Chapter XV: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (9)

Who broke through rights and smash’d through laws,
To find neat crowns for our papas,
And shot young D’ENGHIEN in _our_ cause?
My Uncle!

Who left us something still to do――
A name to keep French passions true
To _us_――the name of Waterloo?
My Uncle!

Who gave me all my little name,
My little hopes, my little fame,
My little everything, but blame?
My Uncle!

_Punch_, January 3, 1852.

――――:o:――――

MY UNCLE.

Who, by a transmutation bold,
Turns clothes or watches, new and old,
Or any other goods, to gold?
My Uncle!

Who, by a duplication rare,
Makes Hunger’s chattels (scant and bare)
Produce first cash, and then good fare?
My Uncle!

Who, when my credit got quite low,
Handed me cash on Jane’s _trousseau_,
And lent a suite of paste for show?
My Uncle!

Who caused her silks our mouths to fill,
And made my full-dress shirt with frill
Discharge a fortnight’s butcher’s bill?
My Uncle!

When creditors――a ruthless crew――
Had “small accounts just coming due,”
Who stopped their clamorous tongues? Why you,
My Uncle!

And when attorneys round me pressed
With writs of judgment and arrest,
Who set for weeks their quills at rest?
My Uncle!

Who lent us hundreds three and four,
And kindly kept our plate secure,
When we commenced our foreign tour?
My Uncle!

_Punch_, March, 1845.

MY UNCLE.

Who dwells at yonder three gold balls
Where Poverty so often calls
To place her relics in his walls?
My Uncle.

Who cheers the heart with “money lent,”
When friends are cold, and all is spent,
Receiving only cent. per cent?
My Uncle.

Who cares not what distress may bring,
If stolen from beggar or from king,
And, like the sea, takes everything?
My Uncle.

Who, wiser than each sage of yore,
Who Alchemy would fain explore,
Can make whate’er he touches ore?
My Uncle.

Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief
And none besides will yield relief,
Will aid the honest or the thief?
My Uncle.

Who, when detection threatens law,
His secret stores will open draw,
That future rogues may stand in awe?
My Uncle.

Bought wisdom is the best, ’tis clear,
And since ’tis better as more dear,
We, for high usance, should revere,
My Uncle.

And though to make the heedless wise,
He cheats in all he sells or buys,
To work a moral purpose tries
My Uncle.

Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn,
And hypocrites no longer fawn
Takes all but honour into pawn
My Uncle.

JOHN TAYLOR.
――――:o:――――

THE PAWNBROKER BEFORE CONGRESS.
(_Of Social Science, Represented by_ MR. ATTENBOROUGH.)

Who is the Poor Man’s constant friend,
Aid ever ready to extend,
And sums at moderate usance lend?
My Uncle.

Who’s the philanthropist, maligned
By thoughtless, ignorant, unkind
Perverters of the people’s mind?
My Uncle.

Who stolen goods will ne’er receive,
In fact, is shunned by them that thieve
For pledges they’re afraid to leave?
My Uncle.

Who, when a Nephew, or a Niece,
Would pawn a doubtful gem, or piece
Of plate, apprises the Police?
My Uncle.

Who keeps the shop whose “Two-to-one,”
Denotes that you shall not be done,
For all that has been said in fun?
My Uncle.

Who is particular about
All articles put “up the spout,”
Again, (almost all,) taken out?
My Uncle.

The false suspicion, therefore, drop,
That Nunky keeps a Fence’s shop,
Who’d lose by prey which thieves might pop,
My Uncle.

_Punch_, October 21, 1871.

――――:o:――――

MY VALENTINE.

In furs and velvets orthodox,
With laughing eyes and sunny locks,
And, oh! the very shortest frocks,
My Valentine.

With lips like full ripe cherries bright,
With eyes ablaze with inward light,
With dainty frills all gleaming white,
Sweet Valentine.

Her voice but like the rippling stream,
Her face but like an artist’s dream,
Her form but fit for poet’s theme,
My Valentine.

In silk her shapely limbs encased,
With tiny _bottines_ deftly laced,
On modelled feet so fitly placed,
Dear Valentine.

Her merry tricks, her roguish ways,
Her playful pranks, her earnest gaze,
Her gleeful laugh, her well-turned phrase,
My Valentine.

Who is there bold enough to dare
With her sweet beauty to compare,
Or even claim her throne to share?
Loved Valentine.

The chief she is of all coquettes,
The prettiest of pretty pets;
What thoughts her memory begets!
My Valentine.

Could I but hope her heart to fix!――
Ah me! old Time plays cruel tricks,
For I, alas! am fifty-six;――She’s only nine,
My Valentine.

_Judy_, February 2, 1880.

――――:o:――――

THE JESUIT TO HIS GRANDMOTHER.

Who, when I was a puny child
And drew my interference mild,
Shrieked at me, and grew very wild?
My Whalley!

Who, when the country let me play,
Grabbed at my toys day after day,
And scared my very foes away?
My Whalley!

Who thus, when things seemed growing slack,
With injudicious, wild attack,
Brought all my finest business back?
My Whalley!

Who, when the House discussed my claim,
Yelled at me――called me every name,
Till I got votes――for very shame?
My Whalley!

Who, when he rose his change to ring,
“Like Paganini, on one string,”
Was very strongly urged to sing?
My Whalley!

Who, when his name became a jest,
By friends well cursed――by foes well blest――
Himself to other arts addressed?
My Whalley!

Who all his nasty powers tasked,
And spread――Lord Campbell’s Act unasked――
His famed “Confessional Unmasked”?
My Whalley!

Who foremost in the Turnbull chase,
When bigots drove him from his place,
In savage war-paint led the race?
My Whalley!

Turnbull no more, who still must rave,
And, none to answer, call him knave――
Insult the dead man in his grave?
My Whalley!

Who, by such wiles――friends not too true,
And enemies by no means few――
Rallied them _all_ around me?――Who?
My Whalley!

Who thus, should the whole Order fail,
And Grand Inquisitors turn tail,
In _any_ mess will stand my bail?
My Whalley!

And who, unto the very end,
My honour――life――will e’er defend?――
My grandmother!――my truest friend!――
My Whalley!

_The Tomahawk_, August 31, 1867.

[The late Mr. G. H. Whalley sat for many years as M.P. for Peterborough, and was noted for the bitterness of his attacks on the Roman Catholics. On rising to address the House of Commons he was frequently greeted with cries of “Sing, Whalley, sing!”]

――――:o:――――

MY WHISKERS.

What causes all the folks to stare,
As I strut by _en militaire_,
And makes my face all over hair?
My Whiskers.

