Chapter VII: Part 36: Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore (5)

“What though upon my seats have writhed
The Great, perhaps the Good.
Condemned in this proud Capital
To use my box of wood?
Yet now repentance, all too late,
Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate
A vehicle provide
More maddening in each palsied shake,
Or where long-suffering Fares might take,
A more atrocious ride?

“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls
Upon the myriad men
Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down,
And ‘had me up’ again.
Those frowsy cushions bring not back
Nor stretch four souls upon the rack
By Nature made for twain!
Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go,
Also thy dirty straw below,
Thou Vehicle of Pain!

“Even I am weary now of playing
My customary pranks;
Rank idiocy it was to place
Such Cabs upon the ranks!
How came it, else, that London’s sons
To stable-owning Goths and Huns
For aid in vain did cry,
While every Gent, and every Cad,
In Aberdeen and Glasgow had
His reputable Fly?

“Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect
On London’s awful waste
By not a single Four-wheeled Cab
From Kew to Greenwich graced!
Go, tell the world how you beheld
A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld,
Guiding his Growler mean,――
The general universe defy,
To match for sheer obliquity,
That ramshackle machine!

_Punch_, September, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE MASSACRE OF GLENHO.

Through deep Glenho the owlet flits,
That valley weird and lone;
The chieftain’s aged widow sits
Beside the bare hearth stone.

Beside the bare and blighted hearth
Whose fires, now quenched and black,
Had seen five gallant sons go forth,
And never one come back.

’Tis silent all! but hark――a cry
And ghastly clamours wake
The midnight glen. Then rose proudly
That ancient dame, and spake――

“What mingled sounds of woe and wail
Up Mortham’s valley spread?
What shrieks upon the gusty gale
Come pealing overhead?

“I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell,
The banshee’s scream I hear,
And hark! again that stifled yell――
The _boderglas_ is near!!

“The Boderglas with bloody brow
And tresses dripping red――
I see him at the window now
He shakes his gory head!

“Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms,
Thus, thus, in close embrace,
The messenger of death we’ll meet――
The slayer of our race.

“Then do not weep, my daughter!”――
“Oh mother, ’tis not that――
But Donald Roy the carrotty boy
HAS KILLED OUR OLD TOM CAT.”

From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and
Windus, London,)

――――:o:――――

THE LAWN TENNIS MATCH.

The summer day proved all too short,
But light forbade the pleasant sport,
And silent lay the tennis court,
Where time had flown so rapidly.

But morning saw another sight,
When, after slumbers soft and light,
The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight
Upon the level greenery.

On either side the net they stand,
Each with her tennis bat in hand,
The fairest maidens in the land,
Opposed in bloodless rivalry!

Then “faults” no longer were forgiven,
Then o’er the net their balls were driven,
And like the deadly bolts of Heaven,
The “serves” in their velocity!

But faster yet the balls shall fly
Beneath the cloudless summer sky,
And still more frequent be the cry
Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily!

’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow,
Though scorching hours may come and go,
Those maidens, fleeter than the roe,
Are ever darting rapidly!

The combat deepens, Grace will win,
In Jersey, fitting like her skin,
Just give the ball a subtle spin,
And snatch from Maud the victory!

A few games more, and Grace _has_ won!
“Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!”
And from the fury of the sun
They scamper most bewitchingly!

F. B. DOVETON.
From _Society_.

――――:o:――――

“WE ARE RUINED BY CHEAP CHINESE LABOUR.”

In _Punch_ for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It commenced:――

Ye Mariners of England
Who watch our distant seas,
’Tis very odd that you should be
The half of you Chinese.
It scarcely fits our notions
To have you down below;
And though your keep, perhaps is cheap,
The news comes like a blow;
To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack
Gives one a dreadful blow.
* * * * *

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
* * * * *
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――

CAMPBELL, UNDONE AND OUTDONE.

When oftentimes the young aerial beau
Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below,
Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye,
Whose misty outline mingles with the sky?
Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear
More meet than all the landscape shining near?
’Tis _distance_ sends enchantment to his view,
And lures the mounted with its azure hue.

From _Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Hodges and Co.,
Boston, 1885.)

