Chapter IV: Prologue: Act IV. 201 (1)

Lord Mayor’s Day, 1827 201

――――――――

RICHARD THE THIRD――

“NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT” 189
“The World” Parody, Competition. The return of
Lord Chelmsford from Zululand 190
Cetewayo’s Soliloquy 190
King Richard ye Third, by Charles Selby, at the
Strand Theatre in 1844 190
The Rise and Fall of Richard III., or a new Front to
an old Dicky, by F. C. Burnand, at the Royalty
Theatre in 1868, with the Cast 191
Richard III, Travestie, by William By, 1816 191
Richard III. Burlesque, by J. Sterling Coyne, 1844 191

――――――――

KING HENRY VIII.――

CARDINAL WOLSEY’S FAREWELL 191
Henry Irving’s Farewell, 1875 191
Mr. Gladstone’s Farewell to his Old China, 1875 191
A Parody in _College Rhymes_ 192

――――――――

ROMEO AND JULIET――

I do remember an old Bachelor, 1832 176
I do remember a Cook’s shop 176
I do remember a young pleader, by G. Wentworth, 1824 176
I do remember a strange man, a herald, by R. Surtees 177
Ha! I remember a low sort of shop, by J. R. Planché 204

THE SHAKESPEARE OF THE PERIOD, 1869――
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. W. Robertson 177
Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by T. Maddison Morton 178
Romeo and Juliet as arranged by H. J. Byron 178
Do. Do. as arranged by Dion Boucicault 178
Romeo and Juliet Travestie, by Andrew Halliday.
Produced at the Strand Theatre, 1859 179
Romeo and Juliet; or, the Shaming of the True.
Performed at Oxford during Commemoration, 1868 179

――――――――

JULIUS CÆSAR.

THE SPEECH OF BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR 192
The Poacher’s Apology 192

MARC ANTONY’S SPEECH 192
Parody Competition in _The Weekly Dispatch_,
June 28, 1885. 193
A Speech by Sir W. Harcourt, by T. A. Wilson 193
A Speech by John Bright, by H. L. Brickel 193
On Mr. Gladstone leaving Office, by George Mallinson 193

――――――――

MACBETH.

Macbeth, in a Song from _Rejected Addresses_ 181
The Incantation on Penenden Plain, 1828 181
Is this a Sovereign which I feel behind me? 1852 182
Macbeth Travestie, in _Accepted Addresses_ 182
Macbeth Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1847. Performed
at Henley; at the Strand Theatre in 1848; and at
the Olympic Theatre in 1853 182
Making the Pudding; a Christmas Incantation 183
The Modern Macbeth. H. Savile Clarke, 1885 183
Shakespeare’s Recipe for cooking a Beef Steak 184
M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor (on the
Incantation Scene) 239
Macbeth’s Soliloquy parodied, 1830 240
Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse August, 1885 240

――――――――

HAMLET.

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE (from the 1623 folio edition) 146
Oh, say! To be, or not to be? As a song, from
George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 146
To Be, or not to Be? By T. Thatcher 146
To Be, or not to Be? On London’s Municipal
Reform, 1884 147
To Be, or not to Be? By Mark Twain 147
To Be, or not to Be? As supposed to be amended by
Mr. F. J. Furnivall 163
To Act, or not to Act? (on Speculation) 147
To Affiliate, or not to Affiliate? 148
To Bake, or not to Bake? Advertisement 148
To Bathe, or not to Bathe? 148
To Bee, or not to Bee? (Spelling Bee) 148
To Be, or not to Be? (Gladstone’s Soliloquy)
Prize Parody by Jessie H. Wheeler 149
To Box, or not to Box? 149
Burgh, or No-Burgh? From the _Ardrossan Herald_ 146
Canal, or no Canal? By F. B. Cottier (on the
Suez Canal) 150
To Cheat, or not to Cheat? By an Attorney 150
Clôture or no Clôture? Punch, 1882 151
To Come, or not to Come? For a Bashful Reciter,
by Henry J. Finn 151
Compromise, or no Compromise? 1884 151
To Dance, or not to Dance? Judy, 1871 151
To Drink, or not to Drink? American Paper 152
Ditto ditto Punch, 1841 152
Ditto ditto From Hamlet Travestie,
by F. Talfourd, 1849 152
To Dun, or not to Dun? The Mirror, 1823 152
To Dye, or not to Dye? The Tomahawk, 1869 153
To Dig, or not to Dig? J. M. Dron (Another proposed
Suez Canal) 150
Etre, ou ne pas être! A French version 162
A Flea, or not a Flea? by James Robinson 153
To Fight, or not to Fight? 1823 202
To Go, or not to Go? Ophelia’s Version. 153
To Have it out, or not? A Dental Soliloquy 153
To Hiss, or not to Hiss? The Puppet Show 154
To Hunt, or not to Hunt? The Mirror, 1823 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? The Debtor’s Soliloquy,
by F. J. Overton, 1881 154
To Pay, or not to Pay? (on the Suez Canal).
by Leonard Harding 150
To be, or not to be Polite? Gossip, 1885 155
To Print, or not to Print? Rev. R. Jago 155
To Yield, or not to Yield? (To the Tories) 149
To Rat, or not to Rat? Once a Week, 1868 155
To Smoke, or not to Smoke? 244
To Sleep, or not to Sleep? O. P. Q. P. Smiff 162
To Shave, or not to Shave? Diogenes, 1854 155
Ditto ditto by T. F. Dillon-Croker 156
To Starve, or not to Starve? W. H. Ireland 156
To Sniggle, or to Dibble? by F. C. Burnand 202
To Stick to Hoy, or not? The Argus, 1831 157
To Stitch, or not to Stitch? The Mirror 157
To Strike, or not to Strike? by a Cabman, 1867, 157
To Stand, or not to Stand, 1808 161
Trousers, or no Trousers? (The Bloomer Question)
The Month, 1851 158
Tubby, or not Tubby? by F. C. Burnand 161
To Urn, or not to Urn? by William Sawyer 161
To Vaccinate, or not? 1881 158
To Wash, or not to Wash? by J. P. Roberdeau, 1803 158
To Write, or not to Write? The New Lady’s
Magazine, 1786 160