Why do the children laugh with glee?
’Tis no uncommon sight to see.
Ah! no; they only envy me
My Whiskers.

What wounds with twenty thousand darts
When practising the game of hearts,
And such sweet vanity imparts?
My Whiskers.

How I can quiz a naked chin,
And mimic every vulgar grin;
But I’ll be bound they’ll laugh who win,
My Whiskers.

Should ever cruel fate decree,
That we, alas! should sever’d be,
I’ll lay me down and die with thee――
My Whiskers.

_The Penny Belle Assemblée_, October 26, 1833.

――――:o:――――

“MY YOT.”

(_A confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly “in it” after all._)

What makes me deem I’m of Viking blood
(Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot),
A briny slip of the British brood?
My Yot!

What makes me rig me in curious guise,
Like a kind of a sort of――I dont know what,
And talk sea-slang, to the world’s surprise?
My Yot!

What makes me settle my innermost soul
On winning a purposeless silver pot
And walk with a (very much) nautical roll?
My Yot!

What makes me learned in cutters and yawls,
And time-allowance――which others must tot――
And awfully nervous in sudden squalls?
My Yot!

What makes me sprawl on the deck all day,
And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot,
And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?
My Yot!

What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale,
(Though rather than own it I’d just be shot)
When the _Fay_ in the wave-crests dips her sails?
My Yot!

What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew
In a kibosh style that a child might spot,
And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?
My Yot!

What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk,
Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot,
And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?
My Yot!

What makes me gammon my chummiest friends
To “try the fun”――which I know’s all rot――
And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?
My Yot!

What makes me, in short, an egregious ass,
A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot
For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass?
My Yot!

_Punch_, August 28, 1880.

YOUR FRIEND.
BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

Who borrows all your ready cash,
And with it cuts a mighty dash,
Proving the lender weak and rash?
Your Friend!

Who finds out every secret fault,
Misjudges every word and thought,
And makes you pass for worse than naught?
Your Friend!

Who wins your money at deep play,
Then tells you that the world doth say,
“’Twere wise from clubs you kept away?”
Your Friend!

Who sells you, for the longest price,
Horses, a dealer in a trice
Would find unsound, and full of vice?
Your Friend!

Who eats your dinners, then looks shrewd,
Wishes you had a cook like _Ude_,[24]
For then, much oft’ner would intrude――
Your Friend.

Who tells you that you’ve shocking wine,
And owns that, though his port’s not fine,
Crockford’s the only place to dine?
Your Friend!

Who wheedles you with words most fond,
To sign for him a heavy bond?
“Or else, by Jove, must quick abscond?”
Your Friend!

Who makes you all the interest pay
With principal, some future day,
And laughs at what you then may say?
Your Friend!

Who makes deep love unto your wife,
Knowing you prize her more than life,
And breeds between you hate and strife?
Your Friend!

Who, when you’ve got into a brawl,
Insists that out your man you call,
Then gets you shot, which ends it all?
Your Friend?

From _The Keepsake_.

ANOTHER FRIEND.

When Satan for his sins was driven
Forth from the eternal joys of heaven,
We read that unto him was given
A Stick.

In infancy, what was my pride?
What was’t for which I often cried?
What did I saddle, mount, and ride?
My Stick.

And when my tardy teens began,
I flourish’d oft my gay rattan,
Thou graced me while I ape’d the man,
My Stick.

Theatre, market, church, or fair,
Wherever I am, thou art there,
Ev’n children cry――there goes a pair
Of Sticks.

But till my door of life is shut
Till in my kindred earth I’m put,
Till life’s extinct, I’ll never cut
My Stick.

――――:o:――――

WOMAN.

When our first parents liv’d in blissful ease,
In Eden’s flowery fields, enjoying peace,
Who was it caus’d those blissful days to cease?
A Woman.

Who was’t (beguil’d by our inveterate foe),
Gave to man’s happiness a mortal blow,
And brought into the world, sin, death, and woe?
A Woman.

When Lot from his detested country fled,
Who was’t the heavenly mandate disobey’d,
And to the city turned her daring head?
A Woman.

Who was’t, with naked and resistless charms,
Rais’d in King David’s bosom wild alarms,
And clasp’d the monarch in adultrous arms?
A Woman.

Who was’t inflam’d King Ahab’s lurking vice,
His thirst of blood, his grasping avarice,
And caus’d the wretched Naboth’s sacrifice?
A Woman.

Who was’t (enamour’d of the Phrygian boy,
King Priam’s blooming hope) with secret joy,
Left her brave spouse, and fir’d Imperial Troy?
A Woman.

Who was’t, regardless of her nuptial vows,
To Atreus’ son betray’d her Trojan spouse,
And saw him sink beneath the murd’rer’s blows?
A Woman.

Who was it caus’d the deadly strife to grow
Betwixt Pelides and his royal foe,
And brought on Greece unutterable woe?
A Woman.

When Agamemnon (through all Greece renown’d)
From Trojan wars returned, with conquest crown’d,
Who caus’d th’ unguarded monarch’s mortal wound?
A Woman.

Who was’t, with witchcraft, and each am’rous wile,
Detain’d Ulysses from his native isle,
His wife’s embraces, and his parent’s smile?
A Woman.

When Antony’s victorious arms had gain’d
One half the world, o’er which he jointly reign’d,
Who caus’d his death, and all his glory stain’d?
A Woman.

Who was’t the royal Edward’s life betray’d,
The unhappy martyr’s confidence repaid,
By plunging in his heart the assassin’s blade,
A Woman.

Who was’t, inflam’d with false religious ire,
Caus’d Latimer and Ridley to expire,
Roasted like lobsters in a Smithfield fire?
A Woman.

Who still in man’s weak heart retains her place,
And with a smile upon a lovely face,
Can lure the fool to misery and disgrace?
False Woman.

_The Duel, with other Poems_, by L. O. SHAW, Blackburn, printed and sold by T. Rogerson, 1815.

(Referring to this Poem, in his preface, the author quaintly remarks “Truth offends none but fools and knaves.”)

――――:o:――――

ODE XXV.
MY GODWIN!
_Parcius junctas quatiunt fenastras._

Our Temple youth, a lawless train,
Blockading Johnson’s window pane,
No longer laud thy solemn strain,
My Godwin!

“Chaucer’s” a mighty tedious elf,
“Fleetwood” lives only for himself,
And “Caleb Williams” loves the shelf,
My Godwin!

No longer cry the sprites unblest,
“Awake! Arise! Stand forth confess’d!”
For fallen, fallen is thy crest,
My Godwin!

