the pub'
With other festive boys,

When drinking beer and goes of rum
His precious time employs.

Till he gets drunk, and going home
He makes no end of noise,

Then, with his poor half-starving wife
He in a passion flies.

He pulls her by the hair, from off

The bed on which she lies,

And kicks her round the room, and says

Bad things about her eyes.

Smoking, soaking, bullying,
Onward through life he goes,

Each morning sees a blackened eye

Or else a broken nose.

I fear within the County Gaol

Calcraft his life will close;

Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith

For the lesson thou hast taught.

By Calcraft, or his deputy

I never will be caught,

And to that end I'll never do

The thing I had'nt ought.

From Figaro Programme. February 6. 1873.

THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.

BESIDE a noisy tavern door
The night policeman stands,
And a foaming pot of half-and-half,
He clutches with eager hands;
But little doth our Robert know
He is watched by thievish bands.

His voice is thick, his speech too strong
For any sober man ;

His brow is wet with his tall helmet,

He drinks whene'er he can ;

But the merry prig laughs in his face,
He arrests not any man.

Through the dark night to the broad daylight
You can hear him tramp below,
Until the serjeant hath passed, and then
He soon doth leave his beat to go
To visit a sprightly area belle,

When the evening star is low.

When the burglar, fixing a handy tool,
Breaks in through the bolted door,
And quickly pockets the notes and gold,
And the glittering jewelled store-
Hearing the laugh as he gaily flies,
Come from the kitchen floor.

When Robert makes report next morn
Of naught but naughty boys,
Householders angrily impeach.

He hears the inspector's voice;

And he knows that his stately form no more
Will make the cook rejoice.

It sounds to him like a warning voice:
Farewell to rabbit pies,

And juicy ham and nourishing stout,
And the pickles he doth prize

And with his worsted glove he wipes,
A tear from out his eyes.

Shuffling, lying, sorrowing,

He takes off his dark blue clothes

Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too,
With his cape he sadly throws.

Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done !
Out of the force he goes.

From Funny Folks. May 22, 1875.

(This parody was written by Mr. Joseph Verey, but ten years later it was appropriated without any acknowledgement by one E. R. Rogers, of 129, High Street, Aston, and sent to The Wheeling Annual for 1885 as an original parody.)

THE VILLAGE GROG SHOP.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village grog shop stands ;

The host a thirsty man is he,

With large and bloated hands:

And the vessels of his beery charms

Are bright in pewter bands.

His tap is "Watney," " Meux," and "Long," And bitter as the tan;

His till is fill'd with ready coin,

He cheats whene'er he can,

He looks the whole "Bench" in the face,
And he trusts not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the liquor flow;
And after hours the bobby's tread,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a convict working the cheerful mill
When his morals have been low.

And maidens, not long freed from school,
Jot down th' increasing score,
They love to see the lab'rers gorge,
And hear the rustics roar,

And catch th' attempted wits-so “fly,”
With chaff-from a sawdust floor.

He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench,
And sits among the crowd;

He hears the " unpaid " jaw and preach,
He hears his counsel's voice
Pleading with legalic fire,

And licensed, has his choice.

It makes him think of the Three per Cents.
Wherein his money lies!

He needs must think of her once more
How in the bar she plies,
And with his hard rough hand he lifts
His beer-mug to the skies.

Spoiling-adult'ring-borrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some cask begun
Each evening sees its close;
Somebody tempted, something won,
Has earned the Pub's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my thirsty friend,
For the lushings thou hast cost!

Thus at the public bar of life

Our fortunes must be lost;

Thus, on its marble counter rung,
Each foolish deed we post!

THE ENGLISH JUDGE.

(As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealv.)
UNDER the carved-oak canopy
Our ermined Justice sits;
The Judge, a mighty man is he,
With large and varied wits;
And nobly to his land and Queen
His duty he acquits.

His wig is crisp, and gray, and full,
And if his face you scan,

'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought;

"Twere hard his brow to span.

And he looks the whole world in the face,

For he fears not any man.

Term in, term out, from ten till four,

You can hear his accents clear;

You can hear him crush deceit and fraud
With authority severe,

But the innocent and helpless one

Has naught from him to fear.

And strangers" doing" London sights
Look in at the swinging door;

They love to see his massive form,

And to hear his legal lore,

And to catch the pearls of thought that drop
From his copious mental store.

At four for home he leaves the bench,
And 'midst his books and notes
His leisure far into the night

To"

cases he devotes. Nor counts his nights and mornings lost, If justice he promotes.

With patient care he extricates
The tangled legal skein ;

Whilst barristers and clients sleep,

Re-links the broken chain,
And ere the hour of ten has come
Is at his post again.

Toiling, re-searching, circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees new work begun,
But not each night its close;
And not till Long Vacation comes

Can he expect repose.

Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge

For the lessons he has taught!

For a life so earnest and so pure,

With good example fraught.

And may we all learn this from him,-
How duty should be wrought.

From Truth Christmas Number. 1879.

THE VILLAGE BEAUTY.

