Chapter XIV: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (14)

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And clos’d is every flower,
And waking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken,
Shrink on their murky way,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof, nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow,
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

――――

A SEASONABLE GLEE.
(_To be sung in bed on any Frosty day._)

With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone,
My boot is on the tree;[28]
The weather out of doors this morn

(_With a shiver._)

Is cold as charity.

(_With several shivers._)

Is co-o-o-o-old as charity.
The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen-
-der with its steel array-ay-ay,
-der-with its steel array,
-der with it’s steel array.

(_Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants._)

Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day.

Beneath the blankets full three deep
All snuggled up I cower,
All snuggled up I cower,
Above the counter-pane I peep
To see what is the hour,
To see what is the hour.
My watch I find says half-past ten,
Then dow-ow-own myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay.

(_To the Footman._)

Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day;
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day.

Some friends drop in to ask me “how
I am” (pray shut the door);
_Drop_ in! Their frost is melting now,
And deluging the floor,
And de-lu-ging the floor!
“Get up!” No! no! I trust them when
They say ’tis a_n ice_ day,
They say ’tis an ice day.
They say ’tis an ice day.

I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may;
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may!

(_Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time._)

_Punch._ January 16, 1864.

There was a short political parody, of the same song, in _Punch_ for August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.

――――

CHANT OF SMALL CRITICS.
_In the Royal Academy._

The Private Day and Feast are gone,
The public comes to see,
The poor Rejected grunt and groan.
Nor speak with charity.
The shillings flood the porter’s den,
The Red Star sheds its ray,[29]
Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.

Now for the witticisms cheap,
That sting with knat-bite power:
The sentence based on hasty peep,
And visit of an hour:
Bewildered boobies (nine in ten)
Admire our sportive way:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.

Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow,
The wolf he keeps from door,
The pale wife’s timid trust that, now,
His work shall swell their store?
Let’s scare his hope and chance again,
As boys pelt boys in play:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
And slang him as ye may.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1867.

――――

OUR OPENING DAY.
(_Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen at St. Stephen’s._)

The _Ins_ and _Outs_ from rest are back,
The Speaker’s in his chair.
The talk-mill now resumes its clack,
As birds begin to pair.
The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen,
Wit’s bow is strung to slay.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!

_Chorus_――Uprouse ye then, &c.

Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake,
Unclosed are Tory’s eyes;
The morning papers now will make
Less room for fads and lies.
Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten
Once more will plod their way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day.

_Chorus_――Uprouse ye then, &c.

The _Cloture’s_ power own we now
To silence faction’s jaw;
Pat shall not raise eternal row,
In spite of taste and law.
Home-legislation looms in ken,
England shall have _her_ day.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
And use it as ye may!

_Chorus_:――

Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men!
Uprouse ye then, I say!
Fill up your horns, and let the glen
Resound with echoes gay!
The hunt is up,
Brim high the cup,
Big game we’ll bring to bay.
Uprouse ye then,
My merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!

_Punch._ February 17, 1883.

――――:o:――――

TO BE THERE.
_Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song._

Now I have been a warm ’un in my time,
I have drank and been in rows by the score,
But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge,
And vowed that I would do so never more.
’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew,
That never, hardly ever, say sware;
The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice,
So I know what it is to be there.

When first I saw this very happy band,
They were singing hymns and preaching in the street,
A lady came and shook me by the hand,
And whispered words of piety so sweet;
I squeezed her little fingers rather tight,
And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair,
But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home,
You will know what it is to be there.

(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.

I very soon began to preach and prate,
And with the sisters played some funny pranks,
I was so good at nobbing with the plate,
They soon made me a Captain of the ranks;
And often when our meetings were dispersed,
With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer,
I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea,
For I knew what it was to be there.

(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.

I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife,
And often sigh for liberty once more,
She leads me such a very wretched life,
And with the poker warms me on the floor;
She summoned me before the beak one day,
Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair,
Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell,
So I know what it is to be there!

(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.

_Encore Verses._

I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed,
Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs,
I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t _succeed_,
And so at last I took to sucking eggs;
My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got,
He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square,
And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin,
For I know what it is to be there!

(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.

To Epsom I went down one Derby day,
And thought that I should have a jolly spree,
When a fellow came and wanted me to pay,
He said he backed the winning horse with me;
I told him I had never made a bet,
When a crowd got round and soon began to swear,
And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose,
Oh, I knew what it was to be there!

(_Chorus._)――To be there, &c.

Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs. Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.

――――:o:――――

THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.

