Chapter XIII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (13)

“I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins;
My connections are far too extensive;
My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers,
Though dear, yet are very expensive.

I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa,
And then, with due justice, I can’t
But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces
My grandmother’s aged aunt.”

“No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,”
Said the spirited British Envoy.
“Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice,
You exceedingly naughty boy!”

“’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we――
Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’――
Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small
Your grandmother’s aged aunt.”

Then up rose the King of the golden toe,
And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig.
“You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee
To answer this son of a pig?

Now listen, you ugly preposterous man,
You wretchedly lily-white cus
I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet,
And made such a deuce of a fuss!

I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half;
Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil;
And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease,
And fry all my uncles in oil.

O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d――
For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’
And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother,
As well as her elderly aunt.

For am I not King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay?
And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe
That England is far away.

And your army I read in my _Daily News_――
Three men and one little wee boy――
Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo:
Good morning, my dear Envoy!

And please have the goodness to leave me alone,
For my temper’s uncommonly quick.
Don’t think me uncivil――but――go to the devil!
And――send me some rum, there’s a brick!”

SCOAD.

A VERY DRY TALE.
(_To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’_)

A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why,
With his sips and ‘nips’
For his parched-up lips,
Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry,
’Twas useless to try
To ‘wet t’other eye,’
Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.

’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree,
With his ‘Pour a drop more,
Encore and encore,’
’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B.,
As thirsty was he
As a fish from the sea,
As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.

His ministers tried to relieve him at first
With coffee and tea
And soda-and-b.,
But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst;
They all did their worst
For the King, who was curst
From youth with a singular, singular thirst.

Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply
(With whisky and brandy,
And other drinks handy),
And wept that their monarch should still remain dry;
But laugh when he’d try
With his jester to vie,
For even his jokes were exceedingly dry.

They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain,
On the banks of the Rhine,
Many hogsheads of wine,
Which were drunk (so was _he_), but he still cried ‘A drain!’
’Twas perfectly plain
All their labours were vain;
He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’

Then a royal commission his Majesty sent,
With his ‘Pass me a glass
Of the bitter of Bass!’
To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
But after they went
He wasn’t content,
Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.

It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose――
He knew that his highness
Was famed for his dryness,
And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s!
And history shows the fame of him rose――
His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s!

PEMBROKE.
_The World._ October 29, 1879.

――――

A parody on the same topic will also be found on page 413 of Mr. F. B. Doveton’s _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, published by Sampson Low & Co., London, in 1886. But a much more amusing imitation of a Bab ballad is that on page 456 of the same volume, which, by Mr. Doveton’s kind permission, is here given:――

THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET.

Postures antic
Drove him frantic
Seized he pen and paper――
“Young men, stop it,
Pray you, drop it,
Watching damsels caper――
’Gainst this awful
Vain, unlawful
Folly set your faces;
Though they charm ye,
Girls will harm ye
More than wine or races!”

They replying,
Answered, sighing――
Hawing, hemming, humming――
“Not for Joe, sir
For you know, sir,
Short skirts are becoming!
Ballet dancing,
Is entrancing,
We enjoy it――_rather!_”
But stern “London”
Thought them undone――
Spoke out like a father.

“_Dare_ ye dally
With the ballet?”
Said the bishop, coldly.
“_You_ may see, sir,
More than _we_, sir,”
Young men answered boldly.
“Go along, boys,
You are wrong, boys,
_I_ have years in plenty;
Whilst these lasses,
Through my glasses,
All seem under twenty!”

Dancer clever
_Hardly ever_
Finds a _man_ who’ll scold her.
Leant one fairy
Light and airy,
On his lordship’s shoulder;
Bishop kissed her
Like a sister,
When he _should_ have smacked her
To delight her,
Doffed his mitre,
And became an _Actor!_

F. B. DOVETON.

LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

The April number of _Macmillan’s Magazine_ contained the Poet Laureate’s contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of the Ode were quoted in the London papers almost before the magazine was published, and _The Daily News_ went so far as to reprint the whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan’s rights, for which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode public opinion has been tolerably well expressed by the parodies on it which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to lead up to the parodies.

CARMEN SÆCULARE.

AN ODE
_IN HONOUR OF_
The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.

I.

Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,
Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

II.

She beloved for a kindliness
Rare in Fable or History,
Queen, and Empress of India,
Crown’d so long with a diadem
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with prosperous auguries
Comes at last to the bounteous
Crowning year of her Jubilee.

* * * * *

VI.

You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call your poor to regale with you,
Make their neighbourhood healthfuller,
Give your gold to the Hospital,
Let the weary be comforted,
Let the needy be banqueted,
Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice
At this year of her Jubilee.

* * * * *

VIII.