UNDER a spreading Gainsborough hat
The village beauty stands,
A maiden very fair to see,
With tiny feet and hands,

As stately, too, as if she owned

The squire's house and lands.

Her hair is golden brown and long,
Her brow is like the snow,
Her cheeks are like the rosy flush
Left by the sunset's glow,

She greets the lads with a careless look,
She's the village belle, you know.

Week in, week out, at morn and night,
The young miller comes each day;
"Tis the nearest way to town," he says,
But 'tis rather out of his way,
And every night he seems to have
Plenty of time to stay!

And children, coming home from school
Look in at the door, and know

That the handsome fellow by her side
Is pretty Nellie's beau,

Who can hardly tear himself away,
When he finds 'tis time to go.

He goes on Sundays to the Church,
And sits in his proper pew,

But his eyes wander off to the transept near,
Where he sees a charming view,

For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best,
With her bonnet of palest blue.

He hears the parson pray and preach
With his outward ear alone,

For he only listens for Nellie's voice.
And responds in a dreamy tone,

And when she smiles at the carpenter near,
He can't suppress a groan.

Despairing, hoping, fearing,

Onward thro' life he goes; Each morning he sees Nellie,

And each evening, at its close; She even haunts him sleeping, And disturbs his night's repose.

Thanks, thanks, to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught ;

Thus at the flirting time of life
Our fortunes may be wrought,

So we cannot be too careful

Over every word and thought!

L. P.

From The Dunheved Mirror. Cornwall, March, 1880,

THE BRITISH M,P.

UNDER St. Stephen's high roof-tree

The British M. P. sits:

M. P. a mighty man is he,

With sharp and seasoned wits,

And an eloquence that, once set free,
Would give opponents fits.

Week in, week out, from noon to night,
He must sit in silent woe,

Whilst WHARTON vents his dullard spite,
With measured boom and slow,

Or SEXTON Soars in furious flight
When the morning lights burn low.

And someone ever plays the fool,
And someone else the bore;

They love to cheek with rudeness cool,
To howl with caddish roar,
For churlish Folly has set its school
Up on St. Stephen's floor.

Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun,
Onward the M.P. goes,

Each day sees aimless jaw begun,
No night beholds its close.
Little attempted, nothing done-
No work and no repose!

Punch. March 24, 1883.

THE VILLAGE PAX.

["A PEACEFUL PARISH.-It is worthy of remark that in a parish near Blandford a petition in favour of peace has been signed by every grown-up man and woman, with the exception of one farmer."-Times.]

UNDER the spreading olive tree
The peaceful village stands,
It's known for its tranquillitee
Thoughout the neighbouring lands;
And it drinks but very weak Bohea,
Nor smokes the mildest brands.

Its air is smooth, its patience long,
Its biceps, when you span,

You find they're more like dimples; and
You may hit them where you can,

And come off cheap with easy fame,

For it fights not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear the humming low

Of dogs who like to bark and bite
Because their nature's so;

And their cocks they're all put out of sight,
For the bullies used to crow!

Preaching, protesting, sorrowing,
Because of Eastern foes,

Each morning sees that village dawn,
Each evening sees it doze,
O'er asses' milk and ginger beer,
And Peter Taylor's prose.

Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale!
It is a cheering thought

That somewhere waits a blessed spot
For one by yells distraught,
Where bray of Jingoes reaches not,
And Drummond-Wolff is nought.

Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

THE VILLAGE WOODMAN.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The busy Gladstone stands ;
Ever this restless W. G.

Has something on his hands.
O'er field or meadow, park or farm,
O'er clay or gravelly lands,

He takes the sharpened axe in hand
With tree-destroying plan;

His brow is wet with woodman's sweat,
He fells whate'er he can,
And looks the proud tree in the face,
And cleaves it like a man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his hatchet's blow;
You can see him swing his heavy axe,
Resolved that tree shall go,

Like a workman labouring for his pay
When his funds are very low;
And tourists, wandering o'er the fields,
Look aghast at this woodman bold;
They shudder at the flashing axe,

And mark the upturned mould;
They see by the scattered chips that fly

That the woodman's strong though old.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And reads the lessons there.

To hear the parson pray and preach
Few to that church repair.

But reading in that village church
Makes the G. O. M. rejoice,

For he loves to hear his own sweet voice

In Church or Parliament.

But where'er he be he thinks of trees,

How many fallen lie,

And those who notice him may see

A twinkle in his eye.

Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing

His axe, thus on he goes;

Each morning sees some grand old tree,

Each evening sees its close;

Some branches felled, some trunk laid lowAnd then he seeks repose.

Moonshine. January 19, 1884.

-;0:

Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha invites parody, and its easy metre is readily caught up by any one having an ordinarily good ear, and knack of versification.

The following, written by Mr. J. W. Morris, appeared in the Bath and Cheltenham Gazette shortly after the appearance of Longfellow's poem, and is interesting as giving an account of

Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle,
Gleaming with a fitful phosphor;
In a bark of his own making,
With a line of his own twisting,
Forth to catch a fine new Poem
All alone went Muddy minded.
At the stern sat Muddyminded,
For 'twas windy, and he knew
He was heavy, and he trembled
Lest he'd sink his grand canoe ;
Soon he came to where 'twas clearer,
And the bottom he could see,

So he looked, and saw the bottom,
Saw the bottom of the sea.

