Chapter XXIV: Canto VI: ―― (9)

’Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding,
I alone in SLOP’S office was left; and, in trouble of spirit,
I mused on old times, till my comfort of heart had departed.
Pensile at least I shall be, methought――_sus per coll._ surely!
And therewithal felt I my neckcloth; when lo! on a sudden,
There came on my eyes, hanging midway ’twixt heaven and
St. James’s,
The book called the Pension List. There did I see my name written.
Yea even in that great book of life! It was sweet to my eye-lids.
As dew from a tax! and _Infinity_ seem’d to be open,
And I said to myself. “Now a blessing be on thee, my Robert!
And a blessing on thee too my pen! and on thee too my sack-but!”

Now, as thus I was standing, mine ear heard a rap at the
street-door,
Ev’n such as a man might make bold with, half gentle, half footman;
And lo! up the stairs, dotting one, one, after the other,
Came the leg of a wonder, hop! hop! through the silence of evening
And then a voice snarling from the throat of him they call MURRAY,
Who said, as he hopp’d, “must the _Muck Times_ be mournful at _all_
times?
Lo, SLOP, I’ve a sop, for your mop; yes――hop! hop! I’ve a _story_,
With which I’ll light _you_ up, if you’ll light me, Slop, up
another.”

“Don’t be so _bold_!” methought _a larking_ voice from the skylight
Answer’d, and therewithal I felt fear as of frightening;
Knowing not why, or how, my soul seem’d night-cap to my body.
Then came again the voice, but then with a louder squalling――
“Go to HELL” said the voice, “What, I?” said I inwardly, “I go?”
When lo, and behold, a great wonder! I, I, ROBERT SOUTHEY,
Even I, ROBERT SOUTHEY, _Esquire_, L.L.D. POET LAUREATE,
Member of the Royal Spanish Academy, of the
Ditto of History too, of the Institute Royal
Of Dutchland, and eke of the Welch Cymmodorion wonder,
Author of Joan of Arc, of much Jacobin verse, and Wat Tyler,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
(For it’s unknown all the things that I am, and have written),
I, as I said before, ev’n I, by myself, I,
Unlike in that single respect, to my great master Dante,
(For Virgil went with him to help him), but like in all others,
Rush’d up into PARADISE boldly, which angels themselves don’t,
Yea ev’n into Paradise rush’d I, through showers of _flimsies_,
All as good as the Bank, and for hailstones I found there were
_Sovereigns_
Spick and span new; and anon was a body all glorified
Even all the great HOST both of CHURCH and STATE, Crosses, Grand
Crosses,
Commanders, Companions, and Knights of all possible orders,
Commons and Peers, the souls of the sold, whom pensions made
perfect,
Flocking on either hand, a multitudinous army,
Coronet, Crosier and Mitre, in grand semicircle inclining,
Tier over tier they took their place, aloft in the distance,
Far as the sight could pierce, Stars, Garters, and Gold Sticks.
From among the throng bless’d, all full dress’d, in a Field
Marshal’s uniform,
Rose one, with a bow serene, who, aloft, took his station;
Before him the others crouched down, all inclining in concert,
Bent like a bull-rush sea, with a wide and a manifold motion:
There he stood in the mid’st alone; and in front was the presence,
With periwig curling and gay, and a swallow-cut coat tail.

Hear ye of long ears! Lo! in that place was _Canning_,[71]
He who strengthens the Church and State, with his Manton’s
hair-triggers,
And sneers on his lips, and eyes leering, and _rapturous_ speeches;
With him _Fletcher Franklin_ I saw, and _Sir Robert_, my namesake,
Worthy the name! even _Baker_, Sir Robert, of Bow-street;
And _Gifford_, with face made of lachrymose, savage and feeble,
Who delighteth with _Croker_ to cut up men, women, and young men,
And therefore did _Hazlitt_ cut _him_ up, and so he stood mangled,
There, too, brocaded and satin’d, stood smiling and bowing,
With court-mask’d appearance, the _Fearful One_, him of _Triangle_!
And there, too, the _Foolish_ one, _circular_-conscienced, the
_Doctor_!
And I saw in the vision, the _Generals_, _Sol_ and _Attorney_;
And _Sacchi_, was there too, and him surnamed _Non-mi Ricordo_;
And _Mademoiselle Daemon_, and _Barbara Kress_, and _Rastelli_;
And _Mister_, and _Mister-ess Jessop_, and eke the _Miss Jessops_;
And _Mar――――ss H――――d_, and _M――――ss C――――m_, also;

And _Mrs. Fitzherbert_, and _C――ch_; and in sooth all the
_Beauties_
Of the “GEORGIAN _Age_”; except _Robinson Mary_,[72]
Whom great G. first sent to the D―――― and little G. after,
(Namely _Gifford_, who smote at her sorely, yea, ev’n at her
crutches,
So that she fell in her grave, and said, “cover me kind earth!”)
And the great-minded _Cl_―― was there, looking like to Behemoth;
And the _Lauderdale_ disinterested, great Scotch standard-bearer,
And there, too, the King’s much-conspired-against-stationer,
_King_, stood,
The Lord Mayor of Dublin, who sendeth his Majesty’s whiskey;
And the members of _Orange Clubs_, all, anti-Irish shillelaghs;
And a heav’nly assembly of _parsons_, some lately expectant――
Parson _Hey_, Parson B. called, otherwise, Parson _Blackcow_,
divine brute!
Parson C., alias _Croly_, or _Crawley_, or Coronaroly,
Who putteth forth innocent pamphlets on pure coronations,
Expecteth Milleniums, and audeth the _Blackguard_ of Blackwood’s,
And looketh both lofty and slavish, a dreariness high-nosed,
As if he had, under the chin been, by worshipful men, chuck’d;
And great Parson _Eat-all-stone_, who’d swallow _any_ thing surely;
And the _Manchester Yeamanry Cavalry_, riding down women;
And _Alderman Atkins_, with _Curtis_, that _big belly_-gerent;
And _Flower_, and _Bridges_, _C. Smith_, and the rest of the BRIDGE
GANG;
All cloth’d for the heav’nly occasion in their _best_ Indictments!
And there all the _Lottery Contractors_,[73] and such like, were
also;
And there Mr. _Strong-i-th-arm_, his Majesty’s Seal Engraver, was
also;
And they all who _forged_, lo! the French Assignats, were there
also;
And the _Court Newsman_ also was there――
(The Spirit now bids me write _prose_, but that, you know’s all
the same thing.)
And _Colburn_ with his _Muck Monthly Magazine_ was there;
And _Ward_ the animal Painter, with a piece of spoil’d canvas,
35 feet wide by 21, was there;
But _Bird_ who, most disloyally, died of a broken heart, was not
there;
And the _Duke of Wellington_, with his Sword of State was there;
And _Sir John Silvester_, the Recorder of London, and his
_assistant_ were there;
And Messrs. _Rundell and Bridge_, the Jewellers who repair’d the
Crown were there,
And the _Pigtails_ cut off from his Majesty’s guards were there;
And the guards themselves in their _next_ uniforms, and new white
gaiters, were there;
And the _State Coach and Coachman and Horses_ were there;
And the _other Ministers of State_ in the new State liveries were
there;
And the _Clerks of the Council_ and the _two Silver Inkstands_ were
there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Stock Exchange_ were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Shipping Interest_ were there;
And all the Gentlemen of the _Landed Interest_ were there;
But all the people _without Interest_ were not there;
And all the _Peers_ who voted the Queen of England _guilty_ were
there;
And all the _Ministerial Members_ of the House of Commons were
there;
And Dr. _Slop_ with ‘_fresh_ fig leaves for _Adam_ and _Eve_[74],’
was there;
And the _Royal Proclamation_ against Vice and Immorality was pasted
up there;
And behold, while I read it, thinking to put it, excellent as it
was, into language still better,
Methought, in my vision, I dreamt――dream within dream intercircled――
And seem’d to be hurried away, by a vehement whirlwind,
To FLAMES and SULHPHUROUS DARKNESS, where certain of my _Minor
Poems_ were scorching,
Yet unconsumed, in penal fire; and _so_ was _I_ purified,
For deeds done in the flesh, being, through them, burnt by proxy,
There, too, roasted the Bishop of Osnaburgh’s _Doxy_,[75]
But the Righteous-one, _the Prince-Bishop himself_, was in Heaven;
And _two boots_[76] were there, as a burnt offering for
_pecadillo_,
But the _Owner_ thereof was a glorified spirit above,
Whereof, as in duty bound, I had sung to him “Twang-a-dillo,
He that loves a pretty girl, is a hearty good fellow!”
And _in Torment_ (but here the blest rage of the bard returns on
me)
And in torment was _She_, who, on earth, had been also tormented
By _Him_ who is never, nor can be accused, of aught _vicious_;
With her were the friends of my childhood――not leaving out
_Coleridge_;
And they who were _killed_ by the Manchester Yeomanry also;
And _Truth_, the whole Truth, nothing _but_ the Truth, suffered
the burning.
Then I turn’d my meek eyes, in their gladness, to Heaven, and my
_place_ there,
And ascending, I flew back to Paradise, singing of Justice;
Where, fill’d with divine expectation of merited favour,
The gathering host look’d to him, in whom all their hopes center’d,
As the _everlasting_ hand; and I, too, press’d forward to obtain――
But old recollections withheld me; down, down, dropped my sack-but,
And my feet, methought slid, and I fell precipitate. Starting,
Then I awoke, with my hair up, and lo! my young days were before
me,
Dark yet distinct; but instead of the voice of the honest,
I heard only Murray’s _Yap! yap!_ and _hop! hop!_ through the
silence of evening:
_Yap! hop!_ and _hop! yap!_ and hence came the hop, step, and jump
of my verses.

――――:o:――――

CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.
BY R.S.P.L.

Last eve as I sate in my room that looks o’er the church of Saint
Clement,
(_Nota Bene_: I had but of late arrived in town upon business,)
I ordered my boots for a walk, my boots that polished and pointed,
Bright on their surface display the beauty of Warren’s jet
blacking:
Now you must know that my man, in his speed to reply to my summons,
Brought me my Wellington boots, but never once thought of the
boothooks;
So to allay my spleen by calm and ennobling reflections,
Such as might wile the time disturb’d by my valet’s omission,
I sate me down in a chair, and thus apostrophised Warren.
“Pontiff of modern art! whose name is as noted as mine is,
Noted for talent and skill, and the cardinal virtues of manhood
Receive this tribute of praise from one whose applause is an
honour,
I am he who sang of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and
Gothic enough it was, I’m told, in metre and meaning;
Thalaba too was mine, that wild and wondrous effusion,
Madoc and Joan of Arc, and the splendid curse of Kehama;
If I then, the author of these and other miraculous volumes,
And a laurell’d bard to boot, laud thee, oh my Warren, in epic
Verse, both peasant and peer will echo thy name o’er the West end,
And thus shall it be with the man whom S――y delighteth to honour,
Already I hear thy puffs discussed in the circle at Almack’s,
Dusking with sable shade the light of the Scotch Ariosto
Already I hear them arranged for the violincello by Smart, and
Melting on syren lips in lieu of Italian bravuras:
Braham at Drury Lane, the Stephens at proud Covent Garden,
Dwell on each soul stirring rhyme as a lover dwells on the
moonlight,
When by its virgin beam his nymph hurries onward to kiss him.

