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On the Saints, who had long
The foe came out strong
With their tortures and racks. At last, by the Governor's order,
Their heads were cut off with an axe.
"Do we sleep? do we dream?"
"Are men what they seem?
Or is witchcraft about?"
For quickly the corpse of St. Denys
He took up his head,
Tuck'd it under his arm,
Caused surprise and alarm;
Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd
As if by some magical charm.
Cut down to his neck,
Like a flower to its stalk,
The Saint met a check
When he first tried to walk:
But soon he felt stronger than Weston
Or Webb-by a very long chalk.
And angels, we're told,
Led his footsteps along;
They led him two leagues from the city,
I hope you'll believe
That this story is fact,
And refuse to retract;
For truth I've a great reputation,
Which is why I observe
And my statement is true-
And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I have proved unto you.
Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.) London, 1882.
THAT INFIDEL EARL!
(Flain Language from Artless Ahmed, Istamboul.) AIR-"That Heathen Chinee,"
And I mean to speak plain,—
Masked by manners urbane,
That Infidel Earl licks me hollow-
DUFFER-IN is his name,
But I'm bound to deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply.
Though his smile is so pleasant and placid, A Sheitan there lurks in each eye.
Istamboul was the spot
Where we played, and you'd guess That the Giaour got it hot
Found himself in a mess.
Yet he played it on me, did that Giaour, In a way that was loathsome-no less. We sat down to the game,
DUFFER-IN took a hand;
I felt sure that the same
He could not understand;
But he smiled as he sat at the table
My cards were well stocked,
As no doubt you'll believe,—
I'd "a bit up my
For when playing with sons of burnt fathers
But the hands which were played
By that dog DUFFER-IN,
Were a shame, and a sin,
Till at last I was "bested" completely,
Then I felt that my guile
Was but simple and slight,
And he said, "That's all right!
Think I'll take the next turn with dear TEWFIK !"
And he started for Cairo that night.
In the little game there
I may not take a hand ;
He is gentle and bland,
Yet he'll probably give you a hiding,--
Be the game short or long,
He's ne'er flurried nor stuck.
He has Sheitan's own luck;
And you'll find in this goose-as I thought himWhat occurs to geese—sometimes—that's “pluck.”
Which is why I remark,
Though I own it with pain,
That Infidel Earl licks me hollow,
Punch, November 11, 1882.
FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.
Do I sleep? do I dream?
Is our civilisation a failure?
Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd
Then 'twas said with one breath
From the "Belis " to "Macbeth"
He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd-
And all London went wild
O'er this Eminent I.,
Save a party that smiled,
And thought it good fun;
But as for the late William Shakespeare,
He never had had such a run.
And the public fell down
As though in a trance;
And the West-End of town
Booked their stalls in advance;
Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises,
And the management, gaily,
Did advertise, daily,
Its love of high art;
Whilst FIGARO Smiled somewhat drily,
And murmured, "O here's a droll start !"
But at last came a night
'Twas "Othello" you'll guess;
And thought I (well I might),
But the papers next morning-O pizen!
For I dare not repeat
The things that were said :
Of a mop-stem on feet
In one weekly I read
With its arms like a pair of pump-handles,
And another remarked
That his voice wasn't clear,
And the more the Moor barked,
The less he could hear;
Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene, To a curate whose dreams had been queer.
Scarce a paper I scann'd
Had the old-fashioned praise;
But on every hand
I read with amaze,
That the Eminent I. got a
Not frequently giv'n in these days.
The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of Fudy. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor :—
THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.
IT war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,
But no one complained o' that.
He scored his stiffs on the heft of his knife
Forty I've heern 'em say;
It might have been more-Bob kept his accounts
In a loosish sorter way.
Bob warn't a angel ter look at,
And the Bible it warn't his book;
He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,
Or blarmedly I am mistook;
But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,
And he'd got a heart you could touch;
And he never draw'd iron** on boy or man
As didn't pervoke him much.
And you can't say fair as drinking
War counted among his sins;
Then Haggarty went for him savage,
And I take it the bar floor got at last
But when the fun was over in there,
Bob ran a-muck in the street;
And he speared and potted each derned cuss
And quiet folks shut up their doors-
Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
But at that moment there reach'd his ear
Some soft and touching music this,
Played by a common organ-man
Down at the end of the street.
And it went straight home to the digger's heart,
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
SCARCE a sound was heard, not a word was spoke,
They'd packed up in silence at dead of night,
Had nailed up the shutters to keep in the light
But just as they'd got the loading done,
Loudly they'll talk of the tenants now gone,
Two old parodies of the same original, on theatrical matters, may also, for the sake of completeness, be inserted here. They are both taken from The Man in the Moon, which was a small comic magazine, edited by the late Angus B. Reach, with many funny illustrations by Hine, Sala, and other humorous artists. The Man in the Moon was started in 1847, and five volumes in all were issued; its contents are now, of course, somewhat out of date, but there are some clever parodies which will be inserted in this collection-many of these parodies were, no doubt, from the facile pen of Albert Smith, who was one of the principal contributors to.the magazine.