――――:o:――――

Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following are noteworthy:――

In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859), is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:――

Of Scotia and the North
A loving son would sing,
And to laud surpassing worth
Would wake the silent string,
Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb;
But bardic fires still burn
In the ashes of the urn,
And glimmering back return
Through the gloom.

For BURNS this spirit lay
Is wafted to the earth,
In honour of the day
That gave the poet birth.

* * * * *

“Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J. Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt, brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others. Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin.

In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:――

“There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope,
Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope;
His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry,
There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye.
Half gone his last tumbler――clean gone his last joke,
And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke.
What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be
Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.”

W. MAGINN.

Robert Burns,

_Born January_ 25, 1759. _Died July_ 21, 1796.

he date of the birth of Burns has been variously given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably correct judging from the lines:

“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane.
Was five and twenty days begun,
’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in our Robin.”

It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on January 25, 1859.

Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793, suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE.

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS.

On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
(_As originally written by Burns._)

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front o’ battle lower:
See approach proud Edward’s power――
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a cowards grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’,
Let him follow me?

By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us DO or DIE!

Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:――

“Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the
kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday
with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were
all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air
for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so
totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie
taittie.’

I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I
lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most
happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short
variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit
to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than
the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of
spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it.
I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the
room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the
grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now
the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each
verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:――

Verse 1st, Or to _glorious_ victorie.
2nd, _Chains_――chains and slaverie.
3rd, Let him, _let him_ turn and flee.
4th, Let him _bravely_ follow me.
5th, But _they shall_, they shall be free.
6th, Let us, _let us_ do, or die!

If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think
you will find that either the sentiment or the expression
loses any of its energy.”

Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far superior to the second.

BANNOCKBURN.
Robert Bruce’s address to his Army.

――――

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled:
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour
See approach proud Edward’s power――
Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’,
Caledonia! on wi’ me!

By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins.
But they shall be――shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward: let us do or die!

Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and her advocate Henry Brougham (_Broom_), afterwards Lord Chancellor. Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen Caroline.

Gulls, who’ve heard what HOBHOUSE said!
Gulls whom JOSEPH HUME has led!
Who deem that Pater Moore has head
For Plans of Liberty!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the face of GIFFORD lour,
See approach the lawyer’s power,
Bags and knavery.

Who’ll believe Italian spies?
When honest _Times_ indignant cries,
That all they say are monstrous lies,
Foul conspiracy!
Who for England’s Queen so bright,
To purchase Plate subscribes his mite,
Or signs addresses, wrong or right,
To Brandenburgh with me!

By our _Wood_ that shields the Queen,
By our _Broom_ that sweeps all clean,
We will go through thick and thin,
But she shall be free!
Lay her proud accusers low,
Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,”
Can we but persuade them so,
Let us on and see!

――――

BRITONS WHO HAVE OFTEN BLED.

Britons who have often bled
In the cause that Hampden led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory,
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
See approach your tyrant’s power,
Chains and slavery!

Who would be a traitor knave?
Who would fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee!
Who at Liberty’s sweet cry
Freedom’s sword would raise on high?
Freeman stand, or freeman die,
Hark! your chief cries “on with me!”

By oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay your proud oppressors low!
Tyrants fall in every blow!
For the cause of God below,
Is the cause of Liberty.

From _The Republican_, October 8, 1819. R. Carlile, printer,
55, Fleet Street, London.

――――

GLEE.

Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!
Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread!
Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed!
Come not o’er the sea:
Victuals here are but so, so;
Hollands, too, run very low;
Scarce is coffee and _cocoa_;
Sojourn where you be.

Now’s the time and now’s the hour,
For little bread, there being no flour;
Liberty’s a glorious dower――
Though ragged, let’s be free!
We will walk the unlopp’d wood,
And taste what Nature grows for food――
Grumbling here does little good!
So hail, glad Liberty!

From _The Fancy_, a selection from the Poetical remains of the
late Peter Corcoran, 1820.

The same volume also contains a poem entitled _The Fields of Tothill: A Fragment_. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s _Don Juan_.

――――

In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,” entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the parody inferior. It commenced:

Whigs! who have with Michael dined,
Whigs! who have with Bennet whined,
Hasten now to raise the wind,
For a Knight’s dismissed.

