Chapter IV: Part 36: Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore (2)

But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end,
And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend,
Raise many a champion through the land to lead
A growing host for poverty to plead,
The sacred voice of conscience wake within,
Forbid the fatal policy of sin,
Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate,
Calm down the public mind, and save the State.
Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far
Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war,
Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky
On the self-immolated quarry fly.

So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand!
Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand;
So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep,
Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep;
So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride,
By justice checked, within its banks subside;
So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit,
Revived and cherished, well its place befit,
And through the time to come serenely bright
Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.

Immortal Light, that can’st alone control
The brutal instincts of the savage soul,
’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife
The deep significance of human life,
Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God,
The awful sanctions of HIS penal code;
Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read,
The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.

――――

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain,
Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid,
And the rich summer dinner-tables laid.
Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease,
Seats of my youth when every card could please,
How often have I done thy park so green
Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene;
How often have I paused the throng to tell,
Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell,
The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill,
The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill,
The moving row with spots beneath the shade
For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made:
How often have I blest the late-born day,
When play remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village swells from dinner free,
Led up the sports that fashion loves to see,
While much flirtation circled in the shade,
The young ones spooning as the old surveyed,
And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground,
And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round;
And still as each repeated partner tired,
Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired.
The dancing man, who simply sought renown
By leading all the cotillons in town,
The swain mistrustful of his smutty face,
While secret riddles tittered round the place,
The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love,
The chaperons who would those looks reprove,
These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these
With sweet succession taught e’en town to please,
These round thy bowers their genial influence shed,
These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn,
Within thy doors upholsterers are seen,
And water-carts alone the park keep green;
Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain,
Of all thy people none with thee remain.
No more thy babbling talk reflects the day,
But in the country winds its shallow way;
Along thy park a solitary guest,
A sole policeman now laments the rest,
Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils,
Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils;
Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all,
And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball,
And trembling, lest they last should join the band,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey,
Where working men increase and swells decay,
Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade,
Hardy may make them as Walpole has made,
But fashionable swells, their country’s pride,
Once out of town can never be supplied.

_The Tomahawk_, September 7, 1867.

――――

The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of _The Mirror_:

“Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office
has contributed:――

LONDON IN SEPTEMBER
(Not in 1831),
By Lord John Russell.
(After _The Traveller_, by _Oliver Goldsmith_).

“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
A single horseman passes Rotten row;
In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse
The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news.
At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass
To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass;
The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare
To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square.
From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy,
And seeks――Oh bliss――the Molly――_a tempora fandi_.
Meantime the battered pavement is at rest,
And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest,
Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long,
Have all left town to join the Margate throng.
The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore
Displays and drives his blue barouche and four,
The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun,
Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”

――――:o:――――

THE HERMIT.

This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James’s Chronicle:

“A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a
ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious
Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance
between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his
ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years
ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles
at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I
saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of
Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his
little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved
it.”

In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad _Gentle Herdsman_. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s _The Hermit_, and a few verses from Bishop Percy’s _Friar of Orders Gray_.

It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.

“GENTLE HERDSMAN TELL TO ME.”

Gentle herdsman, tell to me,
Of curtesy I thee pray――
Unto the _towne_ of _Wallsingham_
Which is the right and ready way?

“Unto the _towne_ of Walsingham,
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those _pathes_
For you to find out all alone.”

Were the miles doubled _thrise_
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so _grevous_ and so ill.

“Thy _yeares_ are young, thy face is _faire_,
Thy wits are _weake_, thy thoughts are _greene_;
Time hath not given thee leave as yet
For to commit so great a _sinne_!”

Yes, herdsman, yes, _soe_ wou’dst thou say,
If thou knewest so much as I;
My wits, and _thoughtes_, and all the rest,
Have well deserved for to dye.

I am not what I _seeme_ to _bee_,
My cloths and _sexe doe_ differ _fare_;
I am a woman, woe _is mee_!
Born to _greeffe_, and irksome care.

For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill;
And though my _teares_ will naught avail,
Most _dearely_ I bewail him still.

