From the farthest dingey-donga
Cetewayo looking backward,
Placed his thumb upon his nostril,
Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey,
Made the gesture of derision,
Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey,
Hurling at them his defiance.

Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly,
"When I catch you, you black rascal,
Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey,
You and she shall be acquainted,"
Mockingly came back the answer:

"When you catchee, when you catchee !"
Through the forest, through the jungle.
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,

Like a kangaroo he bounded;

Seven long days and nights he hurried,
Close pursued by Giffey-Wiffey.
In the centre of the forest

Stood a kraal, here faint and weary
Crept he; nor had time to rest there,
For a bold Dragoon, a Haw-Haw,
Fiercely smote upon the doorway,
Crying, "Come forth, Cetewayo!
Come with us to Wolsey-Pullsey,
To the great Ashantee Garnet."

Then he came forth in his blanket
With a sort of savage grandeur,
With a look of calm defiance.

And he spoke, "White soldier, shoot me!"
Thus surrendered Cetewayo,
Ended all his craft and cunning,
Ended all his means of mischief,
But our end is-where to put him.

FLOREANT-LAURI (JAMES M. LOWRY).

THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO.
(Another version.)

FULL of anger was Sir Garnet
When he came among the Zulus,
Found them in a precious muddle,
Heard of all the wicked doings,
All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd
By the savage Cetewayo.
Fuming in alarming fashion,

Through his thick moustache he mutter'd

Dire words of blood and thunder.

Raging like an angry tiger

"I will nobble Cetewayo,

Bag this horrid rascal," said he ;

"Not so wide the realm of Zulus,

Not so terrible the bye-ways,
That my anger shall not nail him,

That my vengeance shall not spot him!"
Then in hot pursuit departed
Marter and the mighty hunters
On the trail of Cetewayo.

Through the bush where he had hidden,
To the hut where he had rested-
But they found not Cetewayo;
Only in the charcoal embers
And the smell of bad tobacco,
Found the spot where he had halted;
Found the tokens of his presence.
Through the bush and brake and forest
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,
Till a lonely kraal he entered
In the middle of the forest !
Then the corpulent old sinner

Heard the tramp of many footsteps,
Heard the sound of many voices,
Saying, "He, the white man's coming!

Got into a funk, and shivered,
Then came Marter, mighty Major,
He, of all Dragoons the boldest,
To the hut door riding straightway,
Saying, "Where is Cetewayo,
For his Majesty is wanted?”
Then came forth the noble savage,
On his breast a scarlet blanket,
Proudly wearing à la toga,

Gave himself to mighty Marter;
Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers !
Ended now his strange adventures,
Ended all his wily dodges,

All his plottings and his schemings,
And his hecatombs of Zulus !

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING. Author's Preface.

("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'")

FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood,
Neatly put it all together,

In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,

Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,

Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure

In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod-
Crouched beneath its dusky cover-.
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence-
Said. "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order,

Sat before him for their pictures;
Each, in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father,
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And a corner of a table,

Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left hand;
He would keep his right hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic, was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely-
Failed because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.'

*

Next to him the eldest daughter :

She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left eye,
Was a drooping of the right eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways

To the corner of the nostrils."

After having taken each member of the family in succession, with the most dismal results :

Finally my Hiawatha

Tumbled all the tribe together,

(Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture

Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined, and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it,

As "the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of."

But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Thus departed Hiawatha.

From Rhyme? and Reason? by Lewis Carroll, 1883. These disjointed extracts give but a poor idea of this most amusing poem, the comical effects of which are much heightened by Mr. A. B. Frost's humorous illustrations.

THE LAWN-TENNIS PARTY AT PEPPERHANGER,

man's knock.