Thy muse for meretricious feats,
Does quarto penance now in sheets,
Or cloathing parcels roams the streets,
My Godwin!

Thy name at Luna’s lamp thou light’st,
Blank is the verse that thou indit’st,
Thy play is damn’d, yet still thou writ’st,
My Godwin!

And still to wield the grey goose quill,
When Phœbus sinks, to feel no chill,
“With me is to be lovely still,”
My Godwin!

Thy winged steed (a bit of blood)
Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood,
To leave thee sprawling in the mud,
My Godwin!

But carries now, with martial trot,
In glittering armour, Walter Scott,
A poet he――which thou art not,
My Godwin!

Nay, nay, forbear these jealous wails,
Tho’ he’s upborne on fashion’s gales,
Thy heavy bark attendant sails,
My Godwin

Fate each by different streams conveys,
His skiff in Aganippe plays,
And thine in Lethe’s whirlpool strays,
My Godwin!

From _Horace in London_, by James and Horace Smith, authors of “Rejected Addresses,” 1815. William Godwin, the author of a Life of Chaucer; “Fleetwood;” “Caleb Williams,” “St. Leon,” and other works, was a well known character in the literary world in the beginning of the present century. He married Mary Wollstonecraft, and their daughter, the authoress of _Frankenstein_, became the wife of Shelley the poet. William Godwin died in 1836, aged 81. There is a short sketch of his career in “The Maclise Portrait Gallery.”

――――:o:――――

THE NEWS-PAPER; or, READY-MADE IDEAS.

I sing not of a tale of woe
That happ’d some ninety years ago:
I urge a theme that all must _know_――
The Paper.

At morn, when tea and toast appear,
And to the table all draw near,
What gives a zest to welcome cheer?
The Paper.

In vain the urn is hissing hot,
In vain rich Hyson stores the pot,
If the vile newsman has forgot
The Paper.

What is’t can draw the Vicar’s eye,
Ee’n from the tithe-pig smoking by,
To mark some vacant Rectory?
The Paper.

What is’t attracts the optic pow’rs
Of Ensign gay, when fortune show’rs
Down prospects of “a step” in “ours”?
The Paper.

Who is’t can make the man of law,
Neglect the deed or plea to draw――
Ca. Sa.――Fi. Fa.――Indictment, Flaw?
The Paper.

What is’t can soothe his client’s woe,
And make him quite forget John Doe,
Nor think on _Mister_ Richard Roe?
The Paper.

What is’t absorbs the wealthy Cit,
The half-pay Sub, the fool, the wit,
The toothless Aunt, the forward Chit――
The Paper.

What is’t informs the country round,
What’s stol’n or stray’d, what’s lost or found,
Who’s born, and who’s put under ground?
The Paper.

What tells you all that’s done and said,
The fall of beer, the rise of bread,
And what fair lady’s brought to bed?
The Paper.

What is it tells of plays and balls,
Almack’s, and gas lights, and St. Paul’s,
And gamblers caught by Mr. Halls?
The Paper.

What is’t narrates full many a story,
Of Mr. Speaker, Whig, and Tory,
And heroes all agog for glory?
The Paper.

What is it gives the price of stocks,
Of Poyais Loans, and patent locks,
And wine at the West India Docks?
The Paper.

What tells you too who kill’d or hurt is,
When turtles fresh arriv’d, whose skirt is
Much relish’d by Sir William Curtis?
The Paper.

What speaks of thieves and purses taken,
And murders done, and maids forsaken,
And average price of Wiltshire bacon?
The Paper.

Abroad, at home, infirm or stout,
In health, or raving with the gout,
Who possibly can do without
The Paper?

It’s worth and merits then revere,
And since to-day begins our year,
Think not you e’er can buy too dear
The Paper.

_The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1823.

――――:o:――――

VELLUTI.

Heards’t thou not the peacock shriek?
Heards’t thou not the cricket squeak?
Heards’t thou not the door-hinge creak?
No――it was Velluti!

Heards’t thou the parrot’s shrilly cry?
Heards’t thou the screech-owl hooting by?
Heards’t thou the sea-mew screaming nigh?
No――it was Velluti!

Heards’t thou the angry mastiff growl?
Heards’t thou grimalkins midnight howl,
And croaking frogs in waters foul?
No――it was Velluti!

Some there are who mock the song
And warblings of the feather’d throng――
But birds and beasts alike belong
To thy tones, poor Velluti!

For thou art each――first this, then that――
A husky rook, a squeaking rat――
Famed Punch, a frog, a love-sick cat――
These form thy voice, Velluti!

_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_, 1828.

――――:o:――――

THE BISHOP AND DON MIGUEL.
(A recent correspondence.)

Who, false alike in war and peace,
Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece,
His brother bilk, and rob his niece?
My Miguel!

Who, on his way to all this evil,
In London looked so sweet and civil,
In Lisbon pitch’d us to the devil?
My Miguel!

Whose tyrant deeds e’en roused the spleen
Of tyrant-loving Aberdeen
To call thee names he didn’t mean
My Miguel?

Who rules his realm with guns and drums,
And sends poor devils to martyrdoms,
With “little angels”[25] round their thumbs?
My Miguel!

Yet, ah! atrocious as thou art,
So well thou play’st a monarch’s part,
Thou’rt dear unto a bishop’s heart,
My Miguel.

For thine the sceptre and the purse,
And wert thou even ten times worse,
To us ’twould matter not a curse,
My Miguel.

THE ANSWER.

As welcome as a richer see
Would prove to Exeter, or thee,
Thy kindly greeting comes to me,
My Bishop!

’Tis sweet to think whoever draws
His sword against the people’s cause
Is sure, at least, of thy applause,
My Bishop.

And whether ’tis Old Nick or Nero,
With morals, like my own, at zero,
Thou’lt hail him as the Church’s hero,
My Bishop.

The world may hold thy “Nolo” light,
But where men come to ask their right
Thy “Nolo” may be trusted quite,
My Bishop.

Love to the bench, should you and they
Chance to be ousted some fine day,
Pop over here to Lisbon, pray,
My Bishop.

For though ’twill doubtless dull appear
Without your thousands five per year,
You’ll meet some kindred spirits here,
My Bishop.
THOMAS MOORE.

(In 1826 Don Pedro, King of Portugal, abdicated the throne in favour of his daughter, Maria II., but his brother Don Miguel, usurped the crown, which he retained until 1833, amidst almost incessant civil war, and commotion. His character was detestable, and his reign cruel and tyrannical, yet Henry Phillpotts, the grasping and intolerant Bishop of Exeter, gave him his sympathy. Thomas Moore, in this parody, refers to the Bishop’s greed (at one time he held no less than five rich livings, and two prebendal stalls), and to the part he took in defence of the detestable Peterloo massacre of innocent people assembled at a public meeting. Fortunately for Portugal there were few Englishmen who followed Phillpotts in befriending Don Miguel, and the news of his downfall, in 1833, and the proclamation of Queen Maria, were loudly welcomed in England. Miguel had visited London in 1827; he died in exile in November, 1866.)

