Chapter XIX: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (19)

From “_Songs of the Press_, and other Poems relative to the art of Printing, original and selected.” Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845.

――――

THE PRESS.

The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
The deep, the fresh, the ever free,
Without a mark, without a bound,
It searcheth the earth’s wide regions round.
It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen,
Or like a flaming rod is seen.
I’m on the Press! I’m on the Press!
I am where I would ever be,
With the ink above, and the paper below,
And the _devil_ to pay wherever I go.
If the Os[60] should storm, and threaten my fall,
What matter? what matter? I can _beat_ them all.

It loves, oh! how it loves to ride
On the lordly voice of the popular tide,
When every madcap speaks his mind,
Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind.
And tells how goeth the National Debt,
And why at taxes the people fret.
I never reported for one short hour,
But I loved the free Press more and more,
And backwards flew to my _devils_ and _type_,
Like a bear cub that loveth its mother’s gripe;
And kinder and kinder it is to me,
For the Press was born to be useful and free!

The world was changed, and the Pope looked round,
When the hydra head of the Press was unbound,
And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled,
And tyrants offered their bags of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As strove to smother the free-born child.
It has stood since then with great strength and weight,
In spite of prisons and engines great,
With Truth to guide, and Power to range,
And never may England see its change;
And life,――whenever it loves me less,
Shall see me bound to the glorious Press!

From _Songs of the Press_.

OLD SONGS AND BALLADS.

THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION.
(_A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase._)

God prosper long our noble king,
And eke his subjects too;
And grant such deeds as now I sing
We never more may rue.

In seventeen hundred sixty-eight,
All on a summer’s day,
Grim death did on our member wait,
And took him clean away.

O, then a writ was issued out,
To chuse a member in;
And soon began a mighty rout
For Procter and for Glynn.

When as the day advanced nigh,
Each party did its best;
And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye)
Turn’d Proctor’s cause to jest.

Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who,
Of Irish strength assur’d,
Provided many a gallant crew,
True men, I’ll pawn my word.

Such crowds to Brentford town did hie,
As fill’d the place outright;
While thousands knew not where to lie,
And so――sat up all night.

At length the fatal morning came,
O had it ne’er arriv’d!
For many a wight crawled home quite lame,
Full glad that he surviv’d.

Soon as the rising sun had clear’d
The gloomy shades of night,
All on the hustings they appear’d――
O! ’twas a glorious sight!

With ribbon and with star bespread,
(Given by the good old king)
Sir William hung his languid head,
And looked――like any thing.

The serjeant held his head upright,
For conscious still was he,
That those who do the deed that’s right,
Have real cause for glee.

Mr.O’Murphy too was there,
Hight counsellor at law――
His business was to strut and stare,
And find or make a flaw.

Count Gambler look’d as who should say,
“I’ll bet ye six to one
“That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:”
“I’ll take it, damme.”――“Done.”

Whilst bustling still from place to place,
Old Brentford’s priest was seen,
Who for this meal said many a grace,
And fervent pray’r, I ween.

And still to heighten all they could
This mighty gallant show,
Close by the hustings numbers stood,
Like――soldiers all a-row.

The clock told two, up flew the hat,
(A signal for each wounder)
And soon the freeholders lay flat
As ever lay a flounder.

Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs,
Were darken’d, fractur’d, broke;
And those who could not keep their pegs,
Fell down――to mend the joke.

And many a ribbon flew about,
(For favours then were common)
And hundreds of the rabble rout
Were dizen’d out like yeomen.

What they did more, let other bards
In other guise declare;
For, truth to say, they play’d their cards,
To make all England stare.

Now God preserve our noble king,
And grant henceforth, for aye,
No future poet e’er may sing
The deeds of such a day!

――――

THE LITCHFIELD DEFEAT.

God prosper long our noble king!
Our lives and safeties all;
A woful horse-race late there did
At Whittington befall.

Great Bedford’s duke, a mighty prince!
A solemn vow did make,
His pleasure in fair Staffordshire
Three summer’s days to take.

At once to grace his father’s race,
And to confound his foes:
But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak)
A luckless time he chose.

For some rude clowns, who long had felt
The weight of Tax and Levy,
Explained their case unto his Grace
By arguments full heavy.

* * * *

The whole of this parody will be found in volume iv. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_. London, 1786.

Another parody of _Chevy Chase_ occurs in the same volume, it is very long, and relates to some persons and political events of interest in 1776, but long since forgotten.

――――:o:――――

VERSES BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Go soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errant,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must dye,
And give them all the lye.

Go, tell the court it glowse
And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the church it showes
What’s good, does no good.
If court and church replye,
Give court and church the lye.

Tell potentates they live
Acting, but oh! their actions,
Not lov’d unless they give!
Not strong, but by their factions.
If potentates replye,
Give potentates the lye.

* * * * *

――――

A PARODY WRITTEN IN 1764.

Go, truth, unwelcome guest!
Upon a thankless errant;
Fear not to touch the best,
For truth is a safe warrant.
Go, since thou needs must die,
And give them all the lye.

Go, tell the Tory faction,
Now in their noontide hour,
England won’t bear an action
Of an arbitrary power.
If Tories should reply,
Give Tories all the lye.

Go, tell th’ ennobled thief,
While cares oppress him most,
He ne’er shall taste relief
From guilt――from Ayliffe’s ghost.
And if the thief reply,
Then give the thief the lye.

* * * * *

The original and the parody are both given at full length in volume iv. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_. London, 1786.

――――:o:――――

BEN JONSON’S
“ODE ON THE STAGE.”

Ben Jonson was very unfortunate in not conciliating the affections of his brother writers. He possessed a great share of arrogance, and was desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is evident from his abusing, on the title pages of his plays, both the actors and the public. I have collected the following three satirical odes, written when the unfavorable reception of his “_New Inn_, or _The Light Heart_,” warmly exasperated the poet.

He printed the title in the following manner: “_New Inn_, or _The Light Heart_; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King’s servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King’s subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty’s servants and subjects, to be judged, 1631.”

At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, and a Pindar.

“The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, begat this following Ode to himself:

Come, leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age;
Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,)
Usurp the chair of wit
Inditing and arraigning every day
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vaine
Commission of braine
Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn;
They were not made for thee,――less thou for them.

Say that thou pour’st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;
’Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!
No, give them graines their fill,
Husks, draff, to drink and swill.
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not their palate with the swine.

No doubt some mouldy tale
Like Pericles[61], and stale
As the shrieve’s crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish
Thrown forth, and rak’t into the common-tub,
May keep up the play-club:
There sweepings do as well
As the best order’d meale,
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit.

And much good do’t you then,
Brave plush and velvet men
Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes,
Dare quit, upon your oathes,
The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers),
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks:
Which if they’re torn, and turn’d, and patch’d enough,
The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff.

Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcæick lute,
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar’s fire;
And, tho’ thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,
Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat;
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy’s in thy brain[62].

But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy King,
His zeal to God, and his just awe o’er men,
They may blood-shaken then,
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry like ours,
In sound of peace, or wars,
No harp ere hit the stars,
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot ’bove his wain.”

This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by _Owen Feltham_, author of the “Resolves.” His character of Ben Jonson should be attended to:――

AN ANSWER TO THE ODE, “COME LEAVE THE LOATHED STAGE, &C.”

Come leave this sawcy way
Of baiting those that pay
Dear for the sight of your declining wit
’Tis known it is not fit
That a sale poet, just contempt once thrown
Should cry up thus his own.
I wonder by what dower,
Or patent, you had power
From all to rape a judgment. Let’s suffice,
Had you been modest, y’ad been granted wise.

’Tis known you can do well,
And that you do excell
As a translator; but when things require
A genius, and fire,
Not kindled heretofore by other pains,
As oft y’ave wanted brains
And art to strike the white,
As you have levell’d right:
Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.

Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly[63], and all
Your jests so nominal,
Are things so far beneath an able brain,
As they do throw a stain
Thro’ all th’ unlikely plot, and do displease
As deep as Pericles.
Where yet there is not laid
Before a chamber-maid
Discourse so weighed[64], as might have serv’d of old
For schools, when they of love and valour told.

Why rage, then? when the show
Should judgment be, and know-[65]
ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge
For stages, yet can judge
Not only poets’ looser lines, but wits,
And all their perquisits;
A gift as rich as high
Is noble poesie:
Yet, tho’ in sport it be for Kings to play,
’Tis next mechanicks’ when it works for pay.

Alcæus lute had none,
Nor loose Anacreon
E’er taught so bold assuming of the bays
When they deserv’d no praise.
To rail men into approbation
Is new to your’s alone:
And prospers not: for known,
Fame is as coy, as you
Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove
A rape on her shall gather scorn――not love.

Leave then this humour vain,
And this more humourous strain,
Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipse what else is good:
Then, if you please those raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast so much:
And but forbear your crown
Till the world puts it on:
No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phœbus ever saw.

To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows:――

AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON’S ODE,
TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE.

I.

Ben, do not leave the stage
Cause ’tis a loathsome age:
For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they shall hear it told
They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause;
Their hiss is thy applause:
More just were thy disdain,
Had they approved thy vein:
So thou for them, and they for thee were born;
They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.

II.

Wilt thou engross thy store
Of wheat, and pour no more,
Because their bacon-brains had such a taste
As more delight in mast:
No! set them forth a board of dainties, full
As thy best muse can cull;
Whilst they the while do pine
And thirst, midst all their wine.
What greater plague can hell itself devise,
Than to be willing thus to tantalise?

III.

Thou canst not find them stuff,
That will be bad enough
To please their pallates: let ’em them refuse,
For some Pye-corner muse:
She is too fair an hostess, ’twere a sin
For them to like thine Inn:
’Twas made to entertain
Guests of a nobler strain;
Yet, if they will have any of the store,
Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore.

IV.

And let those things in plush
Till they be taught to blush,
Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broom[66] swept from thee.
I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to cloaths, but brains:
But thy great spleen doth rise,
’Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind.

V.

Why shou’d the scene be mute
’Cause thou canst touch the lute
And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine
Claim thee, and say, th’art mine.
’Twere fond, to let all other flames expire,
To sit by Pindar’s fire:
For by so strange neglect
I should myself suspect
Thy palsie were as well thy brain’s disease,
If they could shake thy muse which way they please.

VI.

And tho’ thou well canst sing
The glories of thy King,
And on the wings of verse his chariot bear
To heaven, and fix it there;
Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise
To please him, as to praise.
I would not have thee chuse
Only a treble muse;
But have this envious, ignorant age to know,
Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.

――――

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

(_Born about 1618. Educated at Oxford. Imprisoned by the Long Parliament. Afterwards served in the French army. The latter part of his life was very miserable. He died in an alley near Shoe Lane, in 1658._)

TO ALTHEA.

When Love, with unconfinèd wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free――
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like, confinèd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,[67]
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

R. LOVELACE.

――――

SONG.――AFTER LOVE-LACE.

Grey hairs do not a prophet make,
Nor wrinkled brow a sage;
Though Innocence as such may take
These signs upon Life’s stage.
Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise,
And some a _profit_ find
In hair――but then it is in dyes,
And braids to pin behind!

Though flowing locks will drop away,
The flowing cups remain.
The drops they hold will go, but they
Can still be filled again.
And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught,
That clay must ne’er be dry,
Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought
So, fill the Tankard high!

C. H. WARING.
From _Hood’s Comic Annual_. 1885.

The author of the above parody, Mr.C. H. Waring, is a frequent contributor to _Fun_, and other humorous periodicals. He was formerly associated with George Cruikshank in several literary ventures. The amusing parody on Lord Tennyson’s _Revenge_ entitled “_Retribution_,” on page 42, Volume I. _Parodies_, was also from his pen.

――――

A FRUGAL MIND.

Champagne will not a dinner make,
Nor Caviare a meal:
Men gluttonous and rich, may take
Those till they make them ill.
If I’ve potatoes to my chop,
And after chop have cheese,
Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop
Know no such luxuries!

_Punch._ April 3, 1875.

――――:o:――――

TO LUCASTA.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,――
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger love embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore:
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

R. LOVELACE.

――――

THE GRAND OLD O’DIDDLE TO MISS ERIN.

Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge
Because so swift I hie,
From making love to Molly Hodge
And wink at thee an eye!
True, a new charmer now I chase
Across wild Faction’s field,
Prepared, with shame-forgetting face,
Whate’er thou wilt, to yield.
Yet this apostacy is such
As thou, too, shalt adore:
I should not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not office more.

_Moonshine._ January 2, 1886.

――――:o:――――

HANG SORROW, LET’S CAST AWAY CARE.

The Rev. Mr. J. W. Ebsworth, a great authority on our early songs and ballads, supplies the following information as to the different existing versions of “Hang sorrow.”

The music of this old ballad was composed by William Lawes, and “published by John Hilton: printed for John Benson and John Playford, and to be sould in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard, and in the Inner Temple neare the Church doore, 1652.” It reappeared in ‘Windsor Drollery,’ 1672, with a few verbal alterations.

From J. Hilton’s ‘Catch that Catch Can,’ 1652 (music by William Lawes):――

Hang Sorrow and cast away Care,
and let us drink up our Sack;
They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,
and for to strengthen the back.
’Tis wine that makes the thoughts aspire,
and fills the body with heat;
Besides ’tis good, if well understood,
to fit a man for the feat:
Then call and drink up all,
The Drawer is ready to fill,
A Pox of care, what need we to spare?
my father has made his will.

Another version appeared in an excessively rare work, “The New Academy of Complements,” 1671, as, Song 276:――

Hang fear, cast away care,
The parish is bound to find us,
Thou and I and all must die,
And leave this world behinde us.
The Bells shall ring, the Clerk shall sing,
And the good old wife shall winde us,
And _John_ shall lay our bones in clay
Where the Devil ne’er shall find us.

A later version is in Playford’s ‘Musical Companion,’ 1673. There is also a Roxburghe ballad beginning similarly, but quite distinct from these two songs. It is entitled, “Joy and Sorrow mixt together. To the tune of, Such a Rogue should be hang’d.” Which is the same tune as ‘Old Sir Simon the King.’ Here is the first of the fourteen stanzas for comparison. The ballad is preserved in the Roxburghe Collection (vol. 1. fol. 170), and has been reprinted in the Ballad Society’s publication, vol. 1. p. 509:――

Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care,
for now I do mean to be merry,
Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere,
With sugar, and clarret, and sherry.
Now I’le have a wife of mine own,
I shall have no need to borrow;
I would have it for to be known
that I shall be married to-morrow.
(_Burden_:) Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be,
Come pledge it you boon merry blades:
The day I much long for to see,
We will be as merry as the Maides, &c.

This ballad was written and signed by Richard Climsell, and was printed for John Wright the younger, dwelling in the Old Bayley.

DRINKING SONG.

Cast away care, he that loves sorrow
Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow;
Money is trash; and he that will spend it,
Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, Oh, ho!
Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.
* * * * *

JOHN FORD. (About 1623.)

A play, ascribed to Fletcher, entitled _The Bloody Brother; or Rollo, Duke of Normandy_, printed as early as 1640, contains a somewhat similar defence of drinking:――

A DRINKING SONG

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:
Best, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.
Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure ’gainst age but it:
It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisick,
And is for all diseases physick.
Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the Commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober
Falls with the leaf, still in October.[68]

――――

_Five reasons for Drinking._

There are five reasons, as I think,
Why man, being reasonable, should drink.
A friend――a bottle――being dry.
Or, that one may be, by and bye,
Or――any other reason why.

――――:o:――――

THREE BAND OF HOPE BOYS.

(_Anti-Bacchanalian Song, dedicated to the Temperance Society, as an Aid to Moral Suasion._)

AIR.――“_Three Jolly Postboys._”

Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,
Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,
And they determinèd,
And they determinèd,
And they determined again to tap the kettle.
We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.
We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.
Fill us the teapot up,
Fill us the teapot up,
Fill us the teapot up, strong liquor’s self-slaughter.
Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,
Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,
And it not inebriates,
And it not inebriates,
And it not inebriates like potions alcoholic.
He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,
He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he shouldn’t do,
Lives as he shouldn’t do,
Lives as he shouldn’t do, and wakes a seedy fellow.
He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,
He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,
Lasts as the leaves do,
Lasts as the leaves do,
Lasts as the leaves do, bright green in October.

_Punch._ May 7, 1870.

――――:o:――――

THE BOYS FOR YOU!
(_After the Earl of Dorset’s Song._)

AIR.――“_To all you Ladies now on Land._”

Ho! all you toilers in the land
Who freedom would promote,
We fain would have you understand
The way you ought to vote.
Old Whigs eschew,
And Tories too――
The Rads, they are the boys for you――
Boys for you!
With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la――
With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la――
With a fal-lal-lal, fal-lal-lal――
The Rads are the boys for you!

To Jingoes, of whatever ilk,
Who’d bid you with them march,
Proclaim for Chamberlain and Dilke,
And men like Burt and Arch.
Brave men and true,
Good work they’ll do,
And they’re the only boys for you――
Boys for you!

ABRACADABRA.
The _Weekly Dispatch._ October 25, 1885.

――――:o:――――

BACK FROM THE WARS.

Sadly Lord Salisbury
Muttered “Oh, lor!”
As he was hobble-ing
Back from the war;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Hither I come;
Party dear, Party dear,
Welcome me home!”

She at the thought of him
Mournfully wept;
Ruefully dreamt of him
Too, while she slept;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Would thou could’st come
Victor――yet, Salisbury,
Hurry back home!”

Into her presence then
Slowly he came,
Seeking her sympathy,
Battered and lame;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Vanquished I come:
Party dear, Party dear,
Soothe me at home!”

_Fun._ December 16, 1885.

――――

AIR.――“_Gaily the Troubadour._”

Gaily the Grand Old Man
Spoke by the way,
As he was hurrying
Home from the fray,
Singing, “From Parliament
Hither I come;
Darling Midlothian,
Welcome me home.”

She for her veteran
Felt much distress’d;
Sadly she grieved for him,
By foes sore press’d,
Singing, “To succour thee,
Would I might come;
Grand Old Man! Grand Old Man!
Haste to thy home.”

Hark! ’twas the Grand Old Man
Breathing her name.
Through the applauding crowds
Swiftly he came,
Singing, “No need have I
Farther to roam.
Darling Midlothian,
Here is my home.”

EXCELSIOR.
_Truth._ July 15, 1886.

――――

THE CHIEF OF THE LIBERAL PARTY.
AIR――_The King of the Cannibal Islands_.

Now, all ye hungry Whigs, who wait
For pickings from your Premier’s plate,
Attend, while I predict the fate
Of the Chief of the Liberal Party.
No more he plays the daring game
That made all Europe fear his name;
The _Temple_ now enshrines a Fame
Whose trumpet-notes are rather tame.
And he’s only saucy, “jaunty Pam”――
His boasted power’s an empty sham――
And his colleagues groan when he says, “I am
The Chief of the Liberal Party.”
Joking――poking feeble fun――
That is the way his work is done
By the Premier Palmerston――
The Chief of the Liberal Party.”

Pam’s oft the victim of his men――
For Gladstone’s tongue, or Russell’s pen
Brings into trouble, now and then,
The Chief of the Liberal Party.
Now Gladstone’s fancy decks finance
With all the charms of fair romance,
And shows an Income-tax advance.
Or cheapened rates on goods from France,
To be, in fact the nation’s gain――
While poor John Bull protests in vain,
And of his taxes doth complain
To the Chief of the Liberal Party.
Taxing, waxing, more and more,
We pay in peace the price of war――
Thanks to our brilliant Chancellor,
That _not_ too “liberal” party.

Then Russell _will_ despatches write,
And bark at States he dares not bite:
His every movement causes fright
To the Chief of the Liberal Party.
“Non-intervention” is his plan.
And yet he’ll meddle where he can;
But nobody minds the little man,
Except perhaps poor, weak Japan,
And he’ll bully Prussia about the Danes,
And get a snubbing for his pains――
Till not a rag of respect remains
To the Chief of the Liberal Party!
Meddling, peddling everywhere――
Intervene and interfere――
Oh! what a Foreign Minister
Has the Chief of the Liberal Party!

But now the Whigs are in retreat――
At every poll they lose a seat――
So bid “good-bye” to Downing Street,
Oh, Chief of the Liberal Party!
The bench you fill, you soon shall face,――
Like your own jokes, be _out of place_!
And a better man your post shall grace――
The country’s fav’rite in the race;――
So clear the course for the DERBY-day
Tories gather in strong array!
And Whigs prepare to clear the way
For the great CONSERVATIVE Party!
Gladstone, Russell, Grey & Co.,
Nobody mourns your overthrow――
Your time is come――so _out_ you go
With the Chief of the Liberal Party!

E. J. GOODMAN, 1864.

These verses were first sung at a dinner of the Edinburgh Conservative Club, on February 19, 1864, and were published in the _Edinburgh Courant_, February 21, 1864.

――――:o:――――

SIGN THE BILL STAMP, SIGN.
(_A Lay of the Downy One._)
AIR.――“_Dance, the Boatman, Dance._”

I lead a very merry and a rollicking life,
Each passing day with fun is rife,
I’ve hunters, I’ve a yacht, I’ve an Opera box,
And this is how I steer clear of rocks.
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.
You may dance all night, ’neath the gay gas light,
If you only do a bill in the morning.
Heigho! I’m the regular doo,
Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.

I’m Director of ten railways, and a tip-top swell,
My villa’s at Richmond, my Club in Pall Mall.
I laugh at petty larcenies, and never cut my stick,
For this is the way we do the trick.
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.
You may revel all night, and yet feel all right,
If you only do a bill in the morning.
Then heigho! for the regular doo,
Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.

_The Man in the Moon._ Vol. I.

――――:o:――――

LOVE’S RITORNELLA.

Gentle Zitella, whither away?
Love’s ritornella, list while I play.
No, I have linger’d too long on my road,――
Night is advancing, the Brigand’s abroad,
* * * * *

――――

REAL HAVANNAH.

Real Havannah! precious cigar!
Gentle as manna, bright as a star;
Pleasant at fire-side, cheery on road,
Best of all perfumes at home or abroad:
Real Havannah!
Puff away care――
Blow my misfortunes
Into thin air.

Real Havannah! O who would dare,
Meerschaum or hookah with thee compare?
When thy bright tip any mortal may see,
Thou art his choice, and a smoker is he:
Real Havannah, &c.

Real Havannah! primest of stuff,
Sell me no humbug, vender of snuff;
Think not on me you can cut any jokes,
’Tis Toper Thomas himself who now smokes:
Real Havannah, &c.

――――:o:――――

JEANNETTE AND JEANNOT.

About forty years ago this was a very popular song. The music was accompanied by a picture representing a French soldier taking leave of a peasant girl, who is saying:――

“You are going far away, far away from poor Jeannette,
There’s no one left to love me now, and you, perhaps, may forget.
With your gun upon your shoulder, and your bayonet by your side,
You’ll be courting some fair lady, and making her your bride.”
* * * * *

――――

THE LAY OF THE CREDITOR.

You are going far away, far away from all your Debts,
There’s no one left to pay me now, for you have no assets,
My bill it will be with you, wherever you may go;
Can you look into my ledger, and deny me what you owe?
When you wear the light moustache, and the vest of brilliant blue,
I fear that you’ll forget then all about my I. O. U.
With the reins between your fingers, and a _danseuse_ by your
side,
You’ll spend your uncle’s legacy, and all your duns deride.
Oh, were I Lord John Russell, or still better Robert Peel,
I would pass a stringent measure that would make you debtors feel;
I would put a stop to swindling, or at least would find a way
That the man who had the goods should be the only one to pay.

_The Puppet Show_, April 1, 1848.

In the same paper there was another parody relating to the Company of French actors, whose appearance at Drury Lane Theatre led to some disgraceful disturbances on the part of the “gents” of the period.

A MONTE CHRISTO BALLAD.

You are going to the play, if an order you can get,
And _Monte Christo_ you’re to see; so mind you don’t forget
To take two days’ provisions, and remember ere you go,
That I want some cash to “keep the house” till you come back,
dear Joe.
When you’re sitting in the pit, and when “part the first” is
o’er,
You’ll be voting Monsieur Dumas a most terrific bore;
With your head upon your hand, and your hand upon your knee,
You will long to be at home again at Kensington with me.
When the playhouse doors are opened, you’ll be madly rushing on,
Never thinking if they squash you, that your only chance is gone;
For your hard eggs will be broken, and your brandy bottle
cracked,
And you’ll faint from thirst and hunger in the pit so densely
packed.
Oh! if I were Lord Chamherlain, or, better still, the Queen,
At Drury Lane, I’d take good care, no Frenchmen should be seen.
If they choose to bring out pieces which it took two nights to
play,
They should keep such stuff for Paris, and from London stop away.

――――

THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING.

If you wish to make a pudding in which everyone delights,
Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites;
Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine,
And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;
Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants
dried,
A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside;
Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour,
And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;
Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,
Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot;
But though I don’t know which of these two methods I should
praise,
I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.
Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome,
I’d have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home;
And as for other puddings whatever they might be,
Why, those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.

_Punch._

PARODIES OF “TEN LITTLE NIGGER BOYS.”

There was a parody of this song in “The Rise and Fall of Richard III.,” a burlesque by F. C. Burnand, produced at the New Royalty Theatre, Soho, in 1868. It possesses little interest apart from the context.

_Song by_ BARON ALBERT GRANT.

Ten Joint Stock Companies, none of which were mine,
One got into Chancery, and then there were Nine!
Nine Joint Stock Companies, all with prospects great,
One never paid at all, then there were Eight!
Eight Joint Stock Companies, one a mine in Devon,
The sea got into that, and then there were Seven!
Seven Joint Stock Companies, all their Boards played tricks;
One couldn’t pay its rent, and then there were Six!
Six Joint Stock Companies, scarcely kept alive,
One wound up amicably, and then there were Five!
Five Joint Stock Companies, dividends long o’er,
A liquidator bled one, and then there were Four!
Four Joint Stock Companies, as rotten as could be,
One ruined scores of folk, and then there were Three!
Three Joint Stock Companies, having naught to do,
A small panic killed one, and then there were Two!
Two Joint Stock Companies, their course well-nigh run,
One was tried as a fraud, and then there was One!
One Joint Stock Company, just kept on for fun,
The Chairman bolted with the books, and then there was None!

From _Finis_.

――――

THE “BARMAID CONTEST.”

Held in the North Woolwich Gardens, when under the management of Mr. William Holland.

“Good character, business habits, neatness of costume, and
respectability, are the chief points.”――Advertisement.

Ten little barmaids, sitting in a line;
One answer’d saucily, and then there were nine.

Nine little barmaids, trying to be great;
One look’d _too_ pompously, and then there were eight.

Eight little barmaids――one came from Devon――
Not quite genteel enough――and then there were seven――

Seven little barmaids――one was up to tricks,
Glancing at the gentlemen-and then there were six.

Six little barmaids, eager all to strive;
One fell to quarrelling, and then there were five.

Five little barmaids, counting up their store;
One show’d her _dirty_ hands, and then there were four.

Four little barmaids evidenced their glee――
One not “respectably”――and then there were three.

Three little barmaids said it was “a do;”
One said it _loudly_――and then there were two.

Two little barmaids wish’d it all was done;
One yawn’d too plainly, and then there was one.

One little barmaid thought it “famous fun;”
She took the prizes――and then there were none.

_Judy._

――――

THE SIX ROYAL PERSONS.

Six royal persons in the realm alive,
One went to India, and then there were five.
Five royal persons, finding town a bore,
One went to Russia, and then there were four.
Four royal persons――pleasant sight to see――
One went to Gibraltar, and then there were three.
Three royal persons――nothing else to do――
One went to Nice for health, and then there were two.
Two royal persons, who together run,
Thus the second doesn’t count, and so there was one.
One royal person――Session not yet done!――
She went to Germany, and then there were none!

_Reynolds’ Newspaper._ April 16, 1876.

――――

THE TEN HIGH COMMISSIONERS.
(_A Song of the Conference_.)

Ten High Commissioners in council did combine;
But Salisbury gave up at last, and then there were but nine.
Nine High Commissioners no longer would debate;
For next Ignatieff went off, and so there were but eight.
Eight High Commissioners tried Turkish rule to leaven
Count Corti he went back to Rome, and then there were but seven.
Seven High Commissioners were just in the same fix,
Till Count Calice started off――reducing them to six.
Six High Commissioners would fain see Turkey thrive,
But Werther back to Bismarck went, and then there were but five.
Five High Commissioners found they could do no more,
And so Count Zichy he went home, and left there only four.
Four High Commissioners still failed their way to see;
And even Elliott gave in――and so there were but three.
Three High Commissioners, of course, could nothing do;
And Chaudordy packed off to France, and left there only two.
Two High Commissioners found talking sorry fun;
So Bourgoing he quitted too; and then there was but one.
A Turk was he, who winked his eye, as one who is elate;
And, chuckling much, “Aha,” he said; “Bismillah! God is great!”

_Judy._ February 7, 1877.

――――

THE IRISH JURYMEN.

Twelve Irish Jurymen trying Prisoners seven,
One had a frightened wife, and then there were eleven!
Eleven Irish Jurymen consulting up in a pen,
One of them had oxen got, which left but only ten!
Ten Irish Jurymen brought there by a fine,
One dreaded “Boycotting,” then there were but nine!
Nine Irish Jurymen listening there in state,
One got a threatening note, and then there were but eight!
Eight Irish Jurymen not without some leaven,
One had had a Landlord, then there were but seven!
Seven Irish Jurymen sitting in a fix,
One feared the highway shots, and then there were but six!
Six Irish Jurymen in the legal hive,
One knew a murderer, then there were but five!
Five Irish Jurymen springing from the poor,
One of them half-witted, leaving only four!
Four Irish Jurymen wishing to be “fhree,”
One spouted treason, and then there were but three!
Three Irish Jurymen softly whispering “Pooh!”
One backed out of it, and then there were but two!
Two Irish Jurymen loving not the fun,
Tossed up a half-penny, then there was but one!
One Irish Juryman a verdict had to give,
Nobly said “Not Guilty,” and was allowed to live!

_Punch._ January 22, 1881.

――――

TEN THOUSAND SOLDIERS.

Ten thousand soldiers, too many in the line;
We’ll cut off a thousand, then there’ll be nine.
Nine thousand soldiers, a number far too great,
The country can’t afford them, let’s make it eight.

_Chorus._

10,000, 9,000, 8,000, 7,000, 6,000 soldier boys,
5,000, 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, 1,000 soldier boys.

Eight thousand soldiers to guard us all, good heaven!
Can’t we do with fewer men, and show up only seven?
Seven thousand soldiers to help us in a fix,
Let’s reduce a little more, and bring them down to six.

Six thousand soldiers! as I am here alive,
I see no necessity for having more than five.
Five thousand soldiers, when there ain’t a war!
The Reserve is ten thousand, we can’t want more than four.

Four thousand soldiers――between you and me,
Don’t you think we’d be quite safe if we had only three?
Three thousand soldiers――between me and you,
I haven’t got rifles enough for more than two.

Two thousand soldiers shooting with a gun,
I like doing things by halves, and half of two is one.
One thousand soldiers wouldn’t be much fun,
Let’s sweep them all away, then there’ll be none.

When there’s no more soldiers there’ll be no more strife,
We shall live a little time a peaceful sort of life,
Till the Opposition come and kick us through the door,
Then they’ll raise an army of a hundred thousand more.

10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 soldiers more,
60,000, 70,000, 80,000, 90,000, 100,000 soldiers more!

_St. James’s Gazette._ June 29, 1881.

――――

SMALL BY DEGREES.

Ten British Ironclads, floating on the brine:
Reed[69] went out of office, and then there were Nine!
Nine British Ironclads to defend the State:
Reed cocked his eye at them, and then there were Eight!
Eight British Ironclads lying safe in haven:
Reed raked ’em fore and aft, and then there were Seven!
Seven British Ironclads, sound from keel to sticks:
Reed wrote a pamphlet, and then there were Six!
Six British Ironclads――hooray! Jack’s alive!
Reed spoke in Parliament, and then there were Five!
Five British Ironclads cruising round the Nore:
Reed made a platform speech, and then there were Four!
Four British Ironclads ruling of the Sea:
Reed wrote unto the _Times_, and then there were Three!
Three British Ironclads buffeting the blue:
Reed had dyspepsia, and then there were Two!
Two British Ironclads, big in plate and gun:
Reed was snubbed by Brassey, and then there was One!
Oh, make him Chief Constructor once again, whate’er befall;
Or soon of British Ironclads we shall have――_none at all_!

_Punch._ April 25, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SEND A REMITTANCE FROM HOME.
(_Parody on “Write me a Letter from Home.”_)

Wretched I sit here and cry,
Poorer than I’ve been for years,
Not a bad ha’p’ny have I,
Nothing but sorrows and tears.
Poor trust, at the cook-shop, is dead,
My creditors bully and foam,
Oh! how’s a poor man to be fed,
Without a remittance from home.

Post Office Orders or stamps,
What shall I do till they come?
Oh! go, wake the old people up,
To send a remittance from home.

I hope that they’ll send a good lot;
The last time they wrote to me here,
A blessing was all that I got
From father and mother so dear.
They hoped I’d be honest and true,
And ne’er in extravagance roam,
But what’s a poor devil to do
Without a remittance from home?
Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

I have not the money for stamps,
So when I write home ev’ry day,
They think me the worst of young scamps,
For twopence each time they’ve to pay.
My best suit is sold, I possess
But these clothes, one sock, and a comb,
And they, too, will vanish unless
They send a remittance from home.
Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.

My candles are burnt, and my coals
Are out, but my taxes are in,
And as for my boots, poor old souls!
Like me, they’ve grown terribly thin.
Unless money comes I shall die,
And, chang’d to a goblin or gnome,
Shall haunt the old people, and cry,
“How ’bout that remittance from home?”
Post Office Orders or stamps. &c.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

POST ME A PARCEL FROM HOME.

Lonely I sit here and long,
Charging the air with my sighs;
Whence comes a yearning so strong?
Fawcett, _you_ know I surmise.
The products of garden and lea
Now haunt me wherever I roam,
Oh! tell the old people from me
To post me a parcel from home.

Have they forgotten my taste,
Or do they expect me to come?
At any rate bid them with haste
To post me a parcel from home.

I think of the butter and cream――
I’ve “boshed” it for many a year――
Of the plums and the apples I dream,
Why shouldn’t they comfort me here?
Some paper and string, don’t you see,
Can now bring me whiffs of the loam,
So do tell my people from me
To post me a parcel from home.
Have they forgotten, &c.

――――:o:――――

A DARWINIAN BALLAD.

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old,
What a pleasant race they were,
And it seems most true that I and you
Are derived from an apish pair.
They all had nails, and some had tails
And some――no “accounts in arrear,”
They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the――these
Of course I will _not_ mention here.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,
For they didn’t know how to make beds
They hadn’t got huts, they dined upon nuts,
Which they cracked upon each other’s heads.
They hadn’t much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,
Or towels, or kettle or fire.
They had _no_ coats nor capes, for ne’er did these apes
Invent what they didn’t require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,
Nor made any boots for his toes,
Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-_chief_,
For _no_ ape thought much of his nose;
They had cold collations, they ate poor relations:
Provided for thus, by-the-bye.
No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang――
He couldn’t, and so didn’t try.

From these though descended our manners are mended,
Though still we can grin and back_bite_!
We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,
And tales are the fashion――at night.
This origination is all speculation――
We gamble in various shapes;
So Mr. Dar_win_ may speculate _in_
Our ancestors having been apes.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Over and over again,
No matter which way I turn,
I always find in the Book of Life
Some lessons I have to learn.
I must take my turn at the mill,
I must grind out the golden grain,
I must work at my task with a resolute will
Over and over again.

* * * * *

The path that has once been trod
Is never so rough to the feet;
And the lesson we once have learned
Is never so hard to repeat.
Though sorrowful tears may fall,
And the heart to its depth be driven
With storm and tempest, we need them all
To render us meet for Heaven.

――――

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
(_As Parodied by Miss Seventeen._)

Over and over again,
No