Chapter VIII: Part 36: Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore (6)

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth
May bear the gree, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’that,
It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that
When man to man the kingdom o’er,
Shall own his worth for a’ that.

This Parody appeared in _Funny Folks_, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included.

――――

A POLITICAL SONG.
(_By a Man of no Party._)

Is there for Whig and Tory men
Who fumes and frets and a’ that,
Who dips in gall his loveless pen,
With wrath of man and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their factions, feuds, and a’ that;
In quiet nook we know to brook,
A fruitful life for a’ that.

What though we make no mighty din
With place and power and a’ that;
We wear, within a healthy skin,
An honest heart for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
There’s outs and inns and a’ that;
Let Whig and Tory bark and bite,
The good cause wins for a’ that!

You see yon loon who taks his stand
On blood and pedigree here,
And thinks the Lord God made the land
For him and his degree here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that;
We turn the sod, and claim from God
Stout labours due for a’ that.

You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy,
Of bright millennium dreaming here,
From equal votes to ragged coats,
And brainless men and women here;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their high-flown prate and a’ that;
Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill,
Will rule the State for a’ that.

You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad,
Who pleads the workmen’s cause here,
And knows to surgeon all things bad,
With patent brand new laws here.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their Communistic brag here;
The sharpest eye, the game to spy,
Will make the biggest bag here.

You see yon lean and lanky lad,
Who flings his pulpit ban here,
Save the elect of his own sect,
On all the human clan here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Though priests may curse and ban here,
The God who sits in heaven shall laugh
At vain conceit of man here.

You see yon chiel who wags his tongue
And bobs his wig and a’ that.
Though he can prove that right is wrong,
He’s but a prig for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their shifty arts and a’ that;
The pulse of right will beat with might,
In human hearts for a’ that.

Then let us pray, though for a day
Wild seas may overwhelm here,
That counsel mild may bear the sway,
And wisdom hold the helm here!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their party spite and a’ that;
We’ll win the fight for truth and right,
In God’s own time for a’ that.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE,
_Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn._, 1841-52.

From _Alma Mater_: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.

――――:o:――――

JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY.

Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry;
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the world ken.

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

TAK CAULER WATER I.

Gin a body meet a body,
When he’s passin’ by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though ilka chap should tak his drap,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I,
’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days,
Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body,
Though to sell or buy,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though yon big sea were barley-bree
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same,
Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body
Whar folk wed or die,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Amang the gay, amang the wae,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare――
Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body.
His lass jist by the by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine,
Ne’er a drap wad I,
Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip,
Tak cauler water I.

WALNEERG.

――――

“MEETIN’ ON THE SLY.”

Gin a nursey meet a bobby,
Meet him on the sly,
Gin a nursey leave a babby,
Need a babby cry?
Gin a bobby to a babby
Acts in way unkind,
Need the nursey stop that bobby――
Need that babby mind?

Gin a nursey smack a babby
With a strength extreme,
Gin a nursey pinch a babby,
Need that babby scream?
Gin a bobby shake a babby,
Need that babby yell?
Gin a nursey kiss that bobby,
Need that babby tell?

_Judy_, December 10, 1879.

――――:o:――――

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fu’,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

* * * * *

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Shall I like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may go to――France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.

* * * * *

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

SAM SUMPH.[25]

Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek,
Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t;
Brains he had na unco much,
His schooling was a crazy crutch,
But like the crab he had a clutch,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!

Latin Syntax vexed him sore,
When he tried the Greeking o’t,
For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door
When folks try the Greeking o’t.
_Quod_ and _ut_ he understood,
At “speech direct” they called him good,
But _qui_ with the subjunctive mood
Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t!

One thing truth commands to tell,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
English he could hardly spell,
But what’s that to the Greeking o’t?
English fits the vulgar clan,
The buying and the selling man,
But for the learned the only plan
Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t.

How he wandered through the verb,
It pains my tongue the speaking o’t,
He said it was a bitter herb,
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw,
At last he warstled bravely through,
All except a tense or two,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!

How he fared with ἣ and ἄν
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Δὴ and γε, and all their clan,
It’s weel worth the speaking o’t.
These feckless dots of words, quo’ he.
They are nae bigger than a flea,
We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be,
They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t!

A’ the story for to tell,
Were nae end to the speaking o’t,
But this thing in the end befell,
When he tried the Greeking o’t;
Though his heart was free frae vice
(Men are sometimes trapped like mice),
They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!

Sair cast doun was learned Sam
At this end o’ the Greeking o’t;
He could dae nae mair wi’ cram,
At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t,
But he was teugh as ony Scot,
He was plucked, but yield would not,
Sooner would he hang and rot,
Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t.

At the door he made a din,
Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t!
Is the Greek Professor in?
Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t!
Sam his plea wi’ tears would win,
He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’,
To pluck him twice was just a sin,
For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t!

Professor was a kindly man,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Felt for a’ the student clan
That swat sair at the Greeking o’t,
“Though your nae just in the van,
My heart is wae your worth to ban
Ye hae done the best ye can,
So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!”

Sam Sumph is now M.A.,
Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t!
He can preach and he can pray,
That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t.
He can thunder loud and fell,
An awfu’ power in him doth dwell,
To ope and shut the gates of hell,
That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t.

Wait a year and ye will see,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
High upon the tap o’ the tree,
Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t!
In the Kirk Assembly he
Sits as big as big can be,
Moderator Sam, D.D.,
That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

From _Alma Mater_; Aberdeen University Magazine,
December 9, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE WHIGS OF AULD LANG SYNE.
(_The Premier and the New Peers._)

Should auld supporters be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld Whigs be remembered not
By Whigs of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne my friends,
For auld lang syne;
We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet,
For auld lang syne.

We three hae tasted aft, at times,
The sweets of office fine;
And sighed for place for mony a day,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

We three hae paddled, in our turn,
The River down, to dine,
And whiles without the whitebait gane,
’Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends,
And here’s a lift o’ mine;
And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang, &c.

And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes,
As sure ye’re friends o’ mine,
And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

_Punch_, December 30, 1865.

――――

SIR M. HICKS BEACH _singing_:――

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
As I’ve forgotten mine?
Yes, certainly; for it is rot
To talk o’ auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne forsooth!
For auld lang syne!
I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back,
For auld lang syne!

He’d been a trusty frien’ to me,
Right gude to me and mine;
And as I drove the foul blow home,
I cried “For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, kind frien,’
For auld lang syne!
Take that!” and so I laid him flat,
“For auld lang syne!”
[_He goes out._

_Truth_, _Christmas Number_, 1885.

――――:o:――――

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A FRAGMENT.

_Chorus._
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There’s nought but care on every han’,
In every hour that passes, O!
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.

* * * * *

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears,
Her noblest work she classes, O!
Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.

ROBERT BURNS.

――――

LIFE IN MALVERN.

We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees,
As yearly they come roun’ O!
We’ve social teas, and grand soirées,
For ever in the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The lively, pleasant town, O!
There’s healthy strife and active life,
There’s spirit in the town, O!

Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme
How we will yet sit down, O!
And end our days in rural braes;
We’ll never leave the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The active, stirring town, O!
Old Zimmerman would change his plan
To live in Malvern town, O!

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by Dr. J. B.
Oddfish, London, 1865.

――――

HEY FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE, O!

A SONG FOR THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING, AT GLASGOW, IN 1860.

Air――_Green grow the rashes, O!_

A pleasant week I lately passed
In Glasgow town,――no city, O!
With men of state and merchants great,
And sages wise or witty, O!

CHORUS:――_Hey for social science, O!
Hey for social science, O!
When wisdom, wine, and wit combine,
They make a good alliance, O!_

We meet to show that all below
To ruin fast is tending, O!
That laws and schools and prison rules
Are much in need of mending, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

But though, no doubt, t’was well made out
That things are old and wheezy, O!
O cursed spite! to set them right
Was not so very easy, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

Yet though the task may patience ask,
We’re here convened to try it, O!
To see if schools will root out fools,
Or crime be cured by diet, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

The blood-red sun had scarce begun
To shine out strong and hearty, O!
When up we rose and donned our clo’es
To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

Delicious doles of meat and rolls
Disposed to mirth and laughter, O!
The inspiring tea brought out Macnee,
And others followed after, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

When hunger’s rage we thus assuage,
Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O!
Then, horse and foot, we take the _route_,
And hurry to the college, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

Here in we press for some address
That lasts two hours or longer, O!
And if a word is seldom heard,
The applause is all the stronger, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

The section meetings next we try,
Some worse and others better, O!
But if the days are somewhat dry,
The nights will prove the wetter, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

That sense alone conspicious shone
I can’t declare in conscience, O!
But great’s the use to introduce
A safety-valve for nonsense, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

A few who well their tale could tell
Did ably fill the rostrums, O!
While many a goose his clack let loose,
And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

Just ere the welcome hour of six
We gladly cut our cable, O!
And in some port of refuge fix,
Hard by a well spread table, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

While all things good in drink and food
Our weary souls are cheering, O!
The ills of life, before so rife,
Seem quickly disappearing, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

Around us eyes and faces bright
Our softened hearts are winning, O!
Fair matrons in meridian light,
And morning stars beginning, O!

_Hey for social science, O!_
_The best of social science, O!_
_Is when its power, in hall or bower,_
_To Beauty we affiance, O!_

With ardour fired, by love inspired,
I rise and give “The Ladies,” O!
And they who shrink the toast to drink
May hang and go to Hades, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh,
Then part with tears and sighing, O!
And when at last the week is past
We’re dead with mirth――or dying, O!
_Hey for social science, &c._

But I ordain that soon again,
These pleasant hours repeating, O!
We learn some more of social lore
At such an evening meeting, O!

_Hey for social science, O!_
_For genuine social science, O!_
_A summons here to recompear_
_Would find a quick compliance, O!_

This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “_Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga_,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877.

――――:o:――――

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.

The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir.

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.
(Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E.
G――dst――e, assisted by his G――ce the A――b――p of York.)

O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell,
Wha, since it pleased best thysel’,
Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell,
A’ for thy glory,
To brew amaist as muckle ill
As ony Tory.

I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands left our shores to fight,
Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right,
And, by thy grace,
We gied the Egyptian deils a fright
Ower a’ the place.

What was I or my ministry
That we should sae exalted be?
A glaikit mongrel company
O’ bleth’rin’ b――――
Some three years syne――O L―――― forgie
Our liein’ speeches.

When frae my post aewhile I fell,
I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’
Wad never mair wi’ office mell
In Church or State,
But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell
Outlaw’d by fate.

Yet here I’m i’ the highest station,
To prove the power o’ thy salvation,
I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation,
Strong as a rock,
Head maister o’ tergiversation
’Mang a’ the flock.

O L――――, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear,
And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there
Wi’ great and sma’,
O L―――― confound them everywhere,
Ilk ane an a’.

But yet, O L――――, confess I must,
I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust,
Since me the doited fules still trust,
Thro’ thick an’ thin;
Sae I rave on, L――――, I’m but dust,
Forgie my sin.

Besides, I further maun allow,
Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,――
But L――――, my hands are always fu’,
When I come near her,
Or else thou kens thy servant true
Wad safely steer her.

Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn――
Murder and outrage, night and morn――
Beset thy servant in their turn,
Cause he’s sae gifted;
Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne
Until thou lift it.

L――――, bless my followers in this place,
Puir goavan coofs――a haverel race
Led by the nose――but curse the face
And blast the name
O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace
An’ public shame.

L――――, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts,
He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts,
Yet has sae mony takin’ airts
Wi’ grit an’ sma’,
I fear least he the people’s hairts
Should steal awa.’

And whan we chasten him therefore,
Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore,
As sets the country in a roar
O’ boist’rous laughin’;
Curse thou his ermine and his fur,
His sneers an’ chaffin’.

L――――, hear my earnest supplication
Against that cause o’ my vexation,
The House o’ Lords――bane o’ the nation――
Curse on their heeds;
L――――, visit them wi’ swift damnation
For their misdeeds.

O! L―――― my G――――, that glib-tongued Cowen,
Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’,
And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’
Still mair an’ mair;
Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’,
An’ fill wi’ fear.

L――――, since I am sae plaguit by ’em,
Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em,
And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em,
Heed not their prayer,
But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em
For evermair.

But, L――――, remember me and mine,
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
For aye let me and H――b――t shine,
Excell’d by nane,
And a’ that glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen,

J. B. C., Northumberland,

_The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_, July 5, 1884.

――――

THE FISHER’S WELCOME.

We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear,
And streams o’ mossy Reed;
We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,
The Teviot and the Tweed;
An’ we will try them ance again,
When summer suns are fine;
An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet,
For the days o’ lang syne.

’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat
On Coquet’s bonny braes,
An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane,
An’ clad in his last claithes.
An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave,
Grim death he heucks us a’;
But we’ll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we’re ta’en awa’.

For we are hale and hearty baith,
Tho’ frosty are our pows,
We still can guide our fishing graith,
And climb the dykes and knowes;
We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads,
An’ throw a sweeping line,
An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o’ lang syne.

Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still,
He’s green below the knee,
Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad,
An’ gae awa’ wi’ me.
Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer,
We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain,
We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we’ll fish her ance again.

An’ hameward when we toddle back,
An’ nicht begins to fa,
An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack,
We’ll crack aboon them a’.
When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I’ll lay my loof in thine;
We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet,
An’ we’re little warse at wine.

We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled,
How mony a line we’ve flung,
How many a ged and saumon killed,
In days when we were young.
We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue,
An’ sing anither tune;
They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do,
We’ll tell them what we’ve dune.

This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own.

――――:o:――――

TO BURNS.

And wha is he that syngs sae weel,
And pens “Addresses to the Deil?”
Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns?
Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns!

His gabby tales I looe to hear,
They please sae meikle, run sae clear;
That ilka time, good traith, I read,
I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head.

I wad advise, when runkled care
Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare,
That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf,
’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief!

And should auld mokie sorrow freeten,
His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten;
And sure I am, ye grief may banter,
By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.”

And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant,
O’ cheerful friends――and fynde a want
Of something blythe to cure my glumps,
And free me frae the doleful dumps,

I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile,
Until he mak me wear a smile;
And then, if I hae time to spare,
I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!”

From _The Bards of Britain_, contained in _The Remains of Joseph Blachet_, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith.

――――

TAM O’SHANTER.

In a recent number of _Notes and Queries_ (December 19, 1885), there was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:――

“In the year 1790, when Burns wrote _Tam o’Shanter_, stories
of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a
large survival of popular belief in their power and the
diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a
reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.

The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held
at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to
Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his
youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole
of the circumstances. That confession establishes the
reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in
_Demonologia_ (Bumpus, 1827).

In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose
versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got
courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto”
play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off
the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the
bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of
Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his
self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with
peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen,
Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the
horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the
keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its
tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of
the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account
in this connexion.

In Robert Chambers’s _Life and Works of Burns_, iii. 152, we
are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise
the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,”
the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the
other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the
“queerest stories.”

That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain
the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these
“facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no
indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the
supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the
_dénoûment_ proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the
prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations,
however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the
category of historical facts.

An important commentary on the subject will be found in a
volume entitled _Interesting Roman Antiquities recently
discovered in Fife_, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.)
In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law,
Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is
the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of
Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of
the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain
witches, and made the discovery that their names were
entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this
written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a
women who was a member of the gang to permit him to
accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on
a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded,
and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his
name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the
rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book,
“while out the hellish legion sallied.”

The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat,
and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home,
and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the
book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the
house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which
they gladly seized and carried away.

In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet
Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have
said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his
humorous and excellent poem.”

――――

THE POLITICAL TAM O’SHANTER.
_Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application――obvious._

No man can tether time or tide,
And he who holds the reins must ride;
And such a night WEG takes the road in
As seldom rider was abroad in.
With Boreas at his fullest blast,
And Eurus whistling fierce and fast,
There was a shindy never fellowed.
Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed,
That night o’ nights a Scot might say
The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.

Well mounted on his mare was WEG,
(A stouter never lifted leg,)
Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,
Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,
Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.
Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,
Looked sharp around with prudent care,
Lest bogies take him unaware,
Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye”
With that confounded thing, a “cry,”

By this time he was cross the ford
(Where he was very nearly floored),
And passed the bog so dark and dank
Where Snobdom’s “CHARLIE” sprawled and sank,
And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark,
Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark;
And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide,
Where one had need be Argus-eyed.
Before him doom appears at flood,
Redoubling storm roars through the wood;
Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole,
And vocal thunders fiercely roll.

* * * * *

But there was pluck in WEG’S shrewd noddle,
He cared no more for threats than twaddle,
His mare, though, was a bit astonished,
Until, by hand and heel admonished,
She ventured forward on the light,
And eh! WEG saw a wondrous sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance,
Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France;
Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
High on a seat, with flaming eyes,
There sat old Nick in human guise;
Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large;
To set the measures was his charge.
He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,

Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses,
And by some dark, prophetic sleight
Each held a boding spectral light,
By which our wary WEG was able
To spy, spread out upon a table,
Late-murdered measures; cord or knife
Had robbed the innocents of life.
A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled,
And many more were maimed and mangled;
In short the scene was simply awful,
And WEG considered quite unlawful.