You, the Patriot Architect,
Shape a stately memorial,
Make it regally gorgeous,
Some Imperial Institute,
Rich in symbol, in ornament,
Which may speak to the centuries,
All the centuries after us,
Of this year of her Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

X.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-territorial,
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
You, the hardy, laborious,
Patient children of Albion,
You, Canadian, Indian,
Australasian, African,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your voices in unison,
Singing “Hail to the glorious
Golden year of her Jubilee!”

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance?
Are there spectres moving in the darkness?
Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people.
Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

――――

_The Globe_ remarked:――

“It is to be feared that the Laureate’s Jubilee Ode will
sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain
rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as
adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most
part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even
common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional
felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes
positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is
most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her――

‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot,
Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’

“By no means happy are the references to those who ‘wanton
in affluence’ (why ‘wanton?’) to the ‘Lord manufacturers,’
and to the ‘Imperial Institute,’ which latter surely
savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have
more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not
harmonise very well in their allusion to ‘thunders moaning
in the distance,’ with the Laureate’s allusion elsewhere to
the ‘prosperous auguries’ of the Jubilee. On the whole,
Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all
spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a
_vates sacer_.”

ANOTHER ODE.

Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil:
Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary:
Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether.
HE, the Patriot Laureate,
He, the Lord-manufacturer,
Shaped a stately memorial,
Made it regally gorgeous
After Walt Whitman’s pattern,
Rich in blackness, in dullness,
Which might speak to the centuries
Through the _Magazine Macmillan_,
Of this year of our Jubilee.

* * * * *

Fifty lines at last completed!
Fifty more at least to make a century;
Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from?
But――
Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage?
Is that the ――――? ――――! There goes my lead pencil.
Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses.

_The Globe._ March 29, 1887.

――――

VERY HARD LINES.
HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER.
(_Leaf from a Laureate’s Diary._)

9 A.M.――Bother the Jubilee! What in the name of fortune, can one do with such a rubbishing subject? But here’s _Macmillan_ waiting, and I haven’t done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in “fifty” somehow. Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That suggests Clown. I have it.

_Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled._

No. That won’t do. It’s too shoppy, stagey. Has a _soupçon_ of the _Promise of May_ about it. Wants something wider Ha! The Row, suggesting the Season, of course.

_Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied._

No. Don’t like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy. Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! _that’s_ it. Flowers, of course. Here, I’ve got it!

_Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded._

Anyhow, _that_’ll do to go off with. Let’s see. I want fifty something elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls? Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there’s any precise connection between them; but one must stick down something, How’ll this do?

_Fifty times the golden harvest fallen._

Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting “fifty?” Yes, “twice twenty-five.” But that won’t come in. Then there’s “four times twelve and a half.” No; that won’t do. Enough “fifty.” _Now_ we want some allusion to Her Majesty. Must get in a “since.” I have it, “Since our Queen assumed,” Capital. Here you are!

_Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre._

Come; that’s a beginning anyhow. Three lines! But they’ve quite dried me up. Besides, I can’t go on in blank verse like this. Don’t feel up to it. Must try another metre. What metre. And then what on earth am I to say in it? I haven’t had such a job as this for a long time. Could weep over it. A precious Ode I shall make of it.

For though I, know not anything,
Yet must I not my lot upbraid;
Since as the Laureate I am paid,
And, being paid, am bound to sing.

But, “a glass of sherry, will make me merry.” I’ll try one.!

6 P.M.――Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third, but who, on earth, I refer to as the “Patriot Architect,” and what I mean by asking him to _Shape a stately memorial_, _Make it regularly――no, “regally”――gorgeous_, _Some Imperial Institute_, I don’t know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like poetry, and that’ll be near enough.

Feel I’m making a horrible hash of it. Might go for a turn on my bicycle. May clear my head. Might try it. Will.

* * * * *

Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,――

_You, the snubbed, the unfortunate
You, the Lord-Undertaker,
You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,_

That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it.

_You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?_

No, _that_ won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night.

* * * * *

10 P.M.――After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!

* * * * *

10.30 P.M.――Two more lines screwed out. But _what_ lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,――ha! ha!――catch me rhyming to-night!

* * * * *

11 P.M.――Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to _the wet towel_. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.

* * * * *

MIDNIGHT.――Done it! Labelled it _Carmen Sæculare_. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.

_Punch._ April 9, 1887.

ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE.

I.

Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted;
Fifty times some golden lines have fallen
Since this man――the poet――became the Laureate.

II.

He, renowned for a wordiness,
Rare in fable or history,
Poet――and Rhymster of England,
Crowned at last by strawberry leaf,
Never worn by a wordier.
Now with numbers unmusical,
Comes at last to the psalm-front,
Singing the year of Jubilee.

* * * * *

VI.

You whose bank balance is right side
Spare not of cheques the distributing.
Ask your labourers to dine with you,
Make cleanlier their cottages,
Double infirmary subscriptions,
Let the ragged all be clothed,
Let the hungry have bellies full,
Let those one-legged have a wooden one
At this year of the Jubilee.

* * * * *

Fifty years of ever-growing taxes;
Fifty years of ever world-mending
Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.

* * * * *

You――the taxpayer unfortunate,
You――the Lord Knows-who, and lady,
You――the Lord, shoddy-mixer,
You――the almighty working man,
Patient grumblers of England.
You――all sorts of men――and others,
Irish, Yankee, dynamiters――
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your pockets open lib’rally
To the numerous funds in progress,
Gilding the year of Jubilee.

* * * * *

XI.

Were there poets living in past ages?
Are there poets writing still amongst us?
Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens
Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back,
And old sweet Poetry as the victor
Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.

_Scraps._ April 16, 1887.

――――

OWED TO LORD TENNYSON.
(_Carmen Sequel-airy._)

I.

Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted,
Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen,
Since, my Lord, we read your Ode――your metre.

II.

You, renowned for a stateliness
Rare in Prose, or in Poetry,
Keen with impress of Genius,
Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath
Seldom worn by a worthier,
Now with preposterous flummeries
Come at last to this flatulent
Droning Ode on the Jubilee!

III.

Nothing of the flawless――but the tin pot――
Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious,
All is fussy, feeble, flat――writ poorly.
* * * * *

VI.

You that wanton in epithets,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call Tom Moore to regale with you,
Make your sentiments mirthfuller,
Send your spleen to the hospital,
Let the reader be comforted,
Let the seedy be junketed,
Let MacM. in his purse rejoice
At your Ode on the Jubilee.

VII.

Henry’s fifty _truths_ are all in shadows,
Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others,
Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten.

VIII.

You, the Patriot Laureate,
Write a better memorial!――
Something really gorgeous
’Bout th’ Imperial Institute,
Rich in jingle, in ornament,
Which may fetch South Kensington,
All South Kensington after us,
In this year of the Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook,
Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise,
Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning.

X.

You, the Flighty, the Fortunate,
You, the Lord-_in-Memoriam_,
You, the Word-manufacturer.

* * * * *

All your parts be in harmony,
All your verses in unison,
Singing――“There’ll be a glorious
Golden harvest, this Jubilee!”

XI.

Are there blunders glooming in the Navy?
Are inspectors moving in the darkness?
Trust My Lords aright to guide the people
Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish,
And the Press is Victor, and the darkness
Dawns into the――Jubilee of the Pages.

_Moonshine._ April 6, 1887.

――――

THE HOME RULE JUBILATION ODE.

Fifty times seven days are past and ended,
Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory,
Since your William burned his boats, his bridges

He renowned for a wordiness
Rare in fable or history,
King and God of the Radicals,
Crowned with Papal diadem
Never worn by a wordier,
Now with splendid audacity
Reigns the King of Obstructionists.

Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots,
Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious,
Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like.

You then noisily, all of you
Stump the towns for Disunion.
Let Misrule hold high festival;
Everywhere let the multitude,
Home Rule each to the heart of it,
Raise the standard of Anarchy;
Hail the monarch of egotism,
_Quod sic volo sic jubeo_.

Be as true to England as to Gordon,
Glorying in the trials of her Rulers,
Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal.

You that, wanting in intellect,
Spare not now to be boisterous,
Call your thousands to demonstrate,
Make it hot for your neighbourhood.
Give your gold to Invincibles,
Let the landlords be boycotted,
Let the juries be browbeaten,
Let the maimed make the best of it,
Spread the gospel of Anarchy.

Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings,
Gray your ravings to report is burning,
Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus.

You, the Paddy-American,
Shape a missile of Dynamite;
Make it really dangerous,
Some explosive material
Like the missile of Clerkenwell,
Which may frighten the Unionists,
All the Unionists terrify,
Frighten them into anarchy.

Fifty times repeat the loud explosion,
Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage,
Till at length you rend the mighty empire.

You, the ruler, the democrat;
You, the serf territorial;
You, the crime-manufacturer;
You, the grimy, uproarious,
Bastard children of Albion,
You, Milesian, Hibernian,
You, the Gael and the Cambrian,
You, the Tyke and the Tynesider,
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your throats shout in unison,
Singing, Hail to the godlike
Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist!

Are there Tories raving in the distance?
Are there landlords moving in the darkness?
Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people,
Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish,
And the League is victor, and the darkness
Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland.

_The St. James’s Gazette._ April 14, 1887.

PRIZE COMPETITION PARODIES.