“Through thee in the season of spring, oh pride of the modern
creation!!!
Beauty sets off by night each grace of her whirligig ankle,
When to the music of harps in dulcet symphonies sounding,
She waltzes with twinkling twirl, and butterfly bucks hover round
her;
Thee she hails as a friend, while her pumps, in the pride of their
polish,
Illumine the ball-room floor like the slippers of famed
Cinderella,――
In Brighton thy name is known, and waxeth important at Cheltenham;
Travels _per coach_ to Bath, that exceedingly beautiful city;
Thence crossing the channel to Wales, it stirs up attention at
Swansea;
Or flees with the speed of a dove o’er the mountainous ridges of
Snowden,
Till valley, and rock, and glen ring aloud with ‘Buy Warren’s
Blacking.’
“But not unto Britain alone is thy fame, Robert Warren, confined:
o’er
The civilised regions of Europe, believe me, ’tis equally honoured;
For when, as a proof of the fact, I rambled through Switzerland
lately;
And, spent with the labour of travel, put up in the vale of
Chamouny,
My boots by the waiter were bathed in the luminous dew of thy
blacking:
This, as you well may guess, astonished my nerves not a little;
So, flaming with zeal, I said, ‘now tell me, oh waiter, I pray
thee,
Th’ extent of this tradesman’s fame in the vales of the Switzer,
that straight I
May note it down as a hint for some future edition of travels,
Then blythe the waiter assured me that through Chamouny, the
splendour
Of Warren’s name beamed joy, as the snow on the summit of Jura,
Tinged by the occident ray, sheds glory and gladness around it,
While villages bask in its smiles:――meantime I continued my
Carmen,――
Thrice honoured artist, who hast a minstrel like me to commend
thee!
Year upon year may roll, but you never will get such another;
For I am the bard of time, the puffer of peer or of peasant,
Whether Russ, German, or French, Whig, Radical, Ultra, or Tory,
Provided my _sack-butt_ is paid with a _butt of sack_ for each
bouncer
Hence, nobles are proud to bow to my laurelled head at Saint
James’s,
Deeming his Majesty’s grace dispensed through me, for they well
know
His Majesty loves in his heart my political creed
(_Nota Bene_――I will not swear that he does; but is it not likely,
oh Europe?)”

Here I concluded my stave, for my valet returned with my
boot-hooks;
So taking my hat in my hand a remarkably requisite practice,
I sought that widening gulf where the Strand with a murmur
susurrous
Flows into Pall Mall East, like Thames at the Nore into ocean;
Here I stood rapt awhile, commending the buildings around me,
Especially Waterloo Place, with which I was highly delighted;
Till hearing the clock strike eight, I returned to my Strand
habitation,
And heard the bell from St. Clement’s toll, toll through the
silence of evening.

From _Warreniana_, by W. F. Deacon. (Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, London, 1824.)

――――:o:――――

“_The Satirist, or Monthly Meteor_” for September 1, 1813, contained several burlesque applications for the Laureatship, then vacant through the recent death of Henry James Pye.

None of the poems is of sufficient interest co be worth reprinting, the authors supposed to be imitated are Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Dr. Thomas Busby, Thomas Campbell, Walter Scott, George Crabbe, W. H. Fitzgerald, and Robert Southey.

The burlesque of Southey concludes thus:――

“Then what a happy Prince you’ll be
With a Poet Laureate such as me;
When duly here, to George the Regents praise,
My Prince, as with an angel’s voice of song,
Pours my melodious lays
Upon the gales of even,
And sounding strenuous like a gong,
I lift his fame to th’ north-west gates of heaven,
Such harmony to all my notes is given.”

EPITAPH FOR ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., POET LAUREATE
AUTHOR OF “WAT TYLER, &c., &c.

Dignus auribus Principis――HORAT.

Here lies our good Laureat, whom _Byron_ has sent hence,
Without any time for “a death-bed repentance,[77]
Of his sapphics, so cruelly mangled by _Canning_――
So safely remov’d both from sense and from scanning;[78]
(For our Laureat dealt largely in sapphics seditious,[79]
Before he got scent of the loaves and the fishes),
Or his Botany Eclogues, from which one would swear
That the Poet had learnt his morality there.[80]
_Poor Joan_[81] ever doom’d to be burnt in our ire,
Once more by all England condemn’d to the fire.
Sure _Southey_, like _Bedford_, was born for thy curse,
And we burn thee again, to atone for his verse.
Next _Thalaba_ came, that selfslaying destroyer,
Of readers and conjurors too the annoyer;
Let him murder magicians, and all their relations,
But why did he murder our rhyme[82] and our patience?
Then _Madoc’s_ adventures so ably were sung,
You’d think they were told in his own native tongue.[83]
For the curse of _Kehama_ one cannot help dreading it,
The curse is so cursedly felt in the reading it.
Then a Monarch of Spain――how strange he should blast one!
For though he’s a _Goth_ he might surely have past one,
Since he is (_the Belov’d_ not excepted) the last one.[84]
But as soon as our bard got attach’d to the crown,
He try’d to sing up what he used to sing down;――
One day _Bribery’s_ slave and the next its reviler,
Praising Castlereagh now, and now praising Wat Tyler,[85]
To constraint and corruption now bidding defiance,
And now lauding the deeds of the Holy Alliance.[86]
Enduring the scorn of all England most martyrly,
Secure that his sores would be lick’d by the _Quarterly_.
Then forth came that Letter, or crack “branding iron,”
Which the Laureat so cackles about to Lord _Byron_,[87]
That letter so famous, in which he advances
Truths such as you find in the Spanish Romances,
Traduced by our Bard, who contriv’d in abridging all,
To make one, _for shortness_, desire the original.
Next like some “obscene birds” of his feather, he flew
To prey on the stain of thy field, Waterloo![88]
Then returned to o’ershade, with his sad gratulation,[89]
An event that awak’d all the hopes of a Nation,
And surely the Laureat alone could have told it,
In rhymes, that had _Sternhold_ himself out-Sternholded.
Then _Byron_ and _Juan_ eternally lamming him,
Play’d the devil with him――so he set about damning him;
And if to his foes or his friends he a grudge meant,
What could he do worse than his _Vision of Judgment_!
But ’twas fit that this model of tergiversation,
Who began in sedition, should end in damnation.
To atone for all this, what must now be his lot?
Shall he “lie” like his Works “in obstruction and rot?”
No――let him be punished by quitting his urn to
See all the “vile uses” they’re sure to return to.