In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s, and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure.

Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,
Whigs who under Lord Grey fled,
Welcome, though _three in a bed_,
To the Treasury:
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour――
Starve the _Tories_ out of power――
Cent. per cent. their wages lower,
They cannot choose but flee.

Who would be a grumbling knave,
Though but half a loaf he have?
Who prefer to toil and slave
Without pay or fee?
Who in spite of King and Laws,
Faction’s darling weapon draws,
Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s――Freedom’s cause,
Let him follow _me_!

Let Bennet boast his purity
In politics and _pedigree_,
Talk loud of his _nihil_-ity
By long service won.
Let Hume _dissect_ each place and fee,
Each clerk, _although a brother he_,
And prove that Cocker’s _Rule of Three_
Means only _Number One_.

Whigs, with Carlile who condole,
Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl,
Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control,
And swears at horribly!
Hume vows _he_ has made a _breach_,
(_Not a pair_, as hirelings teach),
Out of little Bennet’s reach,
By _Financery_!

Let Wilson rear his fallen crest,
Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d,
Leave Creevey’s virtues――_to be guess’d_,
And Cam to form the line.
Let Brougham be taken off the shelf,
And make his fees from Michael’s pelf;
Michael’s a _host_, sirs, in himself,
So――let us in and dine!

By our long and hopeless pains,
By despair of office gains,
We will draw our dearest veins,
But we _will_ get in.
Lay Lord Londonderry low,
Placemen fell at every blow;
Every placeman is our foe;
Let us――_pray begin_.

――――

PARODY.

_Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October_, 1823.

Scots wha hae the duties paid;
Scots wham whiskies aft made glad:
Welcome, for the duty’s fled,
And it shall be free!
Now’s the time and now’s the hour;
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour――
Pledge it three-times-three!

Wha wad be a brandy slave?
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
When the whisky’s free?
Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink,
Will fill a bicker to the brink!
Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink,
Aquavitæ aye for me!

By taxation’s woes and pains!
By the smuggler’s ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
For it shall be free!
Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whiskey flow!
Like liberty, aye free!

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

――――

ROASTED SUCKING PIG.

Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.

Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper _quantum suff._,
And the Pig’s interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that’s rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o’er and o’er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
’Tis for serving fit――
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter’d cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut――not tear――
Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O’er it melted butter spread――
Stinginess won’t do.

When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
LET HIM SEND FOR ME!

――――

“BUNN! WHA HAE.”

Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,
Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led,
Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread,
Strike for victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower;
See proud Beale approach in power,
Back’d by Royalty.

Though _the_ [23]contract’s void, they say,
Though your ballet go away,
Though Baderna cannot stay,
Don’t desponding get.
By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls,
By Carlotta Grisi’s trils,
“Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls,
You may be happy yet.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I,

――――

A NOVEL TURN,
_to an Auld Sang_.

Jews――as every one has read――
Jews――as Charles Bruce lately said――
Know that you are born and bred
The World’s Aristocracie,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See auld Inglis looking sour;
On you he abuse doth shower――
Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie!

Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew?
Sell auld almanacks for new,
When he’s one of――Bruce says true――
The World’s Aristocracie!
Wha for Israel’s right, by law,
In the house to sit, will draw――
Member stand, or member fa’――
Son of Judah, on wi’ me!

By auld London’s streets and lanes,
By great Rothschild’s cunning brains,
We will spend our hard earn’d gains
But he shall be an M.P.
Lay our proud opponents low――
Agnews[24] fall in every foe――
Parliament’s in every blow――
Opposition’s all my eye!

_The Puppet-Show_, April 15, 1848.

――――

LOUIS NAPOLEON’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled――
No――I beg your pardon――bled!
For my Uncle blood you’ve shed,
Do the same for me.
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Heads to split and streets to scour;
Strike for rank, promotion, power,
Swag, and _eau de vie_.

Who’s afraid a child to kill?
Who respects a shopman’s till?
Who would pay a tailor’s bill?
Let him turn and flee.
Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door,
Shoot a dun, or sack a store?
Let him arm, and go before――
That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled
Up the barricades have piled;
In among them, man and child,
Unrelentingly.
Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one
In a dozen’s got a gun:
Stop them, if they try to run,
With Artillery.