There he saw the song he wanted
Lying far beyond his reach,
Lying just within his vision,

But beyond the reach of boat-hook.
There it lay in all its armour,

Fenced about with ugly words,
Indian names and Indian notions,
Painted too, with various colours,
Earthy, very earthy, too.

Muddyminded cast about him,
How he'd bring this song to light :-
"Take my bait, you Indian Poem!
Cried he down the depths below,
Then sat waiting for an answer,
For an answer from below.

Quiet lay the Indian Story,
Nor would listen to his clamour :
Turned he to another tale though,--
EUANGLEE,-six-footed monster,
And he bade him take the bait, that
Still was dangling to and fro :
EUANGLEEN he rose to take it ;
Muddyminded liked him not,
And he shouted through the water,
Pesta Pesta! shame upon you!
You are not a Poem at all,
You are one six-footed monster,
You are not the song I wanted."

Then went downward swift and certain,
Down the depths of dark oblivion,
Disappointed EUANGLEEN.

Then the mighty Indian Poem
Said to GOLDEN LEG, another,

"Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break his line, and spoil his trade!"
But again did Muddyminded
Shout derision as he rose,

"Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you!
You are but a lame imposture,
Fame will never call you Poem,
You are not the song I wanted."

Then upleapt this Indian Story,
Legend rude, but fierce and strong-
High enough he leapt, to show us
What he might be could we tame him,
Could there but a real Magician
Disenchant him, and control.

His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed
Both canoe and Muddyminded.

Down into that dark oblivion
Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,-
As a log on some black river

Down the rapids plunges soon,

Found himself in utter darkness,

Thought he had been there before,

Groped about, and groped, and wondered, Wondered, groped, and groped the more.

J. W. M.

In 1856, a small shilling volume of 120 pages was published by George Routledge and Co., as a companion to Longfellow's Hiawatha. This was entitled, "The Song of Drop o' Wather, a London legend, by Harry Wandsworth Shortfellow,"and is now scarce. It commences thus:—

APOLOGY FOR THEIR BEING NO PREFACE.

AUTHOR (considering). "People expect a preface; and this is the place for cne. But there is no preface in the great 'Indian Edda' which has occasioned this poem. The author of that work gives his explanation to the public in the Notes and Vocabulary; then, of course, mine also, ought (and is) to be found in the Notes and Vocabulary to 'The Song of Drop o' Wather.'"

Then follow the contents, consisting of an
Introduction and thirteen chapters, namely:-
I. Drop o' Wather's Childhood.
II. Drop o' Wather and Pudgy-Wheezy.
III. Drop o' Wather's Fasting.
IV. Drop o' Wather's Friends
V. Drop o' Wather's Filching.
VI. Drop o' Wather's Wooing
VII. Drop o' Wather's Wedding.
VIII.

The Ghost of the Star and Garter.
IX. Bilking the Runners.

the introduction, and the first chapter, it will be gathered that the hero is a poor little gutter child, who grows up to be a thief. The following chapters trace his career in crime, and the last describes his departure to Australia as a repentant emigrant.

THE SONG OF DROP O' WATHER.
INTRODUCTION.

YE who love the haunts of Town-Life,
Love the kennel and the gutter,
Love the doorway of the gin-shop,
Love the mud about the kerb-stones,
And the drippings from the houses,
And the splashing of the rain-spouts
Through their palisade of gratings,
And the thunder of the coaches,
Whose innumerable echoes,
Roar like sea-waves on the shingle ;-
Listen to these wild traditior.s,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off

Call to us to stop and listen,

Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy,

Scarcely can the ear distinguish

Whether they are hummed or shouted ;-
Listen to this London Legend,

To this song of Drcp o' Wather!

I.

DROP O' WATHER'S CHILDHOOD. Downward through the darkening twilight, In the days long time ago, now,

In the last of drunken stages,

By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah,
On the pavement fell poor Norah,
Just about to be a mother,

She'd been tippling with some women,
Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door,
When her Gossip, out of mischief,
Partly idle, partly spiteful,

Pushed the swing-door from behind her,
Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap,
And poor Norah tumbled backward,
Downward through the darkening twilight,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
On the gangway foul with mud-stains.
"See! a wench falls!" cried the people;
"Look, a tipsy wench is falling!"

There amidst the gaping starers,
There amidst the idle passers,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
In the murky darkened twilight,
Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe.
Thus was born young Drop o' Wather,
Thus was born the child of squalor.

He was named, by those who knew him,
Out of joke, and fun, and larking,
For what's called an Irish reason,
Or, by folks who sport the Classics,
A lucus à non lucendo,

Like, for all it is so unlike,
Hold a thing to be another,
For the sake of contradiction,
Or the sake of droll connection;
So the folks who knew our hero,
Gave his nickname for this reason,-
'Cause his mother never touched a