_A Parody of Jack’s Yarn._

’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn,
On which he’d been a blowing all the way;
He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan,
A going to Rye House to spend the day.
For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife,
But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain,
For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame,
So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.

Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!

When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay.
He showed us where his face and neck were scored;
When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy,
Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed!
And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run,
Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he;
’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell,
I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.

(_Chorus._)――Singing, &c.

Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags,
Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree,
The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned,
And so the poor old snip was free.
So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife,
And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee.
All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again,
That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.

Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!

――――:o:――――

THE GUNPOWDER PLOT

I sing a doleful tragedy,――
Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters,
Who once blew up the House of Lords,
The King, and all his Ministers;
That is, he would have blown them up,
(And folks will ne’er forget him,)
His will was good to do the deed,――
That is, if they’d have let him!

Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!

He straightway came from Lambeth side,
And wished the State was undone,
And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge,
That way came into London:
That is, he would have come that way,
To perpetrate his guilt, sirs,
But a little thing prevented him――the bridge it wasn’t built,
sirs!

Then sneaking through the dreary vault,
With portable gas light, sirs,
About to touch the powder train
At witching hour of night, sirs;
That is, I mean, he would have used
The gas, but was prevented,
’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time,
It had not been invented!

Now, James, you know, was always thought
To be a very sly fox,
So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault,
And there they found poor Guy Fawkes;
For that he meant to blow them up,
I think there’s little doubt, sirs,
That is, I mean, provided he
Had not been found out, sirs.

And when they caught him in the fact,
So very near the Crown’s end,
They straightway sent to Bow Street,
For that brave old runner, Townsend;
That is, they would have sent for him,
For fear he was no starter at,
But Townsend wasn’t living then――
He wasn’t born till after that!

So then they put poor Guy to death,
For ages to remember,
And boys now kill him once a year
In dreary dark November;
That is, I mean his effigy,
For truth is strong and steady,
Poor Guy, they cannot kill again,
Because he’s dead already!

Then bless her gracious Majesty
And bless her royal son, sirs,
And may he never get blown up
(That is, if she gets one, sirs)
And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign,
So prophecies my song, sirs,
And if he don’t, why then he won’t,
And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!

(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a much earlier date.)

――――

NEW LAMPS FOR OLD ONES.

In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history,
A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery;
And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold
ones.
The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”

Buy――Buy――Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,”
Buy――Buy――Buy.

Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity,
He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity;
That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one,
And he thought a sounding one of _brass_ might bring him in a
gold one.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

So, even in the present day, in almost every nation,
Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation,
They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings
hovering,
And many are so fond of _change_, they cannot keep a _Sovereign_.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.”
“The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election;
With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones,
But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;”
They put the Whig small candles _out_, and introduced their mould
ones;
But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the
business,
They only splutter, and _waste_ away, with a dismal, _dizzy_
dizziness.

Buy――Buy――Buy,
“New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy――buy.”

In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging,
So they threw away _a Louis_[30] for a brass one from a dungeon.
But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring,
It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for _Cooking_ and for
_Firing_.

Buy――Buy――Buy,
The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.

In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and _Pious_ Nino goosed, too;
The wily Pontiff said such a _mass_ he wasn’t used to;
He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite
glittering,
But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit
again.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying,
“New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying;
But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir,
You’re ruined _Muttons_ after all, all through the _Golden
fleece_, Sir.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re
in,
They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were _in hearing_
(Erin);
They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished.
But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.

Buy――Buy――Buy, &c.

Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for
glitter,
But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter,
And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one?
So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old
one.

Don’t――Buy――Buy,
“New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.

J. A. HARDWICK. About 1852.
――――

THE UNCONSCIOUS GUY FAWKES; OR, IN THE WRONG CELLAR.
(_On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill._)

I sing a song of foolishness, of GUY FAUX, chief of sinisters,
Who fain would blow the Commons up, the PREMIER and his Ministers:
That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it;
Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.

A sort of GUIDO FAUX _pour rire_ he seems for all his swaggering,
Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering,
That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile,
But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.

Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility,
At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility.
That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently
Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.

If you should call him GUY FAUX, he’d deny it quite indignantly.
None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly.
That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive
About _them_ he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.

But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous,
Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious.
That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates,
Though everybody――more or less――his rigid rule abominates.

His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure,
Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure.
That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation,
At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.

And so――and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him,
Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him.
That is, the game is worth a try, and――well――_if_ not a bit of him.
Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.

The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted
To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.”
That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar,
But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got _into the wrong cellar!_

It _is_ the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under,
And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder,
That is, they _may_ in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter;
But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.

