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write almost to the last. His poems are thoroughly well known wherever our language is spoken, and have obtained in this country a popularity second to that of no English writer. The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge both conferred degrees upon Mr. Longfellow, and he was also elected a member of the Russian Academy of Science, and of the Spanish Academy.

The following are the poems which have been most frequently selected as the models for Parodies:-A Psalm of Life; Beware!; Evangeline; The Song of Hiawatha; The VillageBlacksmith; Excelsior; Curfew; The Bridge; and several parts of the Saga of King Olaf,


TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life Assurance is a dream,
And that while the public slumbers,
Figures are not what they seem!

Really, I am quite in earnest !

So would you be. Here's a goal!
Come let's have enquiry sternest.
It's too bad, upon my soul.
Here's a set of fellows borrow
Money that they can't repay,
Then buy up, till each to-morrow
Finds them deeper than to-day,

Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting,
Though they've taken all I gave!
They, not muffled drums, want beating
Soundly till they look quite grave.
Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle!
Stuff! I have insured my life.
I'm not dumb, like driven cattle!
And I'll make a precious strife!

Trust the future? Come, that's pleasant!
Wait until I'm buried-dead?

No, I'll make a row at present.

On official toes I'll tread!

And directors think to blind us!
Humbug us just for a time.
Till we go to leave behind us

Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime!
Nothing! Do they think another
Will insure, like me, in vain!
No! the outcry they'll not smother,
Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again!

Let us, then, be up and doing,

Never mind what be our fate,

Each director still pursuing,

Shouting out "Investigate!"

From The Tomahawk, September 11, 1869.


Tell us not in mournful "numbers"
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers
When the nightmare make us scream.

Life is dark enough in earnest Without bringing in the gaol, Only readers of the sternest

Like their heroines out on bail.

Not to swindle, or to borrow
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow
Kill your bride, and run away.

Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary.
And our hearts, though pretty brave
Now and then get rather weary
Of the gallows, and the grave.

In the great domestic battle,
In the matrimonial strife,

Be not like those Mormon "Cattle,"
Give your hero but one wife.

Wives and Daughters should remind you There are women without crime; Draw them and you'll leave behind you Fictions that may weather time.

Fictions free from that Inspector, Who is sent by Richard Mayne, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane.

Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with wills, Leave the poisons in the phials And the money in the tills.


A Mournful Ditty.

TELL me not that I am pretty-
Really don't, now, Mr. Green
I'm the last to think it's witty
Not to name things as they seem.

Yes; I know my hair is curly, Blacker than the blackest sloe; And I know that you'll be surly With the candour I thus show

That my eyes with fire are glancing
I'll admit if that you say:

Yet I think that you're romancing
When you swear they're bright as day.

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After William Morris's "Earthly Paradise." (Written expressly for this collection.) OF Love or War this is no hour to sing,

But I may ease the burden of your fears
(Lest you think death to mirth is happening),
And quote from wit of past and present years,
'Till o'er these pages you forget your tears,
And smile again, as presently you say
Some idle jingle-or forgotten lay.

But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth
Thro' comic journals with a doleful sigh
You feel unkindly unto all the earth,

And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy
These "weekly comics," lingering like to die,
Remember, then, a little while, I pray,
The clever singers of a former day.

The pomp and power and grand majestic air
That marches thro' their poems' stately tread,
These idle verses may catch unaware,

And by burlesque call back remembered
Some rhymes that living not can ne'er be dead,"
Though what is meant by that I cannot say—
But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day.

Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme,
Now classified and placed in order straight,
Let it suffice it for the present time

That some be old, while some are born but late,
A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait,
Of those that in forgotten serials stay,
Or are, in passing journals, tossed away,

Folks say a wizard to a common King,

One April-tide such wondrous jest did show That in a mirror men beheld each thing,

Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow, While rosy face looked white as fallen snow, Each visage altered in such comic way,

That those who came to court, remain'd to play.

So with these many Parodies it is,

If you will read aright and carefully,

Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss

For lack of beauty in the themes to see, Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we But jest to make some little changeling play Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay. J. W. GLEESON WHITE.

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Mr. J. Russell Lowell gave an aldress, in which he stated that

"Longfellow's mind always moved straight towards its object, was always permeated with the emotions, and gave them the frankest, the sincerest, and, at the same time, the most simple expression, and never was there a private character more answerable to public performance than that of Longfellow. His nature was consecrated ground, into which no unclean spirit could ever enter."

This tribute to his memory, paid by one who had known him for nearly forty years, sufficiently explains the reason why, in the parodies of his works which are now to be given, nothing of a personal nature will be inserted. Indeed, it is doubtful whether one unkindly worded, or spiteful burlesque was ever penned about either Longfellow, or his works.