Shoot the boys! each one may grow
Into――of the state――a foe
(Meaning by the state, you know,
My supremacy!)
Shoot the girls and women old!
_Those_ may bear us traitors bold――
_These_ may be inclined to scold,
Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may
Rashly venture in the way,
Warning for a future day
Satisfactory.
Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice,
We, the nation’s darling choice,
Calling on them to rejoice,
Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.

――――

A BRITON’S ADDRESS TO HIS BROTHER COUNTRYMEN.

Britons! at your country’s call,
Freely live, or bravely fall;
Honour’d death awaits us all,
Death, or glorious victory.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!
See the front of battle lour:
See approach proud Gallia’s power――
Gallia! chains and slavery!

Who will be a traitor knave?
Who can fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee.
No――in this our sacred cause
For Britannia’s King and Laws,
Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws
’Gainst the insulting enemy.

Who would fear, or who would flee?
Fix’d is Britain’s destiny――
DEATH WITH GLORY WELCOME BE,
IF NOT LIFE WITH LIBERTY.
Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear,
By thy spotless Daughter’s fear,
By thy menac’d Altars swear
THAT THIS ISLAND SHALL BE FREE.

Lay the base Invaders low,
Tyrants fall in every foe.
Freedom hangs on every blow,
Oh! to conquer or to die!

Printed for J. HATCHARD, 190, Piccadilly, Price Three-pence
per dozen. J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date.

――――

WING-KEE-FUM’S
_Address to the Patriot’s Army_.

A Parody, with the above title, was published in _Diogenes_ (a London comic journal), in September, 1853. It was in reference to the Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails, hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:――

Cut away! No coward fears
Shall restrain our warlike shears;
We shout defiance in the ears
Of all the Tartar race.
Now the day is nobly won,
Now the deed is nobly done;
We hurl our pigtails, every one,
In the Mantchoo’s face!

Victory! our country’s free!
The pigtail gone, no longer we
By any alien race shall be
Trampled on――kept down.
The day’s our own――we’ll wear our hair
Just as we please; and boldly swear
The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er
Aspire to China’s crown.

* * * * *

――――

TRAVELLERS, WHO’VE SO OFT BEEN BLED.

Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,
When you’re poorly lodged and fed,
At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head.
Or the Victory;
Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so,
For a pint of Cape, or sloe,
Join your powers to overthrow
Such cool knavery!

Down with every monstrous tax,
Chambermaids, and lights of wax!
Who will pay for these, I ax,
Shillings two or three?
With each breast the feeling chimes,
Well to punish such foul crimes;
To the castigating _Times_,
Biffin, write with me!

By the dinners, dear and bad,
By the items, never had,
Charged and paid for, yet too glad
To escape so free,――
Deal mine host a deadly blow:
Tell the boots that he may go
To the gentleman below!
Forward――what a spree!

_Diogenes_, October 15, 1853.

――――

SONG, _by an “Old Shaver_.”

Ye whose chins have often bled,
Who, no doubt, each morn have said,
“Why should blood of mine be shed
To please Society?”
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Though your close-shorn friends look sour,
Defiance bid to _barberous_ power,
Soap and slavery!

Who’d be goose enough to shave
When he might the trouble save?
Who’d to custom be a slave,
Lest folks call him, Guy?
Who, from old-established raw,
Fresh blood each day are wont to draw
While scraping at your nether jaw,
Fling your razors by!

By the cuts upon my chin,
By the smarting of my skin,
By the rage it puts me in,
No more shave for me!
Let moustache and whisker grow,
O’er your breast the long beard flow;
Let the barefaced shavers know
What a beard should be!

_Diogenes_, February, 1854.

――――

THE CZAR’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!
Serfs, like beasts of burden led,
Though readier far to go to bed――
Come to glorious victory!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Let Europe taste despotic power;
Make the base pretenders cower;
Down with Right and Liberty!

Who will be a traitor knave,
Shun the knout our fathers gave,
And freedom from the Saxon crave?
Patriot rebel, turn and flee!
Who would feast on tallow fat,
Strike a blow at Kalafat!
Cossacks, lick your lips at that;
Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me!