――――:o:――――

THE PROCTOR.

Who is it, that with bull-dogs two,
With brass-bound book, and cloaks of blue,
Is capped on Sundays _by a few_?
The Proctor.

Who is’t in bands and silk so fine,
Is seen about soon after nine,
Like glow-worm doomed at night to shine?
The Proctor.

Who was it when I _doused a glim_,
Dispatched to catch me bull-dog Jem,
And _begged_ that I would _call_ on him?
The Proctor.

Who was it too, when sporting hat,
On Queen’s bridge rails one night I sat,
Just asked my name――no more than that?
The Proctor.

Who was it, when a row began,
Between the Snobs and Gownsmen ran,
And seized me, as I floored a man?
The Proctor.

And when I bribed with half-a-dollar
The bull-dog to let go my collar,
Who was it ran, and beat me hollow?
The Proctor.

And when he caught me――asked my name――
Who was it found I could _die game_?
(For I kicked his shins and made him lame),
The Proctor.

Who was it of this aggravation,
Before the vice laid accusation,
Who kindly sentenced rustication?
The Proctor.

Who was it, when _Degree_ was near,
By frowning looks taught me to fear,
He meant to harass me?――Oh dear!
The Proctor.

Who was it said, “Sir, if you please,
“I’ll trouble you to pay your fees,
“We never _trust_ for _no_ degrees”?
The Proctor.

Who after all this long delay
Examination, lots to pay,
Declined to make me a B. A.
――And then got licked that very day?
The Proctor.

_The Gownsman._ (Conducted by Members of the University), Cambridge. No. 10. January 7, 1831.

――――:o:――――

ODE TO A BLACKGUARD.

Who, nurs’d in ev’ry roguish villainy,
Taught, while he shamm’d the face of truth, to lie,
Who came into the world? the Lord knows why!
Blucher.

Who grew in size and cunning, till his eye,
Trained to its art, gave what he meant the lie,
Who, young in years, grew old in roguery?
Blucher.

Who trains a dog, which, Freshmen thinking cheap,
Purchase, which leaves them with a homeward leap,
Who keeps a dog, which no one else can keep?
Blucher.

Who daring impudence, the Gownsman stops,
To tell him of the B――nw――l evening hops,
And then, brings Proctor who upon him pops?
Blucher.

Who is a Judas on the face of Earth,
Spirit, accomplish’d in all blackguard mirth,
Whose days disgrace the region of his birth?
Blucher.

Would, that the Castle Bell’s prophetic clang
Should call grim Newgate’s Ketch, when next it rang,
That he, next Session, Justice due, should hang.
Blucher.

From the “Cambridge Odes,” by Peter Persius. Published by W. H. Smith, Rose Crescent, Cambridge. There is no date to this little pamphlet, nor any account of the character entitled “Blucher.” Several verses are omitted on account of their coarseness.

――――:o:――――

THE TURNCOCK.

Who is it, when we’re taken ill,
And slops require all day to swill,
The grateful cistern helps to fill?
The Turncock.

Who is it, when the dreadful sound
Of “Fire” echoes all around
Is hardly ever to be found?
The Turncock.

Who is it, when upon his beat,
Will very often, for a treat,
Turn on the main and swamp the street?
The Turncock.

Who is it often comes to state
The Company no more will wait,
But must insist upon the rate?
The Turncock.

Who is it waits another day,
And then no longer will delay,
But cuts the water right away?
The Turncock.

_Punch_, 1843.

――――:o:――――

THE RAMONEUR’S ADDRESS.

Who, when the chimney is on fire,
Than any sweep can go up higher,
And do whatever you require?
The Ramoneur.

Who saves the bother and the noise
Of dirty little climbing boys,
Whose feet the furniture destroys?
The Ramoneur.

Who human nature never shocks,
By torturing mortal knees and hocks,
And who deserves a Christmas box?
The Ramoneur.
_Punch_, Christmas, 1843.

This refers to the invention of a new Chimney Sweeping Machine. Before the Act of 1842 it was customary to compel little boys to climb up the insides of chimneys to sweep them, and many were suffocated, or got jammed in the narrow flues.

――――:o:――――

THE PROTECTIONIST CATECHISM.
(_To be Sung or Said in all places where they talk Nonsense._)

What is it makes Provisions cheap,
Turns last year’s corn too soft to keep,
And breeds the rot in Cows and Sheep?
Free Trade!

What caused last summer’s heavy rains?
What makes stiff clays insist on drains?
What _will_ have farmers use their brains?
Free Trade!

What brought about potato blight?
What is the cause of Ireland’s plight?
What won’t let anything go right?
Free Trade!

What caused two years’ short cotton crops?
What made the Funds to ninety drop?
What soon will make the world shut shop?
Free Trade!

What drains our gold and silver out,
Makes quassia to be used in stout,
Puts foreign monarchs up the spout?
Free Trade!

What makes poor tenants quite content
To pay whatever’s asked for rent,
Though corn go down fifteen per cent?
Free Trade!

What soon will raise the labourers’ hire
To something past mere food and fire,
And make him saucy to the squire?
Free Trade!

What works the Constitution woe,
At Church and State doth strike a blow,
And brings up everything that’s low?
Free Trade!

What is the thing to save our bacon,
Restore our Constitution shaken,
And give us back what PEEL has taken?
Protection!

What will vote draining tiles a bore,
What Coprolites and Guano floor,
And good old rule of thumb restore?
Protection!

What will make sunshine, rain and snow,
As farmers want them, come and go,
Keeping all things in _statu quo_?
Protection!

What, for a shield ’gainst foreign grain
Will give us Law to trust again,
Instead of British Brawn or Brain?
Protection!

What will leave landlords as of yore,
And tenants as they did before,
On the old paths to snooze and snore?
Protection!

Then raise on high a general call,
For that which works the good of all,
By robbing PETER to pay PAUL.
PROTECTION!

_Punch_, April 21, 1849.

――――:o:――――

THE BAKER.

Who is it, in an idle hour,
Grinds up some beans both cheap and sour,
To mix them with his wheaten flour?
The Baker!

Who, if a trifling rise in price
Occurs in corn, will not be nice,
But in the bread will charge it twice?
The Baker!