_The Weekly Dispatch_ awarded the prize of two guineas for the best Parody of a part of Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode to the following:――

X.

You, the Laureate (O Fortunate),
You, the Bard-territorial,
You, the Verse-manufacturer,
You, whose lines so laborious
Patient children of Albion
Have perused in bewilderment――
List awhile to another “pote.”
All your tones lack in harmony,
All your verse is confusion,
Sing in style less inglorious,
Try these lines for the Jubilee:――

XI.

Hear the thunders moaning not far distant!
See the spectre Want step out from darkness!
Trust we that the Right will guide our people
When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish,
And the Light is Victor, and these ages
Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness!

C. R. IRELAND.

The following were highly commended:――

II.

He revered for a genius
Rare in annals of poesy,
Poet Laureate of Albion,
Crowned so long with the evergreens
Never donned by a doughtier,
Now with puerile versicles,
Comes at last to inaugurate
This last year of her Jubilee.

VI.

You, that joy in celebrity,
Spare us now more inanities;
Tell your Muse you have done with her,
Make your countrymen happier.
Give way now to the younger men,
Let the critic be quieted,
Let admirers be comforted,
Let your Queen in her heart rejoice
In this year of her Jubilee.

F. B. DOVETON.

――――

“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,”
Fifty times it would have bloomed without her――
Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.”

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance?――
’Tis the German band of near relations;
Trust the mother Queen to guide her people
Where they’ll live in plenty without labour,
And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries,
Families raise for Jubilees for ages.

T. A. H.
――――

I.

Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered,
Fifty times the royal pension’s risen
Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

XI.

Are there children starving in our alleys?
Are there famine-stricken homes in cities?
Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people;
Till the nation rules no troubles vanish.
When the Right is Victor, then the darkness
Dawns into the liberty of the ages.

ALFRED LOVETT.

――――

ON INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.

VI.

Ye, who revel in authorship,
Spare not now to be practical;
Call your “chums” to discuss with you,
Make their industry hopefuller,
Give your works to the publisher.
Let the printer be recompensed,
Let the trader be profited,
Let the scribe in his work rejoice
At the prospect of copyright.

X.

You, the poet, th’ essayist,
You, the faithful historian,
You, the play manufacturer,
You, the writer sensational,
Patient newspaper editor,
You, th’ obscure, the illustrious,
Author, artist, and type-cutter――
All your aims be in harmony,
All your efforts in unison,
Till you succeed in obtaining
International copyright.

J. MARSHALL.

――――

MY LANDLADY.

II.

She disliked for a craftiness
Rare in kitchen or scullery,
Queen, and slave in a lodging-house,
Crowned so long with a widow’s cap
Never worn by an artfuller,
Now, with sanctified countenance,
Comes to fleece us and plunder us,
Growling, “Here is your weekly bill.

VI.

“You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful;
Scan not what I regale you on,
Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller,
Leave your gold on your looking-glass,
Let your beer and your tea be boned,
Let the needy (that’s _me_) be fed,
Let your landlady line her nest
While she tinkers the weekly bill.”

SHAWRNLAM.
From _The Weekly Dispatch_. April 17, 1887.

――――:o:――――

CARMEN EXPOSTULATORY.

I.

Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded
Is my brain with trying to make out wherein
Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare.

II.

He, who as Laureate attained a fame
Rare and great in History,
Babbles now in frothy talk,
Unlike his wonted measure.
And speaks of Empress Queen
And Jubilee, like Whitman would
With ruggedness of diction
To crown this year of Jubilee.

III.

Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot,
Who, with vulgar words bepraising,
All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen.

IV.

You then mournfully, all of you
Wear your sackcloth, your ashes,
For the sad falling off of one
Who wrote of Arthur Hallam,
In the grand “In Memoriam.”
So will you not with heart
Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s
Other than the twaddle tribute
Spawned of this year of Jubilee.

V.

Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood,
Glorying in the strength to fight all shams.
Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs.

VI.

You that once in affluence
Of diction, caught the ear of time,
Call we now no longer ours
The people’s friend. Spoiled child
With diadem, and much belorded.
We cannot now be comforted,
Our maimed heart for you doth bleed,
At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee.

VII.

Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow,
Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance,
And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten?

VIII.

You, the Patriot Leader,
Shape a stately Memorial.
Record of wrongs not righted,
Of Ireland’s cry not silenced:
But still the symbol badge
Of Saxon oppression,
Which she has worn for centuries.
How will fair Erin
Hail this golden year of Jubilee?

IX.

Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation.
Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy.
Fifty years of Royal Pauperism.

X.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,
Think of the poor who have fallen.
You, the Lord-manufacturer,
Made rich by the hard, laborious,
Patient to suffer――but about to rise.

XI.

Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance.
See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land.
Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people,
So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish,
And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s
Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages.

ANONYMOUS.

Algernon Charles Swinburne’s Question
AND
THE ANSWER.

THE QUESTION.
1887.

Shall England consummate the crime
That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves
No surety for the trust of thieves?
Time pleads against it――truth and time――
And pity frowns and grieves.

The hoary henchman of the gang,
Lifts hands that never dew nor rain
May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again,
Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang
Thrills his pure heart with pain.

THE ANSWER.
1887.

Shall England shirk the task sublime
That Justice to her honour leaves,
Of blotting out a shame that grieves
Her soul, because in raving rhyme
Slander a songster weaves?

The furious fugler of the gang
His rabid epithets may rain
On that grey head in vain, in vain,
Though England’s heart may feel a pang,
And England’s pride a stain.

Grand helmsman of the clamorous crew,
The good grey recreant quakes and weeps,
To think that crime no longer creeps
Safe toward its end: that murderers too,
May die when mercy sleeps.

While all the lives were innocent
That slaughter drank, and laughed with rage,
Bland virtue sighed, “A former age
Taught murder: souls long discontent
Can aught save blood assuage?

“You blame not Russian hands that smite
By fierce and secret ways the power,
That leaves not life one chainless hour;
Have these than they less natural right
To claim life’s natural dower?

“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance: why should we,
Whom equal laws acclaim as free,
Think shame, if men too blindly brave
Steal, murder, skulk, and flee?

“At kings they strike in Russia: there
Men take their life in hand who slay
Kings: these, that have not heart to lay
Hands save on girls whose ravaged hair
Is made the patriot’s prey.

“These, whom the sight of old men slain
Makes bold to bid their children die,
Starved, if they hold not peace, nor lie,
Claim loftier praise: could others deign
To stand in shame so high?

“Could others deign to dare such deeds
As holiest Ireland hallows? Nay,
But justice then makes plain our way:
Be laws burnt up like burning weeds
That vex the face of day.

“Shall bloodmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands reached out for gold
Whereon blood rusts not yet we hold
Bloodless and blameless: ever thus
Have good men held of old.

“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies,
Takes flight by night where murder lurks,
And broods on murderous ways and works,
Yet seems not hideous in our eyes
As Austrians or as Turks.

“Be it ours to undo a woful past,
To bid the bells of concord chime,
To break the bonds of suffering crime,
Slack now, that some would make more fast;
Such teaching comes of time.”

So pleads the gentlest heart that lives,
Whose pity, pitiless for all
Whom darkling terror holds in thrall,
Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives
Alms of warm tears――and gall.

Hear, England, and obey; for he
Who claims thy trust again to-day,
Is he who left thy sons a prey
To shame whence only death sets free;
Hear, England, and obey.

Great shrieker of the shrieking crew,
The lyric recreant raves and rails
At Justice, who adjusts her scales,
At last, at last, for Erin too,
His fire of freedom fails.

When Italy was militant
For liberty, his muse could rage
In rolling rhetoric page on page,
His poet bosom swell and pant
With wrath――which songs assuage.

But blame not British hands that smite
Their brethren in fierce pride of power,
Leave Ireland not one chainless hour.
Is ruling not our native right,
Our Heaven-appointed dower?

“The dower that freedom brings the slave
She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free
In other lands may strike; but we
Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave
Our wrath, must cease to be.

At kings they strike in Russia; there
Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay
Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway
Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair,
He is no patriot’s prey.

Those whom the thought of fathers slain,
Of roofless children doomed to die
Starved, maddens by its memory――
These poets pardon not, nor deign
To lift a lyric sigh.

A sigh of pity for such deeds
As hapless Ireland harass? Nay,
Justice shall not make straight our way
Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds
All who dare disobey.

Shall soulmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold,
Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold
Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus,
Lest British Mammon scold.

Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies,
The tale of suffering blurs and burkes,
Hides his own murderous ways and works.
Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes――
In Russians, or in Turks.

What, prate about a shameful past?
Ask who began the tale of crime?
Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime?
The patriot poet in full blast
Shall brand you to all time.

So raves the fieriest bard that lives,
Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall,
Set to rich music’s rise and fall,
So nobly rang one half forgives
This recreant mud and gall.

Hear, England, and be sad; for he
Who peals this palinode to-day,
The oppressor once could scathe and flay.
Shame that his muse no more is free
When England blocks the way.

Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch;
Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave,
To death forlorn and sure he gave;
Nor now requires he overmuch
Who bids thee dig thy grave.

Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein
Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie;
Put thought of aught save terror by,
To strike and slay the slayer is sin;
And Murder must not die.

Bind fast the true man; loose the thief;
Shamed were the land, the laws accursed,
Were guilt, not innocence, amerced;
And dark the wrong and sore the grief,
Were tyrants too coerced.

The fiercest cowards that ever skulked,
The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped
Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped,
And justice claimed their lives for mulct,
Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.

Bow down for fear, then, England: bow,
Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear
That nought save pity, conscience, care
For truth and mercy, moves thee now
To call foul falsehood fair.

So shalt thou live in shame, and hear
The lips of all men laugh thee dead;
The wide world’s mockery round thy head
Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier
Shall be thine honour’s bed.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
_The Daily Telegraph._ April 29, 1887.

――――

Our sore no patriot hand must touch
Even for healing: song shall rave
Against the Statesman old, but brave
Who dares――where youth, craven o’ermuch,
Shrinks――the sharp strokes that save.

Beware that grave of shame wherein
His fame, his honour――by a lie
Put with false lyric fervency――
You fain would thrust. His cause shall win,
His glory shall not die.

You voice their virulence――whose sheaf
Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst,
Fall blunt and harmless――_you_, the first
Of lyric freemen, once the chief
Of patriots? Fate accurst!

Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked
’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped
By patriot shams; _you_ jingo-capped,
Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked
Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped

In chorus long; but will you bow
To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear
Her noblest champion? Have a care!
The fading laurels round your brow
Slander shall not make fair.

At least you have our Answer. Hear!
Not e’en your lips shall laugh Truth dead,
Nor your fierce mockery bow his head
At whom fools shriek in hate and fear,
And despots howl in dread.

From _The Daily News_. April 30, 1887.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

On page 93 a parody of the above song, entitled _The Fine Old Standard Tragedy_, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared in Albert Smith’s _Town and Country Miscellany_. The author of the parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was originally published in _The Month_ for October, 1851, a small magazine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. _The Month_ only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, _The Month_ was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular amongst University men about 1845; the author’s name is not known.

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, ’twas made by a mad young pate,
Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate,
But who keeps up appearances at a very dashing rate,
And also his poor old landlady by coming home so late,
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

He lives in a smart new lodging up a rather narrow stair,
And the furniture is fine enough, though a little the worse for
wear,
For, two or three gay young friends of his are fond of smoking
there,
And though they spoil the new carpet, this brave young man don’t
care;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.

His custom of an afternoon, if he’s anything of a swell,
Is to ride a friend’s horse in Hyde Park, and chat with some
first-rate belle;
Or to dine with a few nice friends of his at the Clarendon Hotel,
Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that’s iced so well;
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say,
Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the company very
gay;
And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next
day;
And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away;
For, he’s a fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.

Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten,
He doesn’t find himself there till one, p’raps not even then;
And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely
hold his pen;
But, “these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of men!”
Says this fine young English gentleman, one of the present
time.

Now, the senior clerk is a horrid old man, as strict as he is sly,
And he calls up this fine young gentleman, and he asks him the
reason why;
And this good young man replies to him――for, he “scorns to tell
a lie”――
That he sat up all night with a poor sick friend, to the best of
his memory!
Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

Then he goes back to his brother clerks, if nothing else
intervenes.
And they’re neither quite as wise as judges, nor yet as grave as
deans;
And a great deal is said about “flaring up,” and “going it like
bricks and beans;”
And they call each other “slap up trumps!” I’m told the expression
means
A fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

ANONYMOUS (about 1845.)

――――

THE OLD ENGLISH PUBLICAN.

I’ll sing you a song, a good old song, which I have sung before,
About an English publican who lived in days of yore,
The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door,
His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store,
The fine old English publican, who served in olden times.

Upon the hearth the fire then blaz’d with logs and roots of trees,
The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their ease;
’Twas there the song and ale went round the social guests to
please,
’Till morning chimes bid them depart; we’ll ne’er see times like
these.
The fine, &c.

They brewed their ale and bak’d their bread, bacon on the rack,
And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack:
Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track,
And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack,
The fine, &c.

You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease,
Nor heeded an informer’s dread, for such vile knaves displease;
And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please,
Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord’s purse to squeeze.
The fine, &c.

You ne’er heard of excisemen then, and every house was free;
Nor paltry base informing men that seek for fine and fee;
No new beer shop, to guile the poor about the town you’d see.
No tax on house or windows then, on spirits, or on tea.
The fine, &c.

I hope that all my brother bungs, residing in this land
May have long life and enjoy themselves, and all join hand in hand
To put down the informing crew, who are all a base band,
And fearlessly, with heart and purse, against them make a stand.
For the fine, &c.

ANONYMOUS (written about 1820.)

――――

A FINE OLD HEAVY VILLAIN.

