Chapter XXII: Canto VI: ―― (7)

The result of my prayer
To my Muse for her aid,
You will see in the rare
List of rhymes I have made.
Tho’ the strict truth to tell,
Robert Southey as well,
By writing before
Of the Falls of Lodore,
Has a prominent share,
In this little affair.

* * * * *

“From all parts of the town
Have the members come down,
To renew legislation――
For this favored nation;
From South, West, and North,
They have all issued forth;
Brought by brougham and train
They have mustered again;
And the signal awaiting
Are busy debating;
Excitement controlling,
And friends button-holing,
And some even napping,
Till Black-Rod comes rapping.
But, then, ere he’s done,
Off the nimble ones run
Up passages, stairs,
Four-a-breast, or in pairs,
Till some even swelter,
So fierce is their flurry;
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry,

There they go rushing,
And here they come crushing,
And rudely rebuffing,
(But Warton is snuffing)
With a chorus of “oh’s,”
And much treading on toes,
Till increasing their pace,
For quite reckless they are,
They tear on in their race
To be at the Bar.

Some five hundred strong,
They hasten along,
Fuming and raging,
As though a war waging.
Slighting and smiting,
And old ones affrighting;
Dodging and darting,
With gouty feet smarting,
Limping and hustling,
And fussily bustling;
Talking whilst walking,
And punning whilst running,
Twisting and turning
Sharp corners around,
Selfishly spurning
The friends that abound;
Calling and bawling,
(Some actually sprawling),
And hooting and yelling,
With outcry so swelling,
That all who are near they completely astound.

Pressing, progressing,
Proceeding and speeding,
And threading and spreading,
And shocking and mocking,
And tattling and battling,
And coursing and forcing,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And going tip-toeing,
And hopping and stopping,
And gaining and straining,
And hieing and vieing,
And flouncing and bouncing,
And seizing and squeezing,
And catching and snatching,
And ambling and scrambling,
And stripping and slipping,
And singing and swinging,
And doubling and troubling,
And pining and whining,
And shifting and drifting,
And filing and smiling,
And dinning and winning,
And moaning and groaning;
And thundering and blundering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And quivering and shivering,
And parrying and harrying,
And hastening and chastening,
And cantering and bantering;

Dividing, and sliding, and striding,
And bumping, and lumping, and jumping,
And stumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling,
And chasing, and racing, and pacing,
And clattering, and battering, and chattering
And bounding, and rounding, and pounding,
And steering, and jeering, and fearing.
And contriving, and driving, and striving,
And stooping, and whooping, and trooping;
Retreating, and eating, and meeting, and greeting,
Delaying, and straying, and staying, and saying,
Advancing, and prancing, and chancing, and glancing,
Recoiling, embroiling, turmoiling, and toiling,
And steaming, and beaming, and scheming, and teaming,
And clapping, and slapping, and rapping, and tapping,
And crushing, and brushing, and gushing, and rushing,
And backing, and tracking, and hacking, and packing,
And dashing, and clashing, and smashing, and crashing,
And glaring, and daring, and pairing, and flaring,
So seeming ne’er ending, but always ascending,
These sounds and these motions are loudly contending,
As five hundred and more with a mighty uproar,
On their way to the Bar, hurry in through the door.”

_Truth_, February 9, 1882.

――――

THE MEETING OF THE LANDLORDS.
_How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act?_

Here they come hurrying, there they come scurrying,
Their minds about destiny dreadfully worrying;
With big “Resolutions” and plaints against “Wrong,”
They hasten along, more sounding than strong.
Posing and glosing,
Dread dangers disclosing,
And hinting that Providence sure must be dozing.
Blaming, and shaming,
Declaiming, and flaming,
And large “Compensation” commandingly claiming.
Sobbing, and throbbing,
’Gainst Radical robbing,
Sighing and crying;
Rack-renting denying
With stinging jobation
Against confiscation,
And much botheration
About Valuation;
Spouting, and flouting, and doubting,
Denouncing, and bouncing, and flouncing;
And fluttering, and muttering, and sputtering;
And swearing repairing the past is uptearing,
Society’s self from its basis and bearing;
And flaring, and blaring, and simple souls scaring
By wild elocution
About Revolution;
Proclaiming that law is now putting a stopper
On Property’s game in a manner improper:
That Civilization is coming a cropper.
_So_ the Landlords galore,
Like Cassandras, deplore,
And down on the Land Act like Cataracts pour,
O’er and o’er, o’er and o’er,
With a mighty uproar.
While the World says,――“_We’ve heard all this Shindy before_!”

_Punch_, January 14, 1882.

――――

THAT’S HOW THE TOURISTS COME DOWN TO THE SHORE.

Cheerily,
Wearily,
Warily,
Merrily,
Slidingly,
Glidingly,
Trippingly,
Skippingly,

Leaping and creeping,
At nymphs slyly peeping,
Mashing and dashing,
In salt water splashing,
Billing and cooing,
The wooed and the wooing,

Hobbies entrancing all, beauty enhancing all,
Laughter and jollity ruling and schooling all,
Neptune from ocean arising surprising all.

Ceaseless vivacity,
Reckless audacity,
Some in high ecstasies,
Others in vextasies.

Merry girls spooning and flirting and catching on,
Elderly matrons with schemes of love matching on,
Old gents asthmatical, wheezing and sneezing on,
Artists all sketching and etching and painting on,
Geologists searching and peering and diving on,
Climbers ascending and wearily wending on,
Activity endless with never an ending on.

When the season arrives,
And the big billows roar,
That’s how the tourists
Come down to the shore.

_The Detroit Free Press_, Summer Number, 1885.

In 1880, Mr. E. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne, published a long poem on the Falls of Niagara, it also was written in imitation of Southey’s _Cataract of Lodore_.

THE OLD MAN’S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“The few locks that are left you are grey:
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remember’d that youth would fly fast,
And abus’d not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.”

“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” father William replied,
“I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.”

“You are old, father William,” the young man cried,
“And life must be hast’ning away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me reason, I pray.”

“I am cheerful, young man,” father William replied,
“Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember’d my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age.”

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

――――

Father William.

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head,
_Do_ you think at your age it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain,
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back sommersault in at the door,
Pray, _what_ is the reason of that?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple,
By the use of this ointment――one shilling the box,
Allow me to sell you a couple.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet,
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak,
Pray how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife,
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose,
That your eye was as steady as ever,
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose,
What made you so _awfully_ clever?”

“I have answered three questions and that is enough,”
Said his father. “don’t give yourself airs,
“Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”

From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll. (Macmillan and Co., London.)

――――

THE OLD MAN’S COLD, AND HOW HE GOT IT.
BY NORTHEY-SOUTHEY-EASTEY-WESTEY.

“You are cold, Father William,” the young man cried,
“You shake and you shiver, I say,
You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied――
(He was a dissembling old man),
“I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots,
And snowballed my aunt Mary Ann.”

“Go along! Father William.” the young man cried,
“You are trying it on, sir, to-day;
What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanettes?
Come, tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I went to the North Pole with Parry;
And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreux
Plays with this old man the Old Harry.”

“Get out! Father William,” the young man cried,
“Come you shouldn’t go on in this way;
You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold――
Now tell me the reason I pray.”

“I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied,
“I’ve a cold my impertinent son,
Because for some weeks my coals have been bought
At forty-eight shillings a ton!”

This parody appeared in _The Figaro_, (London,) March 1st, 1873, and seems to have been so much admired by the editor of that journal, that he served up a second edition of it, with some alterations, on July 15, 1874, as follows:――

You seem cold, Father William, the young man cried,
And chilblains are massed round your nose,
I rarely in all my experience before
Saw chilblains so broken as those.

You are right, my young man, Father William replied,
These chilblains you see are the fruits
Of the snowballs I put, when a youngster like you,
In my Aunt Mary Ann’s Sunday boots.

You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And if I may venture to say so,
You have influenza most awfully bad,
Come, why do you wheeze in that way so?

In the days of my youth, father William replied,
I found it uncommonly easy
To sit on the ice when I wanted to skate,
’Tis hence that I now am so wheezy.

You seem cold, father William, the young man cried,
And I see you incessantly shiver;
Do you think, aged pal, such a jellyish trick
Is good, at four score, for the liver?

I shiver, young man, father William replied,
Because, with your mirth bubbling o’er,
You slipped lumps of ice down the nape of my neck,
But I’m blowed if I stand any more!

O. P. Q. PHILANDER SMIFF, ESQ., _in his remarks on the Weather_.

――――

THE CAUSE OF TRUTH.

(Few are aware that Southey’s beautiful and much lauded Poem of “Old Father William,” is copied almost verbatim from an old American ballad. Far be it from us to comment upon the fact, but truth compels us to remark that a more barefaced piece of plagiarism has never come under our notice. In order to convince the public of the veracity of our statements, we subjoin the original ballad as found by us in an old MS. entitled “Wild Cat Warblings.”)

“You air old, Father William, an elderly cuss,
But I reckon you air real grit,
For the high handed way you sailed into that muss
Astonished creation a bit.”

“Waal, fact is,” said William, removing his quid,
“I allus was cheerful and spry;
And my motto is, ‘Do, or you’re sure to be did,’
And ‘Root little hog, or die.’”

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“Your fingers are stiff you’ll agree;
Yet you euchred the boys till they hadn’t a red,
And bust up the heathen Chinee.”

“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I played on the square, you perceive;
But now I have let old integrity slide,
And I keep the best bower in my sleeve.”

“You are old, Father William, and whiskey took neat,
Unsettles the sight I opine;
Yet you wiped out the digger who called you a cheat,
In a way that was powerful fine.”

“Take the lead when you can,” was his father’s response,
“That’s a bully old rule you’ll allow;
Besides, if you settle a critter at once,
It saves you from having a row.”

“You are old, Father William, and soon I expect
To be taking you round in a hearse;
Yet somehow you never appear to reflect
That you’re goin’ from wicked to worse.”

“Go slow” said his father, replacing his chaw,
“You are getting too all fired proud;
I reckon we’ve had just enough of your jaw,
Let’s licker. Hi! drinks for the crowd.”

_Zoz_ (Dublin), October, 1878.

――――

YOUTH AND AGE.

“You are old, Father William,” the young men cried,
“A disciple of Fox and of Grey;
Yet you prattle of peace at a Palmerston Club;
Come tell me the reason, I pray.”

“Oh, what’s in a name?” Father William replied,
“Against Pam’s pet ideas I am planning;
But your Militant Tories are spouting next door,
’Neath the peaceable ægis of Canning.”

“While here, Father William,” the young men cried,
“At Benjamin’s baseness you rave;
But like Balaam when called on the Jew to confound,
At Westminster blessings you gave.”

“At Oxford, my sons,” Father William replied,
“I smote with my staff, I’m aware;
But I spoke to the Asses in Westminster Hall,
For I knew they could answer me there.”

“Oh, fie, Father William, you should not employ
Your talents in personal strife;
These picnic orations bad temper betray;
Is it seemly at your time of life?”

“In office and out,” Father William replied,
“Has Beaconsfield filled me with rage;
In the days of my youth I remember his sneers,
And I will not forget in my age.”

_Mayfair_, February 12, 1878.

――――

THE OLD MAN’S SORROW, AND HOW HE CAUSED IT.
(_A Ballad of the Future._)

“You are sad, People’s William,” the young man cried,
“And you seem to your years to succumb;
You are weak, People’s William, though not very old,
And have a large corn on your thumb.”

“In the years lately past,” People’s William replied.
“I weakly attempted too much;
I abused both my health and my vigour, and now
There is scarcely a task I dare touch.”

“Dearie me, People’s William,” the young man cried.
“It grieves me to hear you speak so,
But still I should like” (here he gazed at the corn)
“Something more of your history to know.”

“In the years lately pass’d,” People’s William replied,
“I knew not the meaning of rest;
For I cut down big trees by way of relief,
Then return’d to my desk with new zest.

I wrote, towards the end, for some six magazines,
“Every month several pamphlets likewise,
And of post cards and letters, some four score a day――
Ah, you listen, I see, with surprise.”

“That I do; People’s William,” the young man cried,
“As your various achievements you sum,
But ’tis not with wonder that longer I view
That well defined corn on your thumb.”

“Nor was this all I did,” People’s William replied,
“For I strove with my tongue, too, to teach,
And I lost ne’er a chance, howsoever it came,
Of making an _à propos_ speech.”

“But, stay, People’s William!” the young man cried,
“You surely some holidays took,
When, flying from home to some district unknown,
You work for the moment forsook.”

“Nay, nay, ’twas not so!” People’s William replied;
“’Twas the same on my holiday trips;
Wheresoever I was, I had always to keep
A ready-made speech on my lips.

As I stept on a pier from steamer’s poop-deck,
“Or put my head out of a train;
As I enter’d a city, or went from a town,
I could not from speaking refrain.

Where two or three gather’d together forthwith,
I gave them a taste of my tongue;
No matter their sex, no matter the place,
I spared neither aged nor young.”

“Enough! People’s William!” the young man cried;
“It is clear to me now that I gaze
On a man who has foolishly tried in the past
To spend in hard work _all_ his days.”

“That is so, my young man,” People’s William replied;
“So me as a warning employ
To teach that all work and no play in the end
Makes William, like Jack, a dull boy!”

_Truth_, October 24, 1878.

――――

WHAT THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE GOBBLER.
ALSO WHAT THE GOBBLER SAID IN REPLY.

“You are old, turkey gobbler,” the young man cried;
“Your flesh must be terribly tough,
Yet they’ll cook you to-morrow for dinner, I’ll bet――
Don’t you think that exceedingly rough?”

“I am no longer young, I admit,” said the fowl,
“Yet remember I cost but a shillin’;
Your landlady thought (and with her I agree)
That, considering the price, I’d be fillin’.”

“You are old as the hills,” the young man remarked,
“And I fear you are not very fat,
Though they’ve fed you on pumpkin seeds now for a month――
Pray what will you answer to that?”

“I’m not very fat――you’ve hit it again;
In truth I’m as lean as a lizard,
For some chronic complaint, with a long Latin name,
Is eating away my gizzard.”

“Your gizzard! good gracious! don’t say so, by Jove!”
The youth in dismay fairly roared;
“Why, that is the part sure to fall to my lot,
When, as now, I’m behind with my board!”

“I am sorry for that,” replied the old fowl;
“I assure you ’tis no fault of mine;
But I s’pose if you choose to prefer something else,
’Twill be easy enough to decline.”

“You are old, you are tough, you are sickly besides;
Your lot my compassion doth move;
Don’t you think,” said the youth, “that a change of scene
Your condition would greatly improve?”

“I acknowledge the corn and a change of air
Would do me much good I believe;
But I have an engagement to-morrow, you see,
I cannot very well leave.”

“I’ll break your engagement,” the young man cried,
As he smashed in the coop with an axe,
Whereupon for a healthier neighbourhood
The old turkey gobbler made tracks.
* * * * *
“There’ll be turkey for dinner,” the boarders all cried,
But, alas! they were greatly mistaken,
For the landlady brought in that Christmas day
The usual liver and bacon.

_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.

――――

THE GRAND YOUNG MAN, OR FATHER WILLIAM “EWART” ANSWERED.

“You look young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“Yet you’re up on your legs every day;
You have impudence, too, an amazing amount!
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“Your wisdom, your years,” little Randolph replied,
“And the honours that some think your due,
Merely force me to strut in your path and proclaim
I’m as good every bit, sir, as you.”

“You _are_ young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“If your elders excite but your jeers;
But tell me, now do, how it comes that, though young,
You are so ill-behaved for your years.”

“I am so ill-behaved,” little Randolph replied,
“Because I believe in myself,
And regard such old fogies as Northcote and you
As lumber but fit for the shelf.”

“You’re _too_ good, little Randolph,” the Old One cried,
“And of gumption you’re certainly full;
But I never could quite understand why you seem
To enjoy playing frog to my bull.”

“Old pippin, it’s clear,” little Randolph replied.
“A fine Grand _Old Man_ you may be,――
But I’m making my game, and the public all round
Hail the coming _Grand Young ’Un_ in me!”

_Punch_, November 18, 1882.

――――

_Truth_ for April 5, 1883, contained nineteen competition parodies of “You are old, Father William,” amongst which the following are the most interesting, the others are nearly all out of date:――

“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your step is still springy and gay;
You are strong, Father William, a muscular man,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”

“In the days of my strength, Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“I, by exercise, strength still amass’d;
That, devoted to England and Statesmanship first,
I might flourish my axe to the last.”

“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“In the Commons to lead is not play;
And yet you accept not the peerage you’ve earned;
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”

“In the tomb of the Lords,” Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“I’d not bury my eloquence vast;
But as Clark speaks of rest, in the future may do
That I never have done in the past.”

“You are bold, Father William,” the young man cried
“Though majorities dwindle away:
Oft your acts men estrange, yet you talk them all back,
Now, teach me the secret, I pray.”

“Mark me, Herbert, my son,” Mr. G――dst――e replied,
“Let my words your discretion engage;
In the days of my youth, had I chatter’d like you,
“None had hearkened to me in my age.”

REPEALER.

――――

“You are young, Master Randolph,” the Premier cried;
“You are scarce from your nursemaid set free.
And I was a Statesman before you were born,
So don’t come dictating to me.”

“I own that I’m young,” Master Randolph replied,
“And you are old, WEG, that no one denies.
But I’m really surprised that you have not yet learnt
That in age no criterion lies.”

“It’s exceedinly rude,” Father William rejoined,
“To speak thus to your elders and betters.
Remember, ‘Small boys should be seen and not heard,’
As you’ll read when they teach you your letters.”

“But, being so old,” the Coming One cried,
“You ought to be wiser, it’s plain.
But no――a thought strikes me――I see it, of course:
You are entering your childhood again.”

“This impudence really exceeds all belief;
Since I was young, things are much changed.
When I was a Tory, small boys knew their place――
My lad, I’m afraid you’re deranged.”

“Father William,” the other rejoined, with a laugh,
“Of my talents you’re jealous, I see;
And this I know well, though you scoff at my youth,
That you’d gladly change ages with me.”

PICKWICK.

――――

“You’re a Peer, now Lord Wolseley,” a subaltern cried
“Scarce your breast can more medals display.
By the Horse Guards unsnubbed, to the War Office dear,
How on earth you have managed it, say?”

“’Tis advertisement does it,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I went in for monthly reviews;
In each new magazine Wolseleyistics were seen,
But I minded my p’s and my q’s.”

“You’re a General, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“And our only one, so people say;
In your twopenny wars no great captains you fought,
How got you such fame? tell, I pray.”

“In my Ashantee campaign,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“I had made what cute Yanks call a ‘Ring,’
And, buttering all round from ‘the Duke’ to the ground,
Praised my friends that my praise they might sing.”

“You’re a Patron, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried,
“Of a wine club, ‘The Vine,’ yet you say
The best soldier is he who drinks nothing but tea;
Expound me this thusness, I pray.”

“At swallowing camels,” Lord Wolseley replied,
“Dear England’s digestion’s not weak.
She will gulp down whole arkfuls――like me to succeed,
Try advertisement, butter, and――cheek!”

SKRIKER.

――――

“New honours, Lord Wolseley,” cried Roberts “you get,
Though your victories were very small;
You’re head of the army, and War Office pet――
Pray how have you managed it all!”

“In war,” he replied, “all manœuvres are fair,
So by others the hard work was done;
Their failures I blamed, took their praise as my share,
And so that’s how my honours were won.”

* * * * *
OLD LOG.

――――

“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“And by this time your hair should be grey;
Yet fair golden locks still encircle your head,
Now, how do you do that, I pray?”

“The locks of my youth,” Lady William replied,
“Were a carroty ginger they said;
But by wise application of Mexican Balm,
I attained to this delicate shade.”

“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“And all the folks call you a guy:
Yet the bloom on your cheek far outrivals my own,
Now tell me the dodge or I die.”

“A complexion like mine.” Lady William replied,
“Is expensive and peerless, I hope;
I obtained it by dint of much trouble and care,
And the free use of Pears’ patent soap.”

“You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried,
“At least, so your enemies say;
But the census last year puts your age down, I see,
As thirty-five years to a day.”

“When my youth ’gan to fade,” Lady William replied,
“I thought I’d remain at this stage;
My friends and my enemies doubted and scoffed
But by now they’ve forgotten my age.”

THIRD RAVEN.

――――

“You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Do you mean with us always to stay?
You’ve been shot at, Sir Kaiser, some three or four times,
Yet you’re coming up smiling to-day.”

“In the days of my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
“I was hardy, and healthy, and strong;
And as to the shooting, my boy, it is said
That threatened men always live long.”

“You were bold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“When you popped Prussia’s crown on your brow;
And yet you were right as the sequel has proved,
For they’ve made you an Emperor now.”

“Why, certainly, Prince!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied.
“I remembered that thrones do not last.
I thought of the bird, and the hand, and the bush,
And I nailed ‘Right Divine’ to the mast.”

“They were sold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried,
“Those French who would march to Berlin;
For there’s poor little Denmark, and Austria too,
They’ve all been obliged to cave in.”

“Yes, I’ve had a good time!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied,
Though there’s one little flaw, I confess;
That obstinate Pope is the thorn in my side,
Or else I’m a perfect success.”

T.S.G.

――――

“You are plain, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“Though your hair has not yet turned to grey;
But you’re nice Mr. Biggar, a sensible man,
Why not marry me, Joseph, I pray?”

“In the days of my youth,” Mr. Biggar replied,
“The marital rocks I steered past,
And carefully kept myself free from the knot,
That I ne’er might repent it at last.”

“You’re not young, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“And the troubles of age creep apace;
You may need a sweet wife――a soft, loving nurse――
In your heart why not give me a place?”

“In the days of my youth,” smiling Joseph replied,
“That request was oft made to me too,
There are ‘obstacles’ very much stand in the way
Of my marriage, dear Fanny, to you.”

“You are good, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried,
“To church shall we both now repair,
Pray these ‘obstacles’ somehow at once be removed
That your future your Fanny may share?”

“I gladly agree, dear,” Joe Biggar replied,
“The idea my attention shall claim;
Meanwhile, let me give you a few pair of hose――
On the way we will purchase the same.”

PASTE.

――――

“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And you have not a hair that is grey!
Yet you set yourself up against Stafford and me,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”

“In the days of one’s youth,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“’Tis important to get oneself known;
And the best way of making a mark in the House,
Is to strike out a line of one’s own.”

“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“And wisdom with age comes, they say;
Yet on every topic you claim to be heard,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”

“I am young, it is true,” Randolph Churchill replied,
“But a smattering of most things I know;
And give all men credit for knowing still less,
And often I find this is so.”

“You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried,
“Yet you’re eloquent, too, in your way;
And your speeches are always reported at length,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray?”

“If I only can make enough noise while I’m young,”
Said Randolph――“Perhaps when I’m grey
Folks may come to believe me, and so I shall be,
A ‘Grand Old Man’ also some day.”

YASH.

――――

“You are old, Father William,” a pert youth said,
“I can see it, you know, in your face;
And still you go on with your prating and rating,
Pray how do you keep up the pace.”

“In the days of my youth,” the old man replied,
“I foresaw I was destined for strife;
I found a high collar supported the ‘jaw,’
And have stuck to it all through my life.”

“You are old, Father William,” the youth then said,
“You’ll excuse my remarking again;
But still you fell trees with remarkable ease,
Now can you this wonder explain?”

“In the days of my youth,” said the Grand Old Man,
“To keep little Herbert from harm,
With healthy correction his faults I restrained,
This accounts for the strength of my arm.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “yet it’s easy to see
That your brain is as fertile as ever,
And your facts, though a fiction, defy contradiction;
What made you so dreadfully clever?”

“I’ve answered two questions, that’s surely enough,
You have got to the end of your tether;
When puzzled, reply in a meaningless way,
Or refuse to reply altogether.”

DON JUAN.

Of the _Truth_ Parodies omitted, some were political, two were in reference to the action for breach of promise of marriage brought against Mr. Joseph Biggar, M.P., and one related to pigeon shooting. The extraordinary story set afloat by Lady Florence Dixie, that she had been waylaid by two men who attempted to murder her in broad daylight and close to the high road, was thus explained:――

“You have told, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“A story that reads like a play;
And your tale, Lady Florence, is hard to believe――
Oh! why did you tell it, I pray?”

“In the tales that I tell,” Lady Florence replied,
“I remember that rumour flies fast;
And all that I cannot conjecture at first,
Gets somehow put in at the last.”

“But those men, Lady Florence,” the young man cried.
“Those ruffians, with knives, got away,
And yet of your struggle all traces are gone――
Oh, where are their footmarks, I pray?”

“Of your questions, bold youth,” Lady Florence replied,
“I hoped I had heard quite the last;
I thought of my figure whatever I did,
And my corsets must vouch for the past!”

“But the truth, Lady Florence,” the young man cried,
“Credulity’s passing away;
You are cheerful, while Leaguers are bent on your death――
Oh, tell me the secret, I pray!”

“I am cheerful, young man,” Lady Florence replied,
“For my case doth both houses engage;
And Royalty’s sent to ask how I am――
In fact, I am just now the rage.”

OHR.

――――

THE LORDS AND THE YOUNG RADICAL.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
Nor can long your departure delay;
Indeed it is strange you have lasted so long,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

Your whole Constitution, that Senate replied,
Would fail, if the Lords should depart;
As the Queen is the Hand, and the Commons the Head,
Of the nation the Lords are the Heart.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And I think you should now clear away,
Yet you all seem determined to stick to your House,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

Whatever we may be, the Peers’ House replied,
We are English and pluck do not lack;
We shall never desert a good cause we espouse,
Or to foes turn a cowardly back.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And in my view no longer should stay,
Though with some you were popular once, I confess,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
We earned the true love of the land;
Magna Charta we won――of its earliest laws
The best were the work of our hand.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, if it is useful to-day
To remind us of good you did centuries back,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

We have faith in the people, the Peers’ House replied,
Far stronger than you can avow;
In the days of our youth if for them we strove hard,
They will hardly turn round on us now.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And long since have seen your best day,
But still you are proud of your body effete,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied,
Nothing good or ennobling was scorned:
Clive, Wellington, Nelson, Howe, Liverpool, Pitt,
Made us proud of the House they adorned.

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
And to talk of your youth is to bray,
But if you are proud of the age you have reached,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

There are men in our House, the Assembly replied,
Its promise of youth who fulfil,
And Salisbury, Wolseley, Lytton, Tennyson, Cairns,
Uphold and ennoble it still!

You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried,
But, for all you may venture to say,
You can’t be immortal, or if you so claim,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.

Our glory will wane not, the Peers’ House replied,
So long as the Sword and the Pen,
The Courts and the Commons, th’ Exchange and the Church
Shall send us the best of their men!

From _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884.

――――

THE OLD MAN OF THE COMMONS.

“You are old, Father William.” the young man cried;
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
Yet you’re still a most hale and remarkable man――
Now, tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“I remembered that youth would fly fast;
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might lack them at last.”

“You are hale, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you never are heard to complain;
But yet I can sadness perceive in your looks;
Pray, what is the source of your pain?”

“Nay, nay, as to that,” William Ewart replied,
“Too closely you’re seeking to pry;
But if you insist upon knowing the cause,
The Whigs can the answer supply.”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And yet you’re more honoured each day;
Now tell me, I beg, what the reason can be
You’re beloved in this wonderful way.”

All the days of my life.” William Ewart replied,
“To do what is right I have tried;
And fearless of scorn and regardless of jeers,
I have ever made duty my guide.”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“Yet thousands but yesterday sat
Devouring, for hours, every word that you spoke;
Now, what is the reason of that?”

“Whenever I speak,” William Ewart replied,
“I never am acting a part;
But I say what I feel, and each sentence comes straight
From the depths of an Englishman’s heart!”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried.
“And honours are surely your due;
Then prithee explain why a title or cross
Has ne’er been accepted by you?”

“In a cross or a star,” William Ewart replied,
“No kind of attraction I see;
No, the love of the land, and its people’s respect
Are honours sufficient for me!”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And you live in the nation’s esteem;
Then why do the Tories insist that a base
And most truculent traitor you seem?”

“’Gainst all honest attacks,” William Ewart replied,
“I am safe, thanks to Liberal might;
So much foul-mouthed abuse must be due, I suppose,
To an impotent partisan spite.”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
And yet every year that you live,
You nearer approach to the Radical’s creed
What reason for this can you give?”

“In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied,
“Of politics what could I know?
But now every year that I live, I contrive
Still wiser and wiser to grow.”

“You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried,
“And life must be fleeting away,
Yet you stick to your post, and refuse to take rest;
Now, what is your reason I pray?”

“I stick to my post,” William Ewart replied,
“Because a great work I’ve begun,
And mean not to rest, though the peers do their worst,
Until that great work I have done.”

_Truth_, 1884.

――――

“Encouraged by the success which has attended the interviewers of Fred Archer in America, we thought we would send a man to try his hand on William Archer _père_, at his residence at Cheltenham. He had an audience of the Patriarch, and has focussed the result in the following”:――

OLD WILLIAM ARCHER INTERVIEWED.

“You are old, Father William,” the Editor cried,
“And too stout for a race, I suspect;
Yet they say that you once were a good ’un to ride,
Now tell me if that is correct?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to the scribe,
“I rode for the famed Romanoff,
And the grog which in Russia I used to imbibe,
Put on what I never got off.”

“You are stout, Father William, as I said before,
And my questions may savour of cheek.
If you clapped on the sweaters and used them once more,
How much could you waste in a week?”

“In my youth,” said old Billy, “in flannels and wraps
I’ve toiled over mountain and plain;
But such practices never suit podgy old chaps,
So I’m blest if I do it again.”

“You are ’cute,” said the Scribe, “and your intellect’s clear,
Your son is of jockeys the crack;
As the Derby’s approaching, I’m anxious to hear
Which horse you advise me to back.”

“See here,” said the Old ’Un, “you want a straight tip,
And I’ll give one your merits to suit,
Get out of my diggings, you artful Old Rip!
Or I’ll give you the toe of my boot.”

_The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885.

――――

“That terrible _Lancet_ has discovered that the public requires to be put on its guard against the practice of licking adhesive stamps and envelopes. Local irritation, sore tongues, and the like lie in wait for the licker, and it seems, furthermore, that ‘every now and again we hear of special propagation of disease by the habit.’ Our medical contemporary’s caution suggests a wholly new version of an old rhyme:――

“You are old, Father William,” the young man cried,
“Yet your health is quite perfect, I wis,
And your back is unbent, and your muscles are strong,
Pray explain, sir, the meaning of this.”

“As a lad,” said the sage, with a glance that was sly,
“In my watch on myself I was strict,
_I refrained when the postage-stamp courted my tongue,
And I let envelopes go unlicked_.”

_Funny Folks_, June 6, 1885.

――――

THE SEQUEL TO A GREAT POEM.

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
To revive and embellish your winterbound head,
There is obviously only one way.”