_On the Marriage Question._
To Wed, or not to Wed? The New Lady’s Magazine, 1786 158
To Woo, or not to Woo? Posthumous Parodies, 1814 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? by W. A. Clouston 159
Marry, or not to Marry? Political Note Book, 1824 159
To Wed, or not to Wed? Echoes from the Clubs, 1868 159
Ditto ditto, Anonymous 161
To Be, or not to Be (married)? by W. H. Edmunds 160
To Pop, or not to Pop the fatal question? 160
When a man becomes tired of his life (Song founded
on the Soliloquy) 162
The Soliloquy in Hebrew, 1880 202
Hamlet in Prose, 1848 202
The Ghost Scene parodied 203
Hamlet Travestie, by John Poole, 1810 161
Hamlet, or, not such a fool as he looks, by the Author
of “The Light Green” 1882 160
Very Little Hamlet, by W. Yardley, at the Gaiety
Theatre, 1884 164
Hamlet Travestie, by F. Talfourd, 1849 164
Three Children sliding on the Ice 162
Furnivallos Furioso and the Newest Shakespeare
Society, 1876 163
The advice of Polonius to Laertes, a Parody of, by
H. J. Byron 164
Hamlet’s instructions to the Players, Parody of, by
W. S. Gilbert, in _The Pretty Druidess_, 1869 165
See what an incubus sits on our City, 1882 165
Look here upon this picture, and on this 165
A Parody Cigarette Advertisement 165
Parody of the scene between Polonius and Ophelia,
by F. Talfourd 165
The Barrow Diggers, an Antiquarian conversation
in imitation of the Grave Diggers Scene, 1839 167
An Irish Play bill, 1793 169
Ben Dizzy patch’d and mended for to-day, Fiz, 1879 169
Hamlet from a new point of view 164

――――――――

OTHELLO――

OTHELLO’S SPEECH TO THE SENATE 184
The Strolling Player’s Apology 184
Kenealy’s Speech to the Senate, 1875 184
“Good name, in Man and Woman” 185
A Parody in the Ingoldsby Legends 185

FAREWELL, THE TRANQUIL MIND! 185
A Parody, by George Colman 185
The Undertaker’s Farewell, 1849 185
Farewell the quiet chop! (at Evans’s) 1879 185
Shakespeare’s Farewell 185
Address by J. P. Kemble. (O.P. Riots, 1810) 186
William IV. and Reform, 1832, Parody of a scene
from _Othello_ 186
Punch and Lord John Russell, 1848 187
Henry Irving as Othello 187
Othello Travestie, an Operatic Burlesque Burletta,
by Maurice G. Dowling, produced at Liverpool
in 1834, and at the Strand Theatre 188

――――――――

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA――

An Extravaganza, founded on Antony and Cleopatra,
by F. C. Burnand, produced at the Haymarket
Theatre, 1866 201

――――――――

CYMBELINE――

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O’ THE SUN 193
Fear no more the voice of the don, 1872 194
“Our Parodies are ended” 204

――――:o:――――

King Queer, and his Daughters Three, at the Strand
Theatre, 1855 205
A Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, produced in
Liverpool, 1846 205

――――:o:――――

Miss Ann Taylor.

MY MOTHER 106
A History of the poem “My Mother” 106
My Mary, by William Cowper 107
My Mother, by an Outcast 107
” ” by F. Talfourd 167
My Mother-in-Law 108
Mothers. The Humourist 143
My Baedeker, from Tracts in Norway 143
My Banker. Punch 1855 111
” ” Judy 1879 142
My Barrett (Mr. Wilson Barrett), 1884 111
My Bismarck. Judy 1867 112
My Broker. Punch 1875 111
My Brother 142
” ” The Boys Own Paper, 1884 109
My Father 134
My Mother 134
My Brother 134
My Sister 135
My Boot-Hooks. The Man in the Moon 113
My Bicycle. J. G. Dalton 113
My Bishop. Thomas Moore 123
My Chignon. Girl of the Period 113
My Client. Punch, 1875 111 112
My Dentist. R. E. Egerton-Warburton 113
My Father. Truth, 1877 127
My Godwin. J. and H. Smith 121
My Hairs. Thomas Hood 114
My Hookah 114
My Jenny (on Jenny Lind) 114
My Landlady. Figaro Album 115
My Lodger. Judy, 1869 115
My Little-go. College Rhymes, 1865 115
My Member. Punch, 1852 116
My Murray. Punch, 1857 116
My Miguel. Thomas Moore 122
My Nose. John Jones 116
My Punch 117
My Relations. Funny Folks, 1879 108
My Stockings 117
My Tutor. Paulopostprandials, 1883 143
My Tailor, by a Man of Fashion 117
My Ticker. Punch, 1842 118
My Uncle (ascribed to Louis Napoleon) 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1845 118
My Uncle. John Taylor 118
My Uncle. Punch, 1871 119
My Valentine. Judy, 1880 119
My Whalley. The Tomahawk, 1867 119
My Whiskers. The Belle Assemblée, 1833 120
My Yot. Punch, 1880 120
A Lay of Real Life 109
Audi Alteram Partem 110
Harry’s Complaint 110
A Sister’s Complaint 110
“Another,” by J. W. G. W. 135
Avitor, by Bret Harte 132
“Baby” at the Strand Theatre, Fun, 1879 128
Blucher, Cambridge Odes 123
Cattle Show Queries 132
Free Trade v. Protection, Punch, 1849 124
Her Mother, Finis 109
Her Mother, Funny Folks 132
King Clicquot, Punch, 1855 125
Lines by a Girl of the Future, 1869 126
L. S. D. (Money), Figaro, 1874 127
Nobody 132
Nursy-Pursy, The Tomahawk, 1869 108
Our Bishops, Jon Duan, 1874 127
Our Sunday down East, Punch, 1880 129
Our Marquis, Truth, 1884 130
The Turncock, Punch, 1843 124
The Ramoneur, Punch, 1843 124
The Baker. Punch, 1853 124
The Poet, C. Rae Brown, 1855 125
The Baby Show, Cuthbert Bede, 1856 126 108
The Russians, Benjamin D――――, 1876 127
The “Doctor,” Funny Folks, 1877 128
The Weather, Truth, 1879 128
The Weather, Punch, 1881 129
The Egyptian Baby (Tewfik) 130
The Fog, Judy, 1882 130
The Mahdi, The Referee, 1884 130
The Lords. H. E. Harker 131
The “Comp.” 131
The Newspaper, 1823 122
The Proctor, The Gownsman, 1831 123
The Slug, Judy, 1873 141
The Fog, Judy, 1876 141
The Nervous, The Argosy, 1866 142
The Bible 133
The Orange 133
The People’s William, Ipswich Journal, 1885 131
Tight Lacing, Truth, 1879 128
Your Friend, Countess of Blessington 120
Another Friend (a Stick) 121
Woman, L. O. Shaw 1815 121
Velluti, 1828 122
Valentine (the Curate) 142
What the Seasons bring 130
Who? Ah, who? The Figaro, 1874 110
Who’s who in 1851. Punch, 1851 112

――――:o:――――

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

MARIANA――
Mariana on the Second Floor, 1851 260
Mary Anne; or the Law of Divorce, 1858 260
The Owl’d Yarn, by R. F. Hind 261

ORIANA――
Yule Tide (Oh, my Gracious!) 261
The Ballad of Hoary Anna 261
Idadæca, from Kottabos, 1881 262
Randy-Pandy, by George Cotterell, 1885 203

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE――
Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, by Gilbert Abbot
à Beckett, 1845 263

THE MERMAN――
The Mer(ry)man, by George Cotterell 264

THE MAY QUEEN――
“You must save me from the Jingoes,” by
J. Arthur Elliott 139
Hodge’s Emancipation, by John H. Gibson 140
Outside the Lyceum, April, 1885 140
The Lord Mayor 264
The May Queen with a cold 264
Russia to England 265
At the Play 265

THE LOTUS EATERS――
The Onion Eaters 140

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN――
A Vision of Great Men 265
A Dream of Fair Drinking 265
A Dream of Unfair Trade 265

ULYSSES――
The Czar of Russia 265

LOCKSLEY HALL――
Lay of Boxing Night, 1847 266
Lincoln’s Inn, by Albert Smith, 1851 266
St. Stephen’s Revisited, by G. Cotterell 267
The Grinder, March, 1885 267
Digwell’s Lament, 1865 267

GODIVA――
Whittington, 1858 268

THE EAGLE, and a Parody 268

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK――
“Block, block, block,” by G. Cotterell 263
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” by F. Field 209
The Lost Joke 269
“Talk, talk, talk!” (to Mr. Parnell) 269
“Wake, wake, wake!” by R. H. W. Yeabsley 269
“Thirst, thirst, thirst!” 269
“Broke, broke, broke!” 269
Who breaks pays 269
Gladstone hath us in his net 270

THE BROOK――
The Song of the Flirt 270
The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 270
The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 271
The River, a Steamboat version 271
The Song of the Steam Launch 272
The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad 272
A Lay of Lawn Tennis 272

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD――
Home they brought her “Worrier” dead 273
“Let me lie here,” by John Cotton 273
Give me no more 140
“The Slander falls in different halls” 273

TEARS, IDLE TEARS――
Tears, maudlin Tears 141

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE――
The Light (Blue) Brigade――The University Boat Race 273
The Gas Stoker’s Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 274
Clapham Junction, by J. Verey 274
The Charge of the “Light” Brigade, by C. T. Druery 274
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin 275
The Charge of the Fire Brigade 275

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA――
Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 275
A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks 136
In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 276
A Parody of Tennyson’s Prefatory Sonnet for
“The Nineteenth Century” 276
Wages, Judy 140

IDYLLS OF THE KING――
A Parody of the Dedication (on John Brown) 276
A little rift within the lute 277
“Too soon, too soon” 277
“Little Miss Muffet” as an Arthurian Idyll 277

DESPAIR, 1881――
Never say die 278
Hands all round, by John Phelan 278

THE FLEET (April, 1885), The Times 137
The Bard (on his reported imbecility) 137 138
A Laurel. J. Fox Turner 137
“We, we.” E. S. Watson 137
Tennyson (on his reported lunacy) 137
Tennyson Tackled. Punch 137
Our Fleet. Moonshine 138

Parody Competition Poems on _The Fleet_.――
Prize Parody, by Mrs. Emily Lawrence 138
A Conservative (on his leader’s reported inefficiency).
Henry L. Brickell 138
The Government. John Carter 139
The Laureate. Exe 135
The Corporation. Thomas H. Knight 139
To the Jingo. George Mallinson 139
To the Jingo. Edward Scott 139
Gladstone’s Rebuke. Jesse H. Wheeler 139
The Unfitness of the Meat, by F. B. Doveton 279

LINES TO PRINCESS BEATRICE ON HER MARRIAGE 279
Two Suns of Love make day of human life 279
Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife 279
Two sums of cash will fill a German purse 279
Two tones of love make woe of married life 279
Two things, no doubt, make day of married life 280
Two tricks of trade make bearable my life 280
Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train 280
Two bridal loves make laugh of “You, you’s” song 280
Tennyson on General Gordon 141

――――:o:――――

Isaac Watts, D.D.

HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE 206
How doth the little busy Flea 206 208
How doth the ever busy Wasp 207
How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 207
How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 207
How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 207
How doth the little busy Wheeze 207
How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 208
How doth the little Crocodile 208
How doth the little Mosquito 208
How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 208
How doth the little coal-hole top 208
How doth the very Bizzy Bee (Bismarck) 209
How doth the gorging, greedy Bee 209
How doth the wobbling, wily wops 209
Buggins’s Variations of the Busy Bee 209
A Prose Version 207

LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE 210
Let Canine Animals, 1847 210
Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 210
Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 210
Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 210
Let Rads delight to bark and bite 211
Let Bigots write with sneers of spite 211
Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight 211
Let Cads delight with fists to fight 212
Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite 215
Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 210
Birds in their little nests agree 211
Oh, Marcus! You should never let 211
On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 211
To a Policeman 212
When Bishops, who in wealth abound 216

’TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD 212
’Tis the moan of old Louis (of France), 1823 212
’Tis the voice of the lobster 212
’Tis the voice of the Czar, 1879 213
’Tis the voice of the Rinker 213
’Tis the voice of Britannia 213
’Tis the voice of the glutton 213
’Tis the voice of the oyster 213
’Twas the voice of the “Special” 213
A Parody from _Funny Folks_ 212
The Wise one and the Foolish 213

WHENE’ER I TAKE MY WALKS ABROAD 214
Do. do. in London Streets 214
The Irish Landlord’s Song 214
I cannot take my walks abroad 214
Another Version, by Shirley Brooks 215
Whene’er abroad we take our walks (in Covent Garden) 215
Abroad in the Boroughs 215
How sweet a thing it is to dwell 216
Why should I relieve my neighbour 216
A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts’ Distich on the Study
of Languages, 1792 216

――――――――

Bret Harte.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,――for the reader
Was youngest of them all,――
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes――o’ertaken
As by some spell divine――
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?――
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,――
This spray of Western pine!
BRET HARTE.
July, 1870.

――――――――

PARODIES IN PRINT.

Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting,
The writer’s spirits low;
The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting
But melodies of woe.

The older authors, with rude humour, painted
The glowing fun of health
Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted
In sterner race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure
Of hundred volumes drew,
A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure
And bid it flow anew;

And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster,
Than ever one could tell,
All mimicking some mighty poet Master,
In many a sprightly “Sell.”

Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,――that the reader
Should leave the weeklies all,
Let _Punch_ go prosing, scorn the _D. T._ leader,
And let _Police News_ pall;

While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,
Listening to bygone play,
As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”
(As Browning p’raps would say).

See Tennyson, in mighty verse――o’ertaken,
Mimicked in tripping line――
When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken
Like gush in penny-a-line.