_The Spirit of the Public Journals for_ 1823, London, 1824.

THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

As the early poems of Robert Southey were repeatedly parodied in this celebrated journal, a few words as to its contents may conveniently be inserted here. “_The Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner_,” was edited by W. Gifford, and the principal contributors to its pages were the Rt. Hon. George Canning, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterwards Earl of Liverpool), Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterwards Marquis Wellesley), and Dr. John Whittaker. The Poems in _The Anti-Jacobin_ were not exclusively political, and the following is a list of all that can be properly termed Parodies, omitting only those which have already been included in the collection of Parodies on Southey.

_La Sainte Guillotine_, a new song attempted from the French.
(_Tune_――“O’er the vine-covered hills and gay regions of
France.”)

_The Progress of Man_, a Didactic poem. Written to ridicule Mr.
R. Payne Knight’s _The Progress of Civil Society_, a Didactic
Poem.

_Chevy Chase_, a parody founded upon the Duke of Northumberland’s
attempt to evade the payment of Income Tax.

_The Loves of the Triangles_, a parody of Dr. Darwin’s _Loves of
the Plants_.

_Brissot’s Ghost_, a parody on Glover’s Ballad of _Admiral
Hosier’s Ghost_.

_Ode to Jacobinism_, a political parody of Gray’s _Hymn to
Adversity_.

_The Jacobin_, a political skit, written in imitation of
Southey’s Sapphics, but not so good as the examples already
quoted, and dealing with obsolete facts and forgotten
individuals.

_Ode to a Jacobin_, in imitation of Suckling’s _Ode to a Lover_.

_The Anti-Jacobin_ also contained several humorous imitations of Horace, and a burlesque play, founded on some German dramas, translations of which were then being performed in England to the detriment, and discouragement of English dramatists. The greater portion of this amusing work was written by Canning, it was entitled “_The Rovers; or, the Double Arrangement_,” and has passages which parody _The Robbers_, and several other plays by Schiller: _Stella_ by Goethe, and _Count Benyowsky, or, the Conspiracy of Kamschatka_.

THE ROVERS.

The second scene of the first act contains the gem of the burlesque. It opens thus:――

_Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of
Quedlinburgh with coffins, escutcheons, death’s heads, and
cross-bones,――toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen
traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.――ROGERO appears, in
chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a
cap of a grotesque form upon his head――beside him a crock, or
pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of
sustenance.――A long silence, during which the wind is heard to
whistle through the caverns.――ROGERO rises, and comes slowly
forward, with his arms folded._

ROGERO. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first
immured in this living sepulchre, the cruelty of a Minister――the
perfidy of a Monk――yes, Matilda! for thy sake――alive amidst the
dead――chained――coffined――confined――cut off from the converse of
my fellowmen. Soft! what have we here? (_stumbles over a bundle
of sticks._) Oh! the register of my captivity. Let me see; how
stands the account? Eleven years and fifteen days!――Hah! the
twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate
on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my
Matilda. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her
more.… Soft, what air was that! it seems a sound of more than
human warblings. Again, (_listens attentively for some minutes._)
Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that
melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my
captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not
yet injured my guitar.

(_Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air_,
_with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.
Air, Lanterna Magica._

SONG.
_By Rogero._

I.

Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen――
-niversity of Gottingen.

(_Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds_――

II.

Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!――
Alas! Matilda _then_ was true!
At least I thought so at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.

_At the repetition of this line_, ROGERO _clanks his chains in cadence_.

III.

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat, post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish’d at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen
-niversity of Gottingen.

IV.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many――they were few
When first I entered at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.

V.

There first, for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.

VI.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doom’d to starve on water gru-
-el, never shall I see the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!
-niversity of Gottingen.

_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music continuing to play till it is wholly fallen._

There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “_Anti-Jacobin_” writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen, and composed the last stanza on the spot. As the song has been so frequently parodied any detail connected with it is interesting, and it may be remarked that Mr. Pitt fell into a grave error in describing _Rogero_ as doomed to starve on water gruel, for in the previous scene the waiter mentions that he had just conveyed the usual dinner to the prisoner in the vaults, namely, pease-soup, with the scrag end of a neck of mutton.

――――

A NEW GOTTINGEN BALLAD.

Oxford and Cambridge, sisters two,
With prejudice begotten in,
Your tassell’d Commoners[90] should embue
Their minds, with knowledge from the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!

Johnson and Milton ye can show,
Or tell the graves they’re rotting in;
But what are they to Kotzebue,
Who studied morals at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?

Hyde-Park, that aristocrats, with new
Buckskins and boots, are trotting in,
Boast you the philosophy true,
Subliming mankind at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?

Ah! no; your ring, where men in du-
-els go for to be shotten in,
Can boast no slaughters like the su-
-icides, that happens at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!

Commons and Lords, where _buff_ and _blue_
Now seem to be forgotten in,
Ye want a thorough _revolu-
-tion_, and the system of the U-
-niversity of Gottingen!

Halls of the city, that the crew
Of traders are begotten in,
I’d share your fatt’ning revenue
With _literati_ at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen?

O! people banking base, and _bou-
-tiquière_, that are so hot in gain,
O! learn the doctrine of commu-
-nity of goods, and send yours to
The doctors meek of _Gottingen_!

From _The Morning Herald_, 1802.

――――

SONG.

Whene’er with aching eyes I view
The troublers of the nation,
I find them one conspiring crew
The BRIDGE STREET GANG――the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

Slop’s venom, of high _Tory_ blue,
The Stuart royal fashion,
In secret gave the poison to
The daggers of the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

Forth from his SLOP-PAIL swift he flew,
In dread of moderation,
Assassin’s knives to cowards threw,
And called the GANG the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

I, who when wild his _curses_ flew,
Gave him his appellation,
Would force him into light, in du-
-ty to unmask his CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

Against me if his SLOP-PAIL brew,
For that high designation,
I spurn his SLOP-PAIL, spurn him too,
And scorn his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

Until a fouler opportu-
-nity a filthier still occasion
He’ll empty his dirty SLOP-PAIL gru-
-el, through his sink-hole CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

But should he shrink from public view,
Or skulk with mean evasion,
I’ll lash the knave with all his crew――
SLOP and his GANG, the CONSTITU-
-TIONAL _Association_.
-TIONAL _Association_.

From _Hone’s Facetiæ and Miscellanies_. _A Slap at Slop_ by William Hone, with illustrations by G. Cruikshank. _London_, 1822.

The allusions to Dr. Slop, (Dr. John Stoddart,) and the _Constitutional Association_, or Bridge Street Gang, have already been explained in reference to _A New Vision of Judgment_. (See page 177.)

――――

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY.

In 1826 a party who believed that the home and university plan of education which prevails in Scotland, was much better than the college and university education of Oxford or Cambridge, made Lord Brougham and Mr. Charles Knight their spokesmen, and declared they would have a university within reach of their own homes. A joint-stock company was formed, and the place in Gower Street was opened on October 1, 1828, under the name of the “London University.” One very prominent feature in the prospectus was that there should be perfect religious freedom within the university. The scheme met with much opposition and ridicule, Theodore Hook dubbed the place “Stinkomalee,” and R. Harris Barham, the author of the Ingoldsby Legends, satirised it in the following amusing parody:――

SONG.[91]

Whene’er, with pitying eye I view,
Each operative sot in town,
I smile to think how wondrous few
Get drunk who study at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

What precious fools “The People” grew.
Their _alma mater_ not in town;
The “useful classes” hardly knew
Four was composed of two, and two,
Until they learned it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

But now they’re taught by JOSEPH HU-
-ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town,
Their _items_ and their _tottles_ too;
Each may dissect his sister Sue,
From his instructions at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

Then L――――E comes, like him how few
Can caper and can trot in town,
In _pirouette_, or _pas de deux_――
He beats the famed _Monsieur Giroux_,
And teaches dancing at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

And GILCHRIST,[92] see, that great Geentoo――
Professor, has a lot in town
Of cockney boys who fag Hindoo,
And _larn Jem-nastics_ at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

SAM ROGERS,[93] corpse of vampire hue,
Comes from its grave to rot in town;
For Bays the dead bards’ crowned with yew,
And chants, the Pleasures of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town!
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

FRANK JEFFREY,[94] of the Scotch Review,――
Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,
Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue
And yellow, damns the other two,
But lauds the ever glorious U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

Great BIRKBECK,[95] king of chips and glue,
Who paper oft does blot in town,
From the Mechanics’ Institu-
-tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw,
Lever and axle at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

LORD WAITHMAN,[96] who long since withdrew
From Mansion House to cot in town;
Adorn’d with chair of ormulu,
All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo,
Lectures on _Free Trade_ at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

Fat F――――, with his cost of blue,
Who speeches makes so hot in town,
In rhetoric, spells his lectures through,
And sounds the V for W,
The _vay they speaks_ it at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

Then H――――E comes, who late at New-
gate Market, sweetest spot in town!
Instead of one clerk, popp’d in two,
To make a place for his ne-phew,
Seeking another at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

There’s Captain ROSS, a traveller true,
Has just presented, what in town――
――’s an article of great _virtu_
(The telescope he once peep’d through,
And ’spied an Exquimaux canoe
On Croker Mountains), to the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew,
Where Whigs might eat and plot in town,
And swill his port, and mischief brew――
Poor Creevy sips his water gru-
-el as the beadle of the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town!

There’s JERRY BENTHAM.[97] and his crew,
Names ne’er to be forgot in town,
In swarms like Banquo’s long is-sue――
Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew,
Come trooping on to join the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

To crown the whole with triple queue
Another such there’s not in town,
Twitching his restless nose askew,
Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH-[98]
AM! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town――
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

_Grand Chorus_:

Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH-
AM! law professor at the U-
-niversity we’ve Got in town,
-niversity we’ve Got in town.

――――

PENNY POSTAGE.

The Penny Postage commenced on January 10, 1840. The following
parody was issued during the same month.

THE UNIVERSAL PENNY POSTAGE.

From universal suffrage some
Say every blessing’s sure to come,
As clear as one and one make two;
But others say it’s all a hum,
And there’s no blessing like the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

Of all the penn’orths Nature gave――
A penny show, a penny shave,
There’s blacking for a penny too,
A penny biscuit――all must waive
Their claims in favour of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

For all things now there’s some new way――
To write, to seal, to fold, to pay;
And you must talk in idioms new,
And when you mean Post-paid must say,
“Prepaid,” by order of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

If aught’s _not_ new the wonder’s great,
The tables are so turned of late,
E’en useful tables, though so true:
Your half-ounce makes one _penny-weight_,
According to the school of U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

Who’d think our great authorities
Would do a thing so (penny) wise?
(Pound foolish things we know they do!)
How now in history they’ll rise!――
The Government that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

Oh, Rowland Hill, immortal man,
How can we pay you for your plan!
To _you_ our thanks, our pence are due;
It was the Emperor of Japan
As much as _they_ that gave the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.

Send up a column to the sky,
Five thousand office inkstands high;
Take for a basement fair to view,
As many reams of “wove demy”;
Write――“To the author of the U-
-niversal Penny Postage.”

ANONYMOUS.

――――

SONG.

_Sung by Dodge-ero_ (COLONEL T-YL-R) _in the Burlesque Play of “The Reform Rovers.”_

It is a most provoking do!
To think that I was potting ’em――
The guileless DILLWYN and his crew,
When who should twig us but the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

(_Weeps and pulls out a true blue Reform bill. Gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds_――

Sweet Measure! checks of truest blue
They soon had found garotting ’em,
If they had helped to pass you through,
Without detection by the hu-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

(_At each repetition of this line Dodge-ero cracks his whip in cadence._)

Bah! Bah! As RAREY trotted Crui-
ser, I was calmly trotting ’em,
When, hang it! who should enter――who?
But that confounded pest――the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

The very form, in which they drew
My words up, clearly spotting ’em,
He offered to the House as scrU-
-tineers――he did indeed, the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

My eyes! (with soda corks, it’s true,
I have a way of dotting ’em
At awkward times)――a rare to-do
Was thus created by the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

And since they can’t escape the crU-
-el sentence he’s alloting ’em,
Their only chance is to abU-
-se, and heap strong terms upon the hU-
-morous M.P. for Nottingham――
-morous M.P. for Nottingham.

(_During the last stanza Dodge-ero perceives that he has run his head against a wall, so hard as to produce a visible confusion. The curtain drops._)

_Fun_, April 27, 1867.

――――

THE ORATOR’S SONG.
“_Glory, Glory, to the Union._”

My years are many――they were few
(The flight of time immense is)
My cap and gown were both brand new
When first a member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

A Literal _then_ of deepest hue
(_Now_ Time’s restored my senses)
My jokes were old, my facts were few
When first a speaker at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

I’d done myself, as others do
In railing at th’ expenses,
Yet thought such criticism stu-
pid when the Treasurer at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

And still with pride I can review
How I sternly fined offences,
And rigorously enforced them too
When I was President at the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

What fights from those old frescoes grew,
They drove us into frenzies,
Whether their charms should shine anew,
Or, whitewashed, vanish from the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

When first my beard and whiskers grew
(A Bachelor in all senses)
I’m afraid I swaggered――(so would you,)
An hon’rary member of the U-
-nion Oxoniensis,
-nion Oxoniensis.

Ah, me, perhaps those days I view
Thro’ gaudy-tinted lenses,
Yet, sad, I bid my last adieu
To all thy well-known rooms, O, U-
-nion Oxoniensis.
-nion Oxoniensis.

From _The Shotover Papers_, or Echoes from Oxford. March 1874.

The “Union” is a well known Club for Oxford Students, having reading and smoking rooms, a good library, and a debating room, in which some of our finest public speakers have made their maiden efforts. The frescoes above referred to were painted in 1857 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and are, unfortunately, rapidly fading away.

There was another Oxford parody of this song in “_Diogenes_” for July, 1853, entitled _The Oxford Installation Ode_. The celebrities to whom it alluded are now all dead, and the parody is quite out of date.

――――

THE PLEA OF PADDINGTON.

The Board of Works, a thrifty crew,
Oppose in cold, heart-sadding tone,
The Park! Ah! Bumble may pooh-pooh,
But “Let us have it!” is the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.

_Non possumus_? Nay, that won’t do!
Pray drop official fadding tone!
Builderdom’s selfish bosh eschew,
And listen kindly to the U-
-niversal cry of Paddington.

Asphyxia on our Town, too true,
Weighs yet in many a madding ton;
Give us another “lung,” pray do,
Is now the hearty, ardent U-
-niversal plea of Paddington.

Are Cockney souls as dull of hue
As Babylon’s pervading tone?
“Let’s look upon the heavenly blue
From one more vantage,” is the U-
-niversal wish of Paddington.

Posterity, on its turf pursue-
-ing pleasant sports, in gladding tone
Will bless the foresight, wise and true,
Which _timely_ listened to the U-
-niversal prayer of Paddington.

_Punch_, February 11, 1882.

――――

A SONG OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.

“The Association was founded to elucidate the economical and moral principles on which the Constitution of Society should be based, and to influence, by the light of those principles, the course of future legislation.”――Mr. G. W. HASTINGS, M.P., _in his Address at the Opening of the 25th Annual Meeting of the Social Science Congress, in the new Lecture Hall of the University at Nottingham_.

If “principles” are “nuts” to you,
And promptly you’d be spotting ’em,
Best take a turn, Sir, at the new
Big lecture-rooms that grace the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

There Blues orate till all is blue,
(Knights and M.P.’s “big-potting” ’em)
If you the social maze would view,
They’ll guide you through it at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

Twenty-five years since first they blew
Big Guns, Lord Brougham shotting ’em,
And now there’s nothing new or true
But they’ll bang at you――at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

If you would dish the Landlord crew,
By laws, _without_ Boycotting ’em,
The Settled Land Act’s action scru-
-tinise as pictured at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

If you’d rejoice in skies of blue,
With no big chimneys blotting ’em,
You’ll probably learn what to do
By patient listening at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

If you tight-lacing would eschew,
See girls with “bags” _culotte_-ing ’em,
Or “dual garmenture,” why few
Subjects more “fetch” them at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

You’d learn how Women’s rights first grew,
And how Man shirked allotting ’em,
On all such questions they’ll adju-
-dicate serenely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

Our Social Factors you’d review,
And learn the art of “totting” ’em?
Bless you! Statistics stiff are stu-
-diously fed on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

Facts about drains, the Workman’s “screw,”
Girls’ boots, would you be jotting ’em?
They’ll stuff you with enough to ru-
-minate for years on at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

Would you the World of Hobbies view,
Behold their riders trotting ’em,
_That_ Universe they will elu-
-cidate completely at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

Battle of Hastings! Pun, Sir? Pooh!
Poor wags are always plotting ’em.
Yet twenty-five years’ war, ’tis true,
Culminates _this_ year at the U-
-niversity at Nottingham!

_Punch_, October 7, 1882.

Algernon Charles Swinburne
ON
MR. GLADSTONE AND HOME RULE.

During the recent election _The Times_ newspaper was strongly opposed to Mr. Gladstone’s policy, and on July 1, 1886, it published a poem by A. C. Swinburne, entitled “_The Commonweal_” to which it thus solemnly drew attention in its leading article:――

“None can accuse Mr. Swinburne of sympathy with oppression,
or with failure to champion the cause of struggling
nationalities. But he is clear-sighted enough to see on
which side in this struggle lie the great interests of human
liberty, and the vigorous poem which we print to-day from
his pen is a worthy contribution to the battle now being
waged. “See the man of words embrace the man of
blood”――points an alliance which English Liberals may well
blush to acknowledge; and an appeal to all that is sound in
this nation cannot better end than in Mr. Swinburne’s
words:――

“Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation,
“Answer, England, man by man, from sea to sea!”

THE COMMONWEAL.
A Song for Unionists.

1.

Men, whose fathers braved the world in arms against our isles in
union,
Men, whose brothers met rebellion face to face,
Shew the hearts ye have, if worthy long descent and high communion,
Shew the spirits, if unbroken, of your race.

2.

What are these that howl and hiss across the strait of westward
water,
What is he who floods our ears with speech in flood;
See the long tongue lick the dripping hand that smokes and reeks
of slaughter!
See the man of words embrace the man of blood!

3.

Hear the plea whereby the tonguester mocks and charms the gazing
gaper――
“We are they whose works are works of love and peace;
Till disunion bring forth union, what is union, Sirs, but paper?
Break and rend it, then shall trust and strength increase.”

4.

Who would fear to trust a double-faced but single-hearted dreamer,
Pure of purpose, clean of hand, and clear of guile?
“Life is well-nigh spent,” he sighs, “you call me shuffler,
trickster, schemer?
I am old――when young men yell at me, I smile.”

5.

Many a year that priceless light of life has trembled, we remember,
On the platform of extinction――unextinct;
Many a month has been for him the long year’s last――life’s calm
December:
Can it be that he who said so, saying so, winked?

6.

No: the lust of life, the thirst for work and days with work to
do in,
Drove and drives him down the road of splendid shame;
All is well, if o’er the monument recording England’s ruin
Time shall read, inscribed in triumph, Gladstone’s name.

7.

Thieves and murderers, hands yet red with blood and tongues yet
black with lies,
Clap and clamour――“God for Gladstone and Parnell!”
Truth, unscared and undeluded by their praise or blame, replies――
“Is the gaol of fraud and bloodshed heaven or hell?”

8.

Old men eloquent, who truckle to the traitors of the time,
Love not office――power is no desire of theirs:
What if yesterday their hearts recoiled from blood and fraud and
crime?
Conscience erred――an error which to-day repairs.

9.

Conscience only now convinces them of strange though transient
error:
Only now they see how fair is treason’s face;
See how true the falsehood, just the theft, and blameless is the
terror,
Which replaces just and blameless men in place.

10.

Place and time decide the right and wrong of thought and word and
action;
Crime is black as hell, till virtue gain its vote;
Then――but ah, to think or say so smacks of fraud or smells of
faction:――
Mercy holds the door while Murder hacks the throat.

11.

Murder? Treason? Theft? Poor brothers who succumb to such
temptations,
Shall we lay on you or take on us the blame?
Reason answers, and religion echoes round to wondering nations,
“Not with Ireland, but with England rests the shame.”

12.

Reason speaks through mild religion’s organ, loud and long and
lusty――
Profit speaks through lips of patriots pure and true――
“English friends, whose trust we ask for, has not England found
us trusty?
Not for us we seek advancement, but for you.

13.

“Far and near the world bears witness of our wisdom, courage,
honour;
Egypt knows if there our fame burns bright or dim.
Let but England trust as Gordon trusted, soon shall come upon her
Such deliverance as our daring brought on him.

14.

“Far and wide the world rings record of our faith, our constant
dealing,
Love of country, truth to friends, contempt for foes.
Sign once more the bond of trust in us that here awaits but
sealing,
We will give yet more than all our record shows.

15.

“Perfect ruin, shame eternal, everlasting degradation,
Freedom bought and sold, truth bound and treason free”
Yet an hour is here for answer; now, if here be yet a nation,
Answer, England, man by man from sea to sea!

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
June 30, 1886.
_The Times_, July 1, 1886.

――――

The next day _The Daily News_, which was in favor of Mr. Gladstone’s policy of Home Rule for Ireland, published a parody of the poem, and, in one of its articles, alluded to Mr. Swinburne in the following terms of reproach:――

“Every topic of prejudice is being urged by the opponents of
Home Rule. All the sins of the Irish people, all the errors
of their leaders, are being daily enumerated by critics who
have made it their business to stir up international hatred
between the two countries as the best means of consolidating
union. The latest ally of the Tories is a red republican,
who happens also to be the foulest-mouthed and
foulest-minded poet of the age. Mr. Swinburne is alleged by
Mr. Theodore Watts to be a man of genius, and he has
unquestionably a marvellous command of rhythmical and
sonorous verse. But the words in which he attacks Mr.
Gladstone are faint and feeble when compared with the
language in which he has previously inveighed against
Christianity, morality, and Almighty God.”

THE OLD CAUSE.
A Counterblast.

1.

Men, whose fathers did most grievous wrong in ignorance and
blindness,
Men whose brothers wrought our Commonweal’s disgrace,
Show the hearts ye have, if holding honour high and human
kindness,
Show the courage, conscience-guided, of your race.

2.

What are these that shriek and shout against the resolute
wrong-righter?
What is he that sets their wrath to tuneful chimes?
See the lyric tongue swift tripping aid the furious party fighter!
See the men of wrath embrace the man of rhymes!

3.

Hear the plea whereby the poet helps the swaggering patriot-aper――
“We are they whose fathers never failed in fight.”
And the clamour of the Club-room and the prating of the Paper
Hail the vain and vapid vaunting with delight.

4.

Who will care to hear the poet when he turns a parrot screamer?
At the party Yahoo’s yelling men may smile,
But the fieriest Muse must sigh when the fine and fluent dreamer
Stoops like rancorous Lord Randolph to revile.

5.

What, _you_ echo the coarse railings of the rude and rabid rabble,
Who cackle, and calumniate, and curse?
_You_ drape their silly slander and their base insulting babble
With the brave, dishonoured vesture of your verse?

6.

Many a year your Muse has fulminated fiercely, we remember,
Against tyrants. Is that righteous rage extinct?
How you smote the scourge of Italy, the false Man of December!
Can it be that he who did so, doing so, winked?

7.

No: the lust of right, the thirst for noble freedom, Sir, live
in you,
Splendid brighteners of the splendour of your fame.
All is well with that; but wherefore should the scurril chorus
win you
To cast dust upon another noble name?

8.

It is stale and slanderous fustian, all this talk of “blood” and
“lies,”
Clap-trap clamour that ’tis poor of you to swell.
Leave carrion to the crows, Sir, and putrescence to the flies,
Our goal is one――what need to rage and yell?

9.

Old men eloquent may err, and are poets safe from error?
All hearts recoil from blood, and fraud, and crime;
But to say that we to traitors mean to truckle, and from terror,
Is plain falsehood, whether put in prose or rhyme.

10.

When tyranny makes traitors then the tyrant’s plea is “treason!”
We through love would make men loyal to just law,
Our means _may_ be ill-chosen, but our aim is right and reason,
An Union without gyves but without flaw.

11.

The Commonweal? Go to, Sir! We all love it, in our fashion,
He most whom you mistakenly malign;
Not with fiery patriot vauntings or with wild hysteric passion,
But with justice, which we deem yet more divine.

12.

If we differ――let us differ, but like gentlemen and brothers,
And fight the fight out fairly to the end,
These Isles shall bear our children, as they bare our sires and
mothers;
Where lives the traitor-fool who’s not their friend?

13.

Not in our shapes, Sir Singer, nor in his whom you bespatter
With too stale slime, but whom we love and trust.
He traitor, trickster, coward? Well, let time decide the matter;
Our hearts are hot, but history’s cool and just.

14.

O “man of words”――and wild ones――“men of blood,” by sorrow
maddened,
Have made the task we toil at sorely hard;
Yet must we toil unhalting, though unaided and ungladdened
By the Song of England’s tyrant-scourging bard.

15.

Such causes long are championed amidst slander, shame, and
sorrow,
But ever to one issue. Well know we,
Heard by our ears to-day or by other ears to-morrow,
Our England’s “Aye!” shall ring from sea to sea!

_The Daily News_, July 2, 1886.

――――

THE COMMON SQUEAL.
A Song for Shriekers.

I.

Men, whose fathers lied, and tricked, and bribed to bring about
the Union,
Men, whose brothers at the Music Hall grimace,
I will show you that the Poet with your spirits own communion,
I will show you that the Bard is of your race.

II.

What are those that shriek and squeal against the Isle across the
water.
What is he that crams our ears with patriot cant?
See the lyrist lick the party hack at breathing fire and slaughter?
See the man of rhymes embrace the man of rant?

III.

Here the plea whereby the Poet apes, and charms, the Penny Paper――
“We are they whose works sensationally shine,
I was ever good at curses, Victor Hugo I’ll out-vapour,
And if there is a scurril tongue ’tis mine.”

IV.

Who would fear to back the Poet as a double-barrelled screamer,
Pure of morals, clean of language, free from bile?
Do you want old Gladstone scarified, the sanguinary schemer?
_I_ will show you how to slander and revile.

(_Does so in nine violent verses, savage and scathing, but scarcely suited for publication._)

* * * * *

XIV.

There! That cuts every record in the way of party squealing,
That’s the style to pelt and pulverise your foes.
You thought Lord Randolph rabid, but this comes as a revealing,
And there’s lots more where it comes from――verse or prose.

XV.

Perfect rancour, wrath eternal, everlasting objurgation,
Freedom? Yes, I’ve always praised it, and may be
It may do for France or Italy. But that curst Irish nation?――
Rather slay them man by man from sea to sea!

_Punch_, July 10, 1886.

――――

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.
PRIZE POEM.

Men, whose fathers went to battle hounded on by bards and singers,
Deafened by loud cymbals and the sounding drum,
Show your spirit now, if any trace of courage in you lingers;
Something worse than all these evils now has come.

Who is this most dreary driveller, rowdy ranter, prating poet?
Whence comes all this filthy flood of nasty rhyme?
See the tongue that talked of truth so steeped in lies that none
may know it;
See the man of poesy besmeared with slime.

Quarrelling cats upon your housetop, cocks and hens in your back
garden.
Dogs that in the silent midnight bay the moon,
Next-door neighbour’s cracked piano, wild excursionists to
Hawarden,
Are a sweet relief compared with this man’s tune.

Perfect nonsense, utter rubbish, everlasting shameless drivel,
Still to some it sounds like truth. To you and me
There’s still time to kill the slander, put to shame the lying
devil;
Spitting venom o’er our land from sea to sea.

A. WHALLEY.

Highly commended:――

THE COMMON SQUEAL: A SONG FOR THE SLEEPLESS.

What are these that scream and squeal upon the roof of this,
my dwelling?
Who are they who flood my ears with nightly squall?
See the tabby join the horrid band that sets the neighbours
yelling――
See Grimalkin lord it grimly over all!

Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel
“Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace.
Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable?
When I use it――then shall hope of sleep increase!”

Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby,
Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw?
“Night is well-nigh spent,” I cry; “you vote me cruel, tricksy,
shabby?
I am riled and will not give you any law!”

Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember,
On my housetops and my neighbour’s in the town;
Many a time I’ve blazed at him――the fell band’s grey and grizzled
member――
But, unluckily, I’ve never brought him down!

F. B. DOVETON.
From _The Weekly Dispatch_, July 18, 1886.

――――

George Gordon, Lord Byron,

_Born January_ 22, 1788. _Died April_ 19, 1824.