Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

Our England has had poets too:
They sang some grand old songs of yore,
But never reached such heights as you.
Will Shakespeare was a prince of bards,
Our Milton was a king to hear,
But had their manners that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere
Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,

Robe, now your bays are sere and spent:
The King of Snobs is at your door,

To trace your long (and deep) descent.
A man's a man for a' that,

And rich on forty pounds a year;
If rank be the true guinea-stamp
To win Parnassus-die a peer!

Trust me, Baron Vere de Vere,
When nobles eat their noblest words
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the airs of poet-lords.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.
Plain souls are more than coronets,
And simple lives than Baronhood.

I know you, Baron Vere de Vere:
You pine among your halls and bays:
The jaded light of your vain eyes

Is wearied with the flood of praise.
In glowing fame, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You are so dead to simple things,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Alfred, Alfred Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no toilers in our streets,
Nor any poor in all these lands?
Oh! teach the weak to strive and hope,
Or teach the great to help the low,
Pray Heaven for a noble heart,
And let the foolish title go.

From The Pall Mall Gazette, Dec. 12, 1883.

For the curious in such matters, I give the following extract from the St. James's Gazette, relating to Tennyson's lineage :-"That Mr. Tennyson comes of an ancient house is generally known; not everyone perhaps is aware of the number of princes, soldiers, and statesmen, famous in British or European history, from whom he can claim descent. Without pretending to give an exhaustive list of his royal and noble ancestors, it may be interesting at the present moment to point out a few of the more renowned among them. The Laureate's descent from John Savage, Earl Rivers (from which stock came Johnson's friend), implies descent from the Lady Anne, eldest sister of Edward IV., and so from sixteen English kingsnamely, the first three Edwards, Henry III., John, the first two Henrys, William the Conqueror,

Edmund Ironside, Ethelred the Unready, Edgar the Peaceable, Edmund I., Edward the Elder, Alfred, Ethelwulf, and Egbert. But Edward III. was the son of Isabella, daughter of Philip the Fair, King of France, who descended from Hugh Capet and nine intervening French Kings, among whom were Robert II., Philip Augustus, Louis VIII, and St Louis. The last is not the only saint who figures in this splendid pedigree The mother of Edward II. was Eleanor, daughter of Ferdinand III, King of Castile and Leon, who was canonized by Clement X. Again, through the marriage of Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, with Isabel, daughter of Peter the Cruel, Mr. Tennyson descends from Sancho the Great and Alphonso the Wise. Other crowned ancestors of the poet are the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, and several Kings of Scotland, notably Malcolm III. and the "gracious Duncan," his father. In truth, the Shakespearean gallery is crowded with portraits of his progenitors-e.g., besides those already mentioned, John of Gaunt; Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March; Richard, Earl of Cambridge; Richard Plantagenet, "the Yeoman; Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset ; Lord Hastings (of the reigns of Edward IV. and Richard III.), and Lord Stanley. Mr. Tennyson is not only descended from the first Earl of Derby, and that third ear, with whose death, according to Camden, "the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep," but from the "stout Stanley," who fronted the right of the Scots at Flodden, and whose name in Scott's poem was the last on the lips of the dying Marmion. 'Lord Marmion,' says Scott, 'is entirely a fictitious personage; but he adds that the family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenay in Normandy, was highly distinguished; Robert de Marmion, a follower of Duke William, having obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth. This Robert's descendant, Avice, married John, Lord Grey of Rotherfield, one of the original Knights of the Garter, whose great-grand daughter became (in 1401) the wife of John, Lord D'Eyncourt, another ancestor of Mr. Tennyson's, whose uncle, the Right Honourable Charles Tennyson, many years Liberal member for Lambeth, assumed the name of D'Eyncourt by royal licence."

Probably the learned compiler of this abstruse genealogy has no time to study the poets, or he might have read of one who claimed an even more ancient descent :

NOBLES and HERALDS, by your leave,

Here lies what once was MATTHEW PRIOR The son of ADAM and of EVE,

Can STUART or NASSAU claim higher?

The following beautiful lines, which occur in The Princess, have been the subject of many parodies :

HOME they brought her warrior dead;

She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry;
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee

Like summer tempest came her tears-
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

HOME they brought her lap-dog dead,
Just run over by a fly,
Jeames to Buttons, winking, said,

"Won't there be a row, O my!"

Then they called the flyman low,

Said his baseness could be proved : How she to the Beak should go-Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Said her maid (and risked her place), "In the 'ouse it should have kept, Flymen drives at such a pace

Still the lady's anger slept.

Rose her husband, best of dears,

Laid a bracelet on her knee.

HOME they brought Montmorres dead,
He nor sighed nor uttered cry.

