Chapter XXX: Canto THE SEVENTH (4)

T. MOORE.

* * * * *

THE SCARECROWS.

O’er Erin’s Isle, in rule awhile,
What British knaves have blundered!
Their state misused, and power abused――
And prisoned, packed, and plundered.
But soon or late, they met the fate,
That evil in despair knows;
We tore in rags, their tinsel tags,
And set them up as scarecrows.
Oh, the scarecrows,
No wind that foul or fair blows,
But shakes awhile
The tatters vile
Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.

First Forster came, and linked his name
With certain ammunition,
His burly nod sent folks to quod,
Of high and low condition;
Yet came the day when far away,
We saw the Yorkshire bear go
And take his place in dire disgrace
A grim and gruffy scarecrow!
Oh, the scarecrow
No village bantam dare crow,
Till Buckshot fell
In Failure’s Hell
From which ne’er rose a scarecrow!

Came Cowper next with tidy text
(To gospel-writ a stranger),
Deep under ground to drive where found
All discontent and danger;
But if he did, the seeds he hid
The morrow saw in air grow,
While prospects marred he mounted guard,
A most disgusted scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow
Can annals anywhere show
A weaker fool
Sent, _men_ to rule
Than this poor ragged scarecrow.

Trevelyan tried, sneered, whined and lied,
To please his precious master,
But “Indian meal” nor “even keel”
Could save him from disaster.
Alas, poor Pinch! we inch by inch,
Brought you to wreck and care low,
It seems to me, of all the three,
You made the meanest scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow,
We’d honour give to fair foe,
But scorn and hate
Must ever wait
The memory of this scarecrow.

Not last nor least, the great Arch Priest,
Of red and raw repression,
Whom Fame shall yoke with deeds unspoke,
And devil-wrought transgression;
Ah, Foxy Jack, your British pack,
Shall shortly in the rear go,
Of him who fled in gloom and dread,
A failed and beaten scarecrow.
Oh, the scarecrow
Our boys from Howth to Clare know,
To hear the joints
Of Johnny Poyntz
Groan dry like any scarecrow.

So friends shall fall the strangers all,
Who seek to crush our nation;
Nor rope nor “soap” can hope to cope
With grim determination;
And while our tree of liberty,
More branching green and fair grows,
Our museum shall filled become
With sick and sorry scarecrows.
Oh, the scarecrows!
No wind that foul or fair blows,
But shakes awhile
The tatters vile
Of Ireland’s sorry scarecrows.

DRAILIN.
From _United Ireland_ October 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG FOR A THIN-THATCHED DANDY.
(Air――“_One Bumper at Parting._”)

One more try at parting! Not many
Locks circle my head, I regret;
But a few, the most hardy of any,
Are left on the crown of it yet.
’Tis a ticklish task to divide them,
In well-balanced head-central fringe;
These patches cost labour to hide them,
Give vanity many a twinge.
But come――every sproutling I treasure――
Thine aid O Macassar! I beg;
Though I own――who can face it with pleasure?――
I’m getting as bald as an egg!

As older we grow, how unpleasant
To pause and reflect with distaste
That the few scattered spikes seen at present,
Must merge in wide calvity’s (?) waste!
But Time, a most pitiless master,
Cries “Onward!” and mows off one’s crop,
Ah! never does Time travel faster
Than when one desires him to stop.
No, Age cannot trip to Youth’s measure,
With paunch and a spindle shanked leg,
And I own――though it is not with pleasure――
I’m getting as bald as an egg!

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow worm’s lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

THE IRISHMAN’S SERENADE.

The full new moon is old, my love,
You’ve got plenty of money, I’m told, my love,
So your knocker I’ll ring,
And my love I will sing,
Though I’ve get a most shocking bad cold, my love,

Then awake, for my love is so hot, my dear,
That without you I’ll soon go to pot, my dear;
For my shirt, at your clack,
Would stick close to my back,――
But the devil a shirt have I got, my dear.

Like a cat my watch I’m keeping, love,
For no bed have I got to sleep in, love;
So honey look down,
And smile me a frown,
From your eye so beautiful peeping, love.

Old Time, like the gutter does run, my dear,
So pry thee mock modesty shun, my dear;
Have me, I’ll have you,
And though still we’ll be two,
All Kilkenny will take us for one, my dear.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE BLADDER OF WHISKEY.

The Cats on the tiles are squalling, love
And the watchmen past twelve are bawling, love,
So step down this ladder,
For I’ve, in a bladder,
Some whisky, that “drink me” is calling, love.

I’ve had nothing to-day but porter love,
With some glasses of gin and water, love,
So if you come down,
I’ll lay you a crown
That this bladder we quickly will slaughter, love.

I’ve some onions, and bread, and cheese, my love,
And some Scotch snuff to make you sneeze, my love,
So since I’m so pressing,
Pray don’t wait for dressing,
But come down as quick as you please, my love.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE CAT’S SERENADE.

The lamps are faintly gleaming, love,
The thief on his walk is scheming, love!
And its sweet to crawl
O’er the dead wall,
While the tabbies are gently screaming, love.
Then put out one paw so white, my dear,
The housetops are covered with light, my dear,
Through the day, at our ease,
We’ll sleep when we please,
And we’ll ramble abroad through the night, my dear.

Now all the world is sleeping, love!
But the _bobby_ his night-watch keeping, love!
And I who wait,
On this cold, cold slate,
While you’re at the mouse-hole peeping, love!
Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear,
And we’ll have a rare old time, my dear;
But if you look shy,
Faith it’s all in my eye,
For away with another I’ll run, my dear.

――――

THE OLD MARCH MOON.

The old March moon is beaming, love;
The quarter-day dawn is gleaming, love,
’Tis meet to move
From the floor above,
When the landlord below is dreaming, love.
Wide awake! for the peeler’s light is near,
And I yesterday made him “all right” my dear.
And the best of all ways
Upon quarter-rent days,
Is to make him wink at our flight, my dear,

Now the landlord, I’ve said, is sleeping, love,
And his watch the peeler is keeping, love,
And you and I are
To be off and afar
Ere he at our actions be peeping, love.
So, awake! let it quickly be done, my dear;
For if he tired become, my dear,
He may turn on his light,
As on thieves in flight,
And take us two for one, my dear.

_Diogenes_, March 1854.

――――

SONG OF THE SIGNALMAN.

The rain through the night is streaming, love,
The signal lamps are gleaming, love,
I _must_ keep on the move,
Or this somnolent cove
Would soon be asleep and a-dreaming, love!
So awake!――the Express is in sight, my dear,
I’ve been at it since dawn of light, my dear,
For one of the ways
By which Railwaydom pays,
Is to keep us at work day and night, my dear!

You, and most people, now are sleeping, love,
But my watch, in my box, I am keeping, love,
For the red or green star
I must note from afar,
Though the sleep ’neath my eyelids is creeping, love.
I’ve been working since rise of sun, my dear.
Fourteen hours, and I’m not yet done, my dear.
Oh, to watch day and night
For the signal light
Is――Directors think――capital fun my dear!

_Punch_, October 10, 1885.

――――

DEFEATED MANŒUVRES.

“The Marquis is _not_ to be won, Mamma;
My advances he seems to shun, Mamma!
I appeal to you
What _am_ I to do?
Oh, tell me what’s next to be done, Mamma.”

“Have you sat by his lordship’s side, my child?
And every blandishment tried, my child?
Have you heaved deep sighs
And looked in his eyes?
And adroitly flattered his pride my child?”

“O yes, and I’ve done even more, Mamma:
Things I never have done before, Mamma;
For I fainted quite,
In his arms last night,
As we stood on the sea-girt shore, Mamma!”

“If the man is proof against _that_, my child,
Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child;
Between you and me,
The better ’twill be.
For you see he’s _not_ such a flat, my child!”

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him:
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.――
“Land of song” said the warrior-bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
“_One_ sword, at least thy rights shall guard,
“_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!”

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

ON THE CATHOLIC EMANCIPATION MEETING AT PENENDEN HEATH.

Mister Sheil into Kent has gone,
On Penenden Heath you’ll find him;
Nor think you that he came alone,
There’s Doctor Doyle behind him.
“Men of Kent” said this little man,
“If you hate Emancipation,
You’re a set of fools,” he then began
A “cut and dry” oration.

He strove to speak, but the men of Kent
Began a grievous shouting,
When out of his waggon the little man went,
And put a stop to his spouting.
“What though these heretics heard me not,”
Quoth he to his friends Canonical;
“My speech is safe in the _Times_ I wot,
And eke in the _Morning Chronicle_.”

W. M. THACKERAY.

This parody is supposed to be the first composition by Thackeray that was ever published. It appeared in an Exeter newspaper soon after the great meeting, on the question of Catholic Emancipation, had been held on Penenden Heath.

――――

THE SAILOR BOY.

The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone――
In an Oxford crib you’ll find him
His boxing gloves on his fives are drawn,
And care is cast behind him.
“Alic Reid,” said the bouncing cove,
Are you the man to fight me?
A turn-up let us have for love,
And to _floor_ you will delight me.

But the Sailor Hero soon found out
That for once he had made a blunder,
For the Snob contriv’d to tap his snout,
And poor Harry Jones knock’d under.
“Ah!” he exclaim’d, to repine is vain,
Why to fight did I feel so eager?
I’ll never set to with the Snob again,
When my head is confus’d with Seager.[122]

From Pierce Egan’s _Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

THE “FANCY” PARODY.

The _leary cove_ to the mill is gone,
In the P.C. ring you’ll find him,
His blue bird’s eye he has girded on,
And has left his flame behind him.
Fancy sport, cried the _leary cove_,
Though every _Beak_ betrays thee,
One soul at least thy _sprees_ shall love,
One faithful _chaunt_ shall praise thee.

The cove was _floor’d_, but he show’d high game,
Nor like a cur knocked under.
His _chaunt_ will ne’er be _clear_ again,
For his nose was split asunder.
Leary cove, said his _flame_ in a pet,
Thou _pink_ of love and bravery,
Since thou art floor’d, I’ll a service get,
And spend my days in slavery.

From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_, 1832.

――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The fiddlers boy to the fair is gone,
In a rattling booth you’ll find him,
With his master’s fiddle (for his own’s in pawn)
In a green bag slung behind him.
‘House of malt.’ says the fiddling bard,
Though all the world despise thee,
One fiddler is left and will spend his last,
If its only to patronize thee.

The fiddler drank till it got quite late,
And the table he fell under,
His fiddle was broke by the fall and weight
And the cat-gut tore asunder.
Says he ‘No one shall ever know,
Thy sounds of jolly bravery,’
So he smacked across his knee the bow
And he went to sleep quite savoury.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_, Dublin.

――――

A STRING OF POETIC PEARLS, APROPOS OF THE
GREAT DIAMOND IN THE EXHIBITION OF 1851.

The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone,
Neglected now you’ll find it,
With scarcely any one looking on,
But a constable set to mind it.

How oft some silly wight,
When prejudice has bound him,
Gapes o’er the Mount of Light,
With pickpockets around him!

All eyes and ears, the gem he nears;
Away the crowd has started;
While he looked on his purse is gone,
And all but he departed.

_Punch_, August 9, 1851.

――――

THE CORDON BLEU.
(_On the departure of M. Alexis Soyer for the Crimea_, July 1855.)

The Cordon Bleu to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him:
His snow white apron is girded on,
And his magic Stove’s behind him.
“Army beef” said the Cordon Bleu,
“Though a stupid bungler slays thee,
One skilful hand thy steaks shall stew,
One artist’s pan shall braise thee.”