Hence the parodies will be found to consist principally of imitations of his style, language, or ideas, or of reproductions of his poems in a grotesque form.




TELL me not in rippling numbers
Scrip is always sure to pay,

For the man is fleeced who blunders
In an idiotic way.

Scrip may ruin-scrip may make you,
And you've but yourself to blame
If you let some sharper take you
In with his confounded game.

Not Imperials and not Centrals
Are the shares that always pay :
On those tempting Orientals

I have thrown my all away.

Imperials low and fluctuating,
Shebas scarcely to be had;
Day Dawns now not worth relating,
Alpines almost just as bad.

In the market of shareholders,

In that place of gins ar d snares,
Don't forget to shrug your shoulders
When you're offered any shares.
Trust no broker, however pleasant,
When he wants to sell you scrip;
Tell him times are bad at present,
And you've not yet got the tip.
Ruin of rich men is e'er telling
"Sell bad scrip in time to be
Wealthy, prosperous by selling
Shares not worth a big, big D."

Bad scrip, which perhaps some greenhorn,
Eager, anxious for a spec,
Thinking he has some good thing on,
May buy up and go to wreck,

Let us then, on chance relying,

Buy when poor men have to sell; Sell when innocents are buying, And we shall do pretty well.


TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life's one long unending bill-
Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers-
Tin will fly, do what you will.

Meat is high in real good earnest,
Far above the hungry soul;
Dust thou art, to dust returns, is
Very typical of coal.

In the weekly market battle,

For the cheapest things and best, Be not like dumb-driven cattle, Stand out bravely, all the rest. Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow,

Feel we, when small debts we pay : Still, we know that each to-morrow Finds them larger than to-day.

Duns are hard, and time is fleeting,

Bills are sadly in arrears,

And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating
At the aspect of affairs.

Bailiffs are not very pleasant,

Lock your door and keep the key ; Act, act in the living present—

Leave your country, cross the sea.

Lives of great men, too, remind us,

Big debts sometimes clogged their feet; And, like them, we leave behind us

Some few bills we cannot meet

Bills that make you try to smother,
As you cross the stormy main,
Thoughts of love, and home, and mother,
Listening for your step in vain.

Let us then be up and doing

With an eye to making tin,

Any likely trade pursuing,

Learn to gain your end and win.

From The Figaro. December 3, 1873.

THE LIBERAL PSALM OF Life. TELL us not in mournful numbers Liberal union is a dream: Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers; Yet things are not what they seem.

Opposition must be earnest,

Or we shall not win the goal;
If for Gladstone still thou yearnest,
Thou art a weak-minded soul.

Ministerial slips to follow

Is our destined end and way,
So that we may throw each morrow
Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way.
Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting;
Conservatism, now so brave,
In the Bills which we are greeting,
Yet may find an early grave.

Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant,
Let past premiers bury their dead;
Act with Hartington at present,
Nor the coming session dread.

Hansard's pages all remind us

We have but to bide our time; Dizzy some fine day may find us In majority sublime.

Gladstone's gone, but till another,
Like him takes the helm again,
Let us help our leader, brother,
Hartington with might and main.
Let us then be up and doing,
Meeting Dizzy in debate,
Tory tactics still pursuing,

Find a policy-and wait!

From Funny Folks, February 27, 1875, when the Conservative party, led by Mr. Disraeli, was in power, and the Liberal Opposition was led by Lord Hartington.


What the Heart of the Old Man said to the Genial Gusher at
Christmas Time.

TELL me not in Christmas Numbers
Life is but a gourmet's dream!
Sure your sense is dead or slumbers:
Peptics are not what they seem.

Life is serious! Life is solemn !
And good grub is not its goal :
Menu-making by the column

Helps not the dyspeptic soul.

Not delight from cates to borrow
Is the aim of prudent will,
But to eat so that to-morrow
Finds us not exceeding ill.

Feeds are long and health is fleeting;
And old stomachs once so strong,
Find that indiscriminate eating
Very quickly puts them wrong.

In the banquet's dainty battle.

At the table's toothsome strife,
Feed not like dumb hungry cattle,

Wield a cautious fork and knife!
Trust no menu, howe'er pleasant;
Night-mare-Nemesis is dread;
Swig and swallow like a peasant,
You'll repent it when in bed !

Memories of big feeds remind us

Christmas pudding peace can slay;
Touch it, and next morn shall find us
Indigestion's helpless prey.

Pudding that perhaps another,

Light of heart and bright of brain,
Some strong-stomached younger brother,
Eating,, sends his plate again.

Let us then beware high feeding,
Or the love of luscious cate,
Still abstaining, ne'er exceeding,
Learn to dodge dyspeptic fate!

From Punch. December 27, 1879.

LIVES of wealthy men remind us
That by using Printer's ink,

We can die and leave behind us
Monstrous piles of golden "chink."

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