THE BURIAL OF PANTOMIME.
Stanzas of 1846-7.
NOT a laugh was heard, not a topical joke,
Not a paper a word in its favour spoke
On the pantomime going to be buried.
We buried it after the Boxing night,
The folks from our galleries turning,
For we knew that it scarcely would pay for the light
Of the star in the last act burning.
No useless play-bill put forth a puff,
How splendid the public had found it.
But it lay like a piece that had been call'd " Stuff," With a very wet blanket round it.
Stoutly and long all the audience hiss'd,
When they found neither sense nor reason;
But we steadfastly dwelt on the points we had miss'd
We thought, when we felt it was really dead,
That Opera and Ballet would take up its place,
Loudly old gentlemen still will prate,
As they always do, of past actors;
But we know that poor Mathews' and Howell's fate Was as bad as a malefactors.
Slowly and sadly we laid it down,
For we knew that we couldn't make bad well, And we felt that the prestige was vanish'd at last, But we drank to the health of poor Bradwell. The Man in the Moon, Volume 1.
We buried him, sadly, one Friday night,
For our hopes were gone past returning; And the manager's pangs were a moving sight, By the foot-lights dimly burning.
All bare and exposed to the critics lash,
On that luckless stage we found him
On that stage where he deemed he should cut such a dash,
Few were the words which the manager said,
But they glared at each other with looks which made
They doubtless thought, though their tongues they held,
A sadder than Philip Van Artevelde,
Had never disgraced the Princess's.
And he said that Macready had made him -
That a poem, which is famed in story,
The Man in the Moon, Volume 3.
THE BURIAL OF THE BILLS.
(A Parody apropos to present circumstances, August, 1884.)
Nor did truth nor talk confound them;
The supplies marked the hour for retiring;
So they settled the Bills-other folks' and their own--
They shed not a tear, and they heaved not a groan,
THE BURIAL OF PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE. (Princess's Theatre).
NOT a house was drawn-not a five-pound-noteSo his run to its closing we hurried;
Not a listener could follow his hazy plot,
So the dreary abortion we buried.
A TALE OF A TUB.
Nor a cackle was heard, or matitudinal crow,
And gently and tenderly laid him below,
The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair cheek,
They gazed on his coat of cerulean blue,
Then slowly and sadly they turned them away,
There only was weeping and wailing;
Or had leaked through a gap in the pailing.
And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads,
JOHN E. ALLEN.
(The touching incident described in these affecting lines occurred to some friends who, for fear of an explosion, buried a cask of paraffine oil in their garden; a midnight robber despoiled them of their spirit, and they could not make light of it.)
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
THE first four parts of this collection were devoted to parodies of the works of the Poet Laureate, a few examples being given of the imitations of each of his more important poems. Numerous subscribers have requested that the collection should be continued, so that the first volume might contain as nearly a complete set of parodies on Tennyson's works as it is possible to form. With this view many additional contributions have been sent in; whilst some that have quite recently appeared, and a few that were previously omitted as being too lengthy, will now be included. Independently of the amusing nature of many of the parodies still to be given, collectors of Tennysoniana will appreciate the completeness thus to be obtained, and it will be seen that very few of Tennyson's poems have escaped parody.
Although it may appear that the imitations now to be given will come somewhat out of order, no inconvenience will eventually result, as the index will show, in a tabulated form, under the head of each original poem every parody of it. The order adopted in the recent editions of the Laureate's poems will be fol
lowed in this further collection, and the parodies will illustrate Mariana; Circumstance; The Palace of Art; Riflemen Form; Lady Clara Vere de Vere; The May Queen; The Dream of Fair Women; "You Ask Me Why;" "Of Old sat Freedom;" Tithonus; Locksley Hall; Lady Godiva; The Lord of Burleigh; The Voyage; Enoch Arden; The Brook; The Princess; Alexandra; In Memoriam; Maud; Hands All Round; and the Idyls of the King.
THE HAYMARKET THEATRE ON THE OCCASION OF THE
For those who something came to see,
She only said, "It readeth dreary;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
Her yawns came with the first act even;
Her yawns came ere the third was tried.
With nought to praise, nor to deride,
Which very soon they ceased to do, She drew the box's curtains too, And thought, "I'll take a little nap.' She only said, "The play is dreary; No pathos, and no fun,' She only said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that it were done."
The hazy nature of the plot;
The box locks clicking; and the sound
The prompter made, did all confound
Then said she, "This is very dreary!
I'd go right home to bed."
The Man in the Moon, Volume 2, 1848.
THE EXILED LONDONER.
Since I have been at this place I have lost as many as three copies of The Times in a week, while Punch was as regularly stolen as it was posted."-Times, January 10.
WITH black ennui the Exile sits,
That ate the peach on the garden wall.
Of papers he's without the batch
That gives his days their only change.