Chapter XXVIII: Canto THE SEVENTH (2)

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade――
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine――
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

BYRON.

――――

MEDITATIONS BY A DESPAIRING ANGLER.

The Isle of Eels! The Isle of Eels!
Where Mrs. Hopkins dined and sung;
Where first (as this seared heart reveals),
My passion for the Widow sprung!
The pies are good, and so’s the ale――
But all to me is flat and stale!

Where Richmond looks on Teddington,
In patient guise I threw my line;
And fishing there (and catching none)
I dreamt, that she might still be mine:
For, dressed in Doudney’s light gambroon,
I could not deem myself a spoon.

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!――
We will not think on this here theme;
Nor for the charming Widow pine;
Others may yet _more charming_ seem.
More charming? Ah, it cannot be――
Her _equal_ never made the tea!

Fill high the glass with ginger wine!――
On Richmond’s bridge, or Twit’nam’s shore,
Oft had I held my rod and line,――
But never had a bite before!
There was a downright tug that day;――
But ah! he tugged, and swam away!

And where is he? And where art thou,
My widow? At the Angler’s heart
_Thou_ gav’st one mighty tug, and now
Art fled――but hast received no smart!
Such loss would sure a Stoic move――
My only fish! My only love!

Place me on Railton’s stunted post[114]
(Queer pedestal for France’s Fear);
And fishing there with Nelson’s Ghost,
I’m sure I’d catch as much as here!
Doudney and line no more be mine――
Dash down――no, don’t――that ginger wine!

_Punch_, 1844.

――――

THE SMILES OF PEACE.

The Smiles of Peace, the Smiles of Peace,
By Foreign need from England wrung,
Have bid the cannon’s war-shout cease,
The Thanks be said, the Anthem sung:
But there is that (besides our Debt)
Which English hearts should not forget.

It was not, surely, to amuse
The gossip’s hour of Club dispute,
We sat down daily to peruse
Those tales from Camp, where man and brute
Alike endured the sternest test
That ever crushed our brave, our best.

Disraeli looks on Palmerston,
And Palmerston on Mr. D.,
And in debates that last till one
They taunt each other skilfully;
But there be questions far too grave
To edge a mere debater’s glaive.

Ten thousand men of fearless brow,
On lips they loved laid parting kiss――
O, titled soldiers! answer how
A needless Death has claimed them his.
They went, one well-remembered day――
Some few brief months, and where were they?

What! silent still, and silent all?
O no, the damning charge is read――
Even now, in Chelsea’s trophied Hall,
The judges sit, the scrolls are spread,
And haughty blunderers blustering come――
Unknown the shame that makes men dumb.

In vain, in vain accuse those Lords,
All Lords are right, by right divine,
No, gild anew their tarnished swords,
And let bereft plebeians whine:
You ask for proof of soldier’s skill――
How vaunts each bungling Bobadil!

You’ve Lord John Russell’s lectures yet,
Where’s William Russell’s teaching gone:
Of two such lessons, why forget
The bolder and the manlier one?
You have the letters William gave
Think you he meant them for a Shave?

Trust not men who lodge in banks
The price of swords your System sells;
Seek, in the people’s healthier ranks
The fire that no disaster quells;
But slang Routine, and jobbing Fraud
Will break your back, however broad.

Along Pall-Mall a martial line!
Our Life-Guards ride with helm and blade.
I see each glittering cuirass shine,
But, gazing on the gay parade,
I own a wish to bite my nails,
To think such horses ate their tails.

Her lofty place would England keep
In Europe’s none too loving eye,
She’d make one grand and final sweep
Of all her System’s pedantry.[115]
But no――she bows by right divine.
Dash dumb that Punch’s impious shine!

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856.

――――

IN VINO VERITAS.

The wines of Greece! the wines of Greece!
(T’was thus a Shambro’ merchant sung)
It gives the tortured mind no peace,
To think that Britons, old and young,
Their Port and Sherry can forget,
For Santorin, or mount Hymett.

* * * * *

Fill high the vat with Shambro’ wine!
We will not think on themes like these
Let’s call the mixture Sherry fine,
Or any other name they please.
Rebuke not, friends, the buyer’s voice:
Who pays his cash should take his choice.

_Punch_, October 7, 1865.

――――

THE ILLS OF GREECE.

The ills of Greece, the ills of Greece,
By glowing GLADSTONE warmly sung!
Lord B. brought honour back with peace,
And Greece aside is coolly flung,
For wider boundaries yearning yet,
Which don’t she wish that she may get?

Vague promise might awhile amuse,
Make her for fight less resolute;
Now help or counsel we refuse,
And even sympathy is mute.
We’ve urgent bothers East and West,
And Greece’s claims may be――well, blest!

* * * * *

Fill high the bowl with Cyprus wine!
Hang hopes of nationalities!
The SULTAN’S much more in our line,
He serves some schemes of cute Lord B’s.
A tyrant?――well, perhaps; but then
He plays our game, my countrymen!

_Punch_, April 26, 1879.

――――

MUSICAL NOTES.
(_On the Claims of Greece._)

I.

The claims of Greece! the claims of Greece!
Which burning Byron boldly sung,
When in that land were few police
And robbers every day were swung,
Eternal humbug gilds you yet
And all against you dead are set.

II.

Lo! the _Dispatch_, the _Daily News_,
Charles Dilke, with many a gay recruit,
Have told how Greece the Powers abuse;
And even Fleet Street is not mute
To sounds which echo with more zest
At Rooms of Willis in the West.

III.

Charles Dilke, he looked at Lord Lansdowne――
Lansdowne, he looked at Rosebery――
And sitting there in study brown
They passed the bottle rather free;
Then sang o’er “dead men’s” _empty_ graves,
“Greeks never, never, shall be slaves!”

* * * * *
(Five verses omitted.)

_The Sporting Times_, June 14, 1879.