He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere _colde bee_,
Of _comelye_ mien and shape he was,
And _tenderlye_ he loved _mee_.

When thus I _sawe_ he loved me well,
I grew so _proude_ his _paine_ to see,
That I, who did not know _myselfe_,
Thought _scorne_ of such a youth as _hee_.

And grew so coy, and nice to please,
As women’s _lookes_ are often _soe_,
He might not _kisse_, nor hand forsooth,
_Unlesse_ I willed him _soe_ to _doe_.

Thus being _wearyed_ with _delayes_,
To see I _pityed_ not his _greeffe_,
He goes him to a _secret_ place,
And there he dyed without _releeffe_.

And for his sake these _weedes_ I _weare_,
And sacrifice my tender age;
And every day I’ll beg my bread,
To _undergoe_ this pilgrimage.

Thus every day I’ll fast and _praye_,
And ever will do till I _dye_;
And get me to some _secrett_ place,
For so did _hee_, and _soe_ will I.

Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my _secretts_ I thee pray;
Unto the _towne_ of Wallsingham
Shew _me the_ right and _readye waye_.

“Now _goe_ thy _wayes_, and God before,
For he must ever guide thee still;
Turn down the dale the _righte_ hand _pathe_,
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”

――――:o:――――

THE HERMIT.

“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.”

“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
“To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

“Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant
I give it with good will.

“Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate’er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

“No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

“But from the mountain’s grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.

“Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego;
All earthborn cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master’s care;
The wicket, opening with a latch
Received the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil’d;
And skill’d in legendary lore
The lingering hours beguil’d.

Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket churrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger’s woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spy’d,
With answ’ring care opprest:
“And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d
“The sorrows of thy breast?

“From better habitations spurn’d,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
Or unregarded love?

“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.

“And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

“And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one’s jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle’s nest.

“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex” he said
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray’d.

Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o’er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.

“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn.” she cried;
“Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.

“But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

“My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark’d as mine
He had but only me.

“To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber’d suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign’d a flame.

“Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,
But never talk’d of love.

“In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor pow’r had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

“And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol’d lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.[11]

“The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heav’n refin’d,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

“The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

“For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch’d my heart
I triumph’d in his pain.

“Till quite dejected with my scorn
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay:
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

“And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I’ll lay me down and die;
’Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.”

“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wandering fair one turned to chide;――
’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.

“Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor’d to love and thee.

“Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev’ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life――my all that’s mine?

“No never, from this hour to part
We’ll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”

――――:o:――――

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ with the following note:――

“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable
little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of
which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the
most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was
tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental
stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a
little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s
candour.”

It was a friar of orders gray
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire
Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.

“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see?”

“And how should I know your true love
From many another one?”
“O, by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoone.”[12]

“But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so faire to view,
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d,
And eyne of lovely blue.”

O, lady he is dead and gone!
Lady, he’s dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.

“Within these holy cloysters long
He lanquisht, and he dyed,
Lamenting of a ladyes love,
And ’playning of her pride.”

* * * * *

“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!
And dids’t thou dye of love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!”

“O, weep not, lady, weep not soe;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne tears bedew thy cheek.”

“O, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,
That e’er wan ladyes love.

And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
I’ll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wisht to live,
For thee I wish to dye.”

(Eleven stanzas here omitted.)
* * * * *

“O, stay me not, thou holy friar;
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.”

“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.

But haply, for my year of grace[13]
Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.

――――

THE HERMIT.
_A Prophetic Ballad._

“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where some shanty cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

“For as, forlorn and lost, I tread
This weary waste, and slow,
My skirts immeasurably spread
Impede me as I go.”

“Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries,
“My roof shall give thee shade;
I call thee girl, although mine eyes
Behold no tender maid.

“But, exiled from the world, I find――
However old she be――
That any one of womankind
Is as a girl to me.

“A kiss I beg, just one! what no?
Is kissing then so wrong?
Man wants a little here below
Though not perhaps, for long.

“Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare
My modesty invade!”
Fury inspired the conscious fair,
And fury her betrayed.

That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast,
Those thewy, threatening arms!
The lonely stranger stands confest――
A man in all his charms.

