But the Bobby, the policeman,
Said, "I have not seen you do it-
Seen you over any wall get;

And perhaps I should not see you,
If I happened to be looking
In an opposite direction,

With my back turned right upon you."
Nothing further said the Bobby,
Irreproachable policeman,

Only grinned and seemed to linger.

Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer,
And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer,
Have you any coin about you?"
And the Fluffer felt his pockets,
Brought the bob, the silver shilling,
And the piece of six, the tizzy,
And the piece of four, the joey,
And the double bob, the florin,

Down he threw them on the pathway;
Then the Bobby, the policeman,

Incorruptible policeman,

Picked them up, and whispered softly,
Somebody had dropped some money;
He was lucky to have found it.

After that did Pip, the smoker,
And his friend they called the Fluffer,
Get across the wall securely;
But the Bobby, the policeman,
Irreproachable policeman,

Did not see them get across it;

For he happened to be looking

In an opposite direction,

And his back was turned upon them.

From Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B. A. London. J. C. Hotten, 1872.

THE SONG OF NICOTINE.

SHOULD you ask me why this meerschaum, Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens, Why the odours of tobacco,

With the oil and fume of "mixture,"

With the curling smoke of "bird's eye,"
With the gurgling of rank juices,
With renewed expectorations
As of sickness on the fore-deck?

I should answer, I should tell you,
From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps,
From the old leeks of the Welshland,
From the soil of kitchen gardens,
From the mud of London sewers,
From the garden-plots and churchyards,
Where the linnet and cock-sparrow
Feed upon the weeds and groundsel,
I receive them as I buy them,
From the boxes of Havana
The concocter, the weird wizard.

Should you ask how this Havana

Made cigars so strong and soothing,

Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river,"

I should answer, I should tell you,

In the purlieus of the cities,

In the cellars of the warehouse,

In the dampness of the dungeon,

Lie the rotten weeds that serve him;

In the gutters and the sewers,

In the melancholy alleys,
Half-clad Arab boys collect them,

Crossing-sweepers bring them to him,
Costermongers keep them for him,
And he turns them by his magic
Into "cavendish" and "
bird's eye,"

For those clay-pipes and churchwardens,
For this meerschaum, or he folds them,
And "cigars" he duly labels

On the box in which he sells them.

From Figaro. October 7, 1874.

The following is an extract from a long parody contained in Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874).

THE BUMP SUPPER.

"Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus."

You shall hear how once our college, When our boat had done great wonders, And had bumped all boats before it, Gave a great and grand bump-supper. First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers, And the scouts' boys, beer imbibers, Spread the things upon the table.

And they placed upon the table
Champagne cup and rosy claret.
When the lamp-black night descended
Broad and dark upon the college,

When the reading man, the bookworm,
Grinding, sat among his Greek books,
With his oak securely sported,
And his tea-cup on the table,

From their rooms in groups assembled

Many guests to this great supper.
Came the boating men in numbers,

Came the cricketers in numbers,

Came the athletes clothed with muscle,
Came the singers, and the jesters,
And the jokers, funny fellows;
Came the active gymnast Biceps,
Also Pugilis, his comrade,
Very clever with the mittens ;
Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew,
Remex Princeps, and his comrades,
And the steerer, Gubernator.

All were hungry, all were merry,
Full of repartee and laughter,
First they ate the slippy oyster,
Native oyster, cool and luscious,
And the ruddy blushing lobster,
And the crab so rich and tasty ;
Then they ate the cold roast chicken,
And the finely flavoured ox-tongue,
And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh,
And the pigeon-pie, the dove-dart,
And the well stuffed duck and turkey,
With the sausages around it.

Thus the guests, the mutton munchers,
Played the noble game of chew chew,
Game of knife and fork and tumblers,
Very popular in Oxford.

*

Then a man, who came from Cornwall, Sang a song that clearly stated

If a person named Trelawny,
Should by any hap or hazard,
Leave the world by death untimely,
Many people in the south-west
Part of England would insist on
Knowing wherefore he had left it
Then the cheeky smiling Ginger
Sang of lovely Angelina,

Lady with the Grecian bend, and
Of the maiden dressed in azure,

With both eyes and hair of darkness.

Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs;

Sing to us immortal Ginger,

Songs of laughter quaint and comic,
With a merry roaring chorus,

That we all may be more noisy.

And the sleeping dons may waken."

All was shouting, noise, confusion,
Till at last the guests exhausted,
All departed hot and dizzy,
Thus the entertainment ended,
Thus the great bump-supper ended,
Long to be discussed and talked of,
Long to be remembered by the
College in the days hereafter.

THE LEGEnd of Ken-e-li. (From Figaro, August 11, 1875.)

