THOMAS HOOD (continued). THE SONG OF THE LINES. WITH Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord He sang the Song of the Lines. Wait, wait, wait, When the bell is ringing aloof, And wait, wait, wait, When we leave our Grinder's roof, And it's oh to be a Jib In the Godless College of Cork, Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, If this be Christian's work. Oh, Fellows with pupils dear, Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons, It is not paper you're tearing up, Wait, wait, wait, Till term after term fulfils, And wait, wait, wait, As minors wait for wills, Week after week in vain We've looked at the College gate, For how many days? I would hardly fear To speak of ninety-eight. With Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in The Catholic Herald (Jersey), about forty years ago : THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD, With body shrivelled and worn, With eyeballs bloodshot and red, A man in plight forlorn, Lay moaning sore in bed. Drink, drink, drink, In poverty, fever, and pain, And still he sang of his favourite drink Drink, drink, drink, Oh! there's nothing like drink for man, Drink, drink, drink, Till the head reel round again. It's oh! to be a beast, Without a soul to save, With no fear to stay the drunken feast, Oh! men with starving wives, Drink, drink, drink, Let them all be ragged and bare, Drink, drink, drink, Is the drunkard's only care. Drink, drink, drink, Our guzzling never flags, And our wages go, and our homes are woe, Forced by day to starve or steal, Let us fight and curse and swear, 'Till our breath pollute the air. Brandy, and gin, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wasted frame and fever come, And the sorrows of Hell begin. Drink, drink, drink, 'Till staggering home we go, Drink, drink, drink, 'Till we blast that home with woe. Drink, curses, murder, and shame, Make up the drunkard's life, With the rags and vice of a starving child, In racking fever and pain, A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season : THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT." I. With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, When good dinners glad the sight, And scratch, scratch, scratch, When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite, When under silver roofs Rich viands my servants bring, As if to show me their dainty shapes, "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, Where the sky above one's head Is not of this melting heat; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew Calcutta's suns Flay men as men the eel. VIII. "Oh! but for one short hour A respite just to snatch ! No blessed leisure for love or lark But only time to scratch. Away they sped when the play was done, So they passed the butter boat around The Eminent I. they raved about And he still strutted on the stage, An over-rated man. He wore pink tights-his vest apart, To clutch his manly chest ; And he went at the knees in his old, old way, Whilst his brow he madly prest. So he whisper'd and roarei, and gasp'd and groan'd, As with dyspepsia possest. Act after act he ranted through, And he strode for many a mile, Till some were fain to leave the house, Too weary even to smile; For acting the murderer's part so oft But he took six more hasty strides Six hasty strides, then doubled up, As though to say, "See me create Then leaping on his feet upright, Now up the stage, now down the stage, And, looking off, he saw her ma, read ?" "Now, Mrs. B., what is't you Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, "His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest! O, prithee say what mean ye? Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, "Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again! Its mention ne'er will cease; Does he still dare my throne to share, One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep Had still'd the City's heart, Two bill-stickers set out with paste And play-bills in a cart, And the Eminent I. had his name on them, In a melodramatic part. The Figaro, October 9, 1875. When Mr. Henry Irving produced The Iron Chest, at the Lyceum Theatre, the Editor of The World offered two prizes for the best two parodies on the subject, the model chosen being Hood's Dream of Eugene Aram. The successful parodies were printed-in The World, October 22, 1879:- FIRST PRIZE. 'TWAS in the Strand, a great demand For seats was quite the rule; The pit and gallery were crammed, The stalls and boxes full. One man remained who could not find From gods to stall, he paced them all, A burning thought was in his heart, He'd eaten pork, and knew full well With hollow sound the curtain rose, And then he found a place, Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see He was so prest, for the Iron Chest He saw how Irving walked the stage To keep the limelight on his brows His voice was hollow as the grave, He showed how murderers start and gasp He dragged his shirt-front out by yards, He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast- If anybody mentioned death Or foul assassination, He started up and groaned or shrieked And when at last four acts were past SECOND PRIZE. THE sky was clear; no ripple marked On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked, Q. His face was fair, but it did not wear "And yet among thy peers is known And wealth is thine and friendship's joy, "Men call thee good, they know thec kind Yet more, if aught beside There lacks thy happiness to crown, Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?" "Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt Wrought the accursed deed. ""Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt, O God, that I that I could stoop O God, that with a face so calm I cloak so black a heart! Yet the end is gained and the secret sure: They shall lay the tortured clod Of this vile clay in the open day With honour beneath the sod." That night 'twas known that a felon's soul Had gone to meet its God. PORTIONISTA. The following was also published : 'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit (And, O, that pit was hot) That several hundred folks did sit, And I amongst the lot; And some drank ale and some drank stout, From mug or pewter-pot. We watched the jovial robber-crew, As only robbers can ; While the keeper kept himself at home, His hair was long and his dress was dark, Much painting had made him very pale And he saw his secretarial clerk, Go prying about in the ancient room And he "went " forthwith for that timid clerk, "By hell !" he shrieked, and held him fast; Untrusty youth, unstable--" He raved in his face and clenched his fists, And chased him round the table. "Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom ?” "I would, an I were able !" "If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain! But; 'fore I tell thee, swear-" And he swore and he swore and he swore again, And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid And that very night, when a somnolent snooze Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away In a scanty assortment of clothes; And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk, And there he hid a fork and spoon In a most ingenious way, And a ring or so and a deed or two, And Wilford was tried next day; But the KNIFE had slipped in, and-ha, ha !-'twas found! And that's the plot of the play! C. S. The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell in The Thread of Life. This poem (the last in Puck on Pegasus) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts can give but a faint idea : LIFE! What depths of mystery wide In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride, To quench the spark-VITALITY! What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope |