Chapter X: Appendix

Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland.

(At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in
Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord
Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes,
January 17, 1859.)

Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in “_Parodies_.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire, and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert Burns.

Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27]
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
And lasses buskit gaily, O!
Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay,
Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae,
Laith and lang, till blink o’ day
Wad gie to me my Mallie, O!

Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O!
The hushion’d cowt afore the yett,
Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret,
Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet?
Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!”

* * * * *

Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year.

Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel, after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they may be found in _The Aberdeen Daily Free Press_, of January 26, 1885.

Sir Walter Scott,

_Born August_ 15, 1771. _Died September_ 21, 1832.

he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in verse and in prose, they have given rise to.

Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of _Ivanhoe_ entitled “_Rebecca and Rowena_” will be fully described, with several others of a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies.

Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as _Jokeby_, _The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle_, and _Marmion Travestied_, these are long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter poems, and of detached passages from _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, etc.

Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that contained in _Rejected Addresses_, the celebrated little volume by the Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise by the reviewers.

_The Quarterly Review_ said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select――it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the _misapplication_ of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst _The Edinburgh Review_ spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors of _Rejected Addresses_, in their very interesting preface to the eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in the laugh that they had occasioned:――

“From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only
to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we
received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to
forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his
kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said
that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to
the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what
occasion.’”

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another,
in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and
imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”――DON
QUIXOTE.

(_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black
Prince’s armour, borrowed from the Tower._)

Survey this shield, all bossy bright――
These cuisses twain behold!
Look on my form in armour dight
Of steel inlaid with gold:
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belong’d to sable prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valour tart as pungent quince,
He slew the vaunting Gaul.
Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28]
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it past,
Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then re-assumed its still array;
When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung,
And down its full effulgence flung,
It shed such soft and balmy power
That cot and castle, hall and bower,
And spire and dome, and turret height,
Appeared to slumber in the light.
From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall,
To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul;
From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,
To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown,
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,
But all in deepest sleep reposed.
They might have thought, who gazed around
Amid a silence so profound,
It made the senses thrill,
That twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead――
All was so hush’d and still.

THE BURNING.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flash’d upon her eyes――
So London’s sons in nightcap woke,
In bed-gown woke her dames;
For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke――
“The playhouse is in flames!”
And, lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window-pane;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height
Where Patent Shot they sell;
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30]
Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson’s Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames’s gleaming tide,
To distant fields, the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound.
As from a lofty altar rise,
It seem’d that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon’d firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thunder’d through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Show’d foreman of the British gang――
His name was Higginbottom. Now
’Tis meet that I should tell you how
The others came in view;
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,
Then came the Phœnix and the Sun,
Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run,
The Eagle, where the new;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,
Crump from St. Giles’s Pound:
Whitford and Mitford join’d the train,
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,
And Clutterbuck who got a sprain
Before the plug was found.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap,
For both were in the Donjon Keep
Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound!
E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “Heads below!”
Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Witford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd.
At length the mist awhile was clear’d,
When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d,
Gradual a moving head appear’d,
And Eagle firemen knew
’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew,
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
“A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!”
And pour’d the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He totter’d, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman’s soul was all on fire),
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphry stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite.
He sunk to rise no more.
Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
“Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
“You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,
“Why are you in such doleful dumps?
“A fireman; and afraid of bumps!――
“What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!”
Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31]

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,
“Joy to the managing committee!”
Eat we and drink we, join to rum
Roast beef and pudding of the plum;
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,
For this is Drury’s gay day.
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops,
And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train,
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod;
To realise bold Wyatt’s plan
Rush’d many a howling Irishman;
Loud clatter’d many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan
With trowel and with hod.
Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
She “wings the midway air” elate,
As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears,
No pendant portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33]
Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread,
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,
You might have deem’d her walls so thick
Were not composed of stone or brick,
But all a phantom, all a trick,
Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick,
So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

――――:o:――――

BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER.

[Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of _The
Monastery_, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient
air of “_Blue Bonnets over the Border_.”]

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are bound for the border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story,
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the border!

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

BLUE STOCKINGS OVER THE BORDER.

Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men!
Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order?
Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen!
All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!
Their banner is flying,
They’re “victory” crying,
They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye――
Come from the rowing match,
Glee club, and merry catch,
Read for a class and the old College glory!

Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers,
Open your books,――set your studies in order――
The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers,
For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border.

Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe,
Read briefs――for their steps to the Woolsack they bend:
The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe,
With old Esculapius the _Blues_ would contend!
Their clack is resounding,
With hard words abounding,
Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder.
By Gas they’re enlightened――
By nothing they’re frightened,
The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border.

Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men!
Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order?
Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken
Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border!

Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians――
They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State;
Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians――
In every department the Blues are first-rate.
Famed Craniologists!
Learned Phrenologists!
You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order;
_The organ of Prying_
All others defying,
Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border.

Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,
From Wellington down to the City Recorder.
Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,
If the Blue Stockings come over the Border.

Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,
A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange――
Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy――
Spots in the moon, which betoken a change.
Quake, ye Geologists!
Tremble, Conchologists!
Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order!
Beware, Antiquarians,
They’re Disciplinarians,
These _talented_ Blues who are passing the Border!

Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen――
Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder――
If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen,
Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!

’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion,
Attached to _their tongues_, ’twill be henceforth their own;
And this job completed, some folks have a notion
They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone.
An enemy slanders
Their ablest commanders,
Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke),
Says Watts’ Steamer teaches
The plan of their speeches,
Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke,

Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story――
Come when they will, let them find you in order――
Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory,
By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border.

The above appeared in _The Mirror_, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated _Blue Stocking Clubs_; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the _blue stockings_;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a _Blue Stocking Club_ in her ‘_Bas Bleu_,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.”