“Ere my fogeydom days,” Father William replied,
“I spent money to make myself spry,
But the hoar-frost of age, all cosmetiques defied,
Though I tried every advertised dye.”

“That may be,” said the youth, with self satisfied air,
(He belonged to a set that was fast,)
Yet, why, Father William, give way to despair,
Are the days of discoveries past?”

“Not so,” cried the old man, “I read but yestr’een,
‘There is hope for the aged and grey,’
You know you young dog very well what I mean,
The Reviver of Great Count D’Orsay.”

(From an advertisement.)
_Once a Week_, 1886.

――――

ON IRISH POLICY.

You are old, Father Will――one might almost expect
That your head was as sage as it’s hoary;
Yet your blunders are easy for babes to detect,
And your wits have, it seems, gone to glory.

You preached upon “Peace,” and your text wouldn’t mar
By applying Coercion to “Pat”;
Yet you’d turn a back somersault, go in for war;
Pray, what is the reason of that?

Of the Empire’s integrity, careless as well
As your own, you must needs turn Home-Rule-ish,
And stoop to intrigue with that traitor P――ll;
What made you so awfully foolish?

“Peace, Randolph,” replied Father Will, in a huff,
“No questions!――I’m lofty and pure,
“Not made like you Tories of bloodthirsty stuff,
“Be off, or you’ll get the _Clôture_.”

_A New Alphabet of Irish Policy_, by Sphinx (John Heywood,
Manchester).

――――

A VALENTINE.
_From Miss Hibernia to W. E. G._

You are old, sweetheart William――your hair is grown grey
But your heart is still tender and true;
And though often in anger I’ve turned me away,
Yet I’ve ever been faithful to you.

You are old, sweetheart William――you’ve courted me long,
And you’ve given me presents galore;
But I want――and I hope you won’t think I am wrong――
I want just one little thing more.

Don’t refuse, sweetheart William, my modest request――
The control of my household affairs;
And our union at last may be happily blest,
And I’ll never more give myself airs!

JAMES G. MEAGHER.
_The Weekly Dispatch_, February 14, 1886.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,
Old Caspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Caspar took it from the boy.
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh――
“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory,”

“I find them in the garden, for
There’s many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many a thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for!”

“It was the English,” Caspar cried,
“That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory!”

“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little streams hard by;
They burned his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then
And new born infant died:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many a thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun:
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.”

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory!”

“And everybody praised the Duke,
Who such a fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But ’twas a famous victory!”

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Mr. J. Dixon, in a recent number of _Notes and Queries_, remarks that “while writing this popular little poem Southey seems to have ‘forgotten his history’ in making Caspar, an old Bavarian peasant, call Prince Eugene of Savoy, “_our_ good prince.” He and the Duke of Marlborough, as commanders of the allied forces, defeated the combined army of the French and Bavarians, and old Caspar could look upon Prince Eugene only as an enemy and alien. Southey calls the little boy _Peterkin_, a name quite unknown in South Germany. _Blenheim_ has been so universally accepted as giving a name to the battle, and so many places in England have been called after it, that it would be absurd to expect that the real name of the village――‘Blindheim’――should ever replace it; but certain it is that no such place as _Blenheim_ exists in Germany.”

A BATTLE WITH BILLINGSGATE.

It was the Christmas holidays,
And seated in the pit,
A Father saw the new Burlesque,
That was so full of wit.
And by him sat――in slang unskill’d――
His pretty little girl, Clotilde.

She heard some “ladies” on the stage
Say they would “cut their sticks!”
And one in male attire declare
That she’d “go it like bricks.”
She asked her Father what were “bricks”?
And what they meant by “cut their sticks?”

The Father heard the audience laugh,
As at some witty stroke;
And the old man he scratch’d his head,
For he couldn’t see the joke.
“I don’t know what they mean,” said he,
“But sure ’tis some facetiæ.”

And then she heard one, nearly nude,
Say something else about,
“Has your fond mother sold her mangle?
And does she know you’re out?”
And when the people laughed, cried she,
“Oh, Pa! there’s more facetiæ!”

And then the little maiden said,
“Now tell me why, Papa,
That lady ask’d him if the mangle
Was sold by his mamma?”
“I can’t tell why, my dear,” said he,
Though, of course, ’tis some facetiæ.”

But when she saw the lady’s fingers
Unto her nose applied,
“Why, ’tis a very vulgar thing!”
The little maiden cried.
“The papers all, my child, agree,
’Tis brimful of facetiæ.

“And everybody says the piece
With brilliant wit is filled;”
“And what is wit, my dear Papa?”
Quoth innocent Clotilde.
“Why, that I cannot say,” quoth he,
“But wit is _not_――vulgarity.”

From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack_ for 1847.

――――

A SEASONABLE GOSSIP.

It was a Sunday evening,
Old Simpson’s pipe was fill’d,
And on the hob his porter stood
(He always took it “chill’d”)
And near him, from the _Times_ outspread,
His little grandson Thomas read.

(Here follow seven verses descriptive of the principal events in the French Revolution of 1848. These are ancient history now.)

“Great praise, no doubt, the men deserve,
Who for their rights have fought.”
“But what will come of it at last?”
Asked little Tom, in thought.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But not, I fear, Tranquillity.”

_The Puppet Show_, May 13, 1848.