_Punch._ November 8, 1884.

――――

A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.

I sing a comic-tragedy,
Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist,
Who once dethroned Victoria,
And stamped out every loyalist;
That is, he would have changed our rule,
That folks might ne’er forget him,
His will was good to do the deed,
That is――if they’d have let him.
With his bow, wow, wow,
B. the Bashful at the helm,
The Queen B. at the prow.

He marched his mob to Palace Yard,
Stalked right up to the Speaker,
Prostrated all the Treasury Bench,
Turned Brand into a squeaker;
That is, he fully meant to make
This brilliant _coup de grace_, sir,
But Bobbies don’t like rowdies,
So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir,
With his row, row, row.

He laid about him with the mace,
Sent statesmen sprawling left and right,
Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne
A ha’pennyworth of dynamite;
That is, he would have blown ’em up
(In metaphor, I mean, sir)
If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick,
But he wasn’t quite so green, sir.
Not just now――ow――ow.

When he’d made the Peerage disappear,
The Queen an abdicator,
He made the Chanc’llor his cashier,
And dubbed himself Dictator;
Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain,
Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,”
There’s something in’t,――but hopelessness
Of winning made him funky.
Bow――ow――ow.

He gave himself the Church’s spoils,
Crown lands to the Residuum,
Re-named our loved Victorian Realm,
The Republic of Besantium;
That is, he would this tribute pay,
To woman’s worth and station,
But the People’s will did sore confound
This moral combination.
Somehow――ow――ow.

And as for those Allegiance Oaths,
Let them remain he wouldn’t;
The poor must have no children,
Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;――
That is, he thought it just as well
The Statute Books to wipe out,
But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him,
And Juries put his pipe out,
And his yow――ow――ow.

He confiscated all the wealth,
That spoiled the upper classes,
But did not share it with his mob,
Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;”
That is, he feared that lucre might
Pollute the people’s mind, sir,
But then he never got the power,
Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir.
Bow――ow――ow.

And so, of ill-got property,
The rich he’d disencumber,
To secure the greatest benefit
For the greatest number;
That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk,
If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!”
For they guessed his greatest number might
Perhaps, be Number One, sir,
With his bow, wow, wow, sirs.
You can’t make silken purses from
The best ears of a sow, sirs.

_Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, by ION. London: Houlston & Sons.

――――

A DAMP WATER PARTY.

I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir,
All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir,
That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to
get, sir;
But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet,
sir!
Oh! dear, oh!
Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?

At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables,
The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables;
That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir,
But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in
your glass, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.

Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard,
And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered;
That is, there would have been had they been laid within the
house, sir,
But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh &c.

Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was
there,
And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there;
That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to
get, sir,
But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.

And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was
ended,
They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s
splendid!”
That is, they would have said so, but――to use a vulgar name, sir――
The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same,
sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.

* * * * *
(_Three verses omitted._)

And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the
night, sir,
And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining
bright, sir;
So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather,
sir,
To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir,
So, be it so,
For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!

From _Medley_; by Cuthbert Bede, author of _Verdant Green_. London: J. Blackwood.

――――

HOME RULE ALL ROUND.

The question for the country now is no mere choice of Ministers,
’Twixt Liberals and Conservatives, the Dexters ’gainst the
Sinisters,
A party warfare waging, with designs and dodges tactical.
Within the sphere of Politics, which common minds call practical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Home Rule’s at most a moiety of a measure far more national,
The uppermost in every mind that’s sensible and rational
A measure to eradicate the vice of inebriety,
By interdicting liquors to all classes of Society.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Needs must Home Rule for Ireland be domestic legislation,
Laid down on Father Mathew’s lines to pacify the nation;
’Twould Irishmen from whiskey wean, on thin drink strictly diet
’em,
And let them have no more potheen! which possibly might quiet ’em.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Electors, in this crisis you’ve a splendid opportunity,
For the only Cause of consequence to all of the community.
Vote for no candidate, whose line in politics a fad I call;
But poll for the Teetotaller, Conservative or Radical.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.

Home Rule the United Kingdom craves, that claim of its Alliance is
The only thing to care about――therein our sole affiance is.
None other do we want to press on Parliament’s adoption
Home Rule for every parish, Universal Local Option.
Bow-wow-wow, &c.

_Punch._ July 10, 1886.

――――

THE G.O.M. FOX.

I sing about a Grand Old Man, whom everybody knows, sir,
Who once disjoined the Emerald Isle from us, her “foreign” foes,
sir;
That is, I mean, he would have given her “National” authority,
But for the fact that he for once was not with the majority.
Bow, wow, wow!
What’s the good of balking when it’s all done now?

