I would not be a Mermaid dank,
Flopping about in a Westminster tank,
Like a shabby sham at a country fair,
And by far the ugliest monster there;
Exposed to the Cockney's vulgar chaff,
And the learned gush of the Daily T.,
To be called a porpoise or ocean-calf

Or a seven-foot slug from the deep blue sea.
Me a Manatee? Dickens a bit!

The Mermaid of fiction was something fine.
A fish-tailed Siren given to sit

On a handy rock, 'midst the breezy brine,
Each golden curl with a comb of pearl
Arranging in many a taking twirl,
Like a free-and-easy nautical girl.
Taking a bath in a primitive style
Without any bother of dress or machine,
And likely the wandering tar to beguile,

If that Mariner chanced to be anyways green.
But your Modern Mermaid! good gracious me!
Who'd be inwiggled away from his tracts
Or driven to bung up his ears with wax
By the wiles and smiles of a Manatee?
A sort of shapeless squab sea-lubber,
A blundering bulk of leather and blubber,
Like an overgrown bottle of India-rubber;
The clumsiest, wobblingest, queerest of creatures,
With nothing but small gimlet holes for features.
This a Mermaid? Oh, don't tell me!
It's simply some sly scientifical spree,
And I mean to say it's a thundering shame

To bestow the Siren's respectable name,

Which savours of all that is rare and romantic,

On such a preposterous monster as this is,
Whose hideous phiz and ridiculous antic,
Would simply have frightened the mates of Ulysses.
Fancy the horror of blubberous kisses
From a mouth that's like a tarpaulin flap!
That Merman must be a most amorous chap
Who would sue her and woo her under the sea,
AS TENNYSON sings-a nice treat it would be
Were a Mermaid merely a Manatee !

From Punch, July 20th, 1878, in reference to the socalled Mermaid then being exhibited at the Westminster Aquarium.

Alfred Tennyson's "The Poet," was in fourteen

He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded
The walks of coteric fame:

On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded
Concetti tame.

And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue,

Erratic in their flight,

From studio to drawing-room he flung,
Filling with light

And mazèd phantasies each morbid mind,
Which, albeit lacking wit,
Like dandelion seeds blown by the wind,
In weak souls lit,

Took shallow root, and springing up anew
Where'er they dropt, behold,

Like to the parent plant in semblance, grew
A weed as bold,

And fitly furnished all abroad to fling
Fresh mockeries of truth,
And throng with poisonous blooms the verdant Spring
Of weak-kneed youth.

Till many minds were lit with borrowed beams
Of an unwholesome fire;

And many fed their sick souls with hot dreams
Of vague desire.

Thus trash was multiplied on trash; the world
Like a Gehenna glowed,
And through the clouds of Stygian dark upcurled,
Foul radiance flowed

And Licence lifted in that false sunrise
Her bold and brazen brow;
While Purity before her burning eyes
Melted like snow.
There was red blood upon her trailing robes,
Lit by those lurid skies;
And round the hollow circles of the globes
Of her hot eyes,

And on her robe's hem, "FOLLY" showed in flames

With "PHRENSY" names to shake Coherency and sense-misleading names— And when she spake,

Her words did gather fury as they ran,

And as mock lightning and stage thunder, With firework flash and empty rataplan,

Make schoolboys wonder,

So thrilled thro' fools her windy words. No sword
Of truth her right hand twirl'd,

But one bad Poet's scrawl, and with his word
She bored the world.

Punch.

In 1832 Tennyson published another small volume of poems which contained Enone, The Sisters, The Palace of Art, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, The May Queen, The Lotus-Eaters, The Dream of Fair Women, and Margaret, all of which have been so frequently parodied that selection is difficult.

The following parody of Tennyson's The Sisters, concerning a division in the House of Commons, on the vexed question of marriage with a deceased wife's sister, appeared in The Tomahawk.

MATRIMONIAL EXPEDIENCY.

THEY were two daughters of one race;
One dead, the other took her place;
Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee!
The Noes were but one forty-four;
I'm backed by retrospective law;

Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three!

Who'd run a tilt 'gainst common sense? I married for convenience;

Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee !
'Tis wiser th' il!s we know to bear,
Than run the chance of worse elsewhere
Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three!
Twice married-but I'm bound to state
Th' expediency of this is great;

Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee!
I'm now no worse off than before,
I only have one mother-in-law,
And she's one too many for me!

Though uninclin'd to give offence,

The Lady Clara begs to hint
That Master Alfred's common sense
Deserts him utterly in print.

The Lady Clara can but say

That always from the very first
She snubb'd in her decisive way
The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.
The fondest words that ever fell

From Lady Clara, when they met,
Were "How d'ye do? I hope you're well
Or else "The weather's very wet."

To show a disregard for truth
By penning scurrilous attacks,
Appears to Lady C. in sooth

Like stabbing folks behind their backs.
The age of chivalry, she fears,

Is gone for good, since noble dames
Who irritate low sonneteers

Get pelted with improper names.

