As I came towards the theatre, whom think ye I should see. But Messrs. HARE and KENDAL, looking sorrowful at me? They were thinking of The Falcon I wrote but yesterday, And they didn't ask me for a play, HENRY, they didn't ask me for a play. I know your ghost draws well, Henry, but don't be in a fright, My forte isn't stage-effect; when I write plays, I write. Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes; For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,The latest, culture;-and for that, my name doth current pass, So that's why though I can't construct, and you feel all astray, You've asked me to write you a play, HENRY, you've asked me to write you a play. So take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY, dear; From Punch, December 4th, 1860. These verses had reference to the announcement that the Poet Laureate was writing a tragedy to be produced at the Lyceum Theatre. This was The Cup, which was indeed a greater success than most of Mr. Tennyson's previous dramatic productions, but it owed its popularity to the acting, and to the magnificent mise-en-scene, far more than to its merits as a play, beautiful as it was as a poem. duced on the 19th February, 1881. It was pro In The Referee for December 2, 1882, the following parodies were published. It will be noticed that the first part imitates Cowper's John Gilpin, the second part Tennyson's May Queen, and the third part Campbell's Hohenlinden. "I beg very humbly to submit a poem to the Royal "Family, the Bench, the Bar, and the British Public on the "opening of the new Law Courts." A MEDLEY FOR MONDAY. JOHN BULLJOHN was a citizen Of Volunteers a captain he Of famous London town. John Bulljohn's mother said, "My dear, "To-morrow to the new Law Courts Says John, "Good gracious! so she doesDear mother, we'll be there." And ere he went to bed, J. B. You must must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all this famous year; Of all this famous year, mother, the grandest, jolliest day, For look on our Queen we may, mother, look on our Queen we may. There is many a loyal heart, they say, but none so true as mine, There's Sandy and there's Dougal, across the Border line; But none so true as Johnny, not e'en by Alum Bay, So look on my Queen I may, mother, look on my Queen I may. All the Strand, dear mother, will be gay with flag and green; And they're selling seats in windows for gold to see the Queen; O long shall Johnny remember the Law Courts' opening day, When look on the Queen he may, mother, look on the Queen he may. In London when the Queen was low, Too sad at heart about to go, Or in our streets her face to show But London saw another sight Through arches, flags and greenery. To where the new Law Courts were made, O, how the English crowd hoorayed ! Then shook the sky with thunder riven, Tennyson's longest and most important work is the collection of Arthurian Idyls, known as the Idyls of the King. These were originally published in detached parts, in somewhat irregular order, but in recent editions the Author has striven to arrange them in a consecutive, and more connected form. The first to appear in order of date was the Morte d'Arthur, which was published in the 1842 volume, in the later arrangement of the poems this has been absorbed into the last Idyl, entitled "The Passing of Arthur." In the original it commenced thus: "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: This mission was distasteful to Sir Bedivere, who exclaims : "And if indeed I cast the brand away, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. The King is sick, and knows not what he does. Thus much of the original must indeed be in one's thoughts ere the Voyage de Guillaume can be appreciated; it recounts the holiday trip of the Prime Minister to the north in September, 1883. It will be remembered that Mr. Gladstone was the guest of Sir Donald Currie, on board the Pembroke Castle, and that Alfred Tennyson was also one of the party. VOYAGE DE GUILLAUME.-A FRAGMENT. To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette. SIR, I have received the following lines from North Britain. Evidently it was not without reason that the Prime Minister was accompanied on his cruise by the Poet Laureate.-I am, Sir, your obedient servant, H. H. -So all the year the noise of talk had roared Before the Speaker's chair at Westminster, Until King Guillaume's council, man by man Were tired to death, as also was their Chief, King Guillaume. Then, observing he was bored, The bold Sir Donald C. invited him (Sir Donald C., the last of all his knights) And bore him off to Barrow by the sea Barrow-in-Furness, with a ruined church Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C. : "Next session will most probably upset Not for long The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before. Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem, And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought; "And if, indeed, I cast the axe away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. The King is cross, and knows not what he says. Should be to aftertime, but empty breath Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept, It might be brought out by some lecturer, So spake he, thinking of constituents, Then came Sir Donald, gave the King his arm, And brought him to the margin of the sea. And at his call there hove a roomy barge, Manned with a gallant crew from stem to stern; And so they entered, and put off, and reached The stately Pembroke Castle, and were ware That all the decks were dense with manly forms In naval caps and jackets, and with these Three dames in yachting suits; and from them rose A cheer of greeting, and they stretched their hands Took him on board, and laughed, and petted him. And so they sailed; and while the sea was calm And like a prostrate oak-tree lay the King Shot through the lists at Westminster, and charged The St. James's Gazette. September 19th, 1883. In the 1842 volume also appeared "Godiva," Locksley Hall," "Break, Break, Break,” and "The Eagle," of each of which there are some excellent parodies. The old legend of Lady Godiva has recently been sadly vulgarised by the processions at Coventry, and the following poem describes the scene in which a somewhat prominent actress stooped to sustain the part of the Lady Godiva. THE MODERN LADY GODIVA. I journeyed by the train to Coventry; I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge, NOT even were it to remove a tax As she rode forth a thousand summers back : Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her And she-for eggs and toast had made her bold"Ay, that will I!" Then he: "Tis well!" and went And whistled as he walked. She, left alone, When the effect of eggs and toast had gone, And driving past she saw the circus car, And on it was a placard calling all Good people to come forth and gaze at her. Then knew she that undressing time had come, So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs, Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness, And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow, After a smash (and Tennyson). BREAK, break, break! Plate, decanter, and glass! It's enough to worry a cherub, It's all very well to declare TENNYSON. That your "helbow" caught in the door, And I'm very hard up just now, But I wish I'd only got half the coin Break, break, break! You must order another new set. From Odd Echoes from Oxford. 