Who, when the corn is “down again,”
Is such a thorough rogue in grain,
The rise in bread still to maintain?
The Baker!

Who is it, when we send a pie,
Will child-like take a straw and try
To suck it of the syrup dry?
The Baker?

Who is it, when we trust some ribs
Of beef to bake, a portion cribs,
And hides the fault by wicked fibs?
The Baker!

Who, if we miss a piece of fat,
Has always got an answer pat,
And lays it on a neighbour’s cat?
The Baker!

Who, from rice pudding, with a cup,
Extracts the custard――every sup――
And says the fire has dried it up?
The Baker!

Who, the unpleasant truth to state,
Cheats us at such a fearful rate,
That every loaf is short in weight?
The Baker!

_Punch_, January 15, 1853.

――――:o:――――

THE POET.

Who welcomes first the powers of spring?
The swallow twittering on the wing,
Who pines to hear the cuckoo sing?――
The Poet.

Who loves the snowdrop, modest flower,
First of the year to grace the bower,
To cause its stay, who sighs for power?
The Poet.

Who marks it lowlier droop its head,
And kiss its cold and damp death bed,
Weeping when all its life is shed?
The Poet.

Who, when the lark awakes refreshed,
And soars above its little nest,
Loves its sweet morning song the best?
The Poet.

Who smiles to see the dark mist free,
Young morning dawn o’er earth and sea,
Who then feels proud of being free?
The Poet.

Who, when the bright stars stud the sky,
The pale moon smileth from on high,
Beholds them with admiring eye?
The Poet.

Who, when the snows of winter fall
O’er earth, obedient at his call,
Wondering, reveres the cause of all?
The Poet.

Who feels that love, which few e’er feel,
Which bids him every thought reveal,
To her――his own in woe or weal?
The Poet.

Who, when soft twilight’s sober grey
Obscures the light of lessening day,
To love’s pure feast hies swift away?
The Poet.

Who then in maiden’s raptured ear
Pours the sweet sounds she loves to hear,
Dispelling doubt, destroying fear?
The Poet.

Who pines not, toils not for the gold,
In search of which the young grow old,
To whom doth love true joys unfold?
The Poet.

Who dearest loves his brother man,
Nor stains with hate life’s little span?
Who glads the heart of all he can?
The Poet.

Who feels there is a God in Heaven,
By whom all love, all life is given,
Who oft the scoffer’s jest hath riven?
The Poet.

Who pauses, nor with hasty tread
Stalks o’er the turf-hid, silent dead:
Weeping, although no tear is shed?
The Poet.

Who, when his eye is glazed and dim,
And life a dying ember’s gleam,
Relies on, finds a friend in HIM?
The Poet.

He’s not, who, ’mid Time’s onward flow,
Can’t mark, and learn, and wiser grow,
He’s not, who lives not, dies not so
A Poet.

_Lays and Lyrics_, By C. RAE. BROWN, London. Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co., 1855.

――――:o:――――

KING CLICQUOT.

Who rules the Kingdom, till of late
Which was a leading German State,
But he has made it second-rate?
King Clicquot.

When NICHOLAS the Turks attacked,
Who joined the league against that act,
Then out of his engagement backed?
King Clicquot.

Who feigned to hold with the Allies,
But to co-operate denies,
And, underhand, to thwart them tries?
King Clicquot.

Swayed by domestic feelings weak,
His people’s good who does not seek,
But plays the traitor and the sneak?
King Clicquot.

By private ties who only bound
Breaks those of honour, like a hound,
And yet his head continues crowned?
King Clicquot.

Who has a crafty project planned,
Denmark and Holland to command,
Meanwhile betraying Fatherland?
King Clicquot.

Who Russia would abet, as base
Accomplice, to enslave his race,
If he but durst the danger face?
King Clicquot.

Who, double minded, double sees?
Whose conduct with his gait agrees?
Who breaks his nose ’gainst apple-trees?
King Clicquot.

Whose dirty tricks have brought about
His nation to be quite shut out
From Europe’s Council? Germans, shout――
King Clicquot.

Who vacillates ’twixt knave and fool?
Who’s the CZAR’S satrap, pander, tool?
Who is no longer fit to rule?
King Clicquot.

_Punch_, March 31, 1855.

Frederick William, King of Prussia, (the elder brother of the present German Emperor,) had the credit of being a stupid sensualist, and was long known in England by the nickname “King Clicquot.” During his reign Prussia had come to occupy a lower position in Europe than she had ever before held during her existence as a Kingdom. It seemed almost marvellous how by any process the country of the Great Frederick could have sunk to such a condition of insignificance. At the period just preceding the Crimean War the King of Prussia, with his usual indecision of character, led the Allies to believe he would side with them, and then, at the last minute, withdrew from the compact, saying that the interests of Prussia did not require him to engage in a war. Prussia was relieved from the rule of this weak and vacillating individual, by his death in January, 1861.

――――:o:――――

THE BABY SHOW.
BY MRS. GAMP.
(Authoress of “Diary of a Monthly Nurse,” &c., &c.)

Where is the man with soul so badge,
Which could denige this moryal sage.
That Babby-shows is all the rage!
The Monster!

Which he should instantaneous go
Unto the famious Zo――
――ologic Gardings, to the show
Of Babbies.

There, where the beastiges does roar,
And bragian bands their toons play o’er,
To see the babes, the people pour
In thousands,

Like Cowcumbers on summer days,
These tender plants, though hard to raise,
Does win our most maternial praise:
The ducksy-wucksys!

Ah dear! I knows a lady――which
Her name is Harris――who had sitch
Two little cherryubs, with the
Scotch Complaint.

Which, likewige, was the cauge why they
Was not exhibited that day;
So Mrs. Harris could not say
As follows.

_1st Mother._――

Who was the babe who gain’d the prize
For being, in the judges eyes,
The little boy of finest size?
My Tommy.

_2nd Mother._――

Who was the lion of the ground?
Who gain’d the first prize of five pound
For well-developed limbs, and round?
My Billy.

_3rd Mother._――

And who was it, all cloth’d in red,
Who for a month had been well fed
On rice, and oil, and oatmeal bread?
My Jimmy.

_4th Mother._――

But who was it, with teeth like pearl,
And bright blue eyes, and sunny curl,
Was judged to be “the prettiest girl?”
My Jemimar.

(_Hysterical, unlooked for, and utterly-out-of-place, Chorus of Mothers_): Singing: “Ri-tol-looral, lal-looral, lal-looral, lal la!”

_The Shilling Book of Beauty._ Edited by CUTHBERT BEDE, 1856.

[Mrs. Gamp’s feelings are doubtless strong on this subject, and may be shared in, for aught we know, (though we very much doubt it), by a large number of “the women of England.” But we must confess that our feelings are so strongly opposed to these “Baby Shows”――which we think are cruel, degrading and disgusting exhibitions――that we should not have given insertion to Mrs. Gamp’s poetical effusion, had not Lady Slipslop kindly furnished us with an antidote, which will be found in the article next ensuing.――Ed. S. B. of B.]

――――:o:――――

LINES BY A GIRL OF THE FUTURE TO A
GIRL OF THE PERIOD.

Who taught me that our English ways,
So highly prized in former days,
In her time only bred amaze?
My Mother.

Whose ev’ry action went to show
That homely virtues were all slow,
And fit but for the mean and low?
My Mother.

That girls of spirit ne’er should care
For aught on earth save what they wear,
Short skirts――high heels――and false dyed hair?
My Mother.

That thoroughly they should despise
All plodding, dull, domestic ties,
Know naught of pickles, or of pies?
My Mother.

That always they should imitate
Young men in slangy talk and gait,
As bashfulness was out of date?
My Mother.

That hearts were to be weigh’d ’gainst gold,
Not love, as was the case of old
And to the highest bidder sold?
My Mother.

And that when wed, all girls should learn
Base thoughts of stupid thrift to spurn
And spend much more than husbands earn?
My Mother.

_Girl of the Period Miscellany_, April, 1869.

――――:o:――――

OUR BISHOPS.

1.

Who follow Christ with humble feet,
And rarely have enough to eat,
Who “Misereres” oft repeat?――
Our Bishops.

2.

Who, like the fishermen of old,
Care not for house, nor lands, nor gold,
But boldly brave the damp and cold?――
Our Bishops.

3.

Who preach the gospel to the poor,
And nurse the sick, and teach the boor――
Who faithful to the end endure?――
Our Bishops.

4.

Who give up all for Jesus’ sake,
And no thought for the morrow take,
But daily sacrifices make?――
Our Bishops.

5.

And who count everything a loss
Except their Lord and Master’s cross,
And reckon riches as but dross?――
Our Bishops.

_Jon Duan_――Weldon’s Christmas Annual, 1874.

EPISCOPAL SALARIES.――The thirty-one prelates of the Church of England receive £161,900 a year, and have more than thirty-one palaces. To contrast with this there are nearly one thousand clergymen whose average stipend is under £76 per annum.

――――:o:――――

L. S. D.

What makes man selfish and morose,
The cause of troubles, trials, and woes,
What makes fierce friendship, fiercer foes?
Money!

What leads to murder and disgrace,
What aids young sparks to go the pace;
And takes him abroad to hide his face?
Money!

What leads to those sweet family rows,
When Pa tells Ma with fearful vows,
Tom shan’t spend more than he allows?
Money!

Again, what can’t we do without,
What gives us power to gad about,
Enjoy ourselves, and laugh and shout?
Money!

For what does man work hard all day,
What makes him sad his bills to pay,
(Paying them whether he will or nay)?
Money!

Oh, would I knew some little game
To make my name well-known to fame,
And bring me plenty of that same――
Money!

_The Figaro Programme_, November 28, 1874.

――――:o:――――

THE RUSSIANS.

Who spread no Sclavic Empire far
O’er Khiva’s deserts and Kashgar,
And murder not, and name it war?
The Russians!

Whose scourging armies never chose
To make Darius’ sons their foes,
And dye in blood the Persian rose?
The Russians!

Who camp by Attrek’s lonely shore?
Whose sunny vales and Barakpore
Shall hear the clang of arms no more,
The Russians!

Who did not dare destroy, annul,
(Nor since defy us――coward, fool,)
The record of Sevastopol?
The Russians!

Whose new embrasures speak not scorn?
Whose fleet’s on never a billow borne
That flows towards the Golden Horn?
The Russians!

Who turn no envious gaze upon
The lands which Clive subdued and won――
Our Indian Empire and Ceylon?
The Russians!

Who were our friends in ’fifty-four,
And spared our country’s life and gore,
And hope to shed them nevermore?
The Russians!

Whom should we court and value more
Than bearded statesmen’s art and lore,
And love and cherish evermore?
The Russians!

BENJAMIN D―――― _His Little Dinner_, 1876.

――――:o:――――

MY FATHER.
_By Mr. Gladstone, Junr._

Who loved me when I was a child,
And never at my pranks grew wild,
And when I broke his china, smiled?
My Father!

Who, when I used to mix his work
And his last manuscript to burke,
Would merely say, “you little Turk”?
My Father!

Who, when――this was my boyish dread――
My mother sent me up to bed,
Would give me jam with my dry bread?
My Father!

Who, when we led the Liberal host,
Made me so snug a treasury post?
A thousand pounds a year it cost――
My Father!

Who, now that he has lost his pow’r,
Is growing querulous and sour,
And more eccentric every hour?
My Father!

Who must again the Liberals lead,
And Hartington soon supersede?
Who is it that the people need?
My Father!

_Truth_, September 6, 1877.

――――:o:――――

THE DOCTOR.

[The other day a baker was fined for adulterating his bread with what is called in the trade the “doctor,” a mixture composed principally of alum. The use of the “doctor,” it came out, results in making inferior bread look of a good quality.]

What makes the quartern loaf a sight
To glad the heart and bring delight,
So crusty brown, so crumby white?
The “Doctor.”

What turns the flour from mouldy wheat
Into a substance _looking_ sweet,
Ambrosia that a god might eat?
The “Doctor.”

Who is the baker’s firmest friend?
Who passes all they choose to vend?
Who makes them wealthy in the end?
The “Doctor.”

Who is the public’s meanest foe?
Who deals it many a stealthy blow
With daily lumps of poisoned dough?
The “Doctor.”

_Funny Folks_, June, 1877.

――――:o:――――

TIGHT LACING IN THE PULPIT.

[Mr. Haweis in addressing a crowded Congregation at St. James’s, Marylebone, spoke very strongly on the Criminal Ignorance and thoughtlessness of Tight Lacing.]

What is it makes a lady’s head
Feel heavy as a lump of lead?
What makes her nose’s tip so red?
Tight-lacing!

What makes her cheek burn like a coal,
Her feet as cold as Arctic pole?
What cramps her body and her soul?
Tight-lacing!

What makes her temper short and sharp?
What causes her to fret and carp,
And on the smallest ills to harp?
Tight-lacing!

What checks her proper circulation,
And dulls her ordinate sensation?
What blighted babes breeds for the nation?
Tight-lacing!

What makes her waist a wasp-like thing,
And gives her tongue a waspish sting?
What baulks her when high notes she’d sing?
Tight-lacing!