The Lady Clara cannot think
What kind of pleasure can accrue
From wasting paper, pens, and ink,
On statements the reverse of true.
If Master Launcelot, one fine day,
(Urged on by madness or by malt,)
Destroyed himself-can Alfred say
The Lady Clara was in fault?

Her Ladyship needs no advice

How time and money should be spent,
And can't pursue at any price

The plan that Alfred T. has sent.
She does not in the least object

To let the "foolish yeoman" go,
But wishes-let him recollect-

That he should move to Jericho,

The other, a reply to the well-known song, is scarcely so good, because it does not follow its original so closely :MAUD.

NAY, I cannot come into the garden just now,
Tho' it vexes me much to refuse ;

But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,
With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleased when you hear
That our ball has been quite a success.
As for me I've been looking a monster, my dear,
In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;
It is getting so dreadfully late.

You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head
If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice,
For I know you're in want of repose.
Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice)
And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,
For De Boots has implored me to sing.
As for you-if you like it, of course you can stay;
You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs
About babble and revel and wine,"

When you might have been snoring for two or three hours,
Why, it's not the least business of mine.

In 1879 the Editor of The World offered a prize for the best parody on Tennyson's LotusEaters, the chosen subject being "Her Majesty's Ministers at Greenwich."

The prize was awarded to the author of the following parody, which appeared in The World, for September 3rd, 1879:

THE WHITEBAIT EATERS.

“COURAGE!” they said, and pointed through the gloom; "There is a haven in yon fishful clime,' At dinner-time they came into a room,

In which it seemed all day dinner-time.

All in the midst the banquet rose sublime,

Whose menu excellent no tongue might blame;
And round about the board, without their Prime,
Without their prime delight and chiefest fame,
The mild-eyed muddle-headed whitebait-eaters came.
They sat them down upon the yellow chairs,
And feasted gaily as in days of yore;

And sweet it was to jest of late affairs,

Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er, Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed.

Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!" And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead "

CHORIC SONG.

Why are we weighed upon with weariness,
With foreign crises and with home distress,
When all we do is mocked at by the Press?
All men like peace why should we toil alone?
We always toil, and nevermore have rest;

But yield perpetual jest,

Still from one blunder to another thrown:

Nor ever pack our tricks,

And cease from politics;

Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor ;

Nor hearken what the moving spirit said,

"Let there be Peace with Honour!"

Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead?

Let us alone. What pleasure could we have

To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight! The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave,

Whate'er I do is right.'

Yea, interests are hard to reconcile ;

'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle :

We have done neither quite.

Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn

our song;

O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long.

AUGUSTO MENSE POETA. (C. J. Billson.)

In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the thoughtless audiences at the music halls, The Tomahawk had some powerful cartoons

(drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody:—

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

I READ, before I fell into a doze,

Some book about old fashions-curious tales
Of bye-gone fancies-kirtles and trunk hose-
Of hoops, and fardingales-

Of mediæval milliners, whose taste
Preluded our vile fashions of to-day-
Of how they moulded the ancestral waist,
With steel-bound taffeta-

Of powdered heroes of the later days-
Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits,
Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays,

All belt and bucket boots

So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks
Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door,
Turgid with envelopes my letter box
Boils over on the floor.)

Till fancy, running riot in my brain,

Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way;
And opened in my dream, distinct and plain,
A vision of to-day,

Methought that I was on what's called "a spree,"
Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng.
Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody
Of idiotic song ;

Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer
All common sense, votes decency a bore,
But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer,
Yells out a loud "Encore-"

Then flashed before me in the gaslight's glare
A form to make the boldest hold his breath,
She, who by reckless leapings in mid air,
Plays pitch and toss with Death.

Shame on the gaping crowds who only know
Sensation in the chance of broken necks!
Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo"
To such a scorn of sex!

I saw that now, since License holds such sway,
The comic muse her false position feels,
And that her sister may not gain the day,
Has taken to her heels.

And then methought I stood in fairy bowers,
Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun,
Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers,
And lime-light is the sun;

Where Art groans under an unseemly ban,
And airy nothings pass for full attire,
The Stage appeals but to the baser man,
And th' only blush, Red Fire!

Then starting I awoke from my nightmare.

A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me. I'd dream'd the truth-bare facts (O much too bare!) And stern reality.

(After Mr. Tennyson's "Margaret.")

O, SLIPSHOD Mary Ann,
O, draggled Mary Ann,

What gives your arms such fearful power
To raise the dust in blinding shower?

Who gave you strength, your mortal dower,
To beat the mats as with a flail,
To lift with ease that heavy pail ?

What can it matter, Mary Ann,

What songs the long-legged son of Mars-
The butcher or the cat's meat man-
Sings to you thro' the area bars?

O, red-armed Mary, you may tell
The milkman, when he fills our can,
You wonder how he has the heart,
To let the pump play such a part
In milk for her he loves so well!

You stand not in such attitudes,

You are not quite so plain,
Nor so sulky in your moods,

As your twin-sister, Mary Jane,

Your face is cleaner, and your nose
Not touched with such a grimy hue,
With cold ærially blue,

Or crimson as the damask rose !

ALBANY CLARKE. From The Weekly Dispatch, June 25th, 1882.