* * * * *

But WEG knew what was what right well,
And one young witch there bore the bell.
One late enlisted in the rout
(At Woodstock known and thereabout)
At many a measure she had shot,
And many a plan had sent to pot;
Made many a plucky wight feel queer,
And shook e’en her own side with fear.
Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn,
Which, up to now, the witch had worn,
In cut and fit was scant and strange,
Some thought she hankered for a change,
And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches
Should e’er have graced a dance of witches.

But here my muse must faster flutter,
’Tis scarce within her power to utter
How RANNIE leapt, and twirled, and flung
(A supple jade she was and young),
And how WEG stood like one bewitched,
How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched.
Even Satan glowered as though in pain,
And puffed and blew with might and main,
Till with one caper and another,
No longer WEG his words could smother,
But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!”
When in a moment all was dark;
And scarce his mare and he had rallied
When out the yelling legion sallied.
As bees buzz round a sugar-tub,
Or workmen round an opening “pub,”
As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse
When Prorogation clears the House,
So the mare runs, the witches follow,
With many an eldritch shriek and hollow.
Ah, WEG! ah, WEG! they’re nearing, nearing,
Like hounds on trail of a red herring.
Midlothian, WEG, awaits thy coming;
They’ll think you’re lost, dear WEG, or humming,
Now, ride thy very hardest, WEG!
If the bridge key-stane fees her leg,
Thy mare at them her tail may toss,――
That running stream they cannot cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make,
The deuce a tail had she to shake,
For Nickie, far before the rest,
Hard on that nag so nimble prest,
And flew at WEG with hope to settle;
But little knew he that mare’s mettle.
One spring brought WEG off safe and hale,
But left behind her own grey tail;
For with NICK’S pull and the mare’s jump,
WEG’S nag was left with ne’er a stump!

_Punch_, August 16, 1884.

――――

“HERE’S A HEALTH.”

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!
It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It’s guid to be honest and true,
It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan,
Although that his band be sae sma.’
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here’s freedom to him that would read,
Here’s freedom to him that would write,
There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard,
But they who the truth would indite.
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it.

――――

“THE BROBDIGNAG BONNETS” OF BLUE.――A PARODY.
(_Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit._)

“If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.”

Here’s health to the ladies at home
Here’s health to the ladies awa’,
And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul,
May they ne’er be smiled on at a’.
It’s guid to be pretty and fair,
It’s guid to be smilin’ like you;
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,――
But na by broad bonnets of blue.
Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,――
But nae by sic bonnets of blue.

Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame,
Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’,
Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,――
But na to their bonnets at a’.
I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed,
For the maiden a sweet _billet-doux_:
Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,――
Except a broad bonnet of blue.
Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’,
Than hid by broad bonnets of blue.

_The Mirror_, Vol. II., March 1828.

See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “_Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland_,” London and Glasgow, 1861.

――――:o:――――

WE TWA HAE DUNE A LITTLE BILL.
AIR――“_Auld Lang Syne._”

Should auld acceptance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acceptance be forgot,
All drawn, endorsed, and signed?

Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed:
And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up,
The siller we must find!

We twa hae dune a little bill,
To raise the bonnie wind,
And, tak’ the matter hoo we will,
That document will bind.
Endorsed, &c.

And SHADRACH will nae time alloo,
And therefore a’m inclined
To think that we had better do
Anither o’ the kind.
Endorsed, &c.

And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp,
And I’ll nae be behind,
And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht
The needfu’ cash to find.

Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed,
We’ll do anither billie yet,
Just the wherewitha’ to find!

_Punch_, 1848.

――――

There was a paraphrase of “_Auld Lane Syne_” in the second volume of “The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of “_Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut_” in _Punch_ of November 29, 1884, apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. _Funny Folks_, for June 14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:――

If a body meet a body
Coming through the Rye,
Can a body kiss a body?
Yes――if no one’s nigh.
Every bobby has his hobby,
And some like to spy
In a way distinctly “snobby,”
At young lovers spry.

In the same journal there was a poem (singularly appropriate at present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise enormous and unfair profits by so doing.

“Scots!” although in New York bred;
“Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed,
Welcome either live or dead
Safely o’er the sea.

Now we’re in the butcher’s power,
Who, complaining every hour,
Grudge to see us meat devour――
Cheap and savo-ree.

Every one has need to save,
Times are bad and prospects grave:
Why should butchers play the knave,
Or such tyrants be?

Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw,
At a price that’s fair to a’,
Butcher stand, or butcher fa’,
He’s the man for me!

_Funny Folks_, February 10, 1877.

There was also a political Parody of “_For a’ That_” in _Funny Folks_ of March 14, 1885.

――――:o:――――

FOR A’ THAT AN A’ THAT.

The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.
1814.

Though right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,
The true and leilfu’ cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a’ that.
For a’ that, an a’ that,
Guns, guillotines, and a’ that,
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is Queen again for a’ that!

We’ll twine her in a friendly knot
With England’s Rose and a’ that;
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made braw that.
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that,
She shelter’d in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that,

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine
(For Blucher’s sake, hurra that),
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join,
And bloom in peace for a’ that.
Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined
Around our wreath we’ll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thaw that
The Devil’s elbow be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags and a’ that,
The lads that battled for the right
Have won the day, and a’ that!

There’s ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca’ that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father’s flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There’s kames in hand to claw that!

For on the land or on the sea,
Where’er the breezes blaw that,
The British Flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a’ that.

WALTER SCOTT.

――――

TO WOMEN OF THE PERIOD.

Is it because she cannot rule,
That curls her lip and a’ that?
Such froward dame is but a fool,
And shames her sex for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Poor worldly fame and a’ that,
She strives but for a gilded badge,
Herself’s the gold for a’ that.

What though we will not let her vote,
“Electioneer” and a’ that;
’Tis best that man should wear the coat,
The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
She’s but a “rib” for a’ that!
Man’s work requires a man complete,
Not “half” a man for a’ that.

She does not need Newmarket tribe,
The walking-stick and a’ that;
They but expose to jest and gibe
The cause they plead and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their wrongs and rights and a’ that,
The woman who respects herself,
Just looks and laughs at a’ that.

“Master Henpeck,” give a lady place,
At vestry boards and a’ that;
But she with bonnie modest face,
Will stay at home for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that.
“Equality” and a’ that,
She was not made to rush and race,
And elbow man for a’ that.

The hearth and home are woman’s sphere,
Her proper place and a’ that;
Where she may bear and nurse and rear,
The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
She shows most sense and a’ that.
Who wins and wears the rank and name,
Of mother, wife, and a’ that.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE BALLAD OF SIR T. TEA-LEAF.
(_Being a humble Parallel to the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn._)

It was three gallant Chinamen,
With long tail and pig eye,
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
Sir T. Tea-leaf must die.

And they have ta’en and flung him down
Upon an iron bed,
And underneath, with cruel hand,
Have heaped the ashes red.

They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down,
And turned him o’er and o’er,
They’ve dried him up, until he curled,
And writhed in suffering sore.

In vain he twisted and he turned,
In vain he cried for grace;
They kept him so, and scorched him till
He grew black in the face.

But finding he was still alive,
Their malice waxed more keen;
They dosed him first with Prussian blue
Till his poor face turned green.

What sparks of life might still remain
Determined to foredo,
They gave him next a bitter draught
Of gum and catechu.

And on his death his name they changed,
Lest men their crime should know,
And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?”
They answered, “Young Pekoe.”

Whereas his name and family,
It really was Souchong,
Related to the old Congous,
A race both rough and strong.

Lest men should recognise his dust,
To dust when passed away,
His calcined bones they kneaded up
With lumps of China clay.

Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d
In lead, with well-feign’d grief,
And wrote the epitaph outside,
“Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.”

And though their grief was all a sham,
The epitaph was true,
For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.”
And “lie” such Tea-leaves do.

Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute
In lands beyond the sea,
Where maiden ladies love him much,
Under the name Green-tea.

Ah! little dream these ancient maids
Of Chinaman’s vile craft,
Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups,
There’s poison in the draught.

And little know they of the fate
Poor Tea-leaf had to dree,
Or in their teapots they would weep
Tears bitter as their tea;

Till with the water of their woe
E’en the first brew was spiled,
And the presiding maid would be
Obliged to draw it mild!

Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear,
By poison doomed to fall;
And when there’s green-tea in the pot,
May I not drink――that’s all.

_Punch_, November 29, 1851.

――――:o:――――

MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe――
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

* * * * *

――――

SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE.
(_Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger._)

My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,
My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near――
I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,
My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.

_Punch_, November 8, 1856.

――――:o:――――

“O, WHISTLE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU.”

[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions,
County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh
Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.]