“And, ah! excuse a stranger rude,
A hunted wretch,” he cried;
“Indeed I hope I don’t intrude
Where you in peace reside.

“But pity a poor trader who
Has mixed in public fray,
And learned what politics can do
In leading men astray,

“My chief the Land League party led
In Parliament and out,
And by his side I fought and bled
With constancy devout.

“Pretenders to the Chiefship came
To win me from his band;
But still I loved but Parnell’s name
And bow’d to his command.

“And length to ’scape arrest, one morn
He deemed it best to hide;
And sought some solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.

“Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught
In feminine array
And seek the solitude he sought
To stretch me where he lay.

“There, my identity thus hid
I’ll lay me down and die
For Ireland so my Parnell did
And so for him will I.”

“Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped him to his breast
The wondering stranger turn’d to chide
’Twas Parnell’s self that prest!

“Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear!
My comrade turn to see
Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here,
True to the League and thee!”

_The St. James’s Gazette_, February 28, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE SPEAKER’S DINNER.

The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem _Retaliation_, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in 1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have already been quoted in _Parodies_; they have nearly all a strong party bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to 1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett, an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857; Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died 1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett, M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833.

Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes,
We’ll serve up _ourselves_ for the rest of the dishes.

Our L――v――rp――l’s beef at the top let us find,
Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind:
Let C――strl――gh’s turtle at bottom be placed,
Restoring the system and pleasing the taste:
And Gr――nv――lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on,
The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton,
Our C――nn――ng is salt; for his talents are such
That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch,
While B――rd――tt resembles the onion that throws
A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes.

With a chicken well boiled, gentle S――dm――th will treat us,
And Cr――k――r shall serve for our Irish potatoes:
Brown stout shall be Wh――tbr――d, the dregs of the cup,
And Shr――d――n, spruce, not sufficiently up.
Push about, Mr. Speaker――I’ll sit, if I’m able,
Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table;
And while they are lying unconscious before us,
We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us.
Now L――v――rp――l’s Earl lies along at our feet,
Who was eloquent often, and always discreet.
If failings he had, he has left us in doubt,
Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out,
But Scandal has said, he had more admiration
For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation.

Here sleeps the bold Wh――tbr――d, whose temper was such
That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much:
Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind,
And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind:
Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat
In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote:
Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far
That his passion for peace kept him always at war:
Though equal to most things, for all things unfit;
Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit:
Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent,
And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:――
So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season,
Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason.

Here C――tl――r――gh lies, with a mind like the mint,
Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t.
His well-bred demeanour still bore him along
Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng,
Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend,
He softened the means, but to strengthen the end.
Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone?
His country will tell you――for all was her own.

Here slumbers poor Sh――rry, whose fate I must sigh at!
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet.
What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle!
Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle!
Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall,
Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick,
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.

Here S――dm――th reposes, whose virtues and parts
Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts:
A friend of religion, who made it his care
To live as men ought to be, not as they are.
Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line,
And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine.
To a coming millenium has fashioned his views,
Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews.
Say, where has his genius this malady caught,
Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault?
Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind
To estimate coolly the mass of mankind,
Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf,
At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself?

Here B――rd――tt retires, from his rows to relax,
The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks.
O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade;
Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid!
When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town,
I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own;
But wanting the aid of this giant detractor,
The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture;
The lightnings of G――rr――w may slumber at length,
And the thunder-toned justice of Ell――nb’r――gh’s strength;
The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition,
No leader remaining to spur their ambition;
Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark,
And C――bb――tt meet W――thm――n, and wail in the dark!

Here sleeps my Lord Gr――nv――lle, describe him who can,
A compression of all that was solid in man.
For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine:
For head, if not first, in the very first line,
Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition,
He was duped by his own over-weening ambition;
Like Satan of old from authority fell,
And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell.
In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder:
’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder:
For, straining too far to secure the command,
He cut off all hope from himself and his band,
Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in,
Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win.
He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack――
But found not the secret to whistle them back,
He loved popularity, swallow’d what came,
And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame;
Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone,
And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan.
Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews,
He paid for their praises by sending them news.

Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave!
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How aptly, on _both_ sides, the eulogy fitted,
When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted;
But peace to his errors, whatever his fate,
For his former deserts had been many and great:
The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill,
Shall plead his apology, happen what will;
His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve,
And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above.

Here Cr――k――r reclines, a most smart, clever creature,
And ev’n opposition allow him good nature.

He was true to his country, his friends, and his king:
Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing,
Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit?
Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit.
Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat?
I do not intend to impeach him of that.
Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day,
And so became careless and indolent? Nay,
Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it――
He was――could he help it?――by nature _a poet_!
Here C――nn――ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a brighter or better behind:
His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand,
His character cordial, attaching, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part,
His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart.
The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits,
He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits;
When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore,
He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!――

THE HERMIT OF VAUXHALL.[15]
(_A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith._)

Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall,
And let me know the way
In which, within that cavern small,
You pass your time away.

There’s nothing but a little lamp,
A pitcher and a cat!
The place must be extremely damp――
Why don’t you wear a hat?

No chaff, my son, the hermit cries,
But walk your chalks along;
Your path to the rotunda lies――
They’re going to sing a song.

Father, I care not for the strain
Of that young girl in blue,
But, if you please, I will remain,
And have a chat with you.

My son, you surely wish to hear
The music of the band;
But if you stop――a drop of beer
I think you ought to stand.

Father, to grant what you require,
I’ll not a moment fail;
Here, waiter, bring the holy friar
A pint of Burton ale.

The waiter brought the welcome draught,
I took a little sup;
The liquor then the hermit quaff’d,
He fairly mopped it up.

Father, I cried, now if you please,
Philosophy we’ll talk――
As the wind murmurs through the trees,
Skirting the long dark walk.

My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage,
Nor on me make a call――
My life is but a pilgrimage
From Lambeth to Vauxhall.

At eve when shops their shutters shut,
And tolls the curfew bell,
I quit my room in the New Cut,
To sit within this cell.

A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese
My landlady provides,
Save, what to give the public please,
I’ve nothing, son, besides.

Father, your salary, of course,
You must receive, I said;
Your sitting here is not by force:
How do you get your bread?

The sage replied, Alas, my son,
I light the lamps by day――
The hermit’s work, at evening done,
Brings me no extra pay.

And get you cheese alone to eat,
I asked the good old man.
Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat
From baked potato can.

The luxury sometimes I bring
With butter――a small lump,
With water from the crystal spring
That rises ’neath our pump.

Father, I cried, your tale is long,
You tire my patience quite;
I’m off to hear the comic song,
Lull-li-e-tee, good night,

GILBERT A. A’BECKETT.

From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_, 1845.

――――:o:――――

In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

(As it might have been constructed in 1744.
Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and
Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise:
Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies!
’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father’s breast.
There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest:
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heav’n upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.

From _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1881.

――――:o:――――

A BRAND-NEW SONG,
(After Goldsmith.)

(_On the Speaker of the House of Commons,
Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch
at the Folly Theatre._)

When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly,
And finds with tickers roughs make way,
What charm can soothe his melancholy――
Can _Laughing gas_ his loss repay?

The only way to hide vexation,
To shield himself from pungent chaff,
Save dignity of House and nation,
And keep his temper, is――to laugh.

_Punch_, May 5, 1877.

――――

ON MR. WARTON, M.P.

When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff,
He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,

――――:o:――――

In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In 1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled _The Devil_, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion frequently made by elderly people even in these days.

INNOVATION.

Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town,
Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown,
I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid,
When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d:
Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze,
Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please;
How often happier than a king or queen,
While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene.
How often have I paused on ev’ry charm,
The speaking silence, the expression warm,
The never-failing start, the gushing tear,
The broken accents trembling on the ear;
The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade,
Impervious scene for love or murder made;
How often have I blessed the parting day,
When, tea removed, I hurried to the play;
And both the galleries, from labour free,
Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee;
While many a first appearance has been made,
The young contending as the old survey’d,
And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground,
While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round;
And still as each repeated effort tir’d,
The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d.
The rival Romeos that sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face;
While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place;
The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love,
The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these,
With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please.
These round the theatre alternate shed
Laughter and tears――but all these charms are fled.

Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town,
Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down.
’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen,
And critic fury tears away the green;
Monopoly now grasps the whole domain,
And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain.
No wit or humour marks the lively play,
But puns and quibbles make their saucy way;
Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest,
Dull Declamation snores herself to rest.
The place of elegance a stare supplies,
And affectation that nor laughs nor cries.
Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all,
For he acts best who can the loudest bawl;
Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage,
To fright astonish’d reason from the stage.
Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey,
Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay;
Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade,
A puff can make them, as a puff has made,
But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride,
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.

* * * * *

Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close,
Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose;
There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow,
In Hamlet――looked unutterable woe!
Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved,
Barry grew agonised in――“not much mov’d.”
There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court,
Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport.
There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn.
Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn.
There the apt tune in timely moment play’d,
To fill each pause the _exeunt_ had made.
But now simplicity’s soft accents fail,
And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail.
No friends to Nature on the boards now tread,
But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled!

* * * * *

Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet,
Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street,
There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool,
Good Master Shuter first was put to school.
Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low,
“Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.”
Well did the tittering audience love to trace
The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face;
Well would the busy whisper circle round,
When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d;
Yet he was kind――but if absurd in aught,
The love he bore to blackguards was in fault.
The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew,
’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too.
While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound,
Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around:
And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew,
That one droll head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame――the Rose and Crown,
Where he so oft got tipsy――is burnt down.

Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high,
Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye;
Dull is that dressing-room――by Quin inspir’d,
Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d;
When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound,
And apt quotations――meant for wit――went round;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,
The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place;
The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,

The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door:
The clothes――their different duties made to pay,
To deck the stage by night, the street by day;
The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan,
Garrick i’ the lanthorn――Quin in the sedan;
The toilet stocked to decorate the play,
Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay;
While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show,
Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row.

Vain transitory splendours could not all
Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall.
Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name,
For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame;
To paltry players, no more shall he impart
An hour’s delight to the convivial heart:
Thither no more shall witty lords repair,
To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care!
No more the anecdote, the luscious tale,
The mirth-inspiring _good-thing_ shall prevail;
No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer,
Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear;
Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to see the chuckling fun go round;
Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried,
Shall blush to speak a _smutty speech aside_.

――――:o:――――

There was another Poem written in imitation of _The Deserted Village_ entitled “_The Frequented Village_, a Poem dedicated to Oliver Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British Museum.

Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T. Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation of the style of _The Deserted Village_, whilst another part, deploring the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest.

――――:o:――――

THE DESERTED SCHOOL.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go,
And onward where one hears that dismal yell
Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,”
Or where that dear old School forsaken lies
A weary waste expanding to the skies.
Where’er I roam whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain,
“Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.

* * * * *

And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall
To see humanity of man so small;
To turn us all away from that dear School,
And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool.
But my worn soul now deems it for the best
At Kensington to see my fellows blest.

JAMES E. THOMPSON.

From _Pauline_, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School, in the City
of London, October, 1885.

――――:o:――――

The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr. Elliot Stock.

A dramatic version of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, by W. G. Wills, entitled _Olivia_, has for some time past been attracting large audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of _Olivia_ tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8, 1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour, or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures, movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself, under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London, especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover Burchell’s identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of catching him matrimonially.

The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:――

THE VICAR OF
WIDEAWAKEFIELD,
OR
THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE,

Written by H. P. STEPHENS & W. YARDLEY,
The Original Music by FLORIAN PASCAL.

The Dances arranged by Madame KATTI LANNER.
The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. BANKS.

CHARACTERS.

Dr. Primrose (Vicar of Wideawakefield) Mr. A. ROBERTS
Squire Thornhill Miss VIOLET CAMERON
Mr. Burchell Mr. T. SQUIRE
Moses } { Mr. J. JARVIS
Bill } The Vicar’s Sons { Miss M. PEARCE
Dick } { Miss G. TYLER
Leigh (a Vagabond) Miss LESLEY BELL
Farmer Flamborough Mr. CORRY
Mrs. Primrose Miss HARRIET COVENEY
Olivia } { Miss LAURA LINDEN
Sophia } her Daughters { Miss AGNES HEWITT
Polly Flamborough Miss SYLVIA GREY
Gipsy Woman Miss M. RAYSON

In _The Retaliation_ Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies of his works:――

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE,

Here, _Hermes_ says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow,
Go, fetch me some clay――I will make an odd fellow:
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,――much gold and some dross:
Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking,
Turn’d to _learning_ and _gaminq_, _religion_ and _raking_.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it,
This _Scholar_, _Rake_, _Christian_, _Dupe_, _Gamester_, and _Poet_;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals――be GOLDSMITH his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You――_Hermes_――shall fetch him――to make us sport here.

Thomas Campbell,

_Born July_ 27, 1777. _Died June_ 15, 1844.

aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied.

Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”

Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.”

――――:o:――――

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER.

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle,
This dark and stormy water?”
“Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.”

“And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the Glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride!
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?”

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight
“I’ll go, my chief――I’m ready:――
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heav’n each face
Grew dark as they were speaking,

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

“Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies:
But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather’d o’er her.

And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang’d to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:――
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.

“Come back, come back!” he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water:
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!――Oh my daughter!”

’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,
Return or aid preventing:――
The waters wild went o’er his child――
And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――:o:――――

SIR ROBERT’S BILL.[16]

Sir Robert, to the Commons bound,
Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry,
And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round,
If now my bill you’ll carry!”

“And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’
_My own peculiar treasure_?”
“Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel,
That does just what’s my pleasure.

And fast before the _farmers’ friends_,
I’ve fled in _your direction_――
And, should they gain their private ends,
My bill would meet rejection!”

“George Bentinck follows fast along,
From him great harm I feel, Sir,
And, should he prove so _very_ strong,
Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?”

Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then――
“I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready――
It is not for _yourself_, ye ken,
But for the League so seedy!

“And, by my word, the Cotton Lords
In danger shall not tarry――
And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords,
Your measure I will carry!”

“Then haste ye, haste, and no more words,
Nor wait till it be calmer――
I’ll meet the raging of the Lords,
But not an angry farmer!”

The stormy Council Peel has left,
A stormy House before him――
And see, the Tories, all a drift,
Have soon begun to bore him.

Yet still he waged the wordy war,
With foemen justly railing――
Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,”
From wrath he turned to wailing.

For on that night in dismal plight,
Sir Peel he saw to sob then――
One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright,
And one was round his Cobden!

“Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief,
Across the stormy lobby,
“We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief,
Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!”

’Twas true――the turn-coats vainly rave,
Protection’s friends preventing,
The Tories brave kick’d out the knave,
And he was left repenting.

From _Protectionist Parodies_, by “A Tory.”
Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850.

――――:o:――――

JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER.

A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,
And I’ll give thee a silver dime
To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I am this young lady’s beau,
And she, John Thompson’s daughter.

“We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite
With great precipitation,
And should he find us here to-night,
I’d lose my reputation.

“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me,
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?”

Out spoke the boatman then in time,
“You shall not fail, don’t fear it;
I’ll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.

“And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing,

But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.

“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“It’s anything but funny;
I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my Father’s money!”

And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning’s angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!

“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe.
Across the stormy water,
“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, Oh! my daughter!”

Twas vain, they reached the other shore,
(Such dooms the Fates assign us),
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, _minus_.

From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.

――――

LAMBETH FERRY.

A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town
Cried “Boatman do not tarry:
I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown
To row me over with Mary.”

“Now who be he vould cross the Thames
Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?”
“Vy Billy Downey is my name,
And this is Black Joe’s Daughter.

“Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys!
An hour we’ve run away, man!
Should they catch us they’d make a noise,
And my poor back vould pay, man.”

Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull;
Jump in my boat, be jolly;
It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull,
But for your charming Polly.

“And so help me tater, the darlen creetur,
Though in danger you have brought her,
But if it should rain both cats and dogs,
I’ll row you o’er the vater.”