1872. Here is another in a similar vein : BREAK, break, break, My cups and my saucers, O scout! And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter, It's well for the china-shop man, Who gets a fresh order each day; And deucedly well for yourself, Who are in the said china-man's pay. And my stately vases go To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed. Break, break, break! At the foot of thy stairs in glee; But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed Will never come back to me. E. B. IWAN-MULLER. The Shotover Papers. Oxford, 1875. ACHE! ACHE! ACHE! ACHE! ache! ache! In my throbbing jaw, O tooth! And I would that my tongue could utter How he shouts with his sister at play; How he howls in the street all the day, And the terrible ache will go on Till the dentist's chair I fill, But oh! what a wrench by that savoury hand Ere this jumping nerve is still. THE BATHER'S DIRGE. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! O well for the fisherman's boy, If he likes to be soused with the spray! O well for the sailor lad, As he paddles about in the bay! And the ships swim happily on To their haven under the hill : But O, for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, And a kick-for I'm catching a chill! Break, break, break, At my poor bare feet, O Sea! But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes Will never come back to me. From Funny Folks, 1879. The two following are taken from Punch: THE MUSICAL PITCH. BREAK, break, break, O voice!-let me urge thy plea ! O lower the Pitch, lest utter Despair be the end of me! 'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, The bassoon to grunt in its play : 'Twere well had I lungs of brass, Or that nothing but s'rings gave way! Break, break, break, O voice! I must urge thy plea, For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G! TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGate. (Apropos of the Ring of Wholesale Fish Dealers.) TAKE! Take! Take! O grabber of swag from the sea, That he toils for a trifle all day, But it's O for the number of poor men's lives And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me; Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D-? * As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town; How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down! How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner! Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner. Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and I go. BACCHANALIAN DREAMINGS. CRONIES leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend, Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend, 'Tis the place I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part; Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart. This old house is situated in a street well-known as High ; Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky. Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering care, Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair. In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know, Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius flow. Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine. For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway, Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay. Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold, I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold. Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore, Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore. Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell, Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear, If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer. White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine, And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine. In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold. From The Modern Athenian, 18th March, 1876. BLIGHT. JOHNSON, mix another tumbler; Johnson, light a fresh cigar, Don't be off to the Casino, but be happy where you are. Listen, Johnson, taking warning from my spirit-crushing tale, Taking, too, your muddy bluchers from that fender's polish'd rail. Proudly stands the house of Vivian Grey the Younger, Grosvenor Gate; Six doors off there lived a lady, and her christian name was Kate. Oh, the bright and fresh young morning; oh, the upward springing lark, Oh! the getting up at seven, to take a ramble in the Park. Cursed be the loud alarum, fixed at random over night, When one talks of early rising in a style absurdly light! Cursed be the maid who calls you-brings hot water to your door, Waking you at five because the sweeps have waked herself at four ! Did I lay that gravel walk down, did I plant those elms and oaks, Did I set those snug alcoves like traps for catching single folks? Many a morning did I meet her-I was always reading Locke, While she sat and gleaned a lighter mental food from Paul de Kock. Wherefore came a ribald urchin, in unseemly corderoy, Creeping near her, unsuspected, then uncouthly bawling, "Hoy!" Wherefore turned she pale and fainted, nearly falling from her seat? Wherefore howled he at the whopping which I tendered for his feat? Then I said, "O Miss. or Madame, you look white as any paper; Trust me, lady, he'll think twice before he dares encore that caper." Then the ice was broken, Johnson,—broken, Johnson, in a trice; Would my neck, before that day, had shared the fortune of the ice! Many a morning did I meet her, never more I brought my Locke, Never more she studied morals at the feet of Paul de Kock. |