It is in the strongly marked individuality of some of Tennyson's early poems that we find the secret of much of his popularity, and the excuse for the vast number of parodies of his works scattered about in nearly all our humorous literature. Three of his early poems have been especially chosen by parodists as models for imitation; these are "The May Queen," "Locksley Hall," and "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," by Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun, will be found several parodies of Tennyson, also of Lord Macaulay, Thomas Moore, Bulwer Lytton, Mrs. Browning, and of Leigh Hunt, of whom parodies are somewhat scarce.

Of the parodies of Tennyson, "Caroline" and "The Laureate" have already been quoted; the others are "The Lay of the Lovelorn" and "The Dirge of the Drinker," both in imitation

of "Locksley Hall," "La Mort D'Arthur," concerning Mechi's steel; and "The Biter Bit."

"The Biter Bit" is a kind of burlesque continuation of "The May Queen," the pathos of the original being turned into cynical indifference, whilst preserving a great similarity of style and versification.

THE BITER BIT.

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother, I hear the marriage bell:

It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell ; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering

step,

And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,

The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that

won my ear,

Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,

By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;

And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;

But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold;

He said I did not love him,-he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,And it may be that I did, mother, but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother, I know it now too late ; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;

But no nobler suitor sought me,-and he has taken wing. And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing

sore,

And mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother,-and, mother, draw it mild

THE MAY QUEEN CORRECTED-MAY, 1879.

THEY must wrap and cloak me warmly, cloak me warmly, mother dear,

For to-morrow is the iciest day of all the sad new year.
Of all the sad new year, mother, the snowiest, blowiest day,
And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
of the May.

Punch.

CARTED AWAY.

(A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers.)

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer:

Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say;

But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.

There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean, Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen;

But no more need of cavil now, the fact's as plain as day. They're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away.

Good taste had slept so sound, mother, I thought 'twould never wake,

But the Press, at last, has given it a most decided shake! Yes, at length its up and doing, oh, and isn't Brompton gay While they're carting its boilers away, mother, they're carting its boilers away!

As I came up from Knightsbridge whom think ye I should

see,

But, Mr. Cole, my ancient friend, best known as our C. B. ! He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterdayAnd he carted the boilers away, mother, he carted the boilers away.

You know it is his boast, mother, that in bricks all red and white,

He means to raise, on what appears an eligible ground site,
A palace for which Parliament will very gladly pay—
When the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are
carted away.

The turnstile and refreshment rooms, umbrella man, and charts,

The chimney pots, paints, plaster casts, and analysed jam tarts,

Yes, all are gone! No longer art her triumphs can display, For they've carted her boilers away, mother, they've carted her boilers away.

The cabs they come and go, mother, the omnibuses pass, The public scarce believe their eyes; they think the thing a farce,

They'd got resigned to Brompton, thought its boilers meant to stay!

Yet they're carting those boilers away, mother, they're carting those boilers away.

South Kensington no more, mother, need fear to be despised, The three most ugly things on earth, man ever yet devised, No longer shall scare fashion off, and keep the world at bay; Yes, the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away.

So please call me very early-Oh! I mean it-mother dear, For I wouldn't miss the sight for worlds, it's such a bright idea;

They're nearly done-a pole or two will go and thenhooray!

The boilers are carted away Mother, are carted for ever away!

The following appeared in The Referee in 1882

"Chief Justice May has scandalously prejudged the Land League case, and in common decency he should not be allowed to try it. A fair trial is impossible after the partisanship which, in the vilest possible taste, this person has displayed. It is not the practice even now in Ireland to hang people first and try them afterwards, and May may congratulate himself upon having done the very worst thing in his power for the Government brief, which, sitting in judgment, he had the effrontery to flaunt in the face of the accused." THE MAY OF THE QUEEN.

(The Land League Boy to his Mother).

You must wake and call me early; call me early, mother dear ;

To-morrow will be the saddest time of Ireland's sad new year.

Of all this threat'ning year, mother, the blackest, foulest, day,

For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

There's many a black, black crime, mother, they charge against your lad!

There's Boycotting and murder, and everything that's bad And I'm bound to be convicted, though innocent, they say— For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

You know I wasn't there, mother, when all the row was made;

I never made a wicked speech, or led a Land League raid; But the judge has made up his mind to put your boy awayFor I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May.

So wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, For at ten o'clock, before the Court, I'm summoned to appear.

There's little chance of justice, he's a partisan they sayThis fierce and biassed judge, mother, this Lord Chief Justice May.

THE PLAY KING.

(Not included in Mr. Tennyson's New Volume).

You may take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY dear;
I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year;
Of all the coming year, HENRY, the safest spec to pay;
For I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to
write you a play.

There's lots of blank, blank verse, you know, but none so neat as mine;

There's GILBERT, and there's WILLS, and-well, some others in their line;

But none of them are Laureates, though clever in their way; So I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a play.

'Twill be all right at night, HENRY, on that my name I'll stake:

I've got a good Egyptian plot, that's safe, I'm told, to take. You're poisoned in a temple, Miss TERRY dies at bay

I am writing you such a play, HENRY, I am writing you such a play.