By our nobles’ crafty gains,
By our vassals’ cherish’d chains,
We will give our dullest brains;
But we won’t, we won’t be free!
Lay the Gaul and Saxon low;
Crush a Turk at every blow;
Liberty’s our greatest foe!
Forward, or you’ll all be d――――!

_Diogenes_, 1854.

――――

THE LIBERAL PARTY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.

Sir,――If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the
_Echo_ I shall be glad.――Yours respectfully,
W. LOTHIAN.
31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31.

ADDRESS TO THE LIBERAL ARMY.

A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,
A’ wham Gladstone’s often led;
Welcome to a Tory bed
Or to victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach a would-be power――
Lord B. Disraeli!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Follow Disraeli.
Wha, for Parliament and Law,
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw;
Freemen stand, while Tories fa’,
Let him Liberal be!

By Oppression’s woes and pains!
We’ll not brook Imperial chains,
For the blood in Liberal veins
Boils at Disraeli!
Lay all such usurpers low!
Tories fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Down wi’ Disraeli!

_The Echo_, February 1, 1879.

――――

“SCOTS WHA’ ARE.”

Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,
Scots! wha sold your Royal Head
To his foeman to behead――
For a mere baubee,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour
To throw your noble landlord ower,
And bring your Willie into power,
Scotsmen, I am he!

Wha can be a traitor knave?
Wha his chance of power to save
Shame and infamy can brave?
Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha’s for Disestablishment?
Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant
By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,”
Let him follow me.

By the law of hypothec,
Hung like chains around your neck,
Scotsmen join with me to wreck
The Tory Ministry.
England to the wall may go,
Russia jubilant may crow
O’er her fall. Yet be it so,
I avenged shall be.

March, 1850.

From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of
Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880).

――――

“SCOTT WHA HA’;”
_Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper_.

Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,
Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led,
Soonest mended least that’s said
Of your shabby victory!
Wha dare ask how I behave?
Here I’m caged up like a slave;――
Guess if I’d got loose, a shave
They’d all had to turn and flee!

What’s the good of British law?
CHITTY only finds a flaw!――
Though I bang my head half raw,
Their sole game is “On wi’ me!”
There,――I call the whole thing low:
E’en my trumpet I can’t blow;
_Off!_ Here, let me gang below――
Steward! Let me do, or die!

_Punch_, 1882.

When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London, to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine.

――――

SALISBURY TO THE CONSERVATIVES.

Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,
Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led,
Rally round your Tory head,
On to victory come!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of Gladstone lour,
See laid low the Caucus’ power,
Rads and Brummagem!

Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call,
Who would see Great Britain Small,
Who would be a Radical,
Let him turn and flee!
Who “For God and Queen” will cry
Eager he to do as I,
Loyal live and loyal die,
Let him follow me!

By the woes seditions bring,
We would rather have one King
Than five hundred in the ring
Brummagem would give.
Lay the platform-spouters low!
Liberty is ours we know!
Change may tyrants bring and woe!
Change we not and――live!

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

――――

A CALL TO ARMS.

Men by wise example led,
From England’s greatest statesmen dead;
Men whose fathers fought and bled
For England’s liberty;
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
Scatter wide the Tory power,
And let us still be free!

Who would be a Jingo knave?
Who would Tory banners wave?
Let him ever be a slave
To Tory tyranny.
Who would justice, right and law,
Free from Tories’ greedy maw,
To the poll in thousands draw,
And poll for liberty!

Ere oppression’s woes and pains
Load your sons with servile chains,
Poll your full elect’ral gains
To keep the people free;
Lay the Tory braggarts low,
A tyrant falls in every foe,
Strike! for every Liberal blow
Is dealt for liberty!

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent:
But now your brow it beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow.
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns, but _John Anderson, my jo_, existed as a song, under different forms, long before his time. In Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ it is traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs, which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to really grand original music.

The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus:

“John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye,
And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye;
Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot:
John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,”

In the first volume of a collection entitled, _Poetry Original and Selected_, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED.