To find in rush of their poetic fire,
A comic theme told well,
While stately verse, and song, and culture higher,
Are used some joke to tell.

Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story
Tell in the rhyme that thrills
Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory
Of sun o’er ancient hills.

If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly
Should ape a bard sublime,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly――
To jest is not a crime.
J. W. G. W.
November, 1884.

――――――――

THAT HEBREW BEN D――――
_House of Lords, January_, 1878.

Which I wish to remark――
And my language is plain――
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar,
Which the same I would like to explain.

I have mentioned his name,
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same
He is wary and sly;
And his smile it is mocking and ice-like
And there isn’t no green in _his_ eye.

Now, some rumours had spread,
Which Ben D―――― could not burke,
And every one said
He’d been at his old work.
(It was strange, you must know, how he doated
Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)

It was Gran-Vil who rose,
And quite soft was his style;
But you must not suppose
That he hasn’t no guile;
Yet D―――― played it that day upon Gran Vil
In a way that made most of them smile.

Which some questions he’d brought,
And Ben rose――as ’twas planned――
To reply. What was sought
He did well understand;
But he smiled, as he stood at the table,
With a smile that was artfully bland.

How he trifled with sense,
You would scarcely believe;
And with cunning intense,
Fancy statements did weave:
Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen,
And the same, with intent to deceive.

Yes, the tricks that were play’d
By that Hebrew, Ben D――――,
And the points that he made
Were quite shocking to me;
Till at last he sat down amid laughter,
And chuckling himself, I could see.

Then up sprang Ar-Gyle,
With his hair flowing free,
And he gave a wild snort,
And said, “Shall this be?
We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries,
And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D――――.

Which the war-dance he had
Was exciting to watch,
Though I feared, lest too mad,
His job he might botch,
For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;――
You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.

Still, the scene that ensued
Was uncommonly grand,
For the floor it was strewed,
Like the leaves on the strand,
With the facts that Ben D―――― had been hiding,
The facts “He did well understand.”

For his head, which is long,
Contained facts by the score;
Which, with effort so strong,
Ar-Gyle out of it tore;
Till Ben D――――, if he has any feelings,
Must have, morally, felt very sore.

Which expressions is strong,
Yet but feebly imply
What I think of the wrong――
Not to call it a lie――
As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil,
Which he can’t go for it to deny.

Which is why I remark――
And my language is plain――
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks that are vain,
The Hebrew Ben D―――― is peculiar,
Which the same I am bold to maintain.

_Truth_, January 31, 1878.

――――――――

THE AGED STRANGER.
(_An Incident of the War_).

“I was with Grant――” the stranger said,
Said the farmer, “Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.”

“I was with Grant――” the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,――
I prithee sit at my frugal board.
And eat of my humble store.

“How fares my boy,――my soldier boy,
Of the Old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”

“I know him not,” said the aged man,
“And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant――” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said the farmer, “Say no more;

“He fell in battle,――I see alas!
Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,――
Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom’s core.

“How fell he,――with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
O, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the aged man,
“And should have remarked, before,
That I was with Grant,――in Illinois,――
Some three years before the war.”

Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.
BRET HARTE.

The following parody appeared in _Jon Duan_, one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes:――

“I WAS WITH GRANT.”

“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Say no more,
But come you in――I have much to ask――
And please to shut the door.”

“I was with Grant――――” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,――
You have seen him sit at the Emma Board?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.

“What said my Albert――my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar!”

“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then;
“But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant――――” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”

“He’s presented another square!――I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er――
Or started, perchance, more Water-works
On the Mediterranean shore?

“Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant――Ulysses, I mean――
In the great American war.”

Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
_Jon Duan_, 1874.

――――――――

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL ROBERT.
(_With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”_)

Do I sleep? Do I dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?

Which expressions is strong;
Yet I beg to declare
That the constable throng
Have a grievance to air
While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen
upon terms which are far, far from fair.

Charley Peaces abound
In the subbubs to-day;
And they’re apt, when they’re found,
To go blazing away
At a constable all unpertected, which the same
has the worst of the fray.

Can you tap a cove’s head
If you’re progress is checked
By the neat bit o’ lead
That a Colt does eject?
And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can
you tootle with proper effect?

That you _can’t_, I submit,
And the truth must be faced
That the Force will get hit,
And the town be disgraced,
Till each Bobby with Billy――that’s Sikes, sir――on a
more equal footing is placed.

Are these shootings a dream?
(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)
Are things what they seem?
Or is visions about?
Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?

_Funny Folks_, August 2, 1884.

_Scribners’ Monthly_ for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:――

HOME, SWEET HOME

as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt――

Brown, o’ San Juan,
Stranger, I’m Brown.
Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco――
Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.

Ben a-knockin’ around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty considable frequent――
Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!

Right thar lies my home――
Right thar in the red――
I could slop over, stranger, in po’try
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.
Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London
Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’
Fer the two of us, pard――and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens――
I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty――
Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man――
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers――I ’low ’twuz the po’try――
I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind.