Oh, I’m a deep died villain of a somewhat bygone age,
When T. P. Cooke and N. T. Hicks were heroes of the stage;
Such heroes old playgoers vow they look for now in vain,
What thunders of applause in those old days I used to gain,
When a fine old heavy villain
Of the Drama’s palmy days.

Now having rested silently for nearly fifty years,
The very Deep Red Rover for a short time reappears,
Although not quite so heavy pr’aps as in those days of yore,
He’ll try to soothe the grief of those playgoers who deplore
All the fine old heavy villains
Of the Drama’s palmy days.

Lines in “Deep Red Rover,” an O’piratic burlesque, by Westmacott Chapman.

――――

THE FINE OLD COMMON COUNCILMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a very Common-Councilman who’s trembling for his state,
Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great,
But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate,
Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.

His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows,
Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows,
And though she dropped her H’s, yet she wore expensive clothes,
And “wot’s the hodds,” she oft would say, “which way the money
goes?”
Of this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.

And when the Queen was to be seen he rushed into Guildhall,
And took his wife, and his wife’s aunt, and daughters, sons, and
all.
And swore and push’d, perspired and crush’d, and fought his way
about,
And showed his wife Prince Halbert, when desired to ‘pint him
hout,’
Did this fine old Common-Councilman, all of the present time.

Few names I wot, those guests had got, that England loves to
claim,
But those the civic wards supplied did every bit the same,
And figged-out dames with cheeks in flames, did on the throne
entrench
Who could not well speak English, not to say a word of French,
Nor those fine old Common Councilmen, all of the present time.

But “which there is,” (as they would say) a paper called _The
Times_,
Which drags up by the roots, all old abuses, cheats, and crimes;
And when its heavy ordnance soon was pointed at Guildhall,
They quaked in dread, because they knew their power soon would
fall,
Did these fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.

And surely ’twill be better far, by universal frown,
When following dirty Smithfield, they themselves should be put
down,
Who are more vulgar than the most uneducated clown,
And ought to feel at last, that they are not of much renown,
These fine old Common-Councilmen, all of the present time.

_The Month._ August, 1851.

A VARIETY OF VICARS.

Let us sing of a worthy type that is well-nigh out of date,
Of the good old English Vicar, who, though small was his estate,
Did all he could the poor to aid and suffering to abate,
And sought the cottage door more oft than the mansion of the
great,
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed;
His house was ever open wide to all that were in need;
And ’twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed;
And little children by the hand with loving care to lead;
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave,
Nor did he let base lucre’s love his kindly soul deprave,
To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave,
And all the village when he died stood mourning round the grave
Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

But look at his successor now, a change most marked you’ll see.
He is a very learned man who’s gained a high degree,
And who, expecting in due course that he’ll a bishop be,
Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry,
Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete,
And rarely do you see his form about the village street;
His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet,
And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet
This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!

But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find
Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind!
And who when ’mongst the magistrates he proudly sits enshrined,
To stern and harsh severity’s persistently inclined,
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time.

He preaches charity, and bids all men forgive their foes,
And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows;
But far beyond the lay J.P.’s most eagerly he goes,
To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose;
Like a modern J.P. Vicar, one of the present time!

The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim,
Who that fat living holds because he bears his father’s name;
And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became,
Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame;
Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent,
And he each week for half-a-crown from town has sermons sent――
That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event,
For at his father’s London house his time is mostly spent,
Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!

* * * * *

Just now, these very varied types at least in this agree:
They think their snug emoluments in jeopardy may be;
And rushing to the danger meet, which though far off they see,
They make their long-neglected flocks the pretext for their plea,
Like self-interested Vicars, all of the present time!

Be they Broad Church, or be they High, or Narrow they, or Low,
They all unite to hold their own against the common foe;
Their hearts ’twould seem, with one desire, with one high impulse
glow,
Which animates the sermons which from all Church pulpits flow,
From these much-excited Vicars, all of the present time!

* * * * *

Too late is their anxiety the Church may long endure,
In order that the masses may its services secure.
Too late have come these loud appeals for mercy for the poor,
From those whose one chief aim has been to make their own pay sure,
As grasping English Vicars, all of the present time!

* * * * *

(_Seven verses omitted._)

_Truth._ November 5, 1885.

――――:o:――――

MY NELLIE’S BLUE EYES.

My Nellie’s eyes are blue,
Hair of bright and golden hue,
Like her eyes, her heart is true,
My Nellie my own!
Never reigned a queen more fair,
Who with Nellie could compare,
By her side my life I’d share,
My Nellie my own!
Ne’er was culled from nature’s bower
Half so sweet or rare a flower――
With my Nellie hour by hour,
My Nellie my own!

_Chorus._

My Nellie’s blue eyes,
My Nellie’s blue eyes,
Bright as the stars that shine above,
My Nellie’s blue eyes.

* * * * *

The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern times, _Two Lovely Black Eyes_.

TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES;
_or_, _No more Politics for me_.

Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,
This gay youth you might have seen,
Tompkins and I with his girl between;
Oh, what a surprise!
I praised the Conservatives frank and free,
Tompkins got angry so speedilee,
All in a moment he handed to me,
Two lovely black eyes.

_Chorus._

Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.

Next time I argued I thought it best,
To give the Conservative side a rest,
The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed,
When oh, what a surprise!
The chap I had met was a Tory true,
Nothing the Liberals right could do,
This was my share of that argument too,
Two lovely black eyes!

_Chorus._

Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.

The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt,
Never on politics rave and shout,
Leave it to others to fight it out,
If you would be wise.
Better, far better, it is to let
Lib’rals and Tories alone, you bet,
Unless you’re willing and anxious to get
Two lovely black eyes!

_Chorus._

Two lovely black eyes,
Oh, what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.

The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr. Edmund Forman, and it is published by Francis Bros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.

“Two Lovely Black Eyes” created such a furore at the Trocadero Music Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened “The Trocadero Anthem,” and on February 8, 1887, _The Pall Mall Gazette_ gave an account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as to the origin of the song.

“OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!”

“It was a fluke; in fact, I may say ‘a surprise.’ Such things generally are. ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes’ is a parody of an American song of which the chorus is ‘Nellie’s Lovely Blue Eyes.’ The air is the same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the Trocadero, long before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed ‘Nellie’s Blue Eyes,’ and thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the ‘blue’ eyes. I thought they would appreciate ‘black’ more. So I get my chorus――’Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ That is always my starting point. I had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So I got the first line:――

‘Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,’

Who? Why,

‘This gay youth you might have seen,’

You see, ‘seen,’ ‘green?’ Then you would naturally meet some one. I met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with ‘seen’ and ‘green,’ so I gave Tompkins a young lady:――

‘Tompkins and I with his girl between.”

I had written ‘Harry’ at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me ‘two lovely black eyes’? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming home in the train.” And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn will introduce into his patter. “I have sung it about one thousand times in English, French, and German,” and the popular comic gave me some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and his accent is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and German renderings:――

“Deux beaux yeux noirs,
Oh ciel! quel horreur,
Seulement pour dire a quelqu’un qu’il a tort
Deux beaux yeux noirs.”

“Zwei Augen so schwartz,
Ach, ist dass ein Spass?
Gesagt hab’ ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt,
Zwei Augen so schwartz!”

“I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. But the song has been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would like the chorus. But when I came to the ‘Trocadero’ I was a little doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor, and if he had said ‘yes’ I should have changed it at once. It is my principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice.”

――――

OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!

The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen’s Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.[27]

Air――“_Two Lovely Black Eyes_.”

Down at the House, in the days that have been,
This grave sage you might often have seen,
Harcourt and I, and the Chief between,
But oh, what a surprise!
I joined the Conservatives frank and free;
Gladstone got angry right speedilee,
All in a jiff to see G. J. G.
Rat to the To-ries.

_Chorus._――I join the To-ries?
Oh, what a surprise!
Rads were all telling me G. J. was wrong
To join the To-ries.

When to resign Randolph thought it was best,
The Chancellorship upon me was press’d.
A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed.
When oh, what a surprise!
A surplus I found; it was small, ’tis true,
Less than a million, but what did I do?
By a neat little dodge made it more than two!
That opened their eyes!

_Chorus._――Revenue on the rise!
Oh, what a surprise!
Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished;
Loud cheered the To-ries!

Didn’t the Chaplinites hallo and shout?
Harcourt and others, of course, expressed doubt,
But the Tories may leave me to fight it out;
In that they’ll be wise.
Cut down the Annual Charge on the Debt;
Penny off Income Tax――good bait, you bet,
Lib’rals or Tories, they’re all glad to get
_That_ little surprise.

_Chorus._――Long it has been on the rise.
Ah! what a surprise!
Who will be telling G. J. he is wrong?
This _is_ penny-wise!

Working men’s ’baccy tax――give that a wipe,
Please the poor feeders on porter and tripe
Friend of the “Masses,” put _that_ in your pipe,――
Ain’t that a surprise?
Fancy my Budget’s a fine work of Art.
Randolph may sneer, shows he’s feeling the smart.
’Tisn’t so bad, eh, my friends?――for a start,
With my new allies.

_Chorus_.――Give ’em a fall, not a rise!
Oh! what a surprise!
As for Retrenchment――well that in the sweetest
Of “sweet By-and Byes!”

_Punch._ April 30, 1887.

――――:o:――――

UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.

_Gipsy Glee._

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wildfire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.