_By Robert Burns._

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en,
Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so
Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat.
Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms,
And sae are ye in mine, John――I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no,
Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me,
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent.
But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the
snaw,
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go.
And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns.

――――

JANE BARNABY.

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
I’m wearing wan, and old
As herds at close of eve, Jane,
Are summon’d to the fold,
I soon to mine shall be, Jane,
My close of life is near,
And much I need our Shepherd’s care,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.

* * * * *

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Thy tenderness is sweet,
And grateful is this heart
That soon will cease to beat.
Thou wert its earliest love, Jane,
Thou art its solace here,
Thou’lt be its last remembrance.
Jane Barnaby, my dear.

* * * * *

Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Life’s flood is ebbing fast,
A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane,
The shoals will all be past.
To bear my spirit hence, Jane,
Death’s bark is hov’ring near;
Adieu, adieu, a short adieu,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.

(Seven verses in all.)

From _Attempts in Verse_, by John Jones, an old servant.
(Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.)

――――

BY A GLASGOW BOOKMAKER.
(DEDICATED TO G. ANDERSON, M.P.)

GEORGE ANDERSON my GEO., GEORGE, before you did invent
That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event;
But now my book is blank, GEORGE, and now my purse is low,
So cusses on your Betting Bill, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.

GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO., GEORGE, my clerk and I together,
With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather;
Now we must take them down, GEORGE (for lists we must not show).
And shout the prices out instead, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.!

_Punch._

――――

PARODY ON JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When we were first acquent,
A tighter hizzy never brush’d
The dew frae aff the bent.
But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree,
And your pow’s as white’s the snow,
There’s naething supple but your tongue
My bonnie Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
I wonder what ye mean,
Ye’re flyting everlastingly――
Frae morning light till e’en.
Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg
But I scarce can think it so,
For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did,
My bonny Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When nature first began,
She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue
To torture her gudeman.
She’s been kind to you aboon the lave,
An’ I can prove it so,
For she’s gien you half a yard to boot,
My bonny Meg, my jo.

My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a devilish dust we’ve had
Sin’ we met ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, Meg,
And cheek for chow we’ll go,
And we’ll girn at ither at the fit,
My bonnie Meg, my jo.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO.
(_An Imitation._)

When nature first began, Jean,
To try her canny hand,
It’s true she first made man, Jean,
And gave him great command;
But naething wad content him, Jean,
Though king o’ a’ below,
Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean,
What maist he wish――a jo.

Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean.
And say the same o’ thee,
Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,
You still look young to me;
And weel I mind the day, Jean,
Your breast was white as snow,
An waist sae jimp one might it span,
Jean Anderson, my jo.

Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean,
Wi’ rapture do I see,
Come todlin’ to the fireside,
Or sit upon my knee;
If there is pleasure here, Jean,
Or happiness below,
This surely maun be likest it,
Jean Anderson, my jo.

Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow,
Sin’ we were first acquent,
An’ changed my glossy raven locks,
It’s left us still content;
And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean
But oft brings many a wo.
But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints,
Jean Anderson, my jo.

In innocence we’ve spent our days,
An’ pleasant looks the past.
Nae anxious thoughts alarm us,
We’re cheerful to the last;
Till death knock at our door, Jean,
And warn us baith to go,
Contented we will live and love,
Jean Anderson, my jo.

It’s now a lang lang time, Jean,
Sin’ you and I begun,
To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean,
Our race is nearly run;
We baith hae done our best, Jean
Our sun is wearin low,
Sae let us quietly sink to rest,
Jean Anderson, my jo.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

JOHN BULL AND JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

[“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the
cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”――
_Birmingham Speech_, December 17, 1885.]

Joe Chamberlain, my Jo――John
Has still his word to say;
Although you rate him low, John
Was not born yesterday:
Though acres three seem fair to men,
And cows in fancy low,
Yet Bulls will answer now and then,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo!

There’s Radical and Radical;
In that time-honoured throng
Men stout and bold have battled all
’Gainst many a grievous wrong:
Then think you never man on earth
That sturdy name might owe,
Till Birmingham brought you to birth,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo?

So loud your trumpets clang and slang,
That doubts John often feels,
Bewildered by the “_sturm und drang_,”
Which are his head and heels:
For Liberal Captains staunch and true,
Is he bestead so sorely,
That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you,
And――you, and Dilke, and Morley?