What is it, with its vice-like squeeze,
Destroys its fated victim’s ease,
And brings her doctors countless fees?
Tight-lacing!

What is it makes her gasp for breath,
And――so stern modern science saith――
Dooms her too oft to early death?
Tight-lacing!

What brings a “corn upon her heart,”
And makes her――spoil’d by cruel art――
Unfit to play the mother’s part?――
Tight-lacing!

What tortures her into a shape
Which “ruts the liver” past escape,
And which, at most, makes _gommeux_ gape?――
Tight-lacing!

What beauty’s lines in her destroys,
And fashion’s powerful aid employs,
To crush from out her life its joys?――
Tight-lacing!

What ages her before her time,
And makes her feeble ere her prime?
What tempts to a self-suffer’d crime?――
Tight-lacing!

What quite ignoring nature’s facts,
Her waist so cruelly contracts,
That each inch saved fresh pain exacts?
Tight-lacing!

And what bad fashion of the day
Is it that ladies now should say
They’ll spurn without an hour’s delay?――
Tight-lacing!

_Truth_, April 24, 1879.

――――:o:――――

“BABY” AT THE STRAND THEATRE.

Who is’t whose life has just begun
With quip, and crank, and mirth, and fun,
Who cannot walk, yet’s bound to _run_――?
“The Baby!”

With grief o’erwhelmed and sore distrest,
By fear disturbed, by care opprest,
Who makes me laugh with merry jest?――
“The Baby!”

Who is it from each box and stall
Each night receives applause from all,
Because his birth was with a _caul_?――
“The Baby!”

French parentage he owns, but here
He’s godfathered, the pretty dear,
By C. H. Ross and A. T. Freer――
Sweet “Baby!”

And to the theatre ev’ry night
These sponsors all the world invite
To pay their money for a sight
Of “Baby!”

_Fun_, January 1, 1879.

――――:o:――――

A SONG OF THE SEASON.
By Viscount Sandon, M.P.

What was it made the season fail,
Our commerce languish, tradesmen rail,
And landlords tell a dismal tale?
The weather.

What made the farmers grumble so,
And struck alike at high and low,
Till dukes and dustmen felt the blow?
The weather.

What caused the Customs and Excise
To droop before our very eyes,
Yet made quinine and borax rise?
The weather.

What made the Ascot week so dull,
Of glorious Goodwood made a mull,
And help’d the ring to backers gull?
The weather.

What made half London madly rush
French plays to see, and so to crush,
That they might hear “the Bernhardt” gush?
The weather.

What made the people stay away
From Mr. Boucicault’s new play?
’Twas very bad, though; so they say?
The weather.

What made the last new valse the rage,
And caused gay youth and hoary age
In Polo, that fresh dance, t’engage?――
The weather.

What made the hackney’d recitation
At dull “At-homes” a new sensation,
Much to Society’s vexation?
The weather.

What made all outdoor sports a snare,
What spoil’d lawn tennis everywhere,
And fill’d the archer with despair?――
The weather.

What “Princes’” turn’d and “Lords’” to mire,
What wholly damp’d the batsmen’s fire,
Till even Grace had to retire?――
The weather.

What made the late Lord Mayor abuse
His colleagues, and his temper lose,
And drove to acts we can’t excuse?
The weather.

What made him take so strange a view
Of what to decency was due,
And landed him in such a stew?――
The weather.

What made the _Times_ such blunders make,
And praise each Government mistake,
Till honest readers’ hearts did ache?――
The weather.

What made the Great Sea Serpent late?
What “Cato” gave a chance to prate,
And gave us Mechi’s “Parson’s Grate”?――
The weather.

What was it rank obstruction bred,
And made Sir Stafford lose his head?
What kept the House from going to bed?
The weather.

What made the Home Rule Members spout
Sedition as they stump’d about?
What sent the threat’ning letter out?
The weather.

What brought the Bank rate down to one,
And sent up “railways” with a run?
What made so heavy _Punch_ and _Fun_?――
The weather.

What made Lord B. to Aylesbury go,
To prose of black-faced ewes, and show
How from the land three profits grow?
The weather.

What made him, later try to pass
As words of wisdom nonsense crass――
_Imperium et Libertas!_――?――
The weather.

And to declare that for our land
There was a future great and grand
Since chemicals were in demand?――
The weather.

What made the British ironclads tack
And sail due East, and then, alack!
Upon the morrow sail straight back?――
The weather.

What made it cups and swords to rain,
When home across the stormy main
Our Zulu heroes came again?――
The weather.

What sent up bread and kept down wheat,
And made the Russian troops retreat,
Although the Turcomans they beat?――
The weather.

What made the youthful King of Spain
Resolve that he would wed again,
And add a bridal to his reign?――
The weather.

What made so many wives elope,
What damp’d our joy, and dull’d our hope,
And knock’d up Bismarck and the Pope?――
The weather.

What Bismarck to Vienna sent
The Austrian union to cement,
And Salisbury make so eloquent?――
The weather.

What made Peru and Chili fight,
And nerved Bolivian arms with might?
What smash’d up the _Huascar_ quite?――
The weather.

In short, what can we safely blame
For all the ills that on us came,
Till one begins to loathe its name?――
The weather.

_Truth_, Christmas Number, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE WEATHER.
(_By one who is much affected by it._)

What made me careless, cheery, gay,
What made me throw ten pounds away,
And cheerfully some large bills pay?
The weather!

What made my head feel iron-bound,
What made me kick my favourite hound,
Quarrel with wife and friends all round?
The weather!

What made me open wide my coat,
And get into a penny boat,
And talk of spring time like a “Pote?”
The weather!

What made me suddenly feel ill,
What gave me such a fearful chill,
That I went home to make my will?
The weather!

_Punch_, March 12, 1881.

――――:o:――――

OUR SUNDAY――(DOWN EAST).

[N.B.――_Permission to include these lines in the Programme of any Sabbatarian Penny Reading may be obtained from Mr. Punch._]

Which is the day that _should_ be blest,
And to the weary, work-opprest,
Bring wholesome pleasure, peace and rest?
Our Sunday.

Yet which the day of all the seven
To our sour lives adds sourer leaven
And leaves poor folk most far from heaven?
Our Sunday.

When gutter-brats of tender years,
What filled our childish souls with fears
Of father’s curses, mothers tears?
Our Sunday.

What makes the sound of prayer and praise,
Heard ’mid our foul and filthy ways,
Like echoes of an empty phrase?
Our Sunday.

What day down East,――where day’s half night,
While West-End wealth enjoys the light――
Most feeds the public’s frowze and fight?
Our Sunday.