The cook went forth, and the foe in vain
On his pets and pans did thunder,
He thicked thin gravy, he sauced the plain,
And he sliced coarse lumps asunder,
And he cried “a cook can defy, you see,
A Commissariat’s knavery;
The soldier who saves a nation free,
Should have a ration savoury.”

_Punch._ July 28, 1855.

――――

The Draper’s man to the war is gone
In the foremost ranks you’ll find him,
His knapsack he has buckled on,
His tape yard left behind him.
“Hands so strong,” cried the warrior, fired,
“No woman’s work were made for;
“Such sinew now for war’s required,
“And more――will be well paid for!”

_Punch._ October 17, 1857.

There was another parody of the same original, commencing

“The Chinese boy to the war is gone”

in _Punch_, May 7, 1857, but it is of no interest now.

――――

THE ERRAND BOY TO THE BEERSHOP’S GONE.

The errand boy to the beershop’s gone,
In front of the bar you’ll find him;
His hat he has’nt stopp’d to put on,
Nor to shut the door behind him.
“Another pint?” says the barmaid there;
“Yes, when you’ve paid for the first one!
Of all the young rascals who come here,
You really are the worst one!”

The youngster fell!――He had paid the cash,
He’d got it for a wonder――
When over the step he tumbled――smash!
His jug was broken asunder.
He picked himself up:――Hurt? not he;
He looked down at the running liquor:
“Well, if I’d taken it home,” quoth he,
“We could’nt have swallow’d it quicker.”

_Judy_, November 17, 1869.

――――

THE BEARDLESS BOY.

The Beardless Boy to the Race has gone,
In the Betting Ring you’ll find him;
His father’s till he has drawn upon,
And his race-glass slung behind him.
“‘Land’ I must, or it will go hard
Should all my luck forsake me,”
Remarked the youth, as he bought a Card,
“And Policeman X may take me.”

* * * * *

He lost his bets, and his watch and chain,
At which you’ll scarcely wonder;
And as he rushed to catch a train,
He tore his coat asunder;
And said, “No one shall bully me,
I’ll not submit to slavery!
I won’t go home, but I’ll wander free,
And take to a life of knavery!”

_Punch_, June 5, 1875.

――――

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The Minstrel Boy in the train has gone,
In the third class you will find him,
His concertina he plays upon,
Or the fiddle that hangs behind him;
“Child of Song,” cries the railway-guard,
“Though bobbies oft betray thee,
The Underground will thee reward,
These foolish folk will pay thee.”

The Minstrel entered the railway train,
But a rival knocked him under,
Causing the Child of Song much pain,
And his fiddle broke asunder,
And said “Go back to your own countree,
Thou dupe of Italian knavery;
Music was made for the brave and free;
And not to be used for slavery.”

_Funny Folks._

――――

REPUBLICANS, COME IN YOUR THOUSANDS.

Bradlaugh to protest is gone;
In Hyde-park you will find him,
Royal trips to speak upon:
Now _who_ will stand beside him?
“Sons of toil,” says the Radical bold,
“Though all the Whigs betray ye,
“One voice at least shall cry ‘_Withhold!_’
“One faithful heart shall serve ye.”

The grant is made! and once again
The public purse they plunder;
But if they try it on again,
We’ll speak in tones of thunder:――
Milton wrote, Cromwell fought,
Hampden died for freedom;
Can heirs of liberty be taught
To suffer slavish serfdom?

S. J. MIOTT, 1875.

――――

ON THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.

The warrior duke to the review had gone,
Amid the volunteers they find him;
His hat and plume he had fastened on,
And his gingham slung behind him.
“Sangster’s best,” sang the warrior duke,
“Though all the world does mock thee,
“One eye at least shall on thee look,
“To see no chaff shall shock thee.”

The rain came down, but the warrior duke
Could not get his gingham under;
The gingham he loved, by some awful fluke,
Had its ribs all broken asunder.
He wailed “The rain will fall on me,
“The chief of England’s army;
“My brand new clothes will spoil’d be;
“Oh, take me home and dry me!”

――――

SONG FOR A CIVIC BANQUET, 1880.

The alderman from Guildhall has gone
In the coffee tavern you’ll find him,
The temperance badge he has girded on,
And his old port chucked behind him.
“Cold water pure!” sang the civic knight,
“Though tipplers all deride thee,
No other drink will I touch to-night,
Though the teapot stands beside thee!”

The alderman fell! ’twas not champagne,
But turtle, that brought him under
The festive board, for the glass again
He never touched, for a wonder!
“Cold water is the drink for me,”
Sang he in his Templar bravery;
“A total abstainer I will be
And shun King Alcohol’s slavery!”

_Judy_, December 1, 1880.

――――

THE GIRTON GIRL.

The Girton girl to Exam. has gone,
In the Tripos list you’ll find her;
In mathematics she always shone,
And had left her mates behind her.
“Woman’s rights,” said the learned fair,
Though all the world may scold ye,
_One_ brain at least for you shall dare,
_One_ practised pen uphold ye!”

The men they failed!――since the papers set
Very quickly knock’d them under;
But no Examiner could get
Anyhow that girl to blunder.
She cried, “You Dons shan’t bully me,
For fame I’m now an angler!”
And fame rewarded her ways so free,
As she came out Senior Wrangler!

_Funny Folks_, March 12, 1881.

(The Senate of Cambridge University had recently decided to admit female students, resident at either Girton or Newnham College, to the Tripos Examination.)

――――

THE GRAND OLD MINSTREL BOY.

THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD OF WALES.――Towards defraying the expenses of this annual literary meeting, the Prince of Wales had sent a sum of twenty guineas. Mr. Gladstone had consented to act as President on the closing day.

The Grand Old Boy to the wars will go,
In the Jingoes’ ranks you’ll find him;
With Dizzy’s sword he will strike a blow,
And his own harp sling behind him.
“Land of the Sphinx,” this warrior Bard
Sings out, “Though tricks they play thee,
One Grand Old Boy thy rights shall guard;
By Jove, he won’t betray thee!”

So the Grand Old Boy takest rain from town――
With his harp the seat tucked under;
And the Prince pays twenty guineas down
To be out of it――and no wonder!
But the closing day a song shall hear
(May be noisier, may be quieter),
With an _encore_ verse, that the heart will cheer
Of a Music Hall Proprietor!

_Punch_, August 5, 1882.

――――

THE ECONOMICAL PEER.

The noble lord to the stores is gone,
’Mid the groceries you’ll find him;
His biscuit-box he has girded on,
And his jam-pot’s slung behind him.
His parcels of goods he can scarce convey,
All the brushes and soap he’s dropping;
And he staggers about in a senseless way
’Neath the weight of his various shopping.

“Here economy reigns,” said the noble bard,
“And it gladdens my heart to view it;
A flea I’d skin for the worth of its lard,
And here is the place to do it.
What care _I_ for scoffs? They may jeer who please,
I despise their paltry scandals!
I shall twopence save on ten pounds of cheese,
And three-halfpence on my candles!”

_Judy_, February 1, 1882.

――――

THE NORTH-WEST BOY.

Sir D. V. gay to the poll is gone,
In the Tory ranks you’ll find him;
A roll of pigtail he has girded on,
And a grey goose slung behind him.
“Blarney-lane,” said the feathery knight.
“Though all the world betrays thee,
Sweet spot where first I saw the light,
One faithful heart shall praise thee!

But the knight he fell――’twas Hooper’s gain――
And it brought his small soul under;
For the North-west Ward he’ll ne’er speak again;
Nor her true burgesses sunder.
“Alas!” said he, “my civic knell
Was rung the day I left Parnell,
For my country’s foes and bent the knee,
To Buckshot and Castle slavery.”

MARY SHANDON.
From _United Ireland_, December 8, 1883.

――――

A DIRGE!
(_To be said, or sung, by the Electors of Northampton._)

Our Bradlaugh boy to the House is gone,
In the Lobby there you’ll find him;
Erskine his sword has girded on,
And Denning is close behind him.
“You can’t go in!” cried this trusty guard;
“The Commons so decide it;
The House perhaps acts rather hard,
But _you_ must stay _out_side it!”

The Members fell to; but ’twas in vain
To try “Denning to get under;”
“Braddy” was floored again and again,
And his top coat torn asunder;
His hat was knocked right o’er his head,
His corns and his bunions stampt on,
And down he went more live than dead,
To where he came from――Northampton!

――――

THE WAIL OF A DISTURBED SOUL.

The ’prentice boy to the street has gone,
Among his chums you’ll find him;
And he has ta’en his mel-o-de-on,
His favourite tunes to grind ’em.
“Balm of Gilead” loud they sing,
As if they’d been hob-nobbin’;
And then the midnight echoes ring
To the wail of “Poor Cock Robin.”

“There now it’s “Over the Garden Wall”――
Shut up, you noisy crew, you!
But list, the liquid rise and fall
Of “Glory Hallelujah!”
Will no one from a window take
An aim, and damp their ardour?
Alike for peaceful slumber’s sake,
And for the tunes they murder!

I wonder will they knock off soon
Great Handel! what a hobby!
Ah, now they carol “Bonny Doon.”
Confound it! Where’s the bobby?
With their last notion I agree,
And back that move to “carry”
The bloomin’ lot to “Tennessee,”
Or better, to “Old Harry”!

Oh, wandering minstrels of the night,
A victim I would pray you,
If you must put sweet dreams to flight,
Rehearse “Far, far away,” do!

A. B.

――――

“THE GRAND YOUNG MAN”; OR THE MISLEADING BOY.
(_A prophecy about Mr. Joseph Chamberlain._)

1885.
“The Grand Young Man” to the front has come,
At the head of the Rads you’ll find him:
The mild Whig leaders are under his thumb,
The G.O.M.’s far behind him.
“Land for the mob” cries Brummagem Joe,
“Let any one dare deny me;
_One_ class alone has the right to crow――
Capitalists such as I be!”

1895.
The “Young One” fell; but no sense of shame
Could bring _his_ proud soul under,
Though his wretched party earned the name
Of “‘rifle, rob and plunder.’”
Cried he “the blame don’t rest with me,
Not in the knave’s the knavery,
But in the fools who ought to see
Yet sell themselves to slavery.”

_Moonshine_, October 10, 1885.

――――

THE GRAND YOUNG MAN.

The “Grand Young Man” on the “stump” has gone,
In the Rads’ front rank you’ll find him,
The spoilers’ axe he has girded on,
And his Programme slung behind him.
“Working Men,” said the “people’s Joe,”
“Though Tories all neglect thee,
_One_ trump, at least thy “rights” shall blow,
_One_ faithful arm protect thee.”

The “party” fell, but the Tories reign
Could not bring the bold boy under;
The “tongue” he loved was loosed again,
In threats of “blood and thunder,”
And said “no man shall bully _me_,
The soul of truth and bravery;
My voice shall sound till the land is free,
And never be gagged by knavery.”

_Society_, October 24, 1885. F. B. DOVETON.

Several Parodies of “_The Minstrel Boy_” were published in “_Life_” November 26, 1885. As they all related to Mr. Gladstone’s electioneering journey to the north, one specimen will suffice, as there is a great similarity between them.

The Grand Old Man to the North has gone,
’Neath a “Primrose” roof you’ll find him,
His “four point” poster he has girded on,
And his family travel behind him.
“Liberals all,” said the canny chief
“Let not disunion rend ye;
“Though by my _deeds_ ye have come to grief
“In _Speech_ I’ll aye defend ye!”

“Unite, Unite;” he pleads in vain,
Too late he sees his blunder,
The “Party” is split, for the Caucus strain
Has forced its links asunder
Hope in him dies, yet still he cries,
Though his spell of power has vanished,
“The Rads may come in, what care I if they win
So the Tories from office be banished!”

――――

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

The Grand Old Man to the war has come,
Confronting the foe you’ll find him;
We’ll beat the charge on the Liberal drum,
And close our ranks behind him.
Grand old warrior, stout and bold,
Though faithless friends betrayed him,
We’ll place the helm in his honest hold,
And with hearts and voices aid him.

His battle-cry on the foe shall fall
Like the roll of distant thunder,
’Twill pale their cheeks and their souls appal,
And their blustering turn to wonder.
For the grand old man, with heart of gold,
Has burst our bonds of slavery;
And freed the land from its burden old
Of Tory craft and knavery.

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_.

――――

SONG OF THE PAUNCHY TENNIS-PLAYER.
(AIR――“_The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing._”)

The time I’ve lost in “screwing,”
In watching and pursuing
The ball that flies,
On fall or rise,
Has been my trade’s undoing.
Though Business hath besought me,
I’ve shirked the truths she taught me,
I left my books
To partner Snooks,
And ruin’s what he’s brought me.

By Tennis still enchanted,
Of late I’ve puffed and panted,
I once was light,
And slim and slight,
Ere Anti-fat I wanted.
But now young Beauties shun me,
For stoutness grows upon me:
When asked to play,
They turn away,
Old Blobbs can now outrun me!

And is my good time going?
And is my figure growing
So huge in size
That sparkling eyes
Brim o’er to see me “blowing?”
Yes――vain alas! th’ endeavour,
To charm with back-play clever,
Love nevermore――
_Save in the score_――
Shall bless me――never! never!

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

SONG FOR A HIGH ART HOSTESS.

Come, rest on this gridiron, my own dear _Æsthete_,
Though the herd may contemn, ’tis a true High art seat;
These, these the contours that art yearns to create,
A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight.

Oh, where is the taste that is worthy the name
Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame?
I know not, I ask not if ease they impart,
I but know they are true to the canons of Art.

Do they call it all corners? they know not the bliss
Of the angular style in a seat such as this.
In furnishing, firmly High-Art I’ll pursue,
And I’ll crouch on my gridiron couch till all’s blue.

_Punch._ April 16, 1881.

――――:o:――――

AIR
(“_I saw from the Beach._”)

To the Finish I went, when the moon it was shining,
The jug round the table moved jovially on;
I staid till the moon the next morn was declining;
The jug still was there, but the punch was all gone
And such are the joys that your brandy will promise,
(And often these joys at the finish I’ve known)
Every copper it makes in the evening ebb from us,
And leaves us next day with a head ache alone!

Ne’er tell me of puns, or of laughter adorning,
Our revels, that last till the close of the night;
Give me back the hard cash that I left in the morning,
For clouds dim my eye, and my pocket is light.
Oh, who’s there who welcomes that moment’s returning,
When daylight must throw a new light on his frame,
When his stomach is sick, and his liver is burning――
His eyes, shot with blood, and his brow in a flame!

WILLIAM MAGINN.

――――

I saw up the steps, when the morning was shining,
The undergrads crowding so hopefully on;
I came when the sun o’er those steps was declining,
There the Senate-House was, but the students had gone.

Oh! what was the fate of the morning’s fair promise,
How ended the hopes that we students had known?
Each question we longed for kept cruelly from us,
And those that we knew not set for us alone.

Ne’er tell of surmises but coldly adorning
The close of Exams at the coming of night.
Give me back, give me back the fond hopes of the morning;
Its alarms and its fears in the evening seem light.

Ah! who would not welcome that moment’s returning,
When bravely he up to the Senate-House came,
Nor deem’d that ’ere long from that building returning,
In the “list” he would look out in vain for his name.

_The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. (Cambridge).

――――

I saw from my window, when morning was smiling.
A “Girl of the Period” come tripping along,
When, sudden, the wild blast like fury came howling――
The girl was still there――but her “chignon” was gone!

Ah! such is the fate of the wigs we put on us!
So fleeting the false hair of which we’re so proud:
Our darling excrescence the rough wind blows from us,
And leaves us exposed to the jeers of the crowd.

From _The Girl of the Period Miscellany_, June, 1869.

――――:o:――――

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark――
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
* * * * *

T. MOORE.

――――

SONG FOR A DWELLER IN A QUIET STREET.

Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer,
Rum-tum-ti-tiddy-iddy-tum!
You’ve thumped and twangled all the summer,
You tootle still now winter’s come.
The notes you thrum out seem to say,
“Though out of time and tune we be,
Less flat we are, less false than they
Whose clang _shall_ rack thy wife and thee.”

Scale on, scale on――through endless time――
Through morn, noon, evening――stop no more!
To slaughter you were scarce a crime,
Oh, plaguy and persistent bore!
Were there indeed some quiet street
Where ne’er piano maddened men,
Where never “Scales” this ear should greet,
Then might I rest,――but not till then.

_Punch’s Almanac_, 1883.

――――:o:――――

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,
The night’s long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach’d by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

The dawn of the morn, the daylight’s sinking,
Five’s cosy hour shall find me drinking
Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!
When friends are met, and cups go round,
And scandals fresh have all enchanted,
When buttered toast is bravely browned,
My soul, like _Stiggins’s_, is haunted
By Tea, Tea, only Tea!

When crisply curls the breakfast bacon,
Coffee by me shall be forsaken
For Tea, Tea, only Tea!
Like Ocean, which by light or dark
Gulps down the rivers, resting never,
The cup that cheers when cares do cark
I sip or sing of, doting ever
On Tea, Tea, only Tea!

I have no joy but of its bringing,
And “nerves” themselves seem nice when springing
From Tea, Tea, only Tea!
Tea’s spell there’s nought on earth can break
(Though tea-cups _can_, alas! be broken);
Bohea the toper’s scorn may wake,
By _me_ for aye the praise be spoken
Of Tea, Tea, only Tea!

_Punch_, June 7, 1884.

――――

OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME

Oh, call it by some better name,
For FRIENDSHIP sounds too cold,
While LOVE is now a worldly flame
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o’er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon――
Then, call it none of these.
* * * * *
T. MOORE.

This poem was chosen as the original for a parody competition in the _Weekly Dispatch_, and the following specimens were published in that newspaper on February 21, 1886.

PRIZE POEM.

JUSTICE FOR IRELAND.

Oh, try, good sirs, some better game,
Coercion is too old,
And Charity is statecraft’s shame,
That gilds a wrong with gold;
And Pity, like some plaintive tune
Which, hackneyed, fails to please,
Awhile as sweet, will pall as soon――
Oh! trust to none of these.

Imagine measure surer far,
More free from lust of sway,
Than pity, alms, coercion are,
Yet nobler still than they;
And if your skill for need like this
No mortal plan can frame,
Go, ask God’s Justice what it is,
And try that better game!

B. SAUNDERS.

Highly commended:――

OH! TRY SOME WORTHIER, BETTER GAME.

Oh, try some worthier, better game,
Coercion’s knell is tolled,
And force would fan the slumbering flame
That burnt so fierce of old;
And Home Rule’s but a jangling tune,
A signal on the breeze
For Orange hounds to bay the moon――
Oh! pray try none of these.

But when some plan that’s simpler far
Evolves to glad the day,
Home Rule shall with Coercion far
Betake themselves away;
And if thou’lt end such strife as this,
Not vain the strength that’s spent;
Go, ask――the answer comes, it is
But Local Government.

D. EVANS.

Oh! call it by some better name,
Land Purchase is too cold,
And Separation is a scheme
Too venturesome and bold;
And Home Rule, like a tropic sun
That burns o’er all it sees,
Might scorch us when its aims were won――
Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something safer far,
As potent and as free
As those Utopian measures are
With which we can’t agree;
And if thy lip for Rule like this
No mortal word can frame,
Go ask the “Old Man” what it is
And call it by that name.

J. FITZPATRICK.

Oh! call it by some fitter name,
For Justice is too cold.
And Peace is a decrepit dame,
Who limps on crutch of gold;
And Pity, like a melting moon
That sways the tidal seas,
Awhile as fond, will set as soon――
Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something freer far
From stain of Saxon sway
Than Justice, Peace, or Pity are――
Abstractions dim and gray!
And if thy lips it overtax
A fitting phrase to frame,
Go, ask of Erin what she lacks,
And call it by that name.

GOSSAMER.

――――

THE IRISH LANDLORD.

Oh! call him by some stronger name,
For Landlord is too cold;
A plundering Wolf his acts might shame,
When worrying the fold.
A Tyrant, like an Egypt sun,
May burn up all he sees,
But soon his frantic course is run――
Call him no names like these.

Imagine something more unkind,
More free from mercy’s sway,
Than Landlord, Tyrant, Wolf combined,
More cruel ev’n than they.
And if no name for work like this
Your Saxon tongues can frame,
Ask the “Ould Divil” what it is,
And call him by that name!

ROBERT PUTTICK.

――――:o:――――

BALLAD STANZAS

(_The Woodpecker._)

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here!”
It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around
In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

THE TAXGATHERER’S KNOCKING.

I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d
Above a high cape, that the Regent was there,
And I said, if there’s _ton_ to be found in the world,
The Dandy of fashion will look for it here――
Half the shops were shut up, and I heard not a sound,
But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!

* * * * *

On pretence of NECESSITY, frequent large dips
In my now emptied pockets have made me repine;
In vain does RETRENCHMENT rise up to my lips,
The _Regent_ must _live_, though starvation be mine――
Though my shop be deserted, and heard not a sound,
But Taxgath’rers knocking, while going their dull round!

WILLIAM HONE.

――――

THE COMFORTS OF AN INN.

I knew by the post that so gaily display’d
The sign of a _Bear_, that a tavern was near;
And said, if a cask of good ale e’er was made,
The man that was thirsty might wish for it here.
It was noon, and in mud puddles scatter’d around,
In silence repos’d the voluptuous hog――
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,
Save the innkeeper flogging a mischievous dog.

And here in this little lone spot, I exclaim’d
With a pipe in my mouth, and a drop in my eye;
With a cask of good liquor, old rye coffee named,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I _lie_
By the side of yon oak, where an old toper sips
His glass of gin toddy, how sweet to recline,
And to know that the liquor I rais’d to my lips,
Had never been tasted by any but mine.

From _The Mirror_, 1823.

――――

AN EDITOR’S TROUBLES.

We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d
Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near,
And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world,
’Tis not in a MAGAZINE-EDITOR’S sphere!
All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,
But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through;
And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound,
We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe!

And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed,
How many a manuscript fair to the eye,
(But of which the poor author would soon be ashamed,
Did we _print_ it,) the flame of our grate will supply!
All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,
But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through,
And as slowly together the “Copy” we bound,
The clock in the kitchen (a cuckoo), sang two!

_The New Monthly Belle Assemblée._ April, 1836.

――――

THE GOOD-PECKER.

I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d
Above the black saucepan, that dinner was near;
And I said, “If there is a good thing in this world,
’Tis a boiled leg of pork, which methinks is in here.”
Every table was spread, and I heard underground,
The landlady tapping a cask of old ale.

And here, in a snug little inn of its sort,
With a landlord that’s jolly, a waiter that’s cute,
A weed of Havannah, a glass of old port,
If a man were not happy with these, he’s a brute.
Every table, &c.

By the tinge of the parson’s red nose, that he dips,
With a smile of contentment, so oft in his wine,
How glorious to bask, and not open my lips,
Save to tell to the world how divinely I dine.
Every table, &c.

_Diogenes_, vol. 3, p. 200. 1854.

――――

CLUBS NOT TRUMPS.

I knew by the smoke that so heavily curled
From the roof of each club-house the Carlton was near;
And I said if there’s fog to be found in the world,
The lungs that love asthma may look for it here.

_Punch_, December 1880.

* * * * *

TO DIZZY.
(_By a Country Squire._)

When time hath bereft thee
Of votes now divine;
When the boroughs have left thee,
Nor counties be thine.
When the faces shall vanish,
That circle thee now;
And the groans thou wouldst banish,
Shall grow to a row.
In the hour of thy sadness,
Then think upon me.
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver to thee.

When Bright, who could turn thee,
From virtue and fame,
Shall spurn thee and leave thee,
To sorrow and shame.
When by Gladstone requited,
Thy brain shall be stung;
When thy name shall be blighted,
And linked with “unhung.”
In the depth of thy sadness,
Then think upon me.
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver to thee.

_The Tomahawk_, August 24, 1867.

――――:o:――――

A RIVER MELODY.

By the Thames, to the right, lies the flat shore of Erith,
For Gents by the _Gem_ and the _Topaz_ conveyed;
But you, when the steamer that landing-place neareth,
Say “No, I’m for Rosherville”――sensible blade.

By the Red House――that stands like a murder-stained dwelling,
Where pigeons (called blue rocks) lie sleeping in gore――
By the tide at Cremorne, which so seldom, high swelling,
Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door.

We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted
At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead;
Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted,
And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread.

No, Erith,――though snobbish the Gravesend refection,
Though the “Whittington” shop boys call _polks_ in the hall,
Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion,
Your fare, _fêtes_, and fun, are more dreary than all.

From _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2.

――――:o:――――

JUST OF AGE.

Had I a shilling left to spare,
I should not pay it you;
For, though arrest you did not dare,
You’ve dunned me like a Jew.
Nor hope to prove my friends more kind
To thy complaining tongue;
For, misers in the old you’ll find,
And beggars in the young!

Know that of age I soon shall be,
And of the _ready_ flush;
All bowing then you’ll come to me,
And for this rudeness blush;
So, with my custom, lest you learn
Another I have blest,
Let _now_ a civil tongue return
And saucy dunnings rest.

BERTIE VYSE.
_The Comic Magazine_, 1832.

――――

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Ann’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past.

* * * * *
T. MOORE.

――――

THE CABINET’S BOAT SONG. June 1878.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
What though the Whigs and their friends look blue?
We’ll sing and we’ll chaunt, to each other true,
Pull, brothers, Pull! the stream runs fast,
The Congress is near, and the danger’s past.

Why should we yet our hand display?
There is not a card that Russia can play,
But when it’s played――be it ace or king――
We still can trump it,――and still can sing――
Pull, brothers, pull! the game goes fast,
But the Congress is near, and the danger’s past.

Muscovy’s bluster and Gladstone’s tongue
But steady our boat the surges among,
God of our fathers! guide our hand
For justice, freedom, and fatherland.
So shall we thankfully sing at last,
“Peace is secured and all danger past.”

_They are Five_ by W. E. G. (D. Bogue. London. 1880.)

――――

Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime
Our fears we’ll keep quiet and vote in time.
Soon as the polling hours begin,
We’ll vote our St. Gladstone “items” in.
Poll, brothers, poll! events run fast,
Defeat may be near, and our day be past.

Why should we “union” flags unfurl?
We’ll not spend a breath their blue folds to curl,
But when its last link leaves our shore,
We’ll rest ’neath the old umbrella once more.
Poll, brothers, poll, &c.

Politics’ tide, this July moon
Shall see us float proudly, or sink full soon;
King of the green isle hear our prayers,
Oh, grant in this crisis thy favouring airs.
Poll; brothers, poll, &c.

ROGGEE SHURT.

_Truth._ Parody Competition. July 15, 1886.

――――:o:――――

_The Weekly Dispatch_ had a Parody Competition on Thomas Moore’s

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.
An Anacreontic.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from Old Brompton’s bowers――
Or (if sweeter that abode)
From the King’s well-odour’d Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud!
Hither come, and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us.
Those who rule and (some say) fool us――
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Household Deities!
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an Orange lily――
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply!
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon’s wig!

Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
For the head of Liverpool!
’Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs
Which they suffered (what a pity)
On the road to Paris city.

* * * * *

And the following parodies were published in that paper on February 7, 1886:――

PRIZE POEM.

Hither, Flora of the street!
Haste from Bumble on his beat――
Or (if there thou chance to dwell)
From “The Garden,” odoured well,
Where the citizens of Lud
Sniff the stench of putrid mud!
Hither come, with what of bloom
Dares defy our brumal gloom;
Bring the flowers as you find ’em
Round our rulers’ brows to bind ’em.
First, since near to Piccadilly
Flames not now the Orange lily,
And ’Tis only some such dye
Irish G――bs――n can supply,
Stick a yellow Primrose sprig
Into A――hb――e’s brand-new wig.

Failing of a Poppy posy
For Lord I――dd――h, dear and dozy,
Could there fitter emblem be
Than the everlasting Pea?
Then on C――c――l’s black brows set
Spotted Dog’s-tooth Violet,
Or――which would beseem them well――
Rue and Spurge and Asphodel.[123]

Next, C――rn――n’s brows to crown,
Bring me here from Dublin town
Shamrock that has served its turn,
Withered leaf and broken fern.
But for Ch――ch――ll we must find
Blossoms of a gaudier kind:
Stitch the garland through and through
With flimsy threads of every hue;
And as Goddess――_entre nous_――
His lordship loves (though least of men)
The grandiose――like poor old Ben――
Twine amid his close-cropped locks
Artificial Hollyhocks!