――――

The following lines were quoted by Mr. G. A. Sala, in the _Illustrated London News_, 24 May, 1879, _apropos_ of a meeting held at Willis’s Rooms, in favour of the claims of Greece to the Treaty rights promised at Berlin:――

The Claims of Greece! The claims of Greece!
Which Dilke declared and Roseb’ry sung,
Which Dizzy in his Berlin Peace,
To the Greek Kalends coolly flung.
Eternal Moonshine gilds them yet,
And moonshine’s all they’ll ever get!

――――

THE AISLES OF ROME.

I.

The aisles of Rome! the aisles of Rome!
Where burning censers oft are swung,
Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome,
Where banners sway and mass is sung――
In Papal Sees these aisles have place,
But English churches they disgrace.

II.

The vestments, many-hued and quaint,
The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope,
The prayers to Virgin and to saint――
These are for them who serve the Pope:
Shame! that such mummeries besmirch
The ritual of the English Church!

III.

I took the train to Farringdon,
From Farringdon I walked due E.;
And musing there an hour alone,
I scarce could think such things could be.
At Smithfield――scene of martyrs slain――
I could not deem they died in vain.

IV.

And is it so? and can it be,
My country? Is what we deplore
Aught but a phase of idiocy?
Is England Protestant no more?
Is she led captive by a man――
The dotard of the Vatican?

V.

Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush?――our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our martyred dead!
Of all the hundreds grant but three
To fight anew Mackonochie.

From _Jon Duan_, by the authors of _The Coming K――――_ and
_The Siliad_. Weldon and Co., London, 1874.

Another imitation of the same original commencing――

“The isles decrease, the isles decrease,
The last fog-signal now has rung,”

occurs in _Faust and Phisto_, Beeton’s Christmas Annual for 1876, but it has no literary interest, nor merit as a parody.

――――

THE CLAIMS OF GREECE.

The Claims of Greece! The Claims of Greece!
No doubt Miss SAPPHO loved and sung,
But how can Europe keep the peace,
The wily Greek and Turk among:
Eternal summer may be there,
But noise of war is in the air.

The nations look on Marathon,
And wonder sometimes will there be
A fight like that which erst went on
Between the mountains and the sea:
Where Turk and Greek may find a grave,
If neither party will behave.

A BISMARCK sat with furrowed brow,
And scanned the Treaty of Berlin,
Quoth he, “There’ll be a fearful row,
My interference must begin.
We’ll arbitrate.” He spoke, when lo!
Both Greece and Turkey answered “No!”

“Trust not for freedom to the Franks,”
Was BYRON’S sage remark to Greece
He bids the Hellenes close their ranks,
Their only hope for full release.
They’ve ta’en his counsel it would seem;
Yet surely ’tis an idle dream?

“Fill the high bowl with Samian wine,”
Whatever Samian wine may be;
And still let Grecian temples shine,
Be Greece inviolate and free:
But ne’er shall European peace
Be broken for the claims of Greece!

_Punch_, January 29, 1881.

――――

NICE IN MAY 1874.

“The town of Nice! the town of Nice!
Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung
And never gave man any peace,
The whole year round, when he was young!
Eternal winter chills it yet;
It’s always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sat on the rocky brow
Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis;
But wouldn’t like to sit there now,
Unless ’twere warmer than it is.
I went to Cannes the other day,
But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco,
And Monaco looks on the sea
And, playing their some hours ago,
I meant to win enormously;
But, though my need of coin was bad
I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the Southern charges yet
Where is the Southern climate gone
Of two such blessings, why forget
The cheaper and the better one?
My weekly bill my wrath inspires;
Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? no worse art thou,
My country! On the genial shore
The local east winds whistle now,
The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny South the weather
Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat――I cannot sleep――
The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty brown, and so’s the sky.
I get dyspepsia when I dine――
Oh, dash that pint of country wine!”

This parody appeared in _Temple Bay_ for March 1886, in a paper entitled _Humours of Travel_ by Herman Merivale, but it had previously been printed in a volume entitled “_The White Pilgrim, and other Poems_” by the same author, and published by Chapman and Hall, London 1883.

――――

THE SMILES OF PEACE.

The smiles of Peace, the smiles of Peace,
Which Gladstone in Midlothian sung!
A song we hope may never cease
Though Jingoes yell, with blatant tongue,
To fight――not for themselves, you bet!
And howl for blood, and――“Heavy Wet!”

We look up to the Grand Old Man,
And he looks out upon the sea
Of stormy politics, which can
Be still’d by none so well as he!
For standing at the Nation’s helm,
He safely guides the British Realm.

Fill high the bowl with Gladstone wine――
The sunny purple wine he gave――
Let fame and Bacchus round him twine
The wreaths that crown the good and brave!
His solid worth the nation rules,
Though worried by bombastic fools.

Trust not to Tories for a peace――
They have a chief who longs for war,
Let tax and income tax increase.
Pay! ’tis what we’re created for,
Better to fight, and glory win,
Than hoard a pile of useless “tin.”

Keep firm on Ministerial height
He who nor man nor nation fears――
He who seeks peace, yet fears not fight――
Whose strength and knowledge come with years――
Who knows that peace on earth’s divine!
Here’s Gladstone’s health in Gladstone wine!

_Funny Folks_ May 23, 1885.

――――

RENOUNCE THE PAPER UNION CREED.

The Liberal seats! the Liberal seats!
That we in ’eighty proudly won!
Whence――while we suffered few defeats――
We saw the Stupid Party run!
Again we fight these borough’s, yet
Nothing, except disgrace, we get!

The Unionist and Tory crews,
Led on, alas! by honest Bright,
Have gained the day; and men refuse
To vote the Grand Old Chieftain right,
Save in the Island of the West,
Where scarce a Tory dares contest.

The Liberals look to Chamberlain,
And Chamberlain looks sour and glum;
Yet, seeing what he had to gain,
We’d hoped that Joseph round would come.
For, gazing back upon his past,
We could not think his――spleen?――would last.

The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where
He’d nobly worked for fifty years;
He saw the Liberals crowded there,
And heard with joy their hearty cheers.
He looked at them one winter’s day――
And in the summer――where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou,
O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age
The heroic task comes harder now;
Soon must thou quit “the ungrateful stage.”
And must thy part, praised in all lands,
Degenerate into pigmy hands?

’Tis something, in this shameful hour,
When beaten, with the fettered race,
To know at least that those in power
This question cannot choose but face.
And they may yield to craven fear,
However brave they now appear.

Why should we moan o’er times more blest?
Why should we wail? Our fathers worked!
The Tory must not peaceful rest,
The Irish Bill must not be burked!
’Tis but delayed, and time shall see
Another Ireland, glad and free!

Coercion now? Repression still?
Ah, no!――that sort of thing is dead!
You may reject our Home Rule Bill,
But tell us, what have you instead?
The eighty-six recruited come,――
Say, can coercion make them dumb?

In vain, in vain! Strike other chords!
Renounce your Paper Union Creed!
In spite of thirty thousand swords,
The Irish nation will be freed!
See! rising at their country’s call,
Who fronts you in St. Stephen’s Hall!

You have the Liberal leader yet;
Where is the Liberal phalanx gone?
You have two courses. Why regret
To take the nobler, manlier one?
You have the path that Justice shows――
And you’ve a nation to oppose!

Renounce the Paper Union creed!
You cannot govern men with this
Your Irish brethren you may need
When foreign foes around you hiss,
Renounce it, and the Irish then
Will prove themselves your countrymen.

The peasant of the sister Isle
has with our best and bravest bled,
That peasant now is all that’s vile――
Or――is your sense of justice dead?
Do right, and you perhaps will find
Him generous still, and brave, and kind.

No more these idle fictions whine!
On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as your English mothers bore.
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
The British blood might proudly own.

Trust not the Tories and their pranks,
Despite the tales their leader tells;
In Irish hearts and Irish ranks
The old, strong love of justice dwells!
But Tory force and Tory fraud
Would crimson swift Rebellion’s sword!

Renounce the Paper Union Creed!
Our party, though now in the shade,
Shall still, with glorious Gladstone, lead!
Repulsed we are; not yet dismayed.
No isle whose shore the Atlantic laves
Can ever be the land of slaves.

Place what you will before the House,
There nothing, save an Irish bill,
Will pass. Meanwhile, let Liberals rouse――
Prove Liberal England’s Liberal still!
The Irish claim we must concede,
And have no Paper Union Creed.

G.W.
_Pall Mall Gazette._ July 13, 1886.

――――:o:――――

_Warreniana_, by Mr. William F. Deacon (London, 1824), contained an excellent parody on _Childe Harold_, unfortunately it is too long to give in full, but some stanzas may be quoted.

THE CHILDE’S PILGRIMAGE.

1.

Whileome in Limehouse docks there dwelt a youth,
Childe Higgins hight, the childe of curst ennui,
Despair, shame, sin, with aye assailing tooth,
Had worn his beauty to the bone.――Ah me!
A lone unloving libertine was he;
For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles,
And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea,
He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles,
Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles.

2.

He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil
Of counting house turned but to small account,
Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil,
Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount
Of kindly feelings; he aspired to mount
To intellectual fame, for when the brain
Is dulled by thoughts, aye fearful to surmount,
When youth, hope, love, essay their charms in vain,
The rake-hell turns a blue as doth his sky again.

3.

Thus turned the Childe, when in the Morning Post,
The Herald, Chronicle, and eke the Times,
He read with tasteful glee a daily host
Of the Strand bard’s self eulogistic rhymes;
He read, and fired with zeal, resolv’d betimes
A pilgrim to that minstrel’s shrine to move,
As Allah’s votaries in Arabian climes
To far Medina’s hallowed altar rove,
There low to bend before the idol of their love.

4.

He left his home, his wife without a sigh,
And trod with pilgrim-pace the Limehouse Road;
The morn beamed laughing in the dark blue sky,
And warm the sun on post and pavement glowed:
Each varied mile new charms and churches showed,
But sceptic Higgins jeered the sacred band;
For his full tide of thought with scorn o’erflowed,
Or deep immersed in objects grave and grand,
Dwelt on the Warren’s fame at number Thirty, Strand.

* * * * *

11.

Th’ Exchange is past, the Mansion House appears,
Surpris’d the Childe surveys its portly site,
Dim dreams assail him of convivial years,
And keener waxes his blunt appetite,
Luxurious visions whelm his fancy quite,
Of calipash and ekecalipee,
While sylphs of twenty stone steal o’er his sight,
Smiting their thighs with blythe Apician glee,
And licking each his lips right beautiful to see.

12.

’Twas here they tucked, these unctuous city sprites,
’Twas here like geese they fattened and they died.
Here turtle reared for them her keen delights,
And forests yielded their cornuted pride.――
But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed;
Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe;
Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side,
And dropsy seconded his deadly blow,
’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below.

* * * * *

15.

Something too much of this; but now ’tis past,
And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below:
Lo! proud ambitious gutters hurry past,
To rival Thames in full continuous flow;
The inner temple claims attention now,
That Golgotha of thick and thread-bare skulls,
Where modest merit pines in chambers low,
And impudence his oar in triumph pulls
Along the stream of wealth, and snares its rich sea-gulls.

* * * * *

19.

Thus mused the Childe as thoughtful he drew near
The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand,
And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere
Like stars on moony nights――a sacred band
Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand
Each letter shone beneath the eye of day,
And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned,
Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way,
As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay.

* * * * *

21.

But I forgot――my pilgrim’s shrine is won
And he himself――the lone unloving Childe
His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon,
And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled:
His dull despairing thoughts alone――once mild
As love――now dark as fable’s darkest hell,
Are stern realities; but o’er the wild
Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell
Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall.

22.

Farewell――a word that must be and hath been
Ye dolphin dames who turn from blue to grey
Ye dandy drones who charm each festive scene
With brainless buzz, and frolic in your May,
Ye ball-room bards who live your little day,
And ye who flushed in purse parade the town,
Booted or shod――to you my muse would say,
“BUY WARREN’S BLACKING” as ye hope to crown
Your senseless souls or soulless senses with renown.