What, when the week’s toil stills its din,
Proclaims each simple pleasure sin,
And, preaching grace, provideth gin?
Our Sunday.

What, when we strive up from our sink,
Our souls with nobler things to link,
Bars all,――but one bar labelled _drink_?
Our Sunday.

And, when of this world we are clear,
What is it, in another sphere,
Won’t be flung at us, as ’twas here?
Our Sunday.

_Punch._ June 12, 1880.

――――:o:――――

THE EGYPTIAN BABY.
(_As sung by the Khedive, Tewfik._)

Who made affairs grow pretty hot
About this Oriental spot?
Who were a rather shady lot?
My Pashas!

Who put me in a dreadful fright,
And wished to have me killed outright?
Who vowed they were resolved to fight?
My Army!

Who with a fleet of iron came
And stopped their naughty little game,
And rescued this child from the same?
My Beauchamp!

Who first said nay, and next said yea,
Asserting he would use his sway,
Then waited for another day?
My Abdul!

Who led the British troops he’d brought,
And with the rebels bravely fought
Till Arabi was smashed and caught?
My Garnet!

Who now will raise me where I fell
And kiss the place to make it well,
And keep me happy ’neath his spell?
My William!

1882.

――――:o:――――

WHAT THE SEASONS BRING.

When comes the Southern summer breeze,
That softly blows from tropic seas,
Who lives in impecunious ease!
The bummer.

When borean blasts blow fierce and free,
And winter reigns on land and sea,
Who chuckles then with fiendish glee?
The plumber.

Or warm or cold the breezes blow,
From tropic seas or arctic snow,
Who comes his “sample lot” to show?
The drummer.[26]
E. J. S.
_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE FOG.

What stops the nation’s loud lament,
And makes some folks almost content
With Liberals in Parliament?――
The fog!

What, when debaters disagree
And fight on this and that decree,
With Ministers is pol-i-cee?――
Why, fog!

When questioned by Lord RANDY, and――
Well, badgered by an adverse band,
Where takes the Grand Old Man his stand?――
In fog!

_Judy_, November 22, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE MAHDI.

Everyone just now is hearing a good deal about the Mahdi but no one seems to know what he is like. Until the London Stereoscopic Company sell the gentleman’s photo for a shilling, perhaps the following description may help the public to form some idea of the hero of the hour.

THAT’S “HIM.”
Who’s forty years――well-nigh, not quite?
Who is about the medium height?
Who has a beard as black as night?
The Mahdi.

Whose eyes with fire and passion gleam?
Whose hue is that of coffee cream?
Whose face shows many a scar and seam?
The Mahdi’s.

Who’s thinner e’en than Sally B?
Who on his cheeks has gashes three?
Who’s quite upset our William G.?
The Mahdi.

Who got his living in the East
By dealing in wild bird and beast,
And then turned hermit――later priest?
The Mahdi.

And yet in town receive we may
As petted lion of the day――
(Perhaps at Labby’s house he’ll stay)――
The Mahdi.
G. R. SIMS,
_The Referee_, May 11, 1884.

――――:o:――――

OUR MARQUIS.
By a long suffering Tory Peer.

Who, by his tyrannous oppression
And obstinate and proud aggression,
Has really caused this Autumn Session?――
Our Marquis!

Who made us vote against the Bill,
And thus defy the people’s will?
Who wants to keep us stubborn still?――
Our Marquis!

Who, much against our inclination,
Forced us to take to “demonstration,”
And foster outdoor dissipation?――
Our Marquis!

Who goaded us by his remarks
To let off fireworks in our parks,
And let in ’Arry, with his “larks”?――
Our Marquis!

Who, too, with malice so prepense,
Made us attempt our own defence,
In feeble words and weaker sense?――
Our Marquis!

Who, in his arrogance and pride,
Brings us to town this autumn-tide,
Decided facts to re-decide?
Our Marquis!

Who spoils our sport, upsets our plans,
And trips to Cannes or Carthage bans,
Whilst popular disgust he fans?――
Our Marquis!

Who takes the time we would allot
To gun and game, to moor or yacht,
To waste it in abortive plot?
Our Marquis!

Who, ’stead of pheasants, gives us fog
Debate in place of horse and dog,
And “Whips” us when our streams we’d flog?――
Our Marquis!

Who class ’gainst class insanely sets
With his “Elizabethan” threats
And “Burleigh-nods” and epithets?
Our Marquis!

Who, knowing we are somewhat dull,
And slow of speech, and thick of skull,
Has found it easy us to gull?――
Our Marquis!

But who, though he our pleas may spurn,
Will find, ere we again adjourn,
That even Tory worms will turn?――
Our Marquis!

_Truth_, October 23, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE LORDS.

Who, dwelling in ancestral halls,
Surrounded by emblazoned walls,
Are deaf to all the peoples’ calls?
The Lords.

Who, in a manner underhand,
Have stolen from the people land,
And on these stolen riches stand?
The Lords.

Who every measure do reject
Which will the people’s rights protect,
Or in some way their good effect?
The Lords.

Who always did oppress the Jew,
And the Roman Catholic, too,
Refusing to them their just due?
The Lords.

Who, Ireland ever did oppress,
And never would her wrongs redress,
But coercion always did caress?
The Lords.

Who, with well simulated fright,
To every man denies the right
With his wife’s sister to unite?
The Lords.

Who, in a manner uniform,
For years rejected all reform,
Till fearful of the coming storm?
The Lords?

Who, amidst speeches loud and shrill,
Have now thrown out the Franchise Bill,
And so oppose the peoples’ will?
The Lords.

Who, now their rashness recognise,
And by dark deceitful lies,
Attempt their action to disguise?
The Lords.

Who, though they’ve had long to repent,
Now with an air so insolent,
Appear on further follies bent?
The Lords.

Then since the warned ones will not mend,
But still continue to offend,
Let us now take quick means to end
The Lords.
H. E. HARKER.
_Hull Express_, August 30, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE “COMP.”

Who is it that causes all the woes,
The editor so often knows,
And makes the poor man many foes,
“Setting up” what he don’t propose?
The “comp!”

Who is it eyes “The Force” askance,
Like he was waiting for the chance,
Their local items to enhance,
And cause “The Force” to swear and prance?
The “comp!”

Who is it grins in fiendish glee,
His error on the press to see,
And views all things cynically,
And never gives a big, big “D?”
The “comp!”

_Detroit Free Pree_, January 24, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE PEOPLES WILLIAM.

How runs the ignominious story,
Since Britain’s ancient fame and glory,
Passed from its famous Premier Tory
To William?