He summoned all the Cabinet, and there in consultation,
His colleagues helped him form the bill to bring before the
nation;
That is, he might have sought their aid, for most of them are
’cute, sir,
Had he not planned and settled all himself to save dispute, sir.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Then fifty million pounds he raised to buy the landlords out, sir,
And England――it is she who pays――there’s not the slightest doubt,
sir;
That is, we should have had to pay the bill if nothing stopped it,
But, fortunately just in time, the Grand Old Man he dropped it.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

And now his plébiscite has brought him once more into power,
All Liberals and Radicals united like a tower;
That is, the fight would thus have turned, and have been from the
starting won
But for his lack of openness――and Chamberlain and Hartington.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

JOHN LOWRESS.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.

――――

THE PILGRIM OF LOVE.

_Recitative._

Orynthia, my beloved, I call in vain!
Orynthia! Orynthia! echo hears and calls again,
A mimic voice repeats the name around,
And with Orynthia all the rocks resound.

_Air._

A hermit who dwells in the solitudes cross’d me,
As wayworn and faint up the mountain I press’d;
The aged man paus’d on his staff to accost me,
And proffered his cell as a mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love,
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the lemon tree shelter thine head;
The juice of ripe muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes fresh pulled for siesta are spread.
Ah! nay, courteous father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
For the pilgrim of love, for the pilgrim of love,
No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.

――――

BLOWSABEL.

_Recitative._

Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain,
Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again;
Her horrid voice repeats my name around,
And with her bawling all the streets resound.

_Air._

A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me,
As flurried and hot I up Summer Hill pressed;
The knowing one smiled as he stayed to accost me,
And proffered his crib for a glass and a rest.
Oh! no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,――
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

Yet, tarry, my son, till your wife’s fury passes,
The “George and the Dragon” shall shelter thy head;
My whiskey is good, and full measure my glasses,
If fuddled too soon you shall share half my bed;
No, no, jolly father, I will not, I vows,――
No rest but the grave from the tongue of my spouse.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

(The same volume contains another parody, entitled _Raw Lobsters_, which is vulgar, and not funny.)

――――

THE VICTIM OF LOVE.

_Recitative._

Angelina, my chickabiddy!
I calls upon Angelina! Angelina!
A bobby hears, and says “Move on!”
His comic voice repeats the name around,
And with “Angelina” all the streets resound!

_Air._

A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney,
In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest,
This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me,
Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest!

Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied,
“This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.”
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love.

Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen,
You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls,
You shall ever wear the _thingamys_ and your dear crinoline
Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls;
“Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool,
I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim
of love.

Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes,
My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,”
But all that she did was to turn up her nose,
And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court.
Like a blighted young flower expire I shall,
For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal,
So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love,
There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love.

Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London.

――――

THE SONG OF THE SEEDY COMMON-COUNCILLOR
AFTER A WEEK’S FESTIVITIES.

A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me,
As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed;
The able man paused on his way to accost me,
And proffered advice that would give me some rest.
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”

“Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes;
I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head.
The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses,
And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.”
“Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be,
No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C.
For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C.,
No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.”

_Punch._ July 3, 1886.

――――

PADDY FLINN!

_Recitative._

Och, Judy, my sweet darling, I bawl in vain
Judy! dear Judy! I’m wet through quite with rain
The dirty children mock me all around
And with ‘dear Judy’ does each pig stye sound!

_Air._

Tim Murphy, who dwells by the Cow and worsted stocking,
I met near the bog at the end of the town;
He swore by the powers, I desarved a dacent knocking,
He was after knocking me _up_, but I knocked the varmint _down_.
’Och, now Patrick,’ said he, what is it you’d be at?
Faith said I, you would get round me, but ye see I’ve laid ye
flat,
And remember when to Judy’s you betake yourself again,
There’s sure to be a bating for the foe of Paddy Flinn.
So I wished him better luck, and left the spalpeen sprawling,
And hastened to you, Judy, wid a heart of love so true:――
Then listen to your Paddy, while his tender tale he’s tawling,
In this hard shower to let me stand, sure’s very hard in you.
But see the door is open’d, so I’ll boldly venture in,
Here’s bad luck and better manners to the foes of Paddy Flinn.

J. W. BURDEN.

――――

THE PILGRIM OF HATE.

(A popular song, sung by Mr. Chamberlain in Scotland and elsewhere.)

_Recitative._

Chamberlain, my beloved!――he calls in vain.
Chamberlain! Echo hears and calls again.
A grand old voice repeats the name around,
And with J. Chamberlain Scotland’s hills resound.