Cr――b――k, M――nn――s, Sm――h, and B――ch,
Spriggs of Cypress pluck for each.
C――ss may smile a sickly smile
’Neath a crown of Camomile;
But time presses――let the rest
Wear whatever likes them best!

T. A. WILSON.

Highly commended:――

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Hence from Covent Garden’s bowers,
Where each blighted country bud
Droops in vegetable mud;
Haste, if such a haunt be thine,
Choicest herbs and flowers to twine
Into wreaths for those who’d rule us,
Those who’d not the wit to fool us――
Flora, sure, will love to please
Her own Tory votaries!
First, then, it is my behest
That a Cowslip be thy quest;
With it to the Commons hie――
Need I state the reason why?――
And stick it in Sir Michael’s crest.

Gather next a bunch of Rue,
To his speech a fitting cue――
Garland grim and strange to see,
For the head of Salisbury.
It will suit his bitter brows,
Now they’ve lost their laurel boughs――
(Smith, too, lost his――what a pity!――
On the road to Dublin city).

Next for Churchill bring a few
Flowers of any shade or hue;
Leaves of evanescent sheen;
Mellow almost while they’re green;
Add a little Indian Cress――
Warlike spoil it doth express.

That’s enough――away, away!――
Had I leisure I could say,
Naught for Bartlett’s brains of fret
Like the Russian Violet;
How Lord Iddesleigh’s brow supine
Would ’neath modest Primrose shine;
But time presses――for, I wot,
Men like these are soon forgot.

ARAMIS.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste from Bedford’s ducal bowers――
Covent Garden’s sweet domain,
Grimy Eden of Cockayne;
Where each vendor of the spud
Breathes the dust and treads the mud!
Hither come, and daily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who would
Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could.
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Tory Deities!
First bring London Pride and Rue,
These for S――l――sb――y will do――
Place the wreath with gesture gladsome
Where his hair was when he had some.
Cockscomb, next, of brightest red,
Find for Ch――rch――lls’s modest head;
And, fair Goddess, if thy search
Leads thee by the classic Birch.
Pluck a tribute switch to grace
R――nd――lph in another place!

Shamrock, then, we fain would see――
Four-leaved shamrock let it be,
And with this botanic myth
Deck the brows of Mr. Sm――th.
Let “Old Woman”――homely plant――
Crown C――rn――rv――n’s ringlets scant;
And Thistle, loved of asses ever,
Were not amiss for Cr――ss the clever!

That’s enough――away, away!――
Had I leisure, I could say
H――cks B――ch would seem Adonis still
Wreathed in transient Daffodil;
But time presses――to thy taste
I leave the rest, so prithee haste!

THISTLE.

――――:o:――――

THE LEGACY.

“_When in death I shall calmly recline._”

“When in gaol I shall calm recline,
Bear my best coat to some pawnbroker near,
Show him how stylish the gilt buttons shine,
And ask him a price that’s not too dear.

Bid him not search for bank notes in the pocket,
For they were lugged out to pay an old debt,
And all he’ll find will be an old locket
Of Sal’s, she gave me when last we met.”

――――

WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL QUIET BE FOUND.

When in death I shall quiet be found,
Pray bear my clothes to some pawnbroker near,
Tell him to lend you a couple of pound,
And mind he don’t charge for the ticket too dear.

Bid him not search too close for gamboge
In the breeches, nor nicely examine the coat,
But tell him that he may send if he choose,
All he can spare ’bove a two-pound note.

Then with the money pray buy me a coffin,
And bury me safe ’neath a table of chance;
Haply e’en there my memory may soften
The pangs of ill-luck and the want of finance.

But should some cruel and opulent Greek
Revile at my state as he stamps o’er my grave,
Oh! let some thought of its master bespeak,
Your favour for him who was gambling’s slave.

Take, then, these cards, which now are neglected,
And bury them with me when I am at rest;
Never! oh, never! in cheating detected,
Though seldom by hands that were pure were they prest.

But should some fortunate gambling rover
Come here to seek them in frolic and fun,
Oh, then around my genius shall hover,
And teach him to spend the cash he has won.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

A FAREWELL
[_Sung by Mr. Cross to the Ratepayers of London._)

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour
When the Pekoe is fragrant in boudoir and bower,
Then think of your Cross who had made the dear brew
At the ratepayer’s cost even dearer to you!

* * * * *

You may boil, you may filter, the stuff as you will
But the scent of the Sewage will hang round it still!

_Punch_ May 1, 1880.

――――:o:――――

TO TORY HEARTS.

To Tory hearts a round, boys,
You can’t refuse, you can’t refuse,
When Lib’rals so abound, boys,
’Tis time to choose, ’tis time to choose,
For thick as stars that lighten,
Our London stage, our London stage
Are Whigs that fain would brighten
The present age, the present age.

To Tories fill, where’er boys,
Your choice may fall, your choice may fa
Be sure you’ll find truth there, boys,
So drink them all, so drink them all.
* * * * *

_Spirit of the Age Newspaper_ for 1828.

――――:o:――――

DEVILLED BISCUIT
(“_A Temple to Friendship._”)

“A nice Devill’d Biscuit” said JENKINS enchanted,
“I’ll have after dinner――the thought is divine!”
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted――
To fully enjoy it――a glass of good wine.
He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter’d biscuit he went
Then, some cheese in a paste mix’d with mustard spread o’er it,
And down to be grill’d to the kitchen ’twas sent.

“Oh! how,” said the Cook, “can I this think o grilling,
When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here’s the Cayenne; if my master is willing,
I’ll make, if he pleases, a devil with that.”
So the Footman ran up with the Cook’s observation
To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:
“Oh, go to the devil!” forgetting his station,
Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.

_Punch._

――――:o:――――

APPLE PIE.
(“_All that’s bright must fade._”)