――――

THE BATTLE OF JOBBING.
_A Prospective Scene_.――_Time about_ 1893.

It was a winter’s evening;
Old Thomson’s work was done,
And he, before a small wood fire,
Sat crouching like a crone;
And by him sat, as cold as stones,
His trusty neighbours, Scott and Jones.

He saw his nephew bringing in
A something large and round,
That in the garden at the back,
In digging there he’d found.
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and black, and round.

Old Thomson took it from the youth,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And answered with a sigh――
“A lump of that sea-coal,” said he,
“Our fathers used so lavishly.”

They find it near Newcastle, for
There’s plenty thereabout;
But Shipping Law and City Dues
Combine to keep it out.
And such poor wretched folks as we
Can’t purchase such a luxury.”

“Now tell me what ’tis all about,”
The youth cried with surprise;
And neighbours Scott and Jones looked up
With wonder in their eyes:――
“Now tell us all about the Law,
And what the City Dues are for?”

“The Law is this――all foreign ships
Are by our rulers told,
They shall not bring us coal while ours
Are off for Melbourne gold;
And so the coal comes as it can――
A cheap and most efficient plan!

“The City lent an orphan fund
To merry Charles the Second;
Full seven hundred thousand pounds
I think the sum was reckon’d;
But what they lent it for,” quoth he,
“No mortal man could ever see.

“But though Charles could not meet his bill
The loan was not so rash;
For soon they put a tax on coals,
Which paid them back their cash
A hundred-fold; but then, you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.

“On ev’ry fire for twenty miles
They laid this City tax,
And what they lost by _merry_ Charles
They put on other’s backs;
And still they keep the tax, you know,
For money makes the Mayor to go.

“We think it is a splendid sight
On a November day,
To see the Lord Mayor’s coach and six,
With bands and banners gay;
But then we know, beneath the show,
_What_ money makes the Mayor to go.

Great praise the Corporation wins
For hospitality.”
“Why, they’re a set of jobbing knaves!”
Exclaimed the other three.
“Hush, hush! my friends,” quoth he, “you know,
That money makes the Mayor to go.

“And after feasts much broken food
Is given to the poor,”
“Why, they but give them back their own!”
Exclaim’d they, as before.
“Well, that,” said he, “I do not know,
But money makes the Mayor to go.”

_Diogenes_, October, 1853.

――――

THE BATTLE OF BERLIN.
(_As it may be described some day._)

It was a summer’s evening,
Old Monty’s[67] work was done,
And he, before his garden door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grandchild Hughendine.

She saw her brother Benjamin
Bring something tied around
With broad red tape, which he inside
A Cabinet had found:
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so neatly tied around.

Old Monty took it from the boy,
And sighing, shook his head,
“It is my relic of the fight
That congress waged,” he said――
“The Berlin Treaty, which,” quoth he,
“We won in the great victory.”

“Now, tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Benjamin he cries;
And little Hughendine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes――
“Now tell us why the Congress met,
And what advantage did we get.”

“It was our Premier,” Monty cried,
“That put them all to rout;
Though how and when he managed it
I could not well make out;
But every body said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.

“True, Russia most successfully
Did play her little game;
And Austria got heaps of spoil,
And even Greece the same:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Cyprus won,
And Salisbury too, I ween.”
“For simply faring like the rest!”
Said little Hughendine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke
Who such a fight did win.”
“But, pray, what good has come of it?”
Quoth little Benjamin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;
“But ’twas a famous victory.”

_Funny Folks_, August 3, 1878.

――――

CHILDREN AT THE PANTOMIME.
First Prize poem published in _The World_ February 4, 1880.

It was a winter’s evening;
The father’s work was done,
And in a box at Drury Lane
He sat to see the fun,
And nestling closely at his side
Were Mat and Mabel eager-eyed.

They gloated over Blue Beard’s crimes;
They pitied Sister Ann;
They clapped the transformation scene,
As only children can;
Then Columbine and Harlequin,
With Clown and Pantaloon, come in.

“Now tell us what it’s all about,”
Young Mat expectant cries;
And little Mabel seconds him
With shining wistful eyes.
“Now tell us all about the fuss,
And why they whack each other thus.”

“It is their way,” the father said;
“They act it in dumb show;
But what they whack each other for
I really do not know.
But everybody calls it prime――
It is a famous pantomime,

“But still, they say, ’tis sad to see
Those girls so young and fair,
Who charmed you so just now, at home,
And all the squalor there.
But things like these in every clime
Attend a famous pantomime.

“Great credit has the manager
From all the people gained.”
“Why those poor girls _appeared_ so gay!”
Quoth Mabel, greatly pained.
“Hush, hush, thou little lass o’ mine;
It is a famous pantomime!

“And folk have praised the good lessee,
Who’s furnished us the fun.”
“But what’s the meaning of it all?”
Quoth Mat, his tiny son.
Said dad, “You’ll know it all in time;
But ’tis a famous pantomime.”

ORCHIS. (_F. B. Doveton._)

_Second Prize Poem._

It was a winter’s evening,
Had closed the tedious day,
And grandpapa and Master Tom
Had come to see the play,
And, shyly peeping at the scene,
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

Then Master Tommy’s mouth and eyes
Grew very large and round,
With awestruck gaze of mute surprise
At that enchanted ground;
“Please tell us what they do, you know,
And why they slap each other so.”