* * * * *

Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar――gimme yer han’――
Or I’ll kill myself――Lizzie! she’s left me――
_Gone off with a purtier man!_
Thar, I’ll quit――the ole gal
An’ the kids! run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard――
The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.

――――――――

TO “AULD WILLIE.”
(_After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”_)

So again you’ve been at it, old fellow,
The old game of four years ago;
You’ve given the Tories a drubbing;
You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go.
By Jove! and you _were_ down upon them,
Denouncing, and all that, you know;
But what about Egypt, old fellow,
And those vows of yours four years ago?

Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow,
To think it is four years ago,
And scarcely a measure effected,
Attempted, and all that, you know!
You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour;
But for all your palaver, I trow,
Matters are about much of a muchness
To-day, they were four years ago!
AVONICUS.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of _The Shotover Papers_ for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”

Thomas Hood.
(_Continued from Part_ 12 )

THE NIGHT “COMP.”

With fingers weary and worn,
Eyelids heavy and red,
A “comp.” stood at his frame all night,
Picking up “stamps” for bread.

Full-point, comma, and rule,
Colon, and quad, and space,
“Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line,
Dozing awhile at his “case.”

“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.”
“Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that;
Matter all solid, never a “break;”
Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”

Moon peeping in through the pane;
Gas, with its dull yellow glare;
Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,”
And the Editor’s foot on the stair.

One o’clock! two o’clock chimed!
“Proofs,” coming up again, “read;”
Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here;
Trudge away homeward to bed.
ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE DIRT.
(_Covent Garden Market, August_, 1884)

With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market day
With a footfall’s dreary thud――
Splash, splash, splash!
While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
He sang “_The Song of the Dirt_.”

Splash, splash, splash!
From morn to even-time,
Splash, splash, splash!
Through garbage, filth and grime.
Stenches strong in the street,
Streets with stenches strong,
As over the flags I gingerly creep,
I wonder to whom they belong.

Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the man far away in the rear,
But I’m forced to hold my nose,
For I must with such odours near.
Oh! but for one short hour
An appetite good to feel!
I formerly used my dinner to want,
But a walk now costs a meal.

With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market-day
With a footfall’s dreary thud.
Splash, splash, splash!
While garbage may spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch――
Would that its cry could reach the rich――
He sang “_The Song of the Dirt_.”

_Punch_, August 23, 1884.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led;
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,――
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,――
That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:――
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,――
I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!

_Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854.

――――――――

The first number of _Truth_, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood, the Editor of _Fun_, and son of the author of the original “I Remember.”

I remember, I remember,
The house――’twas Clunn’s Hotel,
The friends who knocked me up at eight,
I recollect as well;
They never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
For liquor flowed from when they came
Till when they went away.

I remember, remember,
The “brandies”――large and small――
The Chablis and the _Veuve Clicquot_,
The sodas split by all;
The caraffe at my bedside set,
With cognac well filled up――
And what a time it took to mix
The primal champagne cup.

(_Here five verses are omitted_).

I remember, I remember,――
Last and fresh this memory comes,――
They brought hot pickle sandwiches,
Which filled my bed with crumbs;
It was a heated taste I own;
But brandy’s apt to cloy,
Unless you pick your palate up
With devilled eggs and soy.
THOMAS HOOD.

――――――――

WHAT IT MAY COME TO.

I remember, I remember,
The House where I was bred;
The Woolsack, whence the CHANCELLOR
That annual Message read.
He never came till after four,
And rarely stayed till five;
For, if their dinners were delayed,
_Could_ Senators survive?

I remember, I remember,
The Marquises and Earls,
The peerless rows of Peeresses,
Those flowers decked in pearls.
The cross-bench, where the Princes sat;
And where the Prelates shone
In piety and lawn arrayed――
The Bishops now are gone!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to spout,
And thought the papers must be mad
To leave my speeches out.
My eloquence was practised then,
That now is left to rust;
And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced
Before my boyish thrust!

I remember, I remember,
The Commons trooping in;
I used to think that in a fight
The Peers must always win.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m kicked out of the House
I sat in when a boy!

_Punch_, September 6, 1884.

――――――――

An imitation of Hood’s _Dream of Eugene Aram_ was published in _Truth_, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go into service:――

’Tis in the prime of summer-time,
A sunny morn in May,
And scores of merry maidens cease
A moment from their play;
For from their Happy Wanstead Home,
A girl is going that day.

* * * * *

A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original, appeared in _Truth_, July 19, 1877. This was entitled _The Blue-coat Boy’s Ghost_, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder boys.

“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in _Truth_, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s _Song of the Shirt_, in fourteen verses.

“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody of Hood’s _Lost Child_, appeared in _Punch_, February 16, 1867.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
(_Continued from Part_ 12)

n page 101, Part VII., of _Parodies_ there is a poem called _The Settler’s version of Excelsior_. It was taken from a MS. copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is an American attempt to translate _Excelsior_ into plain English:――

HIGHER.

The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A carryin’ a flag with this motto,――
Higher!

O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache,
Higher!

He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen,
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’――
Higher!

“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowin’ gales up there on top――
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
Higher!