Is Forster but a poor pretence?
Is Goschen but a traitor?
Upon a Tory providence
Is Hartington a waiter?
Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man
Whose strings you deign to pull?
You’ve much to do before you can
Prove all these facts to Bull.

Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise,
The Winkles you condemn
Got pretty round majorities,
To show my trust in them:
Would you my loyal servant stay,
(I’m stedfast, if I’m slow),
A little modesty, I pray,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo.

You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs”
The cup you say they fill?
If so, John Bull your pardon begs――
_He_ pays the liquor-bill.
Ye Jacobins and Josephins,
’Tis time to think, you know,
Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins,
And more of me――come Jo!

_Punch_, January 2, 1886.

In _Punch_ of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the coming general election.

――――:o:――――

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that!
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that!
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that:
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that.
Their tinsel show, and a’ that,
The honest man, though e’er sae poor;
Is king o’ men for a’ that!

You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that.
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he manna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher ranks than a’ that!

Then let us pray that come it may――
As come it will for a’ that――
That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Its comin’ yet, for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!

ROBERT BURNS.

This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in Bentley’s Miscellany:――

Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête?
Quoi! rougir de la sorte?
Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe
Nous――soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur――
N’importe!
Quand l’or est pur, n’importe!
Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin
D’un noble rang――qu’importe?

Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère
Et vêtir pauvre vêtement;
Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie;
Ca fait il L’HOMME? eh, nullement
Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe!
Train et splendeur, qu’importe!
Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux
Vaut toute la cohorte!

Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat
L’entoure, et on l’encense,
Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,――
Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense;
Terre et maison,――qu’il pense――
Titre et blazon,――qu’il pense――
Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas
La vraie indépendence!

Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire,
Comte et marquis, journellement;
Mais ce qu’on nomme un HONNETE HOMME,
Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement!
Tristes faveurs! Réellement;
Pauvres honneurs! Réelement;
Le fier maintien des gens de bien
Leur manque essentiellement.

Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu,
Arrive un jour de jugement;――
Amis, ce jour aura son tour,
J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement.
Espoir et encouragement,
Aux pauvres gens soulagement;
’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères,
Et librement, et sagement!

――――

“FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT”

“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns,
“For a’ that and a’ that,”
But though the song be clear and strong,
It lacks a note for a’ that.
The lout who’d shirk his daily work,
Yet claim his wage and a’ that,
Or beg when he can earn his bread,
Is not a man for a’ that.

If all who dine on homely fare
Were true and brave, and a’ that;
And none whose garb is “hodden grey”
Was fool and knave and a’ that;
The vice and crime that shame our time,
Would fade and fall and a’ that;
And ploughmen be as good as kings,
And churls as earls, for a’ that.

You see yon brawny, blustering sot,
Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that;
And thinks, because his strong right arm
Might fell an ox, and a’ that.
That he’s as noble, man for man,
As duke or lord and a’ that,
He’s but a brute, beyond dispute,
And _not_ a man for a’ that.

A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park, and a’ that;
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a’ that;
And Donald herding on the muir,
Who beats his wife and a’ that,
Be nothing but a rascal boor,
Nor half a man for a’ that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,
The truth is old and a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
And though you put the minted mark
On copper, brass, and a’ that,
The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass, for a’ that.

For a’ that and a’ that
’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that,
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown, and a’ that.
And man with man, if rich or poor,
The best is he, for a’ that,
Who stands erect in self-respect,
And acts the man for a’ that.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

DEAR FREEDOM.
TUNE.――_A Man’s a Man for a’ that._

Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee,
An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.

An’ a’ that an’ a’ that,
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.

We dare na meet, we dare na speak,
We dare na sing nor a’ that:
Our dearest rights we dare na seek――
We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c.

And then the de’il will be to pay,
Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that,
Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery,
Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c.

Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell,
Fraternity an’ a’ that,
Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell,
Eternity an’ a’ that, &c.

Their auld wives cants at length grown stale,
(The light will soon do a’ that)
Plain truth will e’en support hersel,
But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c.

Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth,
We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that,
And bless the hour that gae us birth,
An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c.

From _The Wreath of Freedom_, or _Patriots Song Book_.
Newcastle, 1820.

――――

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.

(_Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews, in the neighbourhood of Bevis Marks._)

Success to honest usury,
And flying kites and a’ that;
Post obit bonds, and mortgages,
With notes of hand a’ that;
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that,
Receipts are but a penny stamp:
A bills’ a bill for a’ that.

When needy spendthrifts seek our dens,
With embryo lord and a’ that,
We tell them that we’re short of cash――
We’ll try a friend for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We know the dodge for a’ that,
And only ask our cent. per cent.
For kindly doing a’ that.

Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have,
Which we Madeira ca’ that;
And daubs which bear a heavy price,
They’re “_vary sheep_” for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that;
Receipts may be a penny stamp,
We’ll do our bills for a’ that.

_Diogenes._ August, 1853.

――――

“A GIRL’S A GIRL FOR A’ THAT.”

Is there a lady in all the land
That boasts her rank and a’ that?
With scornful eye we pass her by,
And little care for a’ that;
For nature’s charm shall bear the palm――
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

What though her neck with gems she deck,
With folly’s gear and a’ that,
And gaily ride in pomp and pride;
We can dispense with a’ that.
An honest heart acts no such part――
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

The nobly born may proudly scorn
A lonely lass and a’ that;
A pretty face has far more grace
Than haughty looks and a’ that!
A bonny maid needs no such aid――
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

Then let us trust that come it must,
And sure it will for a’ that,
When faith and love, all arts above,
Shall reign supreme and a’ that,
And every youth confess the truth――
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.

N. E. R., Fence Houses.
_Once a Week_, 1869.

――――

A CAD’S A CAD FOR A’ THAT.

Is there a Jingo, proud and high,
“Who cocks his nose and a’ that?
The swaggering sumph, we pass him by――
We dare be just for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His sniggering scorn, and a’ that:
The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp,
The clay is Cad’s for a’ that!

What though on civic fare he dine,
Wear Court attire and a’ that;
Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine,
A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that:
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their patriot show and a’ that:
The selfish Snob, or rich or poor,
Is Cad at heart for a’ that!

Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord,
Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that;
Though thousands shout at each smart word,
He’s charlatan for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that;
The man of just considerate mind,
He smiles――or sighs――at a’ that!

A Cad may boast of power of fight,
Of patriot zeal, and a’ that;
But trust in right’s above his flight;
He has not pluck for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their blatant bounce and a’ that:
Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm,
Show truer grit than all that!

Then let us pray that come it may――
As come it will for a’ that――
That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant
May hush their row and a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
When patriots true the wide world o’er
Shall brothers be for a’ that!

_Punch_, November 30, 1878.

――――

“OUR OLD NOBILITY.”

Is there, for princely opulence,
That hangs his head, and a’ that?
We wish the coward better sense,
And dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’re noble Peers and a’ that.
The commoner’s a common scamp;
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

What though on plate we daily dine,
Wear coronets and a’ that?
Let knaves have beer instead of wine,
We stick to hock and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,――
Their pewter pots and a’ that,――
For all our gold we never blush,
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

Yon bragging pauper struts about,
And rants and raves and a’ that;
However loudly he may shout
He’s but an ass for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that――
His People’s Rights and a’ that;
In pride of birth and money’s worth
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!

_Fun_, January 22, 1879.

――――

It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a Peerage in the following strain:――

Your kind intention I must damp,
The game of rank’s not worth my candle;
It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp;
My honest pewter needs no handle.

――――

A SONG FOR MIDLOTHIAN.

Is there, for double U. E. G.,
That curls his lip and a’ that?
The Tory loon, we’ll let him be,
And gae oor ways for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Election-cries, and a’ that;
The rank may be the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the man for a’ that.

Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord,
Wha tries to speak, and a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s nae sae great for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His ancestry, and a’ that;
The man o’ dauntless eloquence,
He comes and wins for a’ that.

A candidate may be a knight,
A lord, an earl, and a’ that,
But the ballot’s far aboon his might――
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, for a’that,
Their faggot-votes, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech
Do bigger things than a’ that.