_Air._

A Hermit who dwells down at H-w-rd-n had crossed me,
As wayward and proud up Fame’s mountains I pressed;
The aged man feared from his staff he had lost me,
And offered――a sell!――in his Cabinet rest.
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I would far rather wait;
No rest, save at top, for the Pilgrim of Hate.”

“Yet tarry, my Son, till my H. R. Bill passes;
Let’s bow to the League and Parnell, its great head.
_You’ll_ not leave the Masses and vote with the Classes?
Come in, take your seat. Reform’s banquet is spread.”
“Ah! nay, Grand Old Hand, I’m not caught with _that_ bait.
No rest under _you_ for the Pilgrim of Hate.”

_Punch._ April 30, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE VICAR OF BRAY.

In good King Charles’s golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high Churchman I was,
And so I got preferment:
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
Kings are by God appointed,
And damn’d are those that do resist,
Or touch the Lord’s anointed.
And this is law I will maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever king shall reign,
I’ll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtain’d the crown,
And Popery came in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;
And had become a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.
And this is law, &c.

When William was our king declared,
To ease the nation’s grievance,
With this new wind about I steer’d,
And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
And this is law, &c.

When gracious Anne became our Queen,
The Church of England’s glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional conformists base,
I damned their moderation,
Although the Church in danger was
By such prevarication.
And this is law, &c.

When George in pudding-time came o’er,
And moderate men look’d big, sir,
I turn’d a cat-in-pan once more,
And so became a Whig, sir;
And thus preferment I procured,
From our new faith’s defender;
And almost every day abjured,
The Pope and the Pretender.
And this is law, &c.

Th’ illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant Succession;
To these I do allegiance swear――
While they can keep possession:
For in my faith and loyalty;
I never more will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be――
Until the times do alter.
And this is law, &c.

“The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire,” says D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature,” was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed with being a turn-coat, and an inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: “Not so, neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.”

In a note in Nichols’ _Select Poems_, 1782, vol. viii., p. 234, it is stated that _The song of the Vicar of Bray_ “is said to have been written by an officer in Colonel Fuller’s regiment, in the reign of King George the First. It is founded on an historical fact; and though it reflects no great honour on the hero of the poem, is humourously expressive of the complexion of the times, in the successive reigns from Charles the Second to George the First.

As to the name of this famous Vicar there are several theories. According to one authority, “Pendleton, the _celebrated_ Vicar of Bray,” became rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, in the City of London, in the reign of Edward VI. But in a letter from Mr. Brome, to Mr. Rawlins, dated June 14, 1735, he says, “I have had a long chase after the Vicar of Bray. Dr. Fuller, in his _Worthies_, takes no notice of him, I suppose he knew not his name. I am informed it was _Simon Alleyn_ or _Allen_, who was Vicar of Bray about 1540, and died 1588, so was Vicar of Bray nearly fifty years. You now partake of the sport that has cost me some pains to take.”

Camden, in his _Britannia_, says of Alleyn: “This is he of whom is the proverb, ‘The Vicar of Bray still.’” The song however, refers to an entirely different period, commencing in the reign of Charles II. and lasting until “the illustrious House of Hanover.” There was a Vicar of Bray, unknown to fame, who was vicar during the exact period covered by the song. His tombstone is in the centre aisle of Bray Church, and its record is that his name was Francis Carswell, that he was chaplain to Charles II. and James II., Rector of Remenham and Vicar of Bray forty-two years, and that he died in 1709.

――――

THE COURT CHAPLAIN.

When Pitt array’d the British arms,
To check the Gallic ferment,
I spread the regicide alarms,
And so I got preferment;
To teach my flock I never miss’d,
“Reform is revolution,
“And damn’d are those that do assist
“To mend a Constitution.”

And this is law, I will aver,
Tho’ stiff-neck’d fools may sneer, sir,
Whoe’er may be the Minister,
I’ll be the Chaplain here, sir.

When gentle Sidmouth sway’d the Crown
And peace came into fashion,
The lust of war I hooted down,
And puff’d pacification.
I vow’d the papists were agreed
To burn all honest men, sir:
And Methodism had been my creed――
But Pitt came in again, sir,
And this is law, &c.

When Grey and Grenville made the laws
For Britain’s tol’rant nation,
I took the cudgels for the cause
Of transubstantiation.
The Articles I made a joke,
(Finding I should not need ’em:)
And, Afric’s fetters being broke,
E’en grew a friend to Freedom.
And this is law, &c.