“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night.
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
Higher!

“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed,
And the singular voice replied overhead,
Higher!

About quarter-past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon
Heard spoken above him as often as twice,
The very same word in a very weak voice,
Higher!

And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven――
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven――
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto――
Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of his life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
Higher!

――――――――

DIOGENES!

The carriages were filling fast,
When o’er a railway platform pass’d
A youth who bore, with tread precise,
A paper with this bold device,
DIOGENES!

His arm a parcel held beneath;
He drew a number from its sheath,
And shouted, with well-practised lung,
Accents that through the station rung,
DIOGENES!

In happy hours he saw the light,――
The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright;
Resolved to make its lustre known,
His lips soon gave the welcome tone,
DIOGENES!

“One hither pass,” an old man said,
(Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;)
He oped his mouth with laughter wide,
While still the clamorous vendor cried,
DIOGENES!

“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest
Around her were as much impress’d;
Each looking forth with eager eye,
Urging the vendor to supply!
DIOGENES!

Beware! the train moves from the branch;
The sheets fly like an avalanche!
The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine,
While voices shout far up the line,
DIOGENES!

Far on the way, with breaks down hard,
Two trains each other rush toward;
And midst the wreck so fearful there,
Voices are heard still loud and clear,
DIOGENES!

A traveller on a rugged mound
Was in a hundred pieces found;
His hand still grasping like a vice
That paper with its bold device,
DIOGENES!

There, as he cold and lifeless lay,
Smiles seem’d around his lips to play!
Still in the air his accents are,
And echo through each passing car,
DIOGENES!

From _Diogenes_, February 4, 1854.

_Diogenes_ was a comic paper, somewhat resembling _Punch_ in its general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in reference to the Crimean War.

――――――――

A pesky night was coming down,
As a young man pass’d through a rustic town;
And in his hand he clutch’d a flag,
And this is what was on the rag――
Upards!

As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see
Three several families taking tea;
He smelt the cakes, but never swerved,
But as he drop’t a tear, observed――
Upards!

A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay!
And I will marry you right away;”
While tears all down his cheeks did flow,
“Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go――
Upards!”

Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care,
There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there;
Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,”
The young man only wink’d and said――
Upards!

Next morning at the break of day,
A Shaker chanced to pass that way,
And thought he heard the voice of a coon,
A-singing to a service toon――
Upards!

His dog then sniff’d and smelt about,
And soon discover’d what, without doubt,
Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow,
What carried the flag with the rum motto――
Upards!

All cover’d in snow the young man lay,
In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way;
And though as dead as any nail,
A voice was heard borne on the gale――
Upards!
A. Z.
_The Tonbridgian_, April 1873.

――――――――

M. DURUOF.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As from the table d’hôte there pass’d
A pair who cried that they would rise,
Obedient to the people’s cries,
Excelsior!

Their hearts were brave――with reckless breath,
They swore they both could face the Death!
And, answering to the mob’s fell clang,
Foolhardy were the boasts that rang,
Excelsior!

In Calais’ streets they saw the light
Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright,
Yet from their lips escaped no groan,
As onward flew the mad balloon,
Excelsior!

“Try not the air,” their friends had said,
“Dark storms are raging overhead;
The seas are tossing far beneath,
And you will meet with certain death,
Excelsior!”

“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried;
“We will not stay, for all beside
Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;”
He answer’d, “You are right, my dear,
Excelsior!”

“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast!
’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!”
This was the Frenchman’s last good-night.
Cried some one, now far out of sight,
“Excelsior!”

Next morn some sailors out at sea
With nets were toiling wearily;
When loud resounded through the air
A cry that made them wondering stare,
Excelsior!

Two travellers at the dismal sound,
Half-buried in the waves were found,
Grasping with eager clutch the ropes,
On which depended all their hopes,
Excelsior!

There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray,
Wretched and shivering they lay;
The freed balloon then, with its car,
Shot upward like a rising star,
Excelsior!

_The Tonbridgian_, September, 1874.

――――――――

THE EXCELSIOR CLIMBING BOY.

(_Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post_ LONGUM――_seu
potiùs, meritò dicatur_,――EXCELSIOREM SOCIUM).

Some few, whose days are closing fast,
Remember, in their time long past,
How youth, in toil of little price,
Might yet have borne, for their device,
Excelsior!

These youngsters, in that distant time,
Swept chimneys, which they had to climb,
They could have cried as they clomb higher,
Like one who skywards did aspire,
Excelsior!

Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called,
Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled,
As they ascended up the flue
Were not instructed to halloo
Excelsior!

By reek and close air overcome,
The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,
And stifled soon, unless got out――
Of course he then no more could shout
Excelsior!

His knees were worn by rough ascent
Bare to the very ligament;
Flayed were his fingers and his toes;
Because he grazed them as he rose,
Excelsior!

When, jammed in, on his upward way
He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,
His master, in the grate below,
Would light a fire, to make him go
Excelsior!

These horrors having been at last
Dragged into day, an Act was passed
Declaring it, henceforth, a crime
To make a child a chimney climb
Excelsior!

