"The Song of the 'Skyed' one, as sung at the Academy on the first Monday in May," was a parody, in ten verses, commencing : AWAKE I must, and early, a proceeding that I hate, This appeared in Punch, May 11, 1861. The May Queen was also imitated in a poem contained in Modern Society, March 29, 1884. It was entitled "Baron Honour," and was a very severe, and rather vulgar, skit on Lord Tennyson's adulation of the Royal Family. In The Weekly Dispatch, September 9, 1883, five parodies were printed in a competition to anticipate the Poet Laureate's expected poem in commemoration of the late John Brown; a subject on which, however, Lord Tennyson has not as yet published a poem. In the same newspaper six parodies of Hands All Round were inserted on April 2, 1882. These were very entertaining, and were severally entitled: "Pots all Round;" "Tennysonian Toryism Developed ;" "Drinks all Round;" Cheers all Round;" "Hands all Round (with the mask off)"; and "Howls all Round." Truth, February 14, 1884, contained a parody entitled "In Memoriam; a Collie Dog." Punch also had a parody with the title "In Memoriam " on July 9, 1864. "The Two Voices, as heard by Jones of the Treasury about Vacation time," was the title of a long parody in Punch, September 7, 1861. There was also a political parody, on the same original, in Punch, May 11, 1878. "Recollections of the Stock Exchange," a long parody of Recollections of the Arabian Nights, and dealing with the topic of Turkish Stocks, appeared in Punch, December 18, 1875. "The Duchess's Song," after Tennyson, was in Punch, September 3, 1881; and British Birds, by Mortimer Collins (1878), contained, amongst others, a capital parody of Tennyson. THE POETASTERS: A DRAMATIC CANTATA. AN itch of rhymes has seized the times Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster, Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson, Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson. I greet with joy the cheerful sight, When, hark! there comes the postman's knock : For song and stave and madrigal I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep Call in the dustman'!-Lo! 'tis done! The contract signed, I breathe again. Finale: Chorus of Toetasters. Not return nor e'en acknowledge! Dares he treat our verses thus ? Knows he not the might malignant Of a poetaster's cuss ?" Dreads he not our 66 spiteful letters," Epigrams, satiric skits? Let him learn that would-be poets Also shine as would-be wits. Who is he to scorn our verses? British taxpayers are we ; Is he not the Poet Laureate ? Don't we stand his salary? Straightway we'll transfer allegiance To some other, blander bard, Whom no paltry peerage renders Uppish, arrogant, and hard. Mr. browning, for example, Won't treat brother poets thus. Though we may not understand him, Doubtless he'll appreciate us; He'll return with mild laudation Our effusions every one. Poetasters, snap your fingers At the played-out Tennyson! W. A. St. James's Gazette, June 24, 1884. 66 We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould, Though half our heavy blows and kicks, We never thought once of returning; We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx, ' Or the wonders of life ever learning. Slowly and smoothly we glided out Of the station so grim and so gritty; We cared not a doit, and we raised not a doubt, For we'd left care behind in the "city!" ORCHIS. THE BURIAL OF MY FELLOW LODGER'S BANJO. NOT a "strum was heard, not a tune or a note, As his chords to the damp earth I hurried; I buried it darkly at dead of night, THE FATE OF GENERAL GORDON. And there in the desert he's buried. No useful soldiers were with him sent, Neither horseman nor footman we found him ; Because life and wealth he nought reckons ; That of rescuing and retiring He will not retire, for he has rescued none, Slowly and sadly I lay my pen down, God grant we mayn't have to carve on his stone, "England left him alone in his glory." GUINEA PIG. THE FUNERAL OF ONE MORE VICTIM AT NOT a franc he had, not a louis nor note, THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. We buried him grandly in noon's full light, Three costly coffins encased his breast, (In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest With his marshal compeers round him: Many and long were the prayers we said, And we murmured last words of sorrow; We thought as they filled in his narrow bed, And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead, Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone, And grudge e'en the recompense paid him : But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, In the tomb where a grateful land laid him. At length our grievous task was done, And the masses were slowly retiring, Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone, With his roll of deeds famous in story; We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone, OBSERVER. THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR. NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, We married him quickly that morning bright, No useless nosegay adorned his chest, Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him. Few and small were the fees it cost, We thought as we hurried them home to be fed, That the weather looked very like squalls overhead And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him alone, With his wife that the parson has made him! But half of our heavy lunch was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we led them down, We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, YELRAP. The man in possession ate, drank of her best, In well-aired holland sheets he wound him; And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead, He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed, were gone, But half of the tyrant's task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown-- J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. All the above are from Truth, July 31, 1884. THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA. SUCH a strum was heard-not a single right note, You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right, I knew not the piece you'd been learning; But I saw by the flickering candle-light Your cheeks were with nervousness burning. No useless music encumbered the rest ; No pieces had any one found you; But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best, And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed, I managed to get to the open door, I've but one thing more in conclusion to say, THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER. NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note, As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, By the grave where our pauper we buried. MOZART. We buried him quickly at shut of night, No oaken coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet for a shroud we wound him : We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone But half of our thankless job was done, When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring; We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone, SEFTON. "These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."-Vide Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech. NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note, They think of it sadly, at dead of night, In their noble bosoms burning. No useless logic confused their heads, 'Tis but little they ever heed it; But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds, And one and all they d--d it. "Few and short were the prayers they said" The fact I record with sorrow; They thought of the day when the Bill would be read, And they wished there were no to-morrow. They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said— Of laurels that still would encircle his head, Nightly they burn for their brothers to be But half of the weary night was gone, And my Lords were still busy enquiring, "The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?" And they found that the effort was tiring. A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN loq. At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried, No useless figures my scoring blest, Not in cut or in drive I found them; Few, too few, were the runs we could claim, And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game, We thought as we watched how our wickets fell, That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well, Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on, But little we'd reck if bad weather came on, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for refraining; Slowly and sadly did we disappear, From the field of our shame-laden story; We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer, But we left them alone to their glory. FRIAR TUCK. The above are from Truth, August 7, 1884. THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH. By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, No useless watch-chain covered his vest, But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, Few and short were the things we said, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, We thought, as we silently stood about, How the merest stranger had cut us out, Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, But our heavy task at length was done, Slowly and sadly we turned to go, We had struggled, and we were human; Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey. |