――――

WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER.

Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.

Many a laurel dead flutters around your head,
Many a _tome_ is your _memento mori_!
Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.

Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning,
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;
Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning,
Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow!

Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding,
Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story;
Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say,
“He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”

Write, write, tourist and traveller,
Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border.

ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1828.

――――

READ, READ!

Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley,
Turn every page and read forward in order;
Read, read, every tale cleverly,
All the old novels are over the border!

Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read,
Many a chiel wants a thread to his story;
While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen,
Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory!

Come from your tales full of murders amazing,
Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago;
Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising,
Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe!

Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding,
May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary!
Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say,
“He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!”

ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1831.

――――

TAX, TAX!

Tax, tax Income and Property,
Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order?
Tax, tax, Genius and Industry――
Aye; but not so as on plunder to border!
Many, by hand or head
Earning precarious bread,
Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story.
Do, JOHNNY RUSSELL, then,
Justice to working men;
If you refuse, we must call in a Tory!

_Punch_, May 17, 1851.

――――

VALOUR UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in,
That is to say you must march in good order;
March, march, broiling sun melted in,
Stocks all so tight that on choking you border.
Martinet’s anger dread
If you can turn your head,
Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story,
Shave and make ready then,
Half-strangled Englishmen!
March on, as well as you’re able, to glory!

_Punch._

――――

LOBSTER SALAD.

Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order;
Take, take, a decent-sized bowl,
One that’s sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that’s nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order;
Then hard-boiled eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.

Take from the cellar of salt a proportion;
Take from the castor both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too――but a moderate portion――
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together;
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order!
But when you’ve stirr’d away,
Mix up the whole you may――
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.

Take, take plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces.
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavour increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it, the process stay;
Patiently do it again in due order.
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil.
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.

_Punch._

――――

SONG BY A SURGEON.

Take, take, blue pill and colocynth:
Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order.
Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth:
Close on acute inflammation you border.
Symptoms about your head,
Make me congestion dread,
When I take them with the rest in conjunction;
Leave off wine, beer and grog:
Arrowroot all your prog,
Let organs rest to recover their function.

_Punch_, November 12, 1859.

――――

RIFLEMEN BOTH SIDES OF THE BORDER.

Drill, drill, London and Manchester,
Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order;
Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh;
Don’t be behind us, on your side the border.
Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead,
Let your array tell a different story:
Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen,
Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory.

Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising,
Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe:
Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising,
Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co.
Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding,
Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order,
Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray――
Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border.

_Punch_, December 3, 1859.

Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting into life in England and Scotland.

――――:o:――――

MR. KEMBLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS.

_On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage._

Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed _Macbeth_. At the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell address, which had been composed for him by Walter Scott. It is only necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of this well-known poem:――

As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that these valued plaudits are my last.

* * * * *

But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung,
When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;
And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is――Friends and Patrons, hail! and FARE YOU WELL!

――――

In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench. “Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.”

As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long
Has taught to prance before the applauding throng,
Now all unfit to play his wonted part,
Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart;
If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears
Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers,
Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling,
And longs to circle in his ancient ring――
So I, when loud your festive laughter swells,
Would gladly don once more my cap and bells,
So sad it is to deem my triumphs past,
And think these joyous plaudits are my last.
Warned by some symptoms of a certain age,
To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage;
A certain age a certain post requires――
Not prematurely Robertson retires.
At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey,
’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array,
And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench,
Some space between the banquet and the Bench.
Time was, when even the rigid and the wise
Might scan my levities with lenient eyes;
Cast in a mould denied to other men――
(Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)――
If not with wit, at least with words at will,
The wish to please――and, shall I say, the skill?
Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke,
And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke.
Each look would set the table in a roar:
And when the look was grave, men laughed the more.
Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell,
To serve two masters, and to serve them well;
For Momus can with Mammon ill agree,
And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne.
But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone,
The general question, and the big trombone
That makes the orchestra nothing――Oh! farewell
To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell;
The stammering cornet, the Italian air;
Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer;
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun,
Farewell――for Peter’s occupation’s done.

Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before,
May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er;
Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse
To please the laughers in the Outer-House.
Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high,
Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly,
Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll,
Shall vainly strive their muscles to control;
Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while
The losing litigant consents to smile;

* * * * *

All but the macer, grieved to see no more
The classic gravity that Corehouse wore.

But to return: if you have owed to me
One witless jest, one pointless repartee――
If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled,
And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled――
If censuring tongues might of my errors tell,
As loving mirth, not wisely but too well――
If even in caution’s course I missed my aim,
Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame――
The few preposterous efforts I have made
By this too partial tribute are repaid.
Could my big bosom prop the sinking line,
Then I could speak what feelings now are mine.
But fancy fails, expression dies away;
In feeble murmers I can only say,
Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife:
“This is the proudest moment of my life!”

――――:o:――――

LAMENT FOR TABBY;
or, _The Cat’s Coronach_.

And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid,
The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid,
Great mouser of thy day;
Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread,
Whole whiskered legions oft have fled
In midnight battle fray.
There breathes not kitten of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.

O! could I match the peerless strain,
That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain,
Or that whose milder tone
O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime,
The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime,
Raised the sepulchral moan!
Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar,
And reach thy spirit from afar.

But thou remote from pain and strife.
Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life
In some Elysian grove,
Where endless streams of milk abound,
And soft valerian paints the ground,
Thy joyous footsteps rove;
With Tasso’s cat, by poets named,
And Whittington’s in story famed,
_Requiescat in pace!_

From _The Satirist_, March 1814.

――――:o:――――

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison.