Chapter XVII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (17)

For forty long years he had held the opinion,
And still his belief in that same wos strong,
That the jade Free Trade, deemed so fair and lovely,
Wos a vain deloosion wich led men wrong.

We’d abandon’d our old lady-love, Protection,
In favour of a minx wot wos far _too_ free:
We had boasted of her beauties unto foreign countries,
Wich those foreign countries had failed to see.

He would not go back to the old love wholly,
He wosn’t quite a Dodo, he wosn’t――not he.
The name of Protection he would rayther not mention,
But he warmly recommended Reciprocitee.

Wot wos right in love must be right in Commerce.
Wot man would marry an unloving bride?
He failed to see wy it wos only in trading
Reciprocity ought to be all o’ won side.

Then up and answered another noble Lord,――
Wich his name likeways it began vith a B,――
And he “sat on” poor Lord Bateman in a scientific manner,
Wich filled the beholders with mirth and glee.

Says he,――“Reciprocity’s a hollow phantom,
Though I swore ’twos a substance wonce, I know;
But you won’t raise the dead with a dusty recital
Of _my_ musty phrases of forty years ago.”

Then Free-Trade’s old lovyers they cheered and chuckled,
And the gallant Granville he smiled for to see
The Bogey young Dizzy so cleverly vamped up,
So coolly torn to pieces by the old Lord B.

But the crusted Lord Bateman, his sad face veiling
From his country’s sorrows and his party’s crimes,
Went homeward, and endeavoured to solace his sorrow,
By buying a stuffed Dodo, and burning of the _Times_.

_Punch._ May 10, 1879.

Lord Bateman’s motion in favour of Reciprocity met with little encouragement in the House of Lords, and Lord Beaconsfield spoke strongly against it.

――――:o:――――

LILLI BURLERO.

This song, now all but forgotten, deserves to be recorded, for it contributed not a little to the Revolution of 1688. A contemporary writer said of it, “A foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden, said to be Irish words, “Lero, lero, liliburlero,” that made an impression on the King’s army that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, were singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect.”

One of the principal tools of James II. was General Richard Talbot, who was nominated to the Lieutenancy of Ireland in 1686, in this position his arbitrary and cruel treatment of the Protestants recommended him to the favour of his bigoted master, who rewarded him by creating him Earl of Tyrconnel, and sending him a second time, and on this occasion as Viceroy, to Ireland. It was at this time that _Lilliburlero_ was written; _Lilliburlero_ and _Bullen-a-lah_ are said to have been the sign and countersign used among the Irish papists during their warfare with the protestants.

The song has been ascribed to Lord Dorset, but also, and with more probability, to Lord Wharton, who openly boasted that he had sung King James out of three kingdoms.

Ho! Broder Teague, dost hear de decree
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Dat we shall have a new deputie,
Lilliburlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.

(_This refrain is to be repeated after each two lines._)

Ho! by St. Tyburn, it is de Talbote:
And he will cut de Englishmen’s troate.
Lilli, &c.

Dough by my shoul de English do praat,
De law’s on dare side, and Chrish knows what,
Lilli, &c.

But if dispence do come from de Pope,
We’ll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope.

For de good Talbote is made a lord,
And with brave lads is coming aboard.

Who all in France have taken a sware,
Dat dey will have no Protestant heir.

Arrah! but why does he stay behind?
Ho! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind.]

But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,
And we shall have commissions gallore.

And he dat will not go to de mass,
Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.

Now, now de hereticks all go down,
By Crish and Saint Patrick, de nation’s our own.

Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,
Ireland shall be ruled by an ass, and a dog.

And now dis prophesy is come to pass,
For Talbot’s de dog, and James is de ass.

Lilli burlero, bullen-a-lah.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen-a-lah.

The melody was said to be the same as that which accompanies the convivial chant:――

“Very good song, very well sung,
Jolly companions, every one.”

And Lord Macaulay wrote of _Lilliburlero_:――“The verses and the tune caught the fancy of the nation. It was especially the delight of the English army.” Whilst Sterne also mentions it in “Tristram Shandy,” as the favourite air of Uncle Toby, who had been a soldier in the army of William III.

The following imitation alludes to the attempts being made in 1798 to bring about the legislative union of England and Ireland, but which did not actually take place until 1801. At that date the Irish Parliament was induced, by bribery and fraud to consent to its incorporation with that of Great Britain. The parody is a somewhat remarkable prophecy of what has actually occurred.

THE NEW LILLA BULERO.

Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree?
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha,
United men we shall all of us be,
Lilla bulero, bulen, al ha.

Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha,
Lero lero, lilla bulero, lilla bulero, bulen al ha.

Says England, since Union’s de ting dat you want,
By Jasus I’ll give you a belly full on’t

And if green is de colour you like, by de mass,
You’ll be plas’d when all Dublin is cover’d wid grass.

But, says Teague, now, by Union, what is it dey mane?
Sure ’tis binding three nations all fast in one chain.

’Tis a shame which quite bodder’s one’s brain faith and troth,
For ’tis worse for de one yet it’s better for both.

Is not Johnny Fitzgibbon gone straight to de King?
Oh! between ’em how nately dey’ll settle de ting!

He’ll drive a rare job for us all, you may swear,
And anoder as good for Lord Chancellor Clare.

And since we’ve a parliament not to our mind,
Sure to take it away now, is wonderful kind.

Would a minister wish for his jobs better tools
Dan a cargo of knaves, when exported by fools?

And, by Christ, we’ll not send him such blundering elves,
Who will tink of deir country and not of demselves.

Oh! when Paddy in Westminster takes his own sate,
By my shoul he’ll enliven de British debate.

Should de Spaker call order, he’ll huff and look big,
Till he makes ev’ry hair stand on an end on his wig.

Should a member prasume on his spache to remark
Sure he’ll beg just to mate him next day in de Park.

For a park like our Phanix in London dey’ve got,
By jontlemen us’d for exchanging a shot.

Won’t it be a vast benefit now to our trade,
When all laws to promote it in England are made?

You have seen, Teague, a cur, to whose draggled backside,
Butcher boys have a broken old canister tied.

Now, if England’s de dog whom French butchers assail,
Will not we be de canister tied to her tail?

Not a great while ago, sure, we heard a vast dale
About renunciation and simple repale:

But this schame now will strike ev’ry orator mute,
And de Union will settle de simple dispute;

And ’twill den to our fearce Orange yeomen be known,
Dat in cutting our troats dey’ve been cutting deir own.
_Lilla Lero, &c._

_The Morning Chronicle._ 1798.

――――

THE NEW “LILLI BURLERO.”
(_To be sung by Nationalists to the old air._)

Ho! Broder League, dost hear the decree?
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
“SAUNDERSON ought to be sub-Secretree.”
Bully Bull_er_o, Buller a-la.[51]
Lero, Lero, REDVERS BULLERO,
Lero, Lero, Buller o-la.

Oranges come to us from foreign climes,
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
Is the blood-orange a sign of the Times?
Lilli Bull_er_o Buller a-la.
Lero, &c.

Down with Moon-lighters and up with the Laws!
Lillo Bull_er_o, Buller a-la,
And save us from Fire-and-Sworderson’s claws!
Lilli Bull_er_o, Buller a-la!
Lero, &c.

_Punch._ March 19, 1887.

――――:o:――――

The style of the old ballad has been often so successfully imitated as to deceive even the most accomplished literary critics. Amongst these may be noted the “New-Old Ballads,” written by Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) which were republished by that clever but unscrupulous satirist in a collection, entitled _Tears and Smiles_, published in 1801, with the following “Advertisement to the Reader. These ballads were composed several years ago, in imitation of authors of the reigns of Harry the Eighth, Elizabeth, and James, and sent to some of my literary friends as innocent deceptions.――P. P.”

There were also “The Cornish Ballads,” written by Mrs. Gervis, and “The Bristow Tragedy, or Death of Sir Charles Bawdin,” by Thomas Chatterton, and others too numerous to mention, especially as they cannot exactly be styled _Parodies_ in the strict sense of the term.

The finest burlesque ballad in the language is undoubtedly that entitled “The Queen in France,” contained in _The Book of Ballads_ edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by W. Blackwood and Sons. This clever book of parodies and burlesques was the joint production of Sir Theodore Martin, and the late Professor W. E. Aytoun. The burlesque ballad in question was probably composed by Aytoun, it describes the Queen’s visit to Louis Phillippe in France in 1843, and closely imitates the metre and diction of “Sir Patrick Spens” an old Scotch ballad. The old ballad may be found in Percy’s _Reliques_, in Sir Walter Scott’s _Border Minstrelsy_, and in _Early Ballads_, edited by Robert Bell. “_The Queen in France_” is very long, and disjointed extracts would give but a faint idea of its quaint humour, and simple pathos, besides which _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_ is a readily accessible book.

In the same volume there is another, but inferior, burlesque ballad, entitled _Little John and the Red Friar_, which deals with the vexed question of ecclesiastical titles. Little John representing Lord John Russell, and the Red Friar, Cardinal Wiseman, who, in 1850, was appointed by the Pope, Lord Archbishop of Westminster, a nomination which gave rise to much agitation and angry controversy.

――――:o:――――

THE “LAY” OF THE GOOD LORD ROSEBERY.
_A Modern Ballad._

It was the good Lord Rosebery
And he sat at the Durdans fair,
By the hour of noon in his heel-less shoon,
And the ease of an easy-chair.

“Come hither, come hither, my private scribe;
Come hither and soothly say,
What wild ducks fly, be it low, be it high,
Over London town this day.”

“O the talk flies high,” said the private scribe,
“That to-day we cross the sea,
To Calais and Brussels and fair Cologne,
And the City upon the Spree.

“And its O, but I know, when the loud winds blow
And the sea climbs high on the strand,
It is I that am wan as the wan water
Or ever I win to land.”

“Nay, peace, good fellow,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“Till the actual qualms befall,
And tell me, I pray, what men may say
Of the mails which we travel withal.”

“O they say you have ta’en a despatch-box stout,
But and a Gladstone bag,
With a bottle of blacking and brush inside
Wrapped up in the British flag.”

“But tell me, O tell me, my private scribe,
Come tell me, and soothly say,
How fared you with yon smart interviewèr
Who interviewed you this day?

“What learnt he of us and our secret plans?
Sith he comes of a questing tribe,
Did he ask what we’re at? hath he smelt of a rat?
Say soothly, my private scribe.”

“Now Heaven be good to thee, good my lord!”
Quo’ the scribe in high chagrin,
“Dost think from the face of thy faithful clerk
That his mother him bore yestreen?

“O many’s the chiel taking notes I have known
And many a one sent back
With the saut, saut scent of the red herring
Drawn featly across his track.”

“’Tis well, ’tis well,” Lord Rosebery cried,
“’Tis well that the rogues should stray.
But tell me, my scribe, what _think_ they of us?
What of our little game think they?”

“O some there were who talked full wise
Of the Germans beyond the sea,
And the purposes dark of the grim Bismarck
On the coast of New Guinea;

“And who seemed cocksure you were seeking the Prince――
’Twas thus that the rumour ran――
With additional swag in the Gladstone bag
As a bribe from the grand old man.”

“But said they nought,” said the Minister bold;
Come tell me, my follower good,
Of the Muscovite pranks on the Murghab’s banks,
And the banks of the Heri Rud?”

“O ay! O ay! there were some who deemed
Of your mission to Germany thus:
That you go to engage the honest brokèr
To square the advancing Russ.”

Full loud the good Lord Rosebery laughed,
And his head went to and fro;
Jack-fools are they who suppose that to-day
One needs over sea to go.

“A word flies fleet on the lightning’s feet,
And ’twere best without ‘mission’ or fuss;
Let the wire give hints to the broker-Prince
To square the advancing Russ.”

But the scribe look’d up from his newspapèr,
And a white-faced scribe was he;
“Too late may a man be, dear my lord,
Though he wait not to cross the sea.

“For the foot of a Fate that is bent on war
May outstrip a surrendering wire;
Our allies and our foes are already at blows,
And the fat’s in the Afghan fire.”

_The Saturday Review._ April 11, 1885.

――――:o:――――

A BALLAD OF THE GREAT ELECTION BATTLE.
DECEMBER, 1885.
(_Some way after Drayton’s Ballad of Agincourt._)

Fair stood the wind (we thought),
Ere the great fight was fought,
Much hoping, fearing nought,
On marched our heroes.
But when, whilst banners flew,
First Orange closed with Blue,
Our hopes soon tumbled to
Chillest of zeros!

When in his height of pride,
Joe did the foe deride,
And “Ransom” loudly cried,
Many offending;
When he forgot the while
_Rob Roy’s_ not English style,
Cecil did darkly smile,
Mischief portending.

And, turning to his men,
Quoth our sage William then,
“Bearded in our own den?
I _am_ amazéd!
But battles ill begun
By pluck are often won.
Close ranks, and fight like fun!
Joe has gone craséd.

“But for myself,” quoth he,
This my last fight may be.
England will mock at me,
No more esteem me,
If vanquished I remain,
In this great fray fall slain;
Close up and charge again
Loss to redeem me!

“’Eighty’ our foes may tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
Not less our skill is
Than when great Ben we beat;
That conquest we’ll repeat
If you but follow fleet
One standard――Willie’s!”

* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)

Dilke held a stubborn pike,
Harcourt as Thor did strike,
Smiting down smashers like
Hammer on anvil;
Morley his axe did ply,
Bright and young Rosebery
Bore them right doughtily,
Derby and Granville!

All in December grey
Fought was this wondrous fray,
Brave Britons, as when they
Lopped the French lillies!
Acts these to fill a pen!
Must not all Englishmen
Hops we may breed again
Hearts like Auld Willie’s?

_Punch._ December 19, 1885.

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE BALLOT.
(_Another imitation of Drayton’s Ballad,_)

See, where the hosts advance,
As on their steeds they prance,
Flashing the sword and lance,
Eager for glory!
Hear ye the battle din;
Who will be “Out” or “In”――
Which of the twain will win――
Lib’ral or Tory?

Salisbury, helmetless,
On with his lance doth press
Theat’ning with dire distress
Will o’ the Collars!
_He_, with uplifted axe,
Never true valour lacks――
Sore doth his vigour tax
“Squire” G., who “follers.”

Randolph, the Slangy Knight,
Joins in the furious fight――
See, too, Free-Trader Bright――
“Joe,” too, of Land-fame!
See while the Tories “fake,”
Lib’rals the cry awake――
“Win, Gladstone, win, and make
Grander your grand fame!”

_Fun._ December 2, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS.

God rest you merry, gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic _plats_
Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;

Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights――they’re sure to come――
When “waits” attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar grey;

Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet――in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you merry gentlemen,
May _none_ of these dismay!

_Funny Folks._ January, 1880.

――――:o:――――

KING JOHN IN A COCKED HAT.

A Parody on the famous old Grimaldian song, called “_The Frog in the Opera Hat_.”

John Kemble he would an acting go,
Heigho! says Kemble;
He raised the price which he thought too low,
Whether the public would let him or no;
With his roly-poly, gammon and spinnage,
And ho! say manager Kemble.

The mob at the door made a mighty din,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They dashed like devils thro’ thick and thin,
And over the benches came tumbling in,
With their roly, &c.
’Twill do, says manager Kemble.

Soon as they pass’d Will Shakespeare’s hall,
Heigho! says Kemble;
They thought the lobbies were much too small,
So they gave a loud roar, and they gave a loud bawl,
With roly, &c.
Hollo! says manager Kemble.

Pray _what do you want_? (in a sort of a huff)
Heigho! says Kemble;
Says Mr. Leigh――“Nonsensical stuff,
Pho, none of your gammon, you know well enough.
With your roly, &c.
You do, great manager Kemble;

He held by the tip his opera-hat,
Heigho! says Kemble;
“Indeed the concern’s as poor as a rat;”
Says Bull, “No dam’me, we won’t stand that,”
With our roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.

He folded his arms, in a sad nonplus,
Heigho! says Kemble;
With Queen Anne’s prices he made a fuss,
Says Bull, “what the devil’s Queen Anne to us,”
With roly, &c.
’Twon’t do, great manager Kemble.

He swore to himself an oath, by Styx,
Heigho! says Kemble.
Kind ladies and gentlemen, none of your tricks,
I love _seven_ shillings much better than six,
With my roly, &c.
I do, says manager Kemble.

Then roar’d the gallery, gentle souls,
Heigho! says Kemble;
No private boxes, no pigeon-holes,
We’ll dowse your glims, in a crack, by goles,
With roly, &c.
No, don’t, says manager Kemble.

_The Morning Chronicle._ November, 7, 1809.

During the O.P. riots at Covent Garden Theatre, in 1809, a certain Mr. Henry Clifford was a very conspicuous opponent to the new prices as fixed by John Kemble. Finally the management of the Theatre had to concede nearly all the claims advanced by the O.P. party through their spokesman, Clifford, and the victory was celebrated in the following lines:――

Hal Clifford would once a reforming go,
Heigho! says Clifford;
He swore by the mass, that he’d nonsuit his foe,
And under his jerkin he hid his flambeau;
With his roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“I’ll do it” roar’d patriot Clifford.

He went to the pit, where he saw a great fray,
Heigho! says Clifford;
“We want” cried O.P. “those vile boxes away,”
For if they don’t sin there, I’m sure that they may,”
With a roly, poly, gammon and spinage,
“They shall vanish” said patriot Clifford.

* * * * *

Now he swears reformation has got a new tune,
Heigho! said Clifford;
Lo! he and John Kemble, like loon scratching loon,
Sip their dramatic broth with the very same spoon;
With roly, poly, gammon and spinnage,
“It’s over” said patriot Clifford.

The last lines refer to the Dinner of Reconciliation which took place at the Crown and Anchor Tavern on January 4th, 1810, when Mr. Clifford took the chair, supported by the most prominent of the O. P. party, and Messrs. John Kemble and Harris represented the management of Covent Garden Theatre. For full details of these extraordinary proceedings the reader is referred to the _Covent Garden Journal_ (J. J. Stockdale, London), 1810.

THE NEW MAGAZINE.

Campbell would a writing go,
Heigh ho! said Colburn.

Campbell would a writing go,
Whether the people would let him or no,
With a Cockrane, Pickersgill, gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.

Off he set with the “Pleasures of Hope,”
Heigh ho! said Colburn.
On the road he spouted from Pope,
With his absent, thoughtless!――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Henry Colburn.

He soon arrived at the Union Club,
Heigh ho! said Redding;
And he knocked at the door with a rub-a-dub-dub,
And an English, Irish――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho! said Cyrus Redding.

Pray Mr. Redding, Are you within?
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Yes, dear Tom, I’m drinking my gin,
With a lemon, sugar――gammon and spinach――
Heigh ho! said the longing Campbell.

Well Mr. Redding, I’ll have some too,
Heigh ho! said Campbell;
Aye, if you pay for it, that you may do,
With a spoon and tumbler――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho and the devil! said Campbell.

Pray Mr. Campbell, what brought you here?
Heigh ho said a _Lady_;――
I’m making a new magazine, my dear,
A _Metropolitan_――gammon and spinage――
Heigh ho, indeed! said the Lady.

I’ve left the “New Monthly” once and for all,
Well done, said Redding;
And now I’m determined to work for its fall,
With its portraits, memoirs――gammon and spinage――
I’m very glad of it, said Redding.

Perhaps you’ll help me over the style;
That I will, said Redding:
So they sat down with a smirk and a smile,
With pens and paper――gammon and spinage――
Tom Campbell and Cyrus Redding.

They had written prospectus――quaff’d their gin.
I’m devilish tired, said Redding.
When Picken and Roscoe came tumbling in
With James and _Marryatt_――gammon and spinage――
You’re the _King’s Own_, said Redding.

Campbell rose, and with voice so sweet,
Gentlemen all, said Campbell,
I’ll give you fifteen guineas a sheet
For your tales and politics――gammon and spinage
So you ought to write well, said Campbell.

I mean to be independent quite,――
The devil you do? said Roscoe.
I _begin_ to think it’s nothing but right,
And better than puffing, gammon and spinage,
To be sure so it is, said Roscoe.

They then retired, each and all,
All alone was Campbell;
And they finished their articles, great and small,
Poems, advertisements, gammon and spinage,
And sent them away to Campbell.

Under a cover the numbers were bound,
Heigh ho! said the reader:
Cochrane and partner sent them round
To the nobles, gentry, gammon and spinage,
Heigh ho! said the gentle reader.

_The National Omnibus._ May 13, 1831.

Thomas Campbell, the Poet, was editor of _The New Monthly Magazine_, Cyrus Redding was his literary subordinate, and Henry Colburn was the publisher. The _Lady_ here referred to was doubtless intended for Lady Morgan.

――――

LEAP FROG.

_Dedicated to_ PRINCE NAPOLEON, THE DUKE OF MALAKHOFF, MARSHALS CANROBERT, BOSQUET, _and the other French officers present at the late Crimean banquet at Paris_.

Froggy must a warring go――
Heigh ho, so slowly!
Froggy must a warring go,
By the Emperor’s orders, like it or no,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!

So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
Heigh ho, so growly,
So off he sailed to the Bosphorus blue,
And there found John Bull with a soldier or two,
With his good-natured Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so scowly!

When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run――
Heigh ho, so easy!
When the Rooskies at Alma were forced to run,
It was Froggy, of course took the one captured gun,
With his swingeing St. Arnaud, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so easy!

When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue――
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the beaten Rooskies we failed to pursue,
To John Bull, of course, the delay was due,
With his easy Lord Raglan, Lucan and Cardigan,
Heigh ho, so growlly!

When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack”――
Heigh ho, so slowly!
When to “sap” was changed what should have been “sack,”
Of course, Froggy held left and right attack,
With his bouncing Pelissier, Bosquet, and Canrobert,
Heigh ho, so slowly!

When six to one did at Inkermann fight――
Heigh ho, so boldly!
When six to one did at Inkermann fight,
It was Froggy, of course, that defended the height,
With his terrible _Chasseurs_, _Zouaves_, and _Indigénes_,
Heigh ho, so boldly!

When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse――
Heigh ho, so quickly!
When at Balaklava fled Russia’s horse,
The “thin red line” was Froggy’s of course,
With his blundering Lucan, Campbell, and Highlanders,
Heigh ho, so quickly!

When the Allies’ assault was repulsed in June――
Heigh ho, so foully!
When the Allies’ attack was repulsed in June,
’Twasn’t Froggy began the attack too soon,
With his Duke of Malakhoff, Bosquet, and Company,
Heigh ho, so foully!

When at last Sebastopol city was ta’en――
Heigh ho, so slowly
It was Froggy did all――except lose the Redan,
With his thundering D’Angely, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so slowly!

In short, the Siege of Sebastopol――
Heigh ho, so wholly!
In short, the Siege of Sebastopol,
Was Froggy’s achievement, whole and sole,
With his Admiral Hamelin, Bosquet, and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so wholly!

Of what laurels there are to win and wear――
Heigh ho, so seedy!
Of what laurels there are to win and wear,
Of course, Froggy claims the Lion’s share,
With his Dukes and his Marshals, Bosquet and Malakhoff,
Heigh ho, so greedy!

_Punch._ January 31, 1857.

――――

THE FROG WHO WOULD A-WOOING GO.

A Premier would a-wooing go,
(“Boo! boo!” says Randy)
Whether his Party liked it or no,
With a Salisbury, Halsbury gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says pert little Randy.)

So off he went in a terrible pet,
(“Ta-ta!” says Randy)
And a Whiggy Peer was the first he met,
With a Hartington haughty tone gammon and spinach.
(“Pooh! pooh!” says smart little Randy.)

“Pray, Mr. Marquis, come with me?”
(“Yah! yah!” says Randy)
“And help us to govern our great countree,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Pooh! pooh!” says little Lord Randy.)

“You shall be Premier if you wish,”
(“Heigho!” says Randy)
“The principal spoon in the Tory dish
Of Salisbury, Halsbury, gammon and spinach.”
(“Boo! boo!” says cross little Randy.)

“Our Tory colours we’ll change about,”
(“Hurroo!” says Randy)
“If you’ll help to keep old Gladstone out,
With a Hartington, Salisbury gammon and spinach.”
(“Yah! yah!” says sharp little Randy.)

“No! Mr. Sarum, I can’t go with you.”
(“Neither could I,” says Randy)
“If I did the bargain I quickly should rue,
With your Marshall and Snelgrove gammon and spinach.”
(“Just so!” says little Lord Randy.)

“But on my support you may depend,”
(“Oh, indeed!” says Randy)
“In need I’ll always prove your friend,
With my Liberal Unionist gammon and spinach,”
(“Oh! oh!” says spry little Randy.)

“There’s no one now but Goschen left,”
(“Invertebrate!” sneers Randy)
A chief of followers bereft,”
With a Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach,
(“Quite so!” says smart little Randy)

So off he went to Mr. G.
(“Silly Bob,” says Randy)
Who said he’d accept the Chancell’rie,
With a Northbrook, Lansdowne gammon and spinach,
(“Pooh, pooh,” says bad little Randy.)

But when he reached his home again,
(“All in the dumps,” says Randy)
Upon his head reproaches rain;
With a hurly-burly gammon and spinach.
(“Yo, ho!” sings chuckling Randy.)

It was who’s to go and who’s to rise?
(“That’s the rub!” says Randy)
Each marked the other with jealous eyes,
With a grumbling, rumbling gammon and spinach.
(“What fun!” says mischievous Randy.)

The kindest and the truest man,
(“Go it, Bob!” says Randy)
To turn him out they plot and plan,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“He’s old!” says cruel young Randy.)

Upon one point they all agree――
(“Only one,” adds Randy)
To banish dear Lord Iddesleigh,
With their Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen and spinach.
(“Hurroo!” shouts little Lord Randy.)

“But what’s to be the end of this?”
(“Deuced queer!” says Randy)
“Such a chance old Gladstone never will miss,
With his Homer, Home Rule, gammon and spinach.”
(“Heigho!” sighs sad little Randy.)

The Premier was swimming along one day,
(“What’ll come next?” says Randy)
A grand old duck came and gobbled him up,
With his Salisbury, Halsbury, Goschen, and spinach.
(“All up” says little Lord Randy.)

_Pall Mall Gazette._ January 20, 1887.

When Lord Randolph Churchill resigned the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, on account of the extravagance in the votes for the War Office, and the Admiralty, the Marquis of Salisbury had some difficulty in finding a successor, but at length prevailed on Mr. Goschen to accept the post, although he had previously held office in a Liberal Cabinet.

――――

“OLD ROWLEY!”

[Mr. and Mrs. KENDAL and Mr. ROWLEY CATHCART played _Uncle’s Will_, and _Sweethearts_ at Osborne. HER MAJESTY presented Mrs. KENDAL with a diamond brooch in the shape of an imperial crown, gave MR. KENDAL a cheque for the night’s expenses of the St. James’s Theatre, and Mr. R. CATHCART a cheque for himself. Subsequently it was announced that, as a memorial of the performance of _David Garrick_ at Sandringham, H.R.H. had presented Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM with a gold cup.]

Off they went to Osborne to play,
(“Heigho!” say ROWLEY.)
Off they went to Osborne to play;
There were only Mrs. and Mr. K.,
With their ROWLEY CATHCART.
(“Would it were Greenwich.
Heigho!” sighs elderly ROWLEY.)

The first piece played was _Uncle’s Will_.
(“Ho! Ho!” laughs ROWLEY.)
They all three played in _Uncle’s Will_,
And _Sweethearts_ to follow completed the bill,
Both with ROWLEY CATHCART.
(“Glad to get finidg’d,
Heigho!” growls elderly ROWLEY.)

They greatly delighted HER MAJESTEE,
(“Hooray!” cries ROWLEY.)
They highly delighted HER MAJESTEE,
Did Mister and Missus and little ROWL_EE_,
With their tact in actin’
Little space pack’d in.
(“Heigho!” says elderly ROWLEY.)

With a brooch did her HER MAJESTY Mrs. K. deck.
(“Hooray!” shouts ROWLEY.)
Crown diamonds shining in front of her neck;
A cheque to her Hub; then the QUEEN drew a cheque
For their ROWLEY, slowly,
(“Solely and wholly
For me!” cries elderly ROWLEY.)

_Postscript._

CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up
(“Hallo!” says DAVY.)
CHARLES WYNDHAM on hearing it threw his hands up,
And into them H.R.H. chucked a gold cup,
For command obeying,
Sandringham playing,
“Hooray!” cries WYNDHAM as DAVY!

_Punch._ February 26, 1887.

――――

THE CRAFTY HAWARDEN FOX AND THE SOUR UNIONIST GRAPES.

A grey old fox sat under a vine
(Heigho! says Morley),
Ogling the grapes so plump and fine,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).

“Oh, come and be gobbled up, grapes,” said he
(Heigho! says Morley)
“It’s really a treat to be swallowed by me,
With my Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)

But the grapes stuck fast to the parent stem
(Heigho! says Morley)
“We shan’t get much out of blarneying them,
With our Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley)

Then the old fox jumped, but ’twas all in vain
(Heigho! says Morley).
For he came bump on his haunches again,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).

The more he jumped the fiercer he grew
(Heigho! says Morley)
And he growled all the naughtiest growls he knew,
With his Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
(Heigho! says miserable Morley).

“The grapes are sour, and not fit to eat.”
(Just so, says Morley);
So the pair crawled off to their den dead beat,
With their Morley, Parnell, gammon and spinach,
The grey old fox and his Morley.

J. W. P.
_St. Stephen’s Review._ June 18, 1887.

――――:o:――――

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
Born in Dublin in 1751. Died, July 7, 1816.

――――

Lord Byron said, “Whatever Sheridan has done, has been, _par excellence_, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy (“School for Scandal”), the best drama (“The Duenna”), the best farce (“The Critic”), and the best address (“Monologue on Garrick”); and, to crown all, delivered, the very best oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived, or heard in this country.”

In addition to The School for Scandal, The Duenna, and The Critic, Sheridan wrote St. Patrick’s Day, a farce; The Rivals, a comedy; A Trip to Scarborough (partly adapted from Sir J. Vanbrugh’s “Relapse,”) and Pizarro, a tragedy.

Sheridan was indebted to an old play written by the Duke of Buckingham and entitled “The Rehearsal” (1672), for the main idea of “The Critic,” but all the personal allusions in Sheridan’s farce were made to well known contemporary characters. “The Critic” was produced at Drury Lane Theatre in 1779. In 1780 a miserable anonymous imitation was published by H. Kingsbury, entitled “The Critick; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed, a Literary Catchpenny! Prelude to a Dramatic after-piece, by R. B. Sheridan, Esq., with a Dedication, Preface, and Prologue.” This does not appear to have been intended for the stage. Another imitation was entitled “The Critic Anticipated; or, the Humours of the Green Room, as rehearsed behind the curtain of the theatre in Drury Lane, 1779.”

Coming to modern times, Mr. F. C. Burnand founded an amusing burlesque upon the tragedy portion of “The Critic.” This was entitled “Elizabeth; or, The Invisible Armada,” and was published in 1870, by Tinsley Brothers, London. The favourite old characters Tilburina, Don Ferolo Whiskerandos, and the Governor of Tilbury Fort are here introduced; no mention is made in the printed copy as to whether this burlesque was ever performed at any theatre.

In 1884 Sheridan’s comedy, “The Rivals,” was being played at the Haymarket Theatre (London), with a most elaborate _mise-en-scene_, and, perhaps, a little too much display of antiquarian accuracy in details, to ridicule which an afterpiece, entitled “The Ar-Rivals, or a Trip to Margate,” was produced at the Avenue Theatre on June 24, 1884. It was announced as having been written by “J. M. Banero and A. D. Pincroft” (Pinero and Bancroft are almost too slyly hidden here), and that it would be produced with “Real sand buckets, real wooden spades, real periwinkles which would be eaten with real pins, and, as far as practicable, with real appetites.”

Yet notwithstanding all this wit, the travesty was pronounced by the critics as utterly beneath criticism, and was at once withdrawn.

Passing now from burlesques of Sheridan’s complete plays to parodies of songs contained in them, the favourite appears to be the drinking song which occurs in the third act of “The School for Scandal.”

LET THE TOAST PASS.

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, &c.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry:
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
Let the toast pass, &c.

For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e’en toast them together.
Let the toast pass, &c.

These gay and flowing verses, perhaps the most popular of their class in the language, were evidently modelled on the following song in Suckling’s play of the _Goblins_:

‘A health to the nut brown lass
With the hazel eyes, let it pass,
She that has good eyes, &c.
Let it pass――let it pass.

As much to the lively grey,
’Tis as good in the night as the day,
She that hath good eyes, &c.
Drink away――drink away.

I pledge, I pledge, what ho! some wine,
Here’s to thine――here’s to thine!
The colours are divine;
But ho! the black, the black,
Give me as much again, and let ’t be sack;
She that hath good eyes,’ &c.

This song was appropriated by S. Sheppard, in a comedy called the _Committee-man Curried_, 1647, without any acknowledgment of the source from whence he stole it.

――――

SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Here’s to each Tory and Radical too;
Just only my Income Tax pass, boys,
And you’ll see how completely John Bull I shall “do,”
By taking the duty off _glass_, boys.
Let the bill pass,
John’s such an ass,
I’ll warrant he’ll find an excuse in the glass.

Here’s the debater whose speeches we prize,
And here’s to the spouter of twaddle:
To gentlemen gifted with brains, and likewise,
To those who have none in their noddle.
Let the bill pass, &c.

Here’s unto Cobden, and here’s to Friend Bright,
The farmers’ and landowners’ friend, too;
To those who for Corn-Law monopoly fight,
And those for Free Trade who contend, too.

Here’s to the few for class interests who vote,
With a view to the loaves and the fishes;
Here’s to the many who strive to promote
Their constituents objects and wishes.

Here’s to young England and here’s unto old!
For all parties I care not a feather:
So long as you all are contented to hold,
In support of my Budget, together.
Let the Bill pass, &c.

_Punch._ March 8, 1845.

――――

LOVE, YOU MUST OWN, IS A COMICAL THING.

Love, you must own is a comical thing,
’Tis hoaxing, and coaxing, and teasing,
Its power is so great it can conquer a king,
Still its heaviest chains are oft pleasing.
Its praise let us sound,
For I will be bound,
There are nine out of ten in love all the year round.

Stoics may preach against love if they please,
Still, still I’ll declare it a pleasure;
For though a fair maiden may often times tease,
Still the girl of my heart is a treasure.
Its praise let us sound, &c.

Husbands may say when they’re wed a few years,
A wife’s a hard bargain to deal with;
But I value not their lamentations and tears,
For some lass I will soon sign and seal with,
Its praise let us sound, &c.

Let single or married rail as they will,
Yet love is the sunshine of life, sirs.
And I will stand forth as its advocate still,
Nor stop till I get me a wife, sirs.
Its praise let us sound, &c.

I am in love, as before I have said,
And no cynic my passion shall smother,
I’ll marry a wife, and when she is dead,
Why, then, I will marry another.
Its praise let us sound, &c.

Then come in our dreams, love, love it shall be,
Our joy it shall sweeten our glasses;
We’ll drink it by land, and we’ll drink it by sea,
For without it we lose all our lasses.
Its praise let us sound, &c.

BRYANT.

――――

ELECTION SONG.

Here’s to the Voter whose terms are fifteen;
Here’s to the vote that costs fifty;
Here’s to the Candidate shabby and mean,
And here’s to the one that’s not thrifty.
Let the Bill[52] pass;
’Tis but a farce;
I warrant they’ll find an excuse for a glass.

Here’s to the Voter whose freehold we prize,
Here’s to the tenant with none, Sir;
Here’s to the host who the liquor supplies,
Here’s to the beer-taps that run, Sir.
Let the Bill pass, &c.

Here’s to the Candidate, pure as the snow,
With an agent as black as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And here’s to the bribe makes her merry.
Let the Bill pass, &c.

For let them be clumsy or cautiously trim,
Snug or open, I care not a feather;
So fill all the pewter-pots up to the brim,
And let both sides get drunk altogether.
Let the Bill pass,
He’s but an ass,
Who’s puzzled to find an excuse for a glass.

_Punch._ April 3, 1852.

――――
THE BOOKMAKER’S TOAST.

Here’s to the Ringman that’s made a grand _coup_,
And here’s to the loser, the duffer!
And here’s to the Ringman that hasn’t a screw,
And here’s to his dupes that all suffer!
Yet, don’t scruple to spend, but pay to the end,
And I’ll warrant you’ll find that the layer’s your friend.

Here’s to the ninny backs all in the race,
And here’s to the cautious beginner!
Who’s surely, though quietly, learning the _pace_,
While the old hands are spotting the winner.
Then let the toast swing, and drink to the Ring,
For I’ll warrant in time they’ll let _outsiders in_.

_The Globe._

――――

EASTER.

Easter for maidens of bashful fifteen,
Easter for lovers of fifty.
Easter for all should be mild and serene,
Not gusty and shifty and drifty.
Easter (alas!
Soon may it pass)
I warrant ’twill prove an excuse for a glass.

Easter might brighter be as to the skies,
What has become of the sun, sirs?
Easter our temper exceedingly tries,
When Easter is not a fine _one_, sirs.
_Coughing Chorus_――Easter, alas, &c.

Easter is made up of drizzle and snow,
Easter is changeable very,
Easter’s unlike what it was years ago;
But still let us all drink and be merry.
_Sneezing Chorus_――Easter, alas. &c.

――――

A TOAST TO MANKIND.

Here’s to the man with a balance in hand――
Here’s to the party who’s _minus_,
Here’s to the friend who’s unable to stand,
And here’s to the swell that will dine us.
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be!

Here’s to the swell with a landed estate,
Here’s to the chap who has _nil_, sir,
Here’s to the card who’s presented with plate,
And, to him who’s presented a bill, sir,
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.

Here’s to the cove with the shirt-front of snow,
Now to him who’s not even a dickey;
Here’s to him on whom Fortune all gifts doth bestow,
And to him now, with whom she is tricky.
Let the toast gee――
Drink to him, he,
I warrant, excuse for a bumper will be.

For whether they’re sinking, or whether they swim,
Poor or wealthy, I care not a dump’s sum.
Come fill up a bumper――nay, fill to the brim,
And drink to mankind as a lump sum.
Let the toast, pray,
Pass, sir, for they
Will prove an excuse for our moistening the clay.

_Fun._

――――

HERE’S TO THE FRESHER!

Here’s to the Fresher not out of his teens;
Here’s to the fellow of forty;
Here’s to the feud with our ‘vis à vis’ Queen’s;
And here’s to the “town and gown” sortie!

_Chorus._――Toss the wine down,――
Drink to the gown,
I’ll warrant they’ll prove quite a match for the town.

Here’s to old Univ. whose trophies we prize;
Here’s to the college with none, sir:
Here’s to our “pet” with a pair of black eyes,
And here’s to his foe with but one, sir!

_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.

Here’s to our “Firsts” which the Honour lists shew,
Here’s to the blows we deliver;
Here’s to our “Drag” as they merrily go;
Here’s to us Head of the River!

_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.

Here’s to our time honoured “esprit de corps,”
Past or present I care not a feather;
Old Univ. will always be well to the fore,
As long as we all pull together!

_Chorus._――Toss the wine down, &c.

A. HASKETT SMITH.
Univ: Coll: Oxford.

――――

A NEW SONG FOR THE NEW TIMES.

Here’s to the motley, mellifluous host
Whose agreement might well be more hearty,
Who, of all creeds and none, yet their Unity boast――
Here’s to the Liberal Party.
Radical, Whig,
Little and big,
We all for the moment must dance the same jig.

Chamberlain rushes he doesn’t care where;
Derby is timidly backing;
Hartington sideways is dragged here and there;
Goschen keeps trimming and tacking.
Still let us pray
That for one day
We all, when the tug comes, may pull the same way.

And now for the man who can never do wrong,
Who’s name’s an electoral lever,
Whose temper is short, and whose speeches are long――
Here’s to the grand old Deceiver:
More than once tried,
Found a blind guide,
Yet still finding legions to fight at his side.

Only for plunder, and only for power,
(Fools may for principle fight on).
But for one object and but for one hour,
Interest let us unite on.
Though they look glum,
Whigs must be dumb,
And all discords be drowned by the Radical drum.

In office again shall our bonds be untied,
On that point we own no illusion;
Then as before we shall break and divide,
And all as before be confusion.
Once fairly there,
Why need we care
If Europe deride and if England despair?

Blood may flow vainly and commerce decay,
Let not your cheers be less hearty.
Honour and Empire in dust pass away,
But flourish the Liberal Party!
At his feet fall,
Vote at his call,
Whose grand old Umbrella will cover us all.

_St. James’s Gazette._ November 16, 1885.

――――:o:――――

POT AND KETTLE.
(_Some way after Sheridan._)

Smart Churchill, ’cute Chamberlain flouting and slanging,
His speeches compares to a cracked tin-pot clanging.
The mode in which Randy the argument carries on
Suggests to tired hearers another comparison.
For noise and for nuisance the claims who may settle
’Twixt Chamberlain’s pot and Lord Randolph’s old kettle?
For, alas! as a source of detestable din,
Men find sounding brass quite as bad as cracked tin.

_Punch._ November 8, 1884.

――――:o:――――

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.

Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne’er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true;
To you no soul shall bear deceit
No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.

For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They’ll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother’s part;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.

R. B. SHERIDAN.
From _The Duenna_.

――――

STEWED STEAK.

Had I a pound of tender steak,
I’d use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I’ll tell you what to do,
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung;
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece――but young.

And when you find the juice express’d
By culinary art,
To draw the water off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you’d have a treat,
Be sure you can’t be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it slew too long.

And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off, were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest
Then add the gravy――with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine:
Let the shalot be young.

And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing ’twill require;
Ten minutes will suffice――but mind,
Don’t have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up――’twill form a treat!
Nor fear you’ve cook’d it wrong;
_Gourmets_ in all the old ’twill meet,
And _gourmands_ in the young.

_Punch._ March, 1852

SONGS by Dr. CHARLES MACKAY.

JOHN BROWN, OR A PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.

I.

I’ve a guinea I can spend,
I’ve a wife, and I’ve a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I’ve a cottage of my own
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I’ll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

II.

I love the song of birds,
And the children’s early words,
And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown.

III.

I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But even when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown;
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for humankind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

IV.

So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex’d, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I’ve parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I’ve a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown!

C. MACKAY.

――――

JOHN BROWN’S ANSWER
TO “THE PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.”

I’ve listened to your song, and, unless I’m very wrong,
There is much in it of what we now call bosh――Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to _do_’s another thing,
And I fear that your philosophy won’t wash――Tom Smith.
Of course that’s not your name――but ’twill answer all the same
For the person I’m presumed to argue with――Tom Smith.
And offended you can’t be, as you’ve done the same to me,
For I’m no more John Brown than you’re Tom Smith――Tom Smith.

What you love and what you hate――you’re at liberty to state,――
I’ve nothing upon earth with that to do――Tom Smith.
_De gustibus non est_――I’ve no doubt you know the rest,
And besides, I’ve much the same dislikes as you――Tom Smith.
It’s on matters of finance, in which there’s no romance,
I would break with you a lance――if you please, Tom Smith.
I’m myself a family man, and I don’t believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese――Tom Smith.

You’ve “a hundred pounds a year”――well, let’s even say it’s clear
Of income-tax, that’s not two pounds a week――Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke――Tom Smith.
_Per contra_, you’ve a wife, as dear to you as life,――
I hope she is, I’m sure, for both your sakes――Tom Smith.
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear,
If anything your little income shakes――Tom Smith.

Of children you’ve a troop――an interesting group,
But to tell how many form it you forgot――Tom Smith.
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small.――
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot――Tom Smith.
Of their clothes you may be spare, but they cannot go _quite_
bare,
And whooping-cough and measles you must count――Tom Smith,
And if only one be ill, I’m afraid the doctor’s bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount――Tom Smith.

’Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about,
And “sufficient for the day” is a fine text――Tom Smith;
But at your garden gate do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what’s in the cupboard for the _next_――Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil; ’twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store――Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time, in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting ’neath your shady sycamore――Tom Smith.

You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass,
But it cannot be of wine, or beer, or grog――Tom Smith.
It’s more like “Adam’s Ale,” I’m afraid, than “Bass’s Pale,”
And to drink, I water shun like a mad dog――Tom Smith.
If “a guinea you’ve to spend,” I advise you as a friend,
To put it in the Savings’ Bank forthwith――Tom Smith.
You will want it before long, and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth――Tom Smith.

J. R. PLANCHE.

――――:o:――――

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!