I WAS sitting in my wigwam,
Looking from my lofty wigwam,
On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh,
O'er the vale of Pepperhanger.
Suddenly there came a rapping,
The Post- Double rapping, double tapping,
Sounding through the little wigwam,
Startling quiet Pepperhanger.
Thus the Government Messénjah,
Heathen Mercury of brazen buttons,
Mytho-
Crimson-collared, azure-coated,
logy. Blue as when some ancient Briton,
As enlightenment came o'er him,
Thinking skin was rather shabby,
History of Went and put a coat of Woad on.
England. He, the carrier of all letters,

He, the bearer of all tidings
To the lofty hill of Dryburgh,
To the vale of Pepperhanger.
Swiftly then I took the letter;
Eagerly I read the message
From a hospitable lady

Lodge's Peerage. Clergy List.

Sludgeboroughin-theMarsh.

Of the vale of Pepperhanger,
"Come at four o'clock to tiffin,
If no better action urges ;
In the cool of Tuesday evening,
Come and play a game of Tennis
On my lawns at Pepperhanger."
Thus her letter: then I sallied
To her almost hidden wigwam.
Which from East and rude Sou'-wester
Evergreen the pine-tree shelters;
Took my Tennis shoes of rubber,
Mocassins of Indian rubber
Racket, too, of Horace Bayley,
To the tournament of Tennis
On the lawns of Pepperhanger.
Came the lordly Tennyslornah.
Came the Reverend B. A. Kander,
Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge,
Came the masher, young de Vorley,
Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah,
Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe,
Strangers from a distant countrie,
To the tournament of Tennis
In the vale of Pepperhanger.
There we had a game at Tennis,
Outdoor Tennis let us call it,
Lest the Lords of real Tennis
Should invoke a curse upon us;
Hotly smote the fierce back-hander,
Volleyed toward, also froward,
Till the speeding ball appeared as
One continuous flash of lightning:
Shouted loudly cries of Tennis,

Forty-thirty ” and “advantage,"
Giving fifteen, owing thirty
For a bisque, anon half-thirty
Owing, giving, taking, wanting,
Till the brain was almost reeling,

Colenso's Handicapping calculations

Arithme- All too hard for Pepperhanger!
Presently the tea-bell sounded

tic.

Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens To the ne'er inebriating

Ever cheering goblet summons.

The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of which were contributed to Punch during his Editorship of that journal. Three of the longest and most amusing of these were The Very Last Idyll, after Tennyson; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, after Coleridge; and The Song of Hiawatha, after Longfellow. A quotation from The Very Last Idyll was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in Punch as far back as January, 1856, commenced thus::

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
(Author's Protective Edition.)
You, who hold in grace and honour,
Hold as one who did you kindness

When he published former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter,
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet

Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward for the accents
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, Longus Comes-
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conceptions
Of the manly, nervous diction
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,
Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash,
Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it-
Don't you wish that you may get it?
Should you ask me is it worthless,
Is it bosh, and is it bunkum ;
Merely facile, flowing nonsense,
Easy to a practised rhythmist,
Fit to charm a private circle,
But not worth the print and paper
David Bogue hath here expended?
I should answer, I should tell you
You're a fool, and most presumptuous;
Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it,
Hath not Punch commanded "Buy it "?
Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem ?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you.
'Tis a poem in this metre,
And embalming the traditions,
Tables, rites, and superstitions
Of the various tribes of Indians.

*

I should answer, I should tell you
Shut your mouth and go to David,
David, Mr. Punch's neighbour,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Read and learn, and then be thankful
Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth,

Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth.
Truer poet, better fellow,

Than to be annoyed at jesting

From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.

The following is a list of famous advertisers of thirty years ago, taken from Hiawater, a parody contained in "The Shilling Book of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853):

"Howlawaya, the quack doctor;
Mosieson, the cheap slop seller;
Marywedlake, oaten bruiser ;

Mechisteel and Warrenblacking ;

(By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully sat through the six concerts.)

THIS is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth,

Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed garments,

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms,

Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ

Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.

This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner

Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna;

Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj,

And Richter, to whom is presented a baton-brand new, silver-mounted;

But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes?

Where are the men-tawny swells-who talked of clubs,

races, or billiards,

Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes

orchestral ?

Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed,

And the critic goes—glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.

Funny Folks.

Another parody of Evangeline, entitled Picnicaline occurs in Mirth and Metre, by Frank E. Smedley, and Edmund Yates. London, 1855.

EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed,
A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue.
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice

That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

It is possible that Longfellow had the motto of New York, " Excelsior," in his mind when he composed this hackneyed poem, which has served as the model for hundreds of parodies. A few of the more amusing only can be inserted.

EXCELSIOR IN “PIDGIN English.”

The following article is from Pro and Con, December 14, 1872.

"Pidgin English is the name given to an absurd patois which is used in conversation between the Chinese celestials and the outer barbarians. It appears to be a physical impossibility for a Chinaman to pronounce the letter as in rough, cry, or curry, which he turns into lough, cly, and cully, as young English children often do. V, he turns into W, th into f, and to most words ending with a consonant, he adds a final syllable, as in find findie, catch catchee, &c. I, me, my, and mine, are all expressed by one word, my. The Vocabulary consists of a few words of French origin, such as savey, one or two from the Portuguese, many common Chinese expressions, such as chop-chop for quick; man-man, which means stop; maskee, never mind, or, do not mind; chin-chin, good-bye; welly culio, or muchee culio, very curious; Joss-pidgin-man, a priest; and Topside Galah, hurrah for the top, or Excelsior. There is also a plentiful use of the word pidgin, which is simply a corruption of our word business, but it appears to be applied with the utmost impartiality, to a variety of most incongruous phrases. As an example of every day talk, a lady telling her nurse to bring down her little girl and boy to see a visitor would say,'Aymah, suppose you go topside, catchee two piecee chiloe, bull chiloe, cow chiloe, chop-chop.' From a gentleman well acquainted with China and the Chinese, we have received the following clever imitation of Excelsior, which is pronounced a very fair specimen of Pidgin English" :—

TOPSIDE GALAH.

"THAT nightee tim begin chop-chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Maskee colo! maskee icee!

He cally that flag wid chop so nicee
Topside Galah!

"He too muchee solly, one piecee eye
Look see sharp-so fashion-allo same my,
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
Too muchee culio-allo same gong-
Topside Galah!

"Inside that housee he can see light,
And evely loom got fire all light.
Outside, that icee largee high,
Inside he mouf, he plenty cly,
Topside Galah!

"Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee !'
Bimeby lain come-welly darkee,
Hab got water, too muchee wide!
Maskee my wantchee go topside-
Topside Galah!

"Man-man,' one galo talkee he,
'What for you go topside look see?'
And one tim more he plenty cly,
But allo tim walkee plenty high,

Topside Galah!

His brow was black, his eye beneath
Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth;
And still amid the darkness rung
The accents of his well-known tongue;
"Your name and college!"

"Try not the High," the porter said,
"Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led."
But forth in "loud" illegal dress
The youth went, crying "Let him guess
My name and college!"
(Half-an-hour elapses.)

"O stay," his comrade said, "and rest
Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!"
To gain their wind the fliers try,
When lo a figure gliding nigh,

Cries, "Name and college!"

"Beware the proctor's sacred paunch,
Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch !"
This was the porter s last good-night;
A voice replied, "It serves me right
For cutting college!"

Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine,
Two youths, in dread of penal fine,

Slunk silent through the awful gate,

And "hoped they were not much too late, They'd run from college!

The public orator began

To spout his Latin like a man ;
His lips moved fast, but not a word
Was audible; we only heard,

"Ugh! Turn him out!"

The Gaisford and the Newdigate
And Stanhope shared no better fate;
No single voice could drown the cry
That roared out from the gallery,

"Ugh! Turn him out!"

The Vice rose up from off his chair,
And raised his finger in the air,
And gently strove the noise to quell,
But louder came the ceaseless yell,
"Ugh! Turn him out."

I left the place with aching brain,
And deafened ear that throbbed again,
And as I sauntered down the High,
Upon the breeze I heard the cry,

"Ugh! Turn him out!"

Lays of Modern Oxford (Chapman and Hall, 1874).

EXCELSIOR.

THE price of meat was rising fast,
As to his daily duty passed
A toiler who, with bitter laugh,
Had read upon his Telegraph,
Excelsior!