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Ring out the tax collector's knocks—
King out the women's "tie-back" frocks!
Ring out th' oppressors of the poor
The rinderpest and Ouida's books!
Ring out all rates without delay!
Ring in the Law Courts, if you can!
Ring out Kenealy, right away!
O. P. Q. P. Smiff, in The Figaro, January 5, 1876.
THE COMING MANNIKIN,
Mr. Punch, having heard that many Conservatives looked upon Lord Randolph Churchill as the "Coming Man" of their party, expressed himself as follows:
Ring out fools'-bells to limbo's dome,
King jangling bells a Bedlam chime ;
King out old pride in race and blood,
That kept the fierce old fighters right;
The narrow heart, the rowdy hand.
Ring out the brave, the wise, the grand ! Ring in the Coming Mannikin!
Punch, November 19, 1881.
The parody of In Memoriam, mentioned on Page 61 as having appeared in the St. James's Gazette of June 18, 1881, was written by Mr. H. D. Traill, and has since been re-published, by Messrs. Blackwood and Sons, in a volume entitled Recaptured Rhymes. Parodies of D. G. Rossetti, A. C. Swinburne, and Robert Browning are contained in the same volume, and will be quoted when the works of these authors are reached.
Detached portions of Tennyson's Maud have frequently been parodied, but the only case in which any attempt appears to have been made to imitate all its varying styles, and phases of thought, occurs in a small volume published in 1859, entitled Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns.
Unfortunately, the mere trick of imitating the metre only does not constitute a good parody, and this one lacks both in interest and humour. It is, besides, very long. The following are some of its best verses :
THE POET'S BIRTH:
A MYSTERY. By the P-t L-te. I.
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town,
At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime, Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the crown
By consuming th 'excised weed,--parent of smuggling crime! II.
'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets dreaming,
Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try;
But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming. Like a policeman, to help her, turns on his bull's-eye.
There's a hovel of mud, and the crone, mudded and muddled,
Knocks, and an oxidized hinge creaks a rusty "Come in." There are now in the hovel,-a woman in bed-gear huddled, A careworn man, and a midwife, her functional fee to win.
Midwives are hard as millstones: Expectant father's emotions Are dragg'd by the heart's wild tide, like seashore shingle, Shrieking complaint, when the fierce assaults of the ocean Beat them all round, without an exception single.
DARKNESS! Darkness! Darkness !
An unbless'd thing!--Who hears thee,
Grisly, gaunt, and lonely,
Darkness! Darkness! Darkness!
Thy brother Silence only!
Lightness Lightness! Lightness!
Great quality in small things,
A pudding, above all things!
And whitenessAre but lackness Of blackness.
From the plate, in shoals,
When they're put to warm in front of the coals;
For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern.
Of that horrible man with the wooden leg.
That is if you can help it.
AND OTHER POEMS.
By A. T. (D.C.L.)
CHIRRUP, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter,
Dicky birds, chickey birds-quick, ye bird,
Shut it up, cut it up, die away.
Maud is going to sing!
Maud with the voice like lute-strings, (To which the sole species of string
I know of that rhymes is boot-strings).
Still, you may stop, if you please;
Roar as a chorus sonorous,
Robin, bob in at ease;
Tom-tit, prompt it for us.
Rose or thistle in, whistlin',
(What a beast is her brother!)
Maud has sung from her tongue rung;
Echo it out,
AN EXTRACT (NOT) FROM TENNYSON'S
BIRDS in St. Stephen's garden,
Mocking birds, were bawling
Lord, Lord, Lord, John !"
They were crying and calling.
Where was John? In a fix !
They'd sent him out of the way,-
Birds in St. Stephen's sang,
Chattering, chattering round him "John is here, here, here,
Back too soon, confound him!"
They saw his dirty hands!
Meekly he bore their punning; John is not seventy yet,
But he's very little and cunning.
He to show up himself!
How can he ever explain it ?
Look, a cab at the door,
Dizzy has snarled for an hour; Go back, my Lord, for you're a bore, And at last you're out of power.
(Which ought to have come out, but didn't).
Lord John Russell.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (continued).
COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner horn.
'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's
Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax,
And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their backs.
Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest, Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west; Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees,
Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would freeze;
Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime;
When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed,
When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed.
When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest ;
In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib;
In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib. Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old,
And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold. And I said, "My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,
"Better believe it, I have eaten all the apples from one tree."
On her kindling cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night; And she turned,-her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie;
She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye,
Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,"
Saying, "I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping I shall go it strong."