When Perceval advised our King,
(The Church of England’s glory)
My conscience was another thing,
For I had turn’d a Tory:
I cursed the Whigs, no more in place;
I damn’d their moderation,
And swore they shook the Church’s base,
By sinful toleration.
And this is law, &c.

Now that the Ministry relent,
And Erin’s sons look big, sir,
I feel a soft’ning sentiment,
Which makes me half a Whig, sir.
And thus preferment I procure,
In each new doctrine hearty――
Alike extol, neglect, abjure,
Pope, King, or Bonaparte.
At least ’tis law, &c.

The now prevailing politics,
The now administration,
On these allegiance do I fix――
While they can keep their station:
For in my faith and loyalty
I never more will falter,
To Liverpool and Castlereagh,
Until the times shall alter.

For thus I safely may aver,
However fools may sneer, sir,
That whoso be the Minister,
I must be Chaplain here, sir.

From _Posthumous Parodies_. London: John Miller. 1814.

――――

WHO’S YOUR RATTER?[32]

In Mr. Gladstone’s powerful days,
When Tories were a faction,
We used his every word to praise,
And glorify each action.
To teach our readers we ne’er miss’d,
Their William was perfection,
And traitors those who dared resist,
Or move his bill’s rejection!
But this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

The People’s William lost his place,
And Dizzy was victorious;
The Tories we had called so base
Replaced the Liberals glorious.
But soon we found ’twould never do
To still support the latter;
We’d vow’d to do so, it is true,
But still that did not matter.
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

And see how well our “ratting” pays,
For Ministers are grateful,
And from their table drop some scraps
Enough to fill a plateful.
And when we up back stair-ways creep,
To Salisbury see, or Dizzy,
They rarely kick us down again,
Unless they’re _very_ busy.
So this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

Another fight will soon begin,
And p’rhaps, as some allege, sir,
The Liberals will th’ elections win,
In that case we must hedge, sir.
For should the Tories have to yield,
They would no further use be;
Oh, wouldn’t my Lord Beaconsfield
Rare subject for abuse be!
For this the law is we’ll maintain,
Until it cease to pay, sir,
That whatsoever party reign,
We’ll still on the strong side bray, sir!

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1879.

――――

BRADLAUGH’S BRAY.

In good Victoria’s palmy days,
When Chartism was prating,
I joined the Democratic craze,
And practised stump orating.
To teach my mob I never missed
That King-made law is bad law,
And damn’d be all who dare resist
The rise of righteous Bradlaugh.
For this is law, I will maintain,
Until my dying day, sir,
That over Parliament I’ll reign,
Or there’ll be the devil to pay, sir.

When first my stump career began,
Rank heresy I spouted,
Belief in God as Lord of man,
As lunacy I scouted.
Disguised as great “Iconoclast,”
In wrangling I waxed foxy,
Blew my own trumpet’s brazen blast,
And started my new ’doxy.

For this is THE true faith, I swear,
Nor dare to say me nay, sir,
Believe in Bradlaugh, Cromwell’s heir,
And for his triumph bray, sir.

But finding Atheists weak and thin,
I sought a higher mission,
And found much greater profit in
The vending of sedition.
Though mobs can’t think, they shun a bore,
They love a bright variety,
Which proved to me my forte was more
For politics than piety.

So this is law I do declare,
In this my trying day, sir,
That none shall judge me by my acts,
Nor yet by what I say, sir.

So down with Kings and Queens and Priests,
And Church and State and Pensions,
And up with Dilke’s Republic, and
My grand Freethought Conventions;
Saints Malthus, Knowlton, Besant――these
Are lights this dark world’s needing,
So up with population checks,
And down with all good breeding.

For if this had but been the law
In my good father’s day, sir,
One nuisance less of print and jaw,
Had not now blocked the way, sir.

Sometimes a nation’s destiny
By cobbler’s wax-end hangs, sir,
I found myself an M. P. by
M.P. rical harangues, sir,
And though my “lay” was strong and bold,
(For “takings” flowed in thereby)
The Crown I’d cursed――I’ll now uphold,
The Book Pd scorned I’ll swear by!

For this should be the law, I say,
And shall do to my grave, sir,
A man may swear his soul away,
His path to power to pave, sir.

Now to our Gracious Queen, her Heir,
And Protestant succession.
To each I will allegiance swear
(While they can keep possession),
So now, sweet Commons! hear my prayer,
Have pity on my grievin’,
_Please_ let me on that Bible swear
By Him I don’t believe in.

And when I’m Lord Protector, sir,
I’ll make the law to be, sir,
That whatsoe’er a man shall swear,
His conscience shall be free, sir.