All the English angered said

Strike! or know the reason why.

Jones and Boycott labouring well
Lost the fruits of earlier years;
Surely now 'tis time to quell,
Yet no remedy appears,
Farmers who had paid some rent:
On the cold ground weltering lay;
Still on landlord plunder bent,
Small attention did he pay.

Travelling Forster entering said:

But our "Bill" will strangled be; Then the Premier raised his head

"Oh sweet, my child, I strike for thee."

We seek to know, and knowing, seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak
We ask too much, we seek too oft;

We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom-
I know it not, nor seek to know-
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this would not presume.
Meseems, a circling void I fill,

And I unchanged, where all is change;
It seems unreal-I own it strange
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide

Raise, quiv'ring on, its carol tune; I watch the golden-sickled moon, And clearer voices call beside.

O sea! whose ancient ripples lie

On red-ribbed sands where seaweed shone;

O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,

O voices all! like you, I die !

From Medley, by Cuthbert Bede, 1856,

(Dies,)

The 1842 volume of Tennyson's works contained a short poem in four verses, entitled :—

A FAREWELL.

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver:

No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,

A rivulet then a river:

No where by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine aspen shiver
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

ODE TO ALDGATE PUMP.
FLOW down, false rivulet, to the sea
Thy sewage wave deliver;
No longer will I quaff from thee
For ever and for ever.

The dust of citizens of yore,
Who dwelt beside the river,
And leakages of sewers pour
Into thy stream for ever

A thousand hands may pump from thee,
A thousand pails deliver

Their sparkling draughts, but not to me
For ever and for ever.

Oh, let them lock thy nozzle up.

And drain thee to the river;

Nor any mortal fill his cup
Again from thee for ever.

From Funny Fks.

A FAREWELL

After sleeping in the Argyle Hotel, Duncon.
BITE on, theu pertinacious flea,
And draw the tiny river;

No more for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Bite, fiercely bite, and take with glee
From each unwilling giver;

No food for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

And here I toss some wretched be,
And here be li tear and shiver;
Bed-making she will hunt the fea
For ever and for ever.

A thousand limbs may smart for thee
A thousand skins may quiver:
But not for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

From Old Echoes from Oxford, 1872.

Rise up cold reverend, to a see,
Confound the unbeliever
Yet ne'er 'neath thee my seat will be
For ever and for ever.

Preach, softly preach, in lawn and be
A comely model liver,

Bat beer 'neath thee my seat shall be
For ever and for ever.

And bere shall sleep thine Alderman,
And here thy pauper shiver,
And here by : tee shall bazz the "* she,"
For ever and for ever.

A thousand men shall sheer at thee,
A thousand women quiver,

But beler Death thee my seat shall be
For ever and for ever.

From The Suct ven Papers, Oxford, 1874.

THE UNDERGRAD.

His fists across his breast he laid,
He was more mad than words can say;
Bareheaded rushed the undergrad

To mingle in November's fray.

In cap and gown, a don stepped down
To meet and greet him on his way;
"It is no wonder." said his friends,

"He has been drinking half the day."
All black and blue, like cloud and skies,
Next day that proctor's face was seen;
Bruised were his eyebrows, bruised his eyes,
Bruised was his nose, and pummelled mien;
So dire a case, such black disgrace,
Since Oxford was had never been ;
That undergrad took change of air
At the suggestion of the dean.

This is taken from Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872, and is a parody on The Beggar Mail and King Cophetna.

In a little volume, by C. S Calverley entitled "Fy Leaves," (George Bell & Sons, London 1878), there are several clever parodies. and one especially happy imitation of Tennyson's Brook :WANDERERS.

As o'er the hill we roamed at will,
My dog and I together,

We marked a chaise, by two bright bays
Slow-moved along the heather:
Two bays arch-neck`d, with tails erect,
And gold upon their blinkers;
And by their side, an ass I spied;
It was a travelling tinker's

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I:
Such things are not in my way

I turn'd me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a by-way.

I asked him where he lived a stare
Was all I get in answer,

As on be trudged: I rightly judged
The stare said, "Where I can, sir.'

I asked him if he'd take a whiff

Of 'bacco; he acceded;
He grew communicative too,
(A pipe was all he needed),
Till of the tinker's life, I think,

I knew as much as he did.

"I loiter down by thorp and town;

For any job I'm willing;
Take here and there a dusty brown,
And here and there a shilling.

"I deal in every ware in turn,

I've rings for buddin' Sally

That sparkle like those eyes of her'n ;
I've liquor for the valet.

I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots,

I hide by th' squire's covers;

I teach the sweet young housemaids what's
The art of trapping lovers.