O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad;
Though your father and mother and all should go mad,
O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,

But warily act, when you’re passing by me,
And do not indulge in irreverent glee;
Derisive deportment let nobody see,
And pass as you were not a passing by me.
O whistle, &c.

But mind you are always respectful to me,
Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree;
But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,
For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.
O whistle, &c.

――――

JOHN BARLEY-CORN, MY FOE.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E’en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,
I find where’er I go;
They wear your yoke upon their necks,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
By your despotic sway
The people of our country, John,
Are suffering to-day.
You lay the lash upon their backs;
Yet willingly they go
And pay allegiance at the polls,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
You’ve broken many a heart,
And caused the bitter tear, John,
From many an eye to start.
The widow and the fatherless
From pleasant homes to go,
And lead a life of sin and shame,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.

John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
May heaven speed the hour,
When Temperance shall wear the crown
And rum shall lose its power;
When from the East unto the West
The people all shall know
Their greatest curse has been removed,
John Barley-Corn, my foe!

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

――――

TO THE DARING DUCKLING.
(_By a Moderate Liberal_)

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
You seemed but lately bent
On preaching Liberal Unity,
To our extreme content.
But now you say you will not play,
Unless your pace we go.
How about Liberal Unity, now,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe?

Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
We’re facing roughish weather;
Our only chance of victory, Joe,
Seems pulling all together.
Though slow the pace, why should you stop?
Up hill we all would go,
And we’ll meet together at the top,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!

_Punch_, October 3, 1885.

――――

JOE CHAMBERLAIN, OUR JOE.
(_A Radical Parody._)

[Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.]

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Conservatives may ban,
But more and more the rest of us
Support the “Grand Young Man.”
_We_ do not grumble at your pace,
We would not have you slow,
So put your best leg foremost still,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe!

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Though Stanhopes rise and row you,
You will not let their silly talk
“Three-acres-and-a-cow” you.
You wait not for the “jumping cat,”
Your mind you seem to know,
Which counts for something nowadays,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.

Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Your colours are attractive,
And now you’ve nailed them to the mast,
The Whigs will grow more active.
Keep up the stride――press home those “points”
That rankle in the foe,
And leave the polls to do the rest,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.

_Funny Folks_, October 17, 1885.

――――:o:――――

Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original.

A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:――

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.
By Robert Burns.

“_Lilt your Johnnie._”

Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen,
Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken;
But chapmen billies, a’ gude men,
And _Doon_ sae bonnie!
Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben;
But lilt your Johnnie!

For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel,
Wad haggis mak of ony chiel,
To jaup in luggies like the deil,
O’er loop or cronnie:
You wadna croop to sic a weel;
But lilt your Johnnie!

Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw,
And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw,
Kail weedies frae the ingle draw
As blyth as honie;
Amang the thummart dawlit wa’
To lilt your Johnnie.

A still funnier parody was published in _Punch_, also said to be an unpublished poem by Burns. It consisted of three verses, but the first is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke:

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND.
(_Communicated by the Edinburgh Society for promoting
civilization in England._)

O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup
O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There’s nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

* * * * *

Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in _Judy_, amongst them was the following:――

SCOTCH NATIONAL SONG.
AIR――“_The Breeks o’ Balquidder._”

Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,
Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel,
Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan,
An’ ye ken I loe ye weel!
Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie,
What for gar the tear-draps fa’,
Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass,
An’ your jo will tak’ it a’!

There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’,
Bonnie farls, and haggis richt,
Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye,
Brawly a’ will gang the nicht!
Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready,
Tane a tither’s i’ the brae,
Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy,
What suld gar ye fashin’ sae?

Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie,
Blithely toone the collops ben,
Heed na lang thripplin――kame, luve,
Fear na mair the tappit-hen;
Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow,
Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw,
Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder,
Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw!

_Judy._ Sept. 10, 1884.

――――:o:――――

A HISTORY OF THE BURNs’ FESTIVAL;
or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns,
held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859,

On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January, 621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor of a poem bearing the mottoes “_Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled_,” and “_A man’s a’ man for a’ that_.” On the day of the Festival there was a large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs.

The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch, or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the _Times_, of January 26, 1859.

That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally admitted, the _Times_ sneered at the whole concern, principally because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is entitled:

RIVAL RHYMES,
In honour of Burns;
With curious illustrative matter.
Collected and edited by
BEN TROVATO
“_If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight,
There are who judge still worse than he can write._”
POPE.

_Contents._