――――:o:――――

AFTER THE EXAMINATION.

I.

Without one lingering look he leaves
The spot of all his troubles past,
With thoughtful heart; for he believes
The dons have made this chance his last.
Those hated schools, brain-addling place,
That seems to haunt his mind for ever,
And sight of which before his face,
Makes all his limbs with horror shiver――
Shiver as though had fallen smack
A douche of water on his back
And arms and neck and head and face,
So hated was that awful place;
But it must come, and all must go
Where, sitting sternly in a row
Examiners, with looks that chill,
Pluck those that do their papers ill.

II.

And he has gone to his lonely room
To sit alone by the fireside;
He stirs the fire with the broom,
And does eccentric things beside.
For flurried by the exam, he seems,
And while his hissing kettle steams,
He mutters deep within his breast,
“What causes this delay?
If with Testamur I am blest,
It can’t be far away.”
And then the toasting-fork he takes,
And with it in the cinders rakes,
And makes it in a fearful mess,
And then he walks in restlessness
About his room, while minutes creep
More slowly than in prison keep.

III.

He plucked his toothpick in his pocket,
But sheathed it ere the point was bare;
He rolled his eye within its socket,
And passed his fat hand through his hair;
Nay more――he took his meerschaum then,
And gazed upon it with a look
Of absent wonder, then he took
And put it in its case again;
And mopped his brow all cold and damp,
And blew his nose, and lit his lamp,
Then in his arm chair sat and numbered
The weary minutes till he slumbered.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_. By Adon. London.
Chapman and Hall, 1874.

(These lines parody stanzas 4, 5, and 7 of _Parasina_. The same volume contains a parody of _The Prisoner of Chillon_, entitled _Snowed Up_, but it is not of sufficient interest to be quoted.)

――――:o:――――

MISCELLANEOUS PARODIES OF LORD BYRON’S WORKS.

A very large number of Parodies of Byron’s poems have been produced in the form of small pamphlets, either on political or social events, or of purely local interest. It will be sufficient to enumerate the principal of these, the curious in such matters can easily refer to them in the Library of the British Museum.

_The Age of Soapsuds._ A Satire, by Lord Vyron. London.
W. Edwards, 1839; pp. 15.

In his preface the author remarks: “We live in an age of bubbles,
and if the ‘Soapsud’ of the following lines seem blown about on
the gale of fancy――all I can say is, I write to please myself,
and not the critics.”

_Despair_: A Vision. _Derry Down and John Bull_: A Simile.
Being two Political Parodies on “Darkness,” and a scene from
“The Giaour,” by Lord Byron. London. T. Hughes
1820.――Political, and of no interest at present.

_Arlis’s Pocket Magazine for_ 1825, contained a parody of
“The Maid of Athens,” entitled _Sarah, I Love Thee_.

_Railway Adventures and Anecdotes_, edited by Richard Pike, 1884,
contains a parody on the lines commencing――“There was a sound of
Revelry by night.”

_The Mongrelites; or, The Radicals so-called._ A Satiric Poem.
By ――――. Published in New York, by Van Evrie, Horton and Co.,
in 1866 (59 pp.)

This is said by the author to be an imitation of Byron’s
“English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” but as it relates to
the party politics of the United States it does not come
within the scope of this collection.

Two prize poems, in imitation of _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_ were printed in _The World_, April 14, 1880. The subject chosen was _Electioneering Speeches_, the poems were therefore of merely passing interest.

In 1834 a small sixpenny pamphlet was published by Chalmers and Son, of Edinburgh, entitled _Lays of Straiton House_. It contained several poems, written in imitation of Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and of a few popular songs. These were descriptive of the Caledonian Bazaar and its contents were of local interest only, and are now quite out of date.

_Abel_: written, but with great humility, in reply to Lord
Byron’s _Cain_. By Owen Howell. London: John Mardon, 1843;
pp. 22.

“The object of Lord Byron in his drama ‘Cain,’ was to embody
all the emotions of Despair as they act upon the human mind;
in the present poem (if it deserves the name) the author has
endeavoured to personify Hope, and to bring together as many
pleasing expectations as possible.”

_Cain_: A Poem, intended to be published in Parts, containing
an Antidote to the Impiety and Blasphemy of Lord Byron’s
Cain. By Henry Wilkinson, Stone-gate, York. London: Baldwin,
Cradock and Joy. 1824. pp. 97.

(A short poem, with voluminous notes, violently abusive of
Lord Byron’s poem, and his theological views.)

Several of Lord Byron’s poems have been produced upon the
stage, the most notable examples being _Manfred_, brought out
at Drury Lane Theatre some years since, with grand scenic
effects; and _Mazeppa_, at Astley’s Theatre, with Ada Isaacs
Menken in the title _rôle_. _Mazeppa_ has, however, long been
quite a stock piece with Circus proprietors, and as far back
as December 27, 1858, a burlesque of it (written by the late
Henry James Byron) was produced at the Olympic Theatre, with
F. Robson, H. Wigan, Miss Wyndham, and Mrs. Emden in the
caste, which had a long and successful run.

The late Mr. Gilbert Abbot a’Beckett wrote a burlesque,
entitled _Man-Fred_ in 1828; and Mr. H. Such Granville wrote
“_Sardanapolus_, or The Light of other Days, an original
Ninevitish Burlesque,” which was first performed at St.
George’s Hall, on December 23, 1868, when the author
performed the part of _Zarina_.

“_The Bride of Abydos_; or, The Prince, the Pirate, and the
Pearl” was the title of another Burlesque, written by the
late Henry James Byron,[116] and produced at the Strand
Theatre, with a strong caste, including Mr. H. J. Turner,
Miss M. Oliver, and Miss Swanborough.

As a rule these burlesques merely give a ludicrous turn to
the plot of the original poems, and contain little which
could be quoted as interesting parodies.

Amongst the numerous Parodies, Imitations and continuations of Lord Byron’s unfinished poem, _Don Juan_, the following may be mentioned:

_Don Juan Unmasked_, 1819.
_Gordon_, a review of Don Juan, 1821.
_The Templar_. A Poem in the Stanza and Spirit of Don
Juan, with allusions to Lord Byron. 1822.
_A Sequel to Don Juan_, London, 1825.
_Juan Secundus_, 1825.
_An Apology for Don Juan_, Cantos I and II, 1824.
_The Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan_, London, 1829.
_Don Juan Junior_, a poem (with notes), by Byron’s Ghost,
edited by G. K. Wythen Baxter, 1839.
_Don Juan reclaimed_, 1840.
_Termination of Don Juan_, H. W. Wetton, 1864.
_Don Juan_, Canto the Seventeenth. London, Thomas Cooper and
Co., 1870. (In this curious production the author has
spread his scanty materials over 56 pages, by the simple
expedient of leaving about a quarter of them blank.)
_Some Rejected Stanzas of Don Juan_, with Byron’s own curious
notes. From an unpublished manuscript in the possession of
Captain Medwin. A very limited number printed at Charles
Clarke’s private press, Great Totham, Essex, 1845.

This consists of twenty stanzas relating to the early
history of Ireland, is coarse in its language, and of no
general interest,
_The Royal Progress_, a Canto, with notes written on the
occasion of his Majesty’s visit to Ireland, August, 1821,
London, 1821.

Dedicated to Lord Byron, and written in imitation of his
_ottava rima_ metre in Don Juan. p.p. 95.

_Don Juan_, Canto the third, London. Printed by R. Greenlaw,
Holborn, 1821. p.p. 103. (An imitation.)

_An Apology for Don Juan_, by John W. Thomas, London,
Partridge and Oakey, 1850.

New Don Juan, and the Last Canto of the Original ‘Don Juan.’
From the papers of the Contessa Guiccioli. 12mo. pp. 61,
1876.

_The Vampire._ This publication was at one time ascribed
to Byron, but a letter of his exists, denying this. It is
dated April 27, 1819, from Venice. This Letter is not to
be found in Moore’s Collection of Byron’s Letters, its
discovery having been first announced in the _Academy_,
April 23, 1881.

“I am not the author, and never heard of the work in
question until now. In a more recent paper I perceive a
formal annunciation of ‘The Vampire,’ with the addition of
an account of my ‘residence in the Island of Mitylene,’ an
island which I have occasionally sailed by in the course
of travelling some years ago through the Levant――and where
I should have no objection to reside――but where I have
never yet resided.… Neither of these performances are
mine, and I presume that it is neither unjust nor
ungracious to request that you will favour me by
contradicting the advertisement to which I allude. If the
book is clever it would be hard to deprive the real
writer――whoever he may be――of his honours; and if
stupid――I desire the responsibility of nobody’s dulness
but my own.… The imputation is of no great importance, and
as long as it was confined to surmises and reports I
should have received it as I have received many others――in
silence. But the formality of a public advertisement of a
book I never wrote――and a residence where I never
resided――is a little too much, particularly as I have no
notion of the contents of one, nor the incidents of the
other. I have, besides, a personal dislike to ‘Vampires,’
and the little acquaintance I have with them would by no
means induce me to divulge their secrets.”

_Brum: A Parody._ By old Sarbot. A small pamphlet of 29
pages, without author’s or publisher’s name, date, or
place, but evidently printed in Birmingham, and dealing
with persons and incidents connected with that town.

Ossian’s Address to the Sun. Lines supposed to have been
written by Byron on a leaf of the second volume of
Macpherson’s ‘Ossian.’ These volumes are preserved in the
library at Harvard University. The MS. notes and the
‘Address’ are now known to be forgeries.

The Vampyre. Letters, spurious. By Dr. Polidori, Sherwood,
Neely and Jones, 1819.

The Suppressed Letters of Lord Byron. Collected by H.
Schultess-Young. R. Bentley, 1869. Publication suspended.

A Spiritual Interview with Lord Byron: his Lordship’s
Opinion about his New Monument. 12mo. pp. 18. 1875.

Strange Visitors, a series of original papers, embracing
philosophy, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor,
etc., by the spirits of Thackeray, Bronte, Byron, Browning
and others now dwelling in the spirit-world, dictated
through a Clairvoyant state, _Boston_, 1884.

This curious volume contains:――By W. M. Thackeray, _His
Post-Mortem Experience_; by Lord Byron, _To His Accusers_;
by Edgar A. Poe, _The Lost Soul_; and by Charlotte Bronte,
_Agnes Reef, a tale_.

――――:o:――――

DON JUAN UNREAD (1819.)
_By Dr. W. Maginn, Trin. Coll., Dublin._

Of Corinth Castle we have read,
Th’ amazing scene unravell’d;
Had swallowed Lara and the Giaour.
And with Childe Harold travell’d.
And so we followed Cloven-foot,
And faithfully as any,
Until he cried, “Come, turn aside
And read of Don Giovanni.

“Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House,
Who have been lying, prating,
Read Don Giovanni, ’tis their own,
A child of their creating.
On jests profane they love to feed,
And there they are――and many,
But we, who link not with the crew,
Regard not Don Giovanni.

“There’s Goodwin’s daughter, Shelley’s wife
A’writing fearful stories;
There’s Hazlitt, who with Hunt and Keats,
Brays forth in Cockney chorus.
There’s pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad
Who sings of Rose and Fanny;
Why throw away, their wits so gay
To take up Don Giovanni.

“What’s Juan but a shameless tale
That bursts all rules asunder?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder――
Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn
His lordship looked not canny;
And took a pinch of snuff, to think
I flouted Don Giovanni!

“O, rich,” said I, “are Juan’s rhymes,
And warm the verse is flowing
Fair crops of blasphemy it bears,
But we will leave them growing.
In Pindar’s strain, in prose of Paine,
And many another Zany
As gross we read, so where’s the need
To wade through Don Giovanni?

“Let Colburns’ town-bred cattle snuff
The sweets of Lady Morgan;
Let Maturin to amorous themes
Attune his barrel organ.
We will not read them, will not hear
The Parson or the granny,
And, I dare say, as bad as they,
Or worse, is Don Giovanni.

“Be Juan, then, unseen, unknown;
It must, or we shall rue it.
We may have virtue of our own,
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured faith of days long past
We still would prize o’er any,
And grieve to hear the ribald jeer
Of scamps like Don Giovanni.

“When Whigs with freezing rule shall come
And piety seems folly,
When Cam and Isis, curbed by Brougham,
Shall wander melancholy;
When Cobbet, Wooler, Watson, Hunt,
And all the swinish many,
Shall rough shod ride o’er Church and State,
Then hey! for Don Giovanni.”

――――

Thomas Moore,

_Born May_, 28, 1780. _Died February_, 25, 1852.

’Tis THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay;
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.

――――

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves, with pride from its throne,
’Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom?
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon;
Was’t the lark of the morning that ’woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet flow’ret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie.

O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne’er would’st decay,
But, alas! soon thou’lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair,
Yet I’ll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.

ROBERT GILFILLAN. 1831.

――――

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the first rose of summer
That blushing steals forth,
Still doubtful, and fearing
The blight of the north;
Her sister buds cower,
Beneath on the stem,
While yon lone one is smiling
In fragrance o’er them.

I’ll not pluck thee young rose bud,
Nor mar thy fresh bloom;
Soon yon dark cloud may wrap thee
In coldness and gloom:
Then bask while thou may’st,
In the bright sun’s lov’d smile
And dream of light dewdrops,
And blue skies the while.

So in life’s sunny morning
Spreads forth hope’s fair flow’r,
How soon to be blighted
In sorrow’s drear hour;
Still, while friendship smiles o’er it,
And joy brightens round,
May no demon’s dark malice,
To blight it be found.

From _Wiseheart’s Fashionable Songster_ or Gems of Melody.
Dublin.

――――

EPSOM RACES.

’Tis the last man in London
Left lounging alone,
All his bottle companions
To Epsom are gone:
No friend of the Regent
Or Bond do I see,
To kill on this pavement
His cursed ennui.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine in this street,
Since Verey has jellies,
We’ll stroll in and eat.
Thus at Epsom they’re crowded,
In London we’re cramm’d,
And whilst we are _jellied_,
They’re probably _jamm’d_.

_The National Omnibus_, May 27, 1831.

――――

THE OLD MAID.

I’m the last Rose of summer,
And wither alone;
All my lovely companions
Are wedded and gone.
No soul of my kindred,
No maiden is nigh,
To reflect back my wrinkles,
And heave sigh for sigh.

Yet peaceful I rest me
Upon my lone bed,
No tyrant molests me,
I mourn no Babe dead.
Thus cheerful I scatter
Regrets to the air,
And rejoice in my freedom
From discord and care.

Alone must I perish,
Alone I decay:
No daughter to cherish,
No son for a stay.
I sink to the slumber,
Of Death’s calm repose,
Till the Bridegroom, rejoicing,
Shall claim his last Rose.

From _The Maids’, Wives’, and Widows’ Penny Magazine_, December
29, 1832.

――――

THE LAST SUMMER BONNET.

’Tis the last summer bonnet,
The worse for the wear;
The feathers upon it
Are dimm’d by sea air:
Gay places it went to,
But lingers at last,
A faded momento
Of sunny days past.

The prejudice still is
For poets to moan,
When roses and lillies
Are going and gone:
But fashion her sonnet
Would rather compose
On summer’s last bonnet,
Than summer’s last rose!

Though dreary November
Has darken’d the sky,
You still must remember
That day in July,
When, after much roaming,
To Carson’s we went
For something becoming
To take into Kent.

You, long undecided
What bonnet to choose,
At length chose, as I did,
The sweetest of blues;
_Yours_ now serves to show, dear,
How fairest things fade;
And _I_ long ago, dear,
Gave mine to my maid.

Oh! pause for a minute,
Ere _yours_ is resign’d:
Philosophy in it
A moral may find:
To past scenes I’m hurried,――
That relic revives
The beaux that we worried
Half out of their lives.

’Twas worn at all places
Of public resort:
At Hogsnorton races,
So famous for sport;
That day, when the Captain
Would after us jog,
And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!

He gave _me_ a sandwich,
And not being check’d
He offered a hand――which
I chose to reject!
And then _you_ were teased with
The gentleman’s heart,
Because you seemed pleased with
His gooseberry tart!

’Twas worn at the ladies
Toxopholite fête.
(That sharpshooting trade is
A thing that I hate;
Their market they mar, who
Attempt, for a prize,
To shoot with an arrow
Instead of their eyes.)

And don’t that excursion
By water forget;
Sure summer diversion
Was never so wet!
To sit there and shiver
And hear the wind blow,
The rain and the river,
Above, and below!

But hang the last bonnet
What is it to us,
That we should muse on it,
And moralize thus?
A truce to reflecting:
To Carson’s we’ll go,
Intent on selecting
A winter chapeau.

Then let Betty take it,
For Betty likes blue;
And Betty can make it
Look better than new:
In taste Betty’s fellow
Was never yet seen;
She’ll line it with yellow,
And trim it with green!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, in _The New Monthly Magazine_, 1833.

――――

’TIS THE LAST BIT OF CANDLE.

’Tis the last bit of candle,
With flickering light,
All its pound of companions,
Have finished their night;
While here we sit toping,
And waking the sun,
To shine on the revel,
As merely begun.

Thou sink’st in the socket,
The grease of thy wick,
Is failing and failing,
As smiles of the sick;
The lips most bewitching,
The eyes most divine,
Are scarcely less fleeting,
In ceasing to shine.

O, My last bit of candle,
Thou’lt not be alone,
Go stink in the grease pot,
Thy brethren are gone:
Though moon ne’er should light us,
Though gone be thy spark,
We can all find our glasses,
And mouths in the dark.

From _Wisehearts Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

THE LAST LAMP OF GRAFTON’S ALLEY――CORK.

The last lamp of the Alley,
Is burning alone!
All its brilliant companions
Are shiver’d and gone.
No lamp of her kindred,
No burner is nigh
To rival her glimmer,
Or light to supply.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To vanish in smoke;
As the bright ones are shatter’d
Thou, too, shalt be broke.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy globe o’er the street
Where the watch in his rambles
Thy fragments shall meet.

Then home will I stagger
As well as I may,
By the light of my nose sure
I’ll find out the way.
When thy blaze is extinguished,
Thy brilliancy gone,
Oh! my beak shall illumine
The Alley alone.

WILLIAM MAGINN.

――――

THE LAST CIGAR.

’Tis a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;
All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown.
No more of its kindred
To gladden the eye,
So my empty cigar-case
I close with a sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine; but the stem
I’ll bite off and light thee
To waft thee to them.
And gently I’ll scatter
The ashes you shed,
As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.

A pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay
From the weed’s glowing circle,
The ash drops away.
A last whiff is taken,
The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar-case
I sit all alone.

――――

THE STRAW HAT OF SUMMER.

’Tis the straw hat of summer
All tattered and torn;
All the brim has departed,
Its crown is well worn.
But no hat is there like it
So dear to my heart;
It has kept off the sunshine
In meadow and mart.

There it hangs o’er the window;
Its glory is shorn,
For my foolish affection
Don’t laugh me to scorn;
It is grimy and greasy,
And ragged ’tis true,
But its value in mem’ry
Is more than when new.

Though a horse would not eat it
In such a sad state,
It is worthy of meeting
A far better fate.
It is hardly sufficient
To kindle a fire
But I’ll make of its fragments
A funeral pyre.

Oh! companion of summer,
Go with thee my joy,
Thou hast served me with ardour
That knew no alloy.
So then peace to thy ashes
Thy loss grieves me sore,
I shed o’er thee tear drops
Of friendship of yore.

――――

THE LAST OF THE FANCY.
A Lament for the Anticipated Extinction
of the Prize Ring.

’Tis the last of the Fancy,
Left pining alone,
All his “nobby” companions
Are mizzled and gone!
No “pal” of his kindred
No bruiser is nigh,
To exchange broken noses
Or give a black eye!

“I’ll not leave thee, thou game one,
To pine in the ring;
Since the strong ones have mizzled,
Go――do the same thing.
Thus, kindly I gather
The ropes from the ground,
Where thy pals of the Fancy
Have fought the last round!”

The Art none will follow
When prizes decay,
And from patrons and backers
The “tin” drops away;
When all, e’en a novice,
To mill with have flown,
Ah! who, then, would flourish
His “mauleys” alone?

_Judy_, July 10, 1867.

――――

AN OXFORD PARODY. ON SMOKING.

’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s
Left lying alone;
All his dark brown Regalias
Are vanished and gone.
No cigar of its colour,
No “Lopez” is mine,
To delight with its perfume
And fragrance divine.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one
I’ll ring for a light;
Thy companions are ashes,
I’ll smoke thee to-night.
Thy halo and incense
Shall rise o’er my head,
As I sigh for the beauties
All scentless and dead.

And soon may I follow
Those loved ones’ decay;
Since from each tempting bundle
They’ve faded away.
When Regalias are smoked out,
And “Lopez” are blown,
Oh! who would still linger,
Cigarless, alone?
J. R. G.

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_.
(J. Vincent, Oxford.)

――――

The following parody of _The Last Rose of Summer_ is rather slangy, and would not have been inserted, but for the fact that it originally appeared in part 9 of _The Snob_ (June 4, 1829), a small paper published in Cambridge, to which it is known that Thackeray contributed. It is, therefore, not improbable that he was the author of this parody.

’Tis the last little tizzy
My pocket what’s in,
O, its pale-faced companions
I’ve changed ’em for gin!
There’s not a brass farden
To rub ’gainst his ribs,
For ah! in my pocket
There’s never no dibs!

I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one,
Here moping with me,
With thy friends in the gin-shop
Go tizzy, and spree;
So down on the counter
That sixpence I vacks,
And has ’stead of him, Sir,
Four glasses of max!

But they vont give no credit,
So I has no more,
I’ll go and pick pockets
By Drury-Lane door;
About the Theaturs
There’s lots to be had
And ven I gets flush, vy
I’ll guzzle like mad.

――――

AN AUTUMN SESSION.

’Tis the last of the members
Left spouting alone;
Half the Whigs and the Tories
Are grouse shooting gone.
Not the creatures of Althorp,――
No hireling is nigh
To defend all his blunders
And give lie for lie.

Will they force you, ye lone ones,
To sit till Septem-
Ber? No; others are sporting,
Go sport ye with them.
Then fain would I scatter.
This ghost of a house,
Where their mates of St. Stephen’s
Are bagging the grouse.

So soon may you rise when
Debates do decay,
And from all the divisions
Each side keeps away.
For when Whigs are all vanished,
And Tories are flown,
Oh, who would attend at
The Bleak house alone.

_Figaro in London_, August 17, 1833.

――――

’TIS THE LAST FLY OF SUMMER.

’Tis the last fly of summer,
Left buzzing alone,
All its black-legged companions
Are dried up or gone:
Not one of its kindred,
No bluebottles nigh,
To sport ’mid the sugars,
Or in the milk die.

I’ll not doom thee, thou lone one,
A victim to be,
Since the rest are all vanish’d,
Come dine thou with me.
Thus kindly I scatter
Some crumbs of my bread,
Where thy mates on the table
Lie withered and dead.

But soon you will perish
I’m sadly afraid,
For the glass is at sixty
Just now in the shade.
When wasps have all vanish’d
And bluebottles flown,
No fly can inhabit
This bleak world alone.

_Punch’s Pocket Book_, 1848.

――――

THE LAST “VIVA VOCE.”

He’s the last “Vivâ Voce”
Left sitting alone;
All his lucky companions
Have finished and gone:
Not a man from his College,
No friend is there nigh
To get his “Testamur,”
And walk down the “High.”