"The things I've done 'neath moon and stars
Have got me into messes :

I've seen the sky through prison bars,

I've torn up prison dresses.

"I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloom'd, I've glanced With envy at the swallows

That through the windows slid and danced

(Quite happy) round the gallows.

"But out again I come, and show

My face nor care a stiver,

For trades are brisk and trades are slow,
But mine goes on for ever."

THE RINKER,
By Alfred Tennyson.

I START from home in happy mood,
Arrayed in dress so pretty,
And sparkle out among the men,
Who come up from the City.

But first I linger by the brink,
And calmly reconnoitre,

For when I'm fairly on the rink,
I never care to loiter.

Then "follow me," I loudly call,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall,

But I rink on for ever.

I chatter with my little band

Of friends so gay and hearty,

And sometimes we go hand in hand,

And sometimes in a party.

I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide,
There is no one can teach me,

I give them all a berth full wide,
And not a soul can reach me.

I chatter, chatter, to them all,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a figure tracing,
And here and there I dance about,
And here I go a-racing,

I'm always making graceful curves,
As everyone alleges.

And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve,
From in and outside edges.

And after me I draw them all,
At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall,
But I rink on for ever.

:0:

I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled Puck on Pegasus by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen years ago by the late Mr. John Camden Hotten. In the original edition this work was a small quarto with numerous illustrations and a characteristic frontispiece, designed and etched by my dear old friend George Cruikshank. It has since run through numerous editions, and is now included in the series known as The Mayfair Library, published by Chatto and Windus. It contains the following parodies" Song of In-the-Water," after Longfellow; "The Du Chaillu Controversy," after The Bon Gaultier Ballads; "The Fight for the Championship," after Lord Macaulay; "How the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after Robert Southey; "Wus, ever wus," after Tom Moore; "Exexolor!" after Longfellow's Excelsior; "Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade," after Tennyson.

The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat faded from the public memory. It is sufficient to say that the warlike behaviour of the one brigade was quite as great a contrast to the action of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem :

CHARGE OF THE Light (Irish) Brigade. (Not by A-d T—n).

SOUTHWARD Ho-Here we go!
O'er the wave onward

Out from the Harbour of Cork
Sailed the Six Hundred !
Sailed like Crusaders thence,
Burning for Peter's pence.-
Burning for fight and fame-
Burning to show their zeal-

Into the gates of Rome,
Into the jaws of Hell,

(It's all the same)! Marched the Six Hundred !

"Barracks, and tables laid! Food for the Pope's Brigade; But ev'ry Celt afraid, Gazed on the grub dismay'd— Twigged he had blundered ;"Who can eat rancid grease? Call this a room a-piece! "

Silence! unseemly din, Prick them with bayonets in." Blessed Six Hundred !

Waves every battle blade,— "Forward the Pope's Brigade!" Was there a man obeyed? No-where they stood they stayed, Though Lamoricière pray'd,

Threatened and thundered-
"Charge!" Down their sabres then
Clashed, as they turn'd-and ran-
Sab'ring the empty air,

Each of one taking care,
Here, there, and everywhere
Scattered and sundered.

Sick of the powder smell,
Down on their knees they fell,
Howling for hearth and home-
Cursing the Pope of Rome-
Whilst afar shot and shell
Volleyed and thundered;
Captured, alive and well,
Ev'ry Hibernian swell,
Came back the tale to tell;
Back from the states of Rome--
Back from the gates of Hell-
Safe and sound every man-
Jack of Six Hundred !
When shall their story fade
Oh the mistake they made!
Nobody wondered,
Pity the fools they made-
Pity the Pope's Brigade-
NOBBLED Six Hundred

It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as mere parody is concerned, of the defects of Mr. CholmondeleyPennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection. -They parody the Morte D'Arthur:

LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M. P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST.

THE sequel of to-day dissevers all

This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men

To hounds-the flyers of the hunt.

I think

That we shall never more in days to come
Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each
Praising his own the most) shall steal away
Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side
Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,
Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,
And leave the land behind us like a dream.

I tear me from this passion that I loved-
Though laget sware that I should ride again -
But yet I think I shall not; I have done :
My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,
The blossom of the seasons, and no more
For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,
Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.

Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride
(For still thou knowest he bore me like a man—),
And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,
But set him straight and give his head the rein,
And he shall bear thee lightly to the front,
Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel,
And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place

·:0:

Like the accomplished authors of The Bon Gaultier Ballads, Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and whilst she begins in mere badinage, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to turn aside again into the well-worn" footprints in the sands of time."

* A room for each man, and plenty of excellent provisions were amongst the inducements held out to the deluded victims who enlisted in the Papal Brigade to fight against Italian unity.