HIGH among the tribes of Jon-buls,
Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs;
Very cunning were the Lor-yahs:
They could talk and twist and double
Till the other tribes of Jon-buls
Scarcely knew if they were standing
On their heads, or on their sandals.
Chief among these learned Lor-yahs
Was the great and good Ken-e:li.
Brave and handsome, kind and gentle,
Soft in voice and smooth in manner,
Wise yet simple, strong yet tender,
Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li.
But the blind and stupid Jonbuls
Could not see his many virtues ;

When he spake they shouted, "Bun-kum!"
And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li.

The poem then describes the gentle manners of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in the council of their nation, and the manner in which he was received there.

THE SONG OF THE BEETLE.

[The following graceful effusion, by a well-known Longfellow-countryman of the Colorado insect, should be hailed with delight by the British public. As it contains an accurate description of the Beetle, we would suggest that it should be learned by heart by school-children, with a view to preventing entomological mistakes.]

SHOULD you ask me of the Beetle,
Of the Colorado Beetle !-

Properly the Doryphora

Decemlineata christen'd-

I should answer, I should tell you, "He's a beggar for potatoes, Quite a glutton at potatoes

For he wolfs' the common 'murphy.' The Solanum tuberosum.

(Thus the savans named the tater! '')

Should you ask me if the Beetle
Were at all like other beetles-
Like the 'chafer, for example,

Him whom boys impale on pin-point

I should straight reply in this wise :
"He, when young, is like the insect
Whose abode is always burning,
She whose children are departed.*

But, when fourteen days have glided,
Then the beetle is much longer;
Very much more pointed-taily,
Sharp as to his latter ending,
Red thus far has been his colour,
Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic,
Red, the tint of postal pillars.
But, as time and trouble try him,
This our insect grows much paler,
Fades and fades till he is yellow-
Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic,
Yellow with black stripes upon him.”

Should you further ask the poet,
How to treat the little stranger?

I should answer, I should bid you,
"Stamp on him, where'er you find him!
In the garden-in the pig-sty-
In the parlour, or the bed-room,

In the roadway, or the meadow-
Squash the little wretch, confound him!
That's the way that I should answer,-
That's the sort of man that I am.'

From Funny Folks.

In 1879 the editor of The World offered two prizes for the best parodies on Longfellow's Hiawatha, the subject selected being The Hunting of Cetewayo. There were 135 competitors, the first prize was awarded to Floreant - Lauri, whose poem will be found, with the three next best, in The World for October 8, 1879.

THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO.
VERY wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey
When he landed at Fort Durban,
Hearing all the depredations
Of the cunning Cetewayo;
Called his captain, Giffey-Wiffey,
Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo,
Muzzle thou this mischief-maker;
Not so tangled is the jungle,
Not so dark the deepest donga,
But that thou canst track and find him."
Then in hot pursuit departed
Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers,
Through the jungle, through the forest;
But they found not Cetewayo-
Only found his bed and blanket.

* This appears to be a covert allusion to the lady-bird.

From the farthest dingey-donga
Cetewayo looking backward,
Placed his thumb upon his nostril,
Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey,
Made the gesture of derision,
Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey,
Hurling at them his defiance.

Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly,
"When I catch you, you black rascal,
Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey,
You and she shall be acquainted,"
Mockingly came back the answer :

"When you catchee, when you catchee !"
Through the forest, through the jungle.
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,

Like a kangaroo he bounded;

Seven long days and nights he hurried,
Close pursued by Giffey-Wiffey.

In the centre of the forest

Stood a kraal, here faint and weary
Crept he; nor had time to rest there,
For a bold Dragoon, a Haw-Haw,
Fiercely smote upon the doorway,
Crying," Come forth, Cetewayo!
Come with us to Wolsey-Pullsey,
To the great Ashantee Garnet.'

Then he came forth in his blanket
With a sort of savage grandeur,
With a look of calm defiance,

And he spoke, "White soldier, shoot me!??
Thus surrendered Cetewayo,
Ended all his craft and cunning,
Ended all his means of mischief,
But our end is-where to put him.

FLOREANT-LAURI (JAMES M. LOWRY).

THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO.
(Another version.)

FULL of anger was Sir Garnet
When he came among the Zulus,
Found them in a precious muddle,
Heard of all the wicked doings,
All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd
By the savage Cetewayo.
Fuming in alarming fashion,

Through his thick moustache he mutter'd

Dire words of blood and thunder.

Raging like an angry tiger

"I will nobble Cetewayo,

Bag this horrid rascal," said he ;

"Not so wide the realm of Zulus,

Not so terrible the bye-ways,

That my anger shall not nail him,

That my vengeance shall not spot him!"
Then in hot pursuit departed
Marter and the mighty hunters
On the trail of Cetewayo.