“I’ll not keep thee, thou lone one,
To pine in these ‘quads,’――
Since your papers are ‘satis’――
We’ll let you through ‘mods.’
Thus kindly I give thee
Our leave to go down,
Where thy mates of the College
Await thee in town.”

“So soon may _I_ follow,
When friends will not stay,
And the ‘Common Room’ circle
Has melted away.
When rooms are all empty,
And their tenants are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This slow place alone?

From _College Rhymes_, 1868.

――――

THE LAST BELLE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the last belle of summer,
Left blooming alone,
For her lovely companions
All seaward have gone.
No dame of her kindred,
No chaperon’s nigh――
I will see if see if she blushes,
Or gives sigh for sigh,

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine in the square,
While thy sisters are breathing
The ozoned sea air.
Though thy flowers in the garden
Lie scentless and dead,
I will bring thee a bouquet
From Johnson’s instead.

Say, love, may I follow
When thou goest away
To the family circle
Beside the salt spray?
For when “swells” have all vanished,
And “belles” have all flown,
I could not inhabit
Belgravia alone.

_Funny Folks._

――――

THE LAST PIPE.

’Tis the last pipe this winter,
Left squirting alone;
All its leaden companions
Are frozen and gone,
No turncock was handy,
No plumber was nigh;
And each cistern kept running
Until it was dry.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
While icicles gem
Thy tap, or else, bursting,
Thou wilt be like them;
But gaily I’ll scatter
Some straw o’er thy bed,
And the crack I discover
Will stop with white-lead.

I thus shall get water,
Though turncocks delay
Round the plug’s shining circle
Fixed over the way.
While lead pipes have frozen,
And iron ones flown,
I see thee with gladness
Still squirting alone.

_Funny Folks._ February 1, 1879.

――――

THE LAST JAR OF PICKLES.

’Tis the last jar of pickles,
Left standing alone,
All its other companions
Are eaten and gone!
No one of its kindred,
No pickle is nigh,
To tickle my stomach,
And draw forth a sigh,

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
Tho’ I’ve just finished three,
And the others are eaten,
I’ll likewise eat thee;
Thus kindly I’ll swallow
Thee down, like the rest,
Go! find your companions,
They’re under my vest:

So soon may I follow
When pickles are scarce,
And from friendship’s circle
Withdraw my bluff face.
When walnuts, and cabbage,
And onions are gone,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

ANONYMOUS.

――――

In _The Weekly Dispatch_ for May 22, 1881, there was a parody competition, and the prize of Two Guineas was awarded for the following poem:

LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL.

[Since the defection of his three friends, the once famous “Fourth” party consists of Lord Randolph alone.――Daily Paper.]

He’s the last of his party
Left sitting alone;
All his brilliant companions
Have left him and gone.
No Gorst of his kidney――
No Balfour is nigh,
To reflect his bright flashes
Or applaud him sky high!

They have left him, the lone one,
To speak all alone;
His audience are sleeping,
They cough and they groan.
Yet pertly he’ll patter
(Though he should be abed),
For his tongue’s ever ready,
Though senseless his head!

So soon may he follow
His “party’s” decay;
From whose brilliant circle
Those three dropped away,
With Gorst, Wolff, and Balfour
Seceded and flown,
He can’t long inhabit
That bleak bench alone!

R. H. LAWRENCE.

Several of the non-successful parodies were also printed, of which the best are here given:――

’Tis the last baked potato
Left swelt’ring alone;
All her mealy companions
Are parted and gone,
No floury kidney――
No ash leaf is nigh,
To share her seclusion
And rest eye to eye.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To shrivel apart;
Since the mealy digest well,
Come――sleep near my heart.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy peel at my feet,
Where the whelk and the orange
Perfume the dull street.

Soon, too, will I follow
Thy chariot away,
As the glimmering gas lights
Fade into the day.
When winkles lie soulless,
And ’taties are strown,
Oh, who then would wander,
The pavement alone?

W. W. DIXON.

――――

THE POLICEMAN’S LAY.

’Tis a prime leg of mutton,
Cut near to the bone;
All the greens and potatoes
Are surely not gone!
No haughty inspector――
No sergeant is nigh,
To reflect on what he’d do
If hungry and dry.

I’ll not leave that nice bone――one
May see ’tis a gem;
Since the folks are all sleeping,
It’s nothing to them,
Thus gaily I’m feasting――
For freely I’m fed――
While my mates on their night beat
Are famished instead.

Some strong beer I’ll swallow,
Then forth I must stray,
And from kitchen and “cooky”
Steal gently away.
When prog is demolished,
And liquor is gone,
Oh, who would be a p’liceman
This bleak night alone?

LIZZIE GRIFFIN.

――――

’Tis the last rose of Windsor[117]
Left blooming alone;
All the other Princesses
To Hymen have gone,
No kindred as suitors
At present are nigh,
But “Monty,” ’tis whisper’d,[118]
Receives sigh for sigh.

And will he be grafted
On royalty’s stem?
And will he be happy
When quite one of them?
What more borrow’d honours
Must o’er him be shed,
From the name of the living,
The fame of the dead?

The bay and the laurel
May soon fade away;
His brow has a circle
Which cannot decay,
And if he can marry
So near to the throne,
Why should he inhabit
This bleak world alone?

FRED. RAWKINS.

――――

’TIS THE LAST BLOWS OF A DRUMMER.
_By a Poor and Unmusical Civilian._

’Tis the last blow of a drummer,
Who stands all alone,
And calls the battalions
With monotonous moan
No hour ever passes,
No day e’er goes by,
But this sound my ear crushes
Though from it I fly.

I lived near the barracks,
Till well nigh insane,
And now, when I’m sleeping
I hear that refrain.
Thus blindly I flatter
The thing I most dread,
Since my thoughts don’t discard it
When even in bed.

So soon as the morrow
Succeeds to to-day
May that drum and its drummer
Be wafted away;
For if they continued
their rub-a-drum call,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world at all?

From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883.

――――

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