She took me up, and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done,
And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run; She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might,
And before another minute, I was free, and out of sight. Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet, Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what I'd get ;
Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick,
And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick. O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds, O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds, Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have
I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue,
Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine?
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinnerhorn,
They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn;
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing;
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite,
Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight. Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. Here at least when I was little, something, O, for some
Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat, Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard, I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard. Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet, On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete,
Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighbour. hood,
Greater breadth of field and woodlands, and an orchard just as good.
Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there;
Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare. Hangs the heavy-fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like.
'Tis a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near
To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear.
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space.
I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall
She has caught me like a wild-goat, but she shall not catch my son.
He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf,
Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself.
Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss,
Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes;
Let them mate with dirty cousins—what to me were style or rank,
I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank? Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load,
Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of road;
Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give
us chase :
Better seven years at Uncle's than fourteen at Granny's place.
Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it,-guess it holds a thunderbolt :
Wish 't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or snow,
Let me get my horses started Uncle Pete-ward, and I'll go.
Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.
THE SQUATTER'S 'BACCY FAMINE.
IN blackest gloom he cursed his lot;
He only said, "My life is dreary,
The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
He idled with his baccy knife;
He had no care for daily bread :—
He only said, "My life is dreary.
Books had no power to mend his grief;
From chair to sofa sad he swings,
And still he said, "My life is dreary.
His meals go by, he knows not how;
His life is but a weary drag;
IIe cannot choose but curse and swear,
And still he said, " My life is dreary.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary ;
To him one end of old cheroot
For Our Superior Honey -Dew."
Would buy all fruits of Paradise;
Sudden he said, "No more be dreary!
The dray has come !" he said.
He said, "I'll smoke till I am weary,—
Miscellaneous Poems, by J. Brunton. Stephens. (Macmillan and Co., London), 1880.
This book contains several other amusing parodies of the poems of Swinburne, E. A. Poe, and Coleridge, which will be quoted in future parts of the collection. They all relate to Colonial life, and are now difficult to meet with, as all the unsold copies of the book have been returned to the author, who resides in Australia.
THE VOICE AND THE PIQUE.
THE Voice and the Pique!
It was once a beautiful Voice
But the Voice-or the girl-ab, which?
Because I was not so rich
As she thought-—and the voice grew a squeak. Hast thou no voice, O Pique?
Thou hast, uncommonly shrill :
Punch, October 17, 1874.
THE PLAINT OF THE PLUMBER AND BUILDER. (In the case of Dee v. Dalgairns, the plaintiff, a plumber by trade, sued the defendant Dalgairns, a Civil Engineer, for the sum of thirty pounds for the erection of a lavatory. The defendant made a counter claim of one hundred and twenty pounds, on the ground that the work being improperly done, sewer gas escaped into the house, and caused the illness of six members of the household, and the death of his son. He, therefore, claimed the doctor's bill and other expenses. The Judge struck out the plaintiff's claim, and gave judgment for the delendant).
SOLO BY THE PLUMBER.
"I SCAMP the joints. I scamp the drains.
I am an artful Plumber;
You'll feel my hand in winter's rains,
You'll sniff it in the summer. ""
I'VE spouted o'er the land o' Burns,
From town to town I've hurried down,
I've chattered over stony ways.
I've chattered through the heather,
I've doused and soused the Rads with praise,
To keep myself together.
I chatter, chatter, my words flow
As fast as any river;
Tho' some men's language may be slow,
I can talk on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,
But though I wheedle, brag, and shout,
The Franchise is my party cry,
I COME from haunts of Smith and Son,
I take in Judy, Punch, and Fun,
I roll away like "thunder live,"
And out again I curve, and so
For men may come and men may go,
And stop at any station.
I echo down the mountain pass,
I pass fine ruins over,
As light as harebell in the grass,
Or leveret in the clover.
Like Orpheus the trees I charm,
I draw them all along, and thread
As men must have their daily bread,
So I my daily fare.
Another imitation (and a very long one) of the same original, appeared in Punch, October 11, 1884, and a parody entitled The Mill was in Fudy, April 26, 1884.
SONG SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY MR. BURNE-Jones. "Come into my studio Maud,
If you've chalk'd your face, my own;
I am here at the easel alone;
And the pot-pourri's odour is wafted abroad,
"For I've shut the bright morning out,
With a saffron yellow blind;
And I've thrown my brick-dust velvet about,
In your rust-red robe enshrined.
Whether to paint my dear little bird