From _Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, By ION. London, Houlston & Sons.

――――

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

When bluff King Hal grew tired of Kate,
And sued for his divorce, sir,
He cast about, and found in us
His willing tools, of course, sir.
What for her grief? We laughed at that,
And left her in the lurch, sir,
While every one of us grew fat
By plunder of the Church, sir.

To hold a candle to Old Nick
Has ever been our way, sir,
And still we’ll play the self-same trick,
So long as it will pay, sir.

Two other queens that underwent
“The long divorce of steel,” sir――
Do you suppose that e’er we wept,
Or for their fate did feel, sir?
We only sought to please the King,
And his worst wishes further;
And gaily did our order join
In each judicial murther.

For us no trick was e’er too base,
No crime too foul to shock, sir,
Nor innocence availed to save
E’en women from the block, sir.

When Mary came with fire and stake
Poor pious folks to kill, sir,
No single protest did we make,
But let her work her will, sir;
But when the Church reclaimed her lands,
And looked for smooth compliance,
We quickly raised our armèd bands
And gave her bold defiance.

Thus did the Queen her error learn,
To think (how gross the blunder!)
That, though we let her rack and burn,
We’d e’er restore our plunder.

Elizabeth, the mighty Queen,
We quailed beneath her frown, sir,
With nought but fear and hate for one
So worthy of the crown, sir.
As abject traitors round her throne
We fulsome homage paid her,
Though more than half of us were known
To plot with the invader.

To her for ducal coronets
We never were beholden;
To us the days of “Good Queen Bess”
Were anything but “golden.”

When slobbering James of coin was short,
He baronets invented,
And to creating lords for gold
Right gladly he consented;
A handsome “tip” was all he asked
To make you duke or lord, sir――
No question ever of your _worth_,
’Twas what you could _afford_, sir.

To be a peer, “your grace,” “my lord,”
O, Lord! how fine it sounded!
And thus, by shelling out of cash,
Were noblest houses founded.

When Charles the First, the public right
To crush but now applies him,
And willing help he gets from us;
As friends we stand beside him.
His acts of tyranny and fraud
Scarce one of us opposes――
The fine, the prison, or the whip,
Or slitting people’s noses.

To curb the tyrant of his will
Was no way in our line, sir,
All human rights were forfeited,
And merged in “Right Divine,” sir.

The Second Charles just suited us,
We joined his lewd carouses,
And concubines became the source
Of many ducal houses.
And, as reward of services
That history rarely mentions,
You still enjoy the privilege
Of paying us the pensions;

And this we swear, by all that’s blue,
Despite that prudes cry “Hush, sir!”
That whatsoever we may do
You’ll never find us blush, sir.

In James’s Court we flourished still;
Like sycophants we vied, sir;
To be a royal mistress formed
Our daughters’ highest pride, sir;
For Whigs though tortures were devised,
Their legs with wedges broke, sir,
We ate and drank, and laughed and played,
But ne’er a word we spoke, sir.

For mingled cruelty and wrong
We never did upbraid him;
But when a _paying_ chance came round,
Right quickly we betrayed him.

When William came, with righteous rule,
We proved but glum consenters;
The King we deemed was but a fool,
To tolerate Dissenters;
Whilst on his part his Majesty
Distrusted us with reason,
For ’gainst our chosen lord and king
We still kept plotting treason.

And so against all righteous things
We’ve struggled from the first, sir,
To vex and thwart the better kings,
And sided with the worst, sir.

In reign of Anne, ’twas one of us,[33]
Gave notice to the foe, sir,
Against his port and arsenal
We aimed a warlike blow, sir;
And thus were lost, in dire defeat,
Eight hundred sailors bold, sir――
But what of that, when France’s bribe
Our “noble duke” consoled, sir?

Betrayal of the State’s designs
By this colossal traitor――
What wonder now the lordlings praise
His humble imitator!

With George the Third it was essayed
To purge our code from blood, sir,
But we the arm of mercy stayed,
Its efforts all withstood, sir;
To hang for e’en a paltry theft――
Though tempted sore by hunger――
Was God’s own justice, so it seemed
To every boroughmonger.

And so poor wretches, one or more,
At every fair or wake, sir,
Performed “the dance without a floor,”
Our thirst for blood to slake, sir.

Yet had the self-same laws been tried
On us without distinction,
Their action surely had implied
The peerage’s extinction.
But while the gallows we upheld,
“Offence’s gilded hand,” sir,
Had all our lordly acres swelled
With thefts of common land, sir.

While wicked prizes thus we claw,
And justice shove aside, sir
“Not ’gainst the law, but by the law,”
Has ever been our guide, sir.

When Pitt the Irish Parliament
Resolved to bring to London,
He had to buy their peer’s consent
Or else his scheme was undone,
So English coronets galore
Were scattered through their tribe, sir,
Besides a million pounds or more――
Their stipulated bribe, sir.

And by this opportunity
They drove their dirty trade, sir,
To show to all posterity
How lords and dukes are made, sir.

When Wesleyans and Baptists, too,
For right of education,
At public universities
Did press their application,
’Twas we their just demand refused――
Denied their common right, sir,
And all our special powers abused
To gratify our spite, sir.

When Jews to sit in Parliament
Had duly been elected,
’Twas we kept shut the Commons’ door,
Their right to vote rejected.

On Railway Bills our conduct calls
For no detailed narration;
No line could pass our lands without
Outrageous compensation.
Like gorging vultures at the feast,
Our greed surpassed all bounds, sir,
Our blackmail figured, at the least,
One hundred million pounds, sir.

Of pa_y_-triotism we’ll never tire,
For it we’ll live and die, sir,
And, if the reason you inquire.
We spell it with a _y_, sir.

In reason’s name or righteousness,
You vainly may reprove us,
For scorn, contempt, and threats possess
The only power to move us.
To mutilate, reject, delay,
Obstruct whene’er we dare it,
We’ll persevere in our old way
So long as you will bear it.

Of this be sure, until that day
Such things shall ne’er be mended,
Till million voices join to say,
“The House of Lords is ended!”

C. F.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ December 7, 1884.

There was another short parody of the same song in _The Weekly Dispatch_ of August 24, 1884. It also was directed against the House of Lords, and concluded:――

“So bend and mend, proud peers, or end
In signal dissolution.”

――――

THE NEW VICAR OF BRAY.
(Mr. Gladstone _Loquitur_.)

In good King William’s peaceful reign, when loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous Tory then was I, and showed no small discernment;
To teach the crowd I never failed, that Tories were appointed
To save the King and Church and State from rebels unannointed.

And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever parties reign still I’ll in office stay,
sir.

When Peel at length assumed the reins, and Free Trade came in
fashion,
Protective laws I hooted down, as hurtful to the nation.
The Treasury Bench I found would fit full well my Constitution;
And there I first began to air my matchless elocution.

And this is law, &c.

When Palmerston look things in hand to ease a Nation’s grievance,
With this new wind I steered about, and swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke, set conscience at a distance,
Sent Derby to the right about, and laughed at all resistance.

And this is law, &c.

When Disraeli began to shine, and seemed to dim my glory,
A downright Liberal I became, and grew to hate a Tory.
The Whigs began to look askance; I scouted moderation,
And held my own in spite of all by much prevarication.

And this is law, &c.

When Chamberlain came on the stage, with precepts Communistic,
I joined the crowd with him and Dilke, and other folks deistic.
Propped up by them I kept my place and promised less taxation;
Then straight sent up the Income Tax, and went for confiscation.

And this is law, &c.

When Salisbury and Churchill came I made out at a glance, sir,
That Parnell and his motley crew were now my only chance, sir;
So now for Home Rule straight I go, unheeding revolution,
And fondly hope before I die to smash the Constitution.

And this is law I will maintain unto my dying day, sir――
That whatsoever parties reign I will in office stay, sir.

S. H.
_The Globe._ March 24, 1886.

――――:o:――――

OLD TOWLER.

Bright Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Hark! hark! tantivy!
This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag; the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen’rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
With a hey, ho, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THIS DAY A STAG MUST DIE.
(_An imitation of “Old Towler.”_)

The op’ning morn dispels the night,
Her beauties to display,
The sun breaks forth, in glory bright,
And hails the new-born day;
Diana like, behold me then
The silver arrow wield,
And call on horses, dogs, and men,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy,
Hark forward tantivy!
Arise, bold hunters, cheerly rise,
This day a stag must die.

O’er mountains, valleys, hills, and dales,
The fleet-foot coursers fly,
Nor heed whate’er the sport assails,
Resolved a stag shall die!
Roads, trees, and hedges seem, to move,
Such joys does hunting yield;
While Health a handmaid deigns to prove,
When huntsmen take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.

Thus virgins are by man pursued,
And beauty made his aim,
’Till, by his wily craft subdued,
He hunts for other game;
And since e’en life is but a race
We run till forced to yield;
Yo, ho, tantivy, join the chase,
Arise, and take the field.
With a hey ho chivy, &c.

――――

SONG OF THE MATCHMAKING MAMMA.