Through the bush where he had hidden,
To the hut where he had rested-
But they found not Cetewayo;
Only in the charcoal embers
And the smell of bad tobacco,
Found the spot where he had halted;
Found the tokens of his presence.
Through the bush and brake and forest
Ran the cunning Cetewayo,
Till a lonely kraal he entered
In the middle of the forest !
Then the corpulent old sinner

Heard the tramp of many footsteps,
Heard the sound of many voices,
Saying, "He, the white man's coming!
Got into a funk, and shivered,
Then came Marter, mighty Major,
He, of all Dragoons the boldest,
To the hut door riding straightway,
Saying, "Where is Cetewayo,
For his Majesty is wanted?"
Then came forth the noble savage,
On his breast a scarlet blanket,
Proudly wearing à la toga,
Gave himself to mighty Marter;
Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers!
Ended now his strange adventures,
Ended all his wily dodges,

All his plottings and his schemings,
And his hecatombs of Zulus !

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING. Author's Preface.

("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'")

FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood,
Neatly put it all together,
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,

Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure

In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod-
Crouched beneath its dusky cover-.
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence-
Said. "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order,

Sat before him for their pictures;
Each, in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father,
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And a corner of a table,

Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left hand;
He would keep his right hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.

Grand, heroic, was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely-
Failed because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it."

Next to him the eldest daughter :

man's knock.

I WAS sitting in my wigwam, Looking from my lofty wigwam, On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh, O'er the vale of Pepperhanger. Suddenly there came a rapping, The Post- Double rapping, double tapping, Sounding through the little wigwam, Startling quiet Pepperhanger. Thus the Government Messénjah, Heathen Mercury of brazen buttons, Mytho- Crimson-collared, azure-coated, logy. Blue as when some ancient Briton, As enlightenment came o'er him, Thinking skin was rather shabby, History of Went and put a coat of Woad on. England. He, the carrier of all letters, He, the bearer of all tidings To the lofty hill of Dryburgh, To the vale of Pepperhanger. Swiftly then I took the letter; Eagerly I read the message From a hospitable lady

Of the vale of Pepperhanger, "Come at four o'clock to tiffin, If no better action urges ; In the cool of Tuesday evening, Come and play a game of Tennis On my lawns at Pepperhanger. Thus her letter: then I sallied To her almost hidden wigwam. Which from East and rude Sou'-wester Evergreen the pine-tree shelters; Took my Tennis shoes of rubber, Mocassins of Indian rubber Racket, too, of Horace Bayley, To the tournament of Tennis On the lawns of Pepperhanger. Lodge's Came the lordly Tennyslornah. Peerage. Came the Reverend B. A. Kander, Clergy Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge, List. Came the masher, young de Vorley, Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah, Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe, Strangers from a distant countrie, To the tournament of Tennis In the vale of Pepperhanger. There we had a game at Tennis, Outdoor Tennis let us call it, Lest the Lords of real Tennis Should invoke a curse upon us; Hotly smote the fierce back-hander, Volleyed toward, also froward, Till the speeding ball appeared as One continuous flash of lightning:

Sludgeboroughin-theMarsh.

The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of which were contributed to Punch during his Editorship of that journal. Three of the longest and most amusing of these were The Very Last Idyll, after Tennyson; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, after Coleridge; and The Song of Hiawatha, after Longfellow. A quotation from The Very Last Idyll was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in Punch as far back as January, 1856, commenced thus::

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
(Author's Protective Edition.)
You, who hold in grace and honour,
Hold as one who did you kindness

When he published former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter,
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet

Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward for the accents
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, Longus Comes-
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conceptions
Of the manly, nervous diction
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,

Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash,

Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it-
Don't you wish that you may get it?
Should you ask me is it worthless,
Is it bosh, and is it bunkum;
Merely facile, flowing nonsense,
Easy to a practised rhythmist,
Fit to charm a private circle,
But not worth the print and paper
David Bogue hath here expended?
I should answer, I should tell you
You're a fool, and most presumptuous;
Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it,
Hath not Punch commanded "Buy it "?
Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you.
'Tis a poem in this metre,
And embalming the traditions,
Tables, rites, and superstitions
Of the various tribes of Indians.

I should answer, I should tell you
Shut your mouth and go to David,
David, Mr. Punch's neighbour,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Read and learn, and then be thankful
Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth,

Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth.
Truer poet, better fellow,

Than to be annoyed at jesting

From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.

The following is a list of famous advertisers of thirty years ago, taken from Hiawater, a parody contained in "The Shilling Book of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853):

"Howlawaya, the quack doctor;
Mosieson, the cheap slop seller;
Marywedlake, oaten bruiser;

Mechisteel and Warrenblacking ;

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms,

Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ

Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.

This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner

Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna;

Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj,

And Richter, to whom is presented a baton-brand new, silver-mounted;

But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes?

Where are the men-tawny swells-who talked of clubs,

races, or billiards,

Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes

orchestral ?

Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed,

And the critic goes-glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.

Funny Folks.

Another parody of Evangeline, entitled Picnicaline occurs in Mirth and Metre, by Frank E. Smedley, and Edmund Yates. London, 1855.