Still certain Bumbles, it appears,
Against the law, these many years,
Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept
By means of little boys who crept
Excelsior!

May a new law, more strictly framed,
All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed,
Concerned in making children sweep
Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep
Excelsior!

Long brush, worked deftly by machine,
All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean,
Law must on cruel masters fall,
Who take to driving urchins small
Excelsior!

_Punch_, June 26, 1875.

――――――――

EXCELSIOR.

The swampy state of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy――
Excelsior!

He tarried not to eat or drink,
But got a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it, in violet ink――
Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record――
Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain,
With greater clearness to explain――
Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with, all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)――
Excelsior!

And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad――
Excelsior!

“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried:
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied――
Excelsior!

The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high,
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)――
Excelsior!

But ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag――
Excelsior!

* * * * *

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back――
Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more――
Excelsior!

_Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies_. By ERIC. (John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).

――――――――

THE DOWAGER-DUCHESS AT THE DRAWING ROOM.

(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were _de rigueur_.”――_Weekly Paper_, February, 1880).

The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,
And duly presented the Honourable Alice;
And now we will show in what sort of condition
Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As up a Mayfair street there passed
A carriage with this strange device
As crest:――A _rampant_ cockatrice
And _enfant or_.

Within was seen an agèd dame,
Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;
Her face was white as Death’s own hue,
Her Roman nose was red; with blue
Her lips spread o’er.

The fair young maiden by her side,
By briskly rubbing, bravely tried
Her grandma’s blood to make reflow――
It seem’d a hopeless object, though,
She labour’d for!

“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she
Observed they’d stopped at forty-three;
“_We are at_ home, dear Grandma, come!
Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb――
E’en as before.

And when she would have left her seat,
She all but tumbled in the street;
Her state, in fact, the house alarms,
When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms,
She gains her door.

“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!”
The Honourable Miss Alice said:
“Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d
Without delay be in it clapp’d,
And bottles hot!

“Beware no window open be,
And blankets bring at once to me!”
Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown――
Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan:
“Hot ginger, dear!”

And ere of minutes ten had fled,
The chilled old Duchess was in bed;
Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,
She promised shortly to come round
To health once more.

Then in the firelight, thin and gray,
And cold, but not so cold, she lay,
Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,
A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true,
And somewhat sore.
* * * * *

_Truth_, February 26, 1880.

――――――――

AFTER LONGFELLOW.
(_A Long Way_).

The western sun was sinking fast,
As through the quiet street there passed
A tinker with a blackened eye,
Who ever and anon did cry――
“’Brellas to mend.”

His brow was dark with smoke and soot,
His raiment, rags from head to foot;
And like a penny trumpet rung
The beery accents of his tongue――
“’Brellas to mend.”

He lingered at the corner “pub,”
He drew his last coin from his fob;
He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,
And only answered to their chaff――
“’Brellas to mend.”

“Go not again,” the landlord said,
“Wild blows the tempest overhead,
Your rags will lash you unto death.”
Our friend replied with bated breath――
“’Brellas to mend.”

“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;
Why should’st thou from our presence fly?”
This was the tinker’s sad reply――
“’Brellas to mend.”

“Beware the stern blue-coated man――
Beware the falling chimney-can;”
Such was the landlord’s parting word,
And this was the reply they heard――
“’Brellas to mend.”

In Duke Street, at the break of day,
Within a court the tinker lay;
In falling he his leg had broke,
When gently raised, these words he spoke――
“’Brellas to mend.”

He died; his body calmly rests;
His ghost the lonely streets infests;
And often at the midnight hour
A voice cries, with sepulchral power――
“’Brellas to mend.”

_Teddy May and other Poems_, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.

VOICES OF OUR NIGHTS.
(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).

I heard the feline footsteps in the night
Pad through the Court and Hall!
I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light
Climb MRS. COXE’S Wall!

I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!)
Step o’er me just above;
With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,
As of a cat in love.

I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,
The caterwauling chimes,
That fill each attic chamber in the night,
Where some starved poet rhymes.

My night-capped head in the cool midnight air
Sought vainly some repose;
The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,
From the new cistern rose.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, you green-eyed fright!
I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,
The cat-infested night!

_Punch_, May 4, 1861.

――――――――

PICKED UP AT THE STALL ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY THEATRE.

I know a maiden fair to see――
K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!)
She dances most bewitchingly――
K. V.! K. V.!

Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat,
Her _pirouettes_, her glances sweet,
Will make your heart more quickly beat――
K. V.! K. V.!

When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”――
K. V.! K. V.!
O keep your eyes upon the book――
K. V.! K. V.!

Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace
Will “mash” you in a moment’s space;
Then yours will be a hopeless case――
K. V.! K. V.!

_Truth_, May 22, 1884.

(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s poem).

――――――――

Picked up at the stage entrance to the Novelty Theatre:――

I know a masher dark to see,
J. D., J. D.
He mashes most bewitchingly,
J. D., J. D.
His varnished feet, his collars neat,
His buttonhole (gardenia sweet),
Must make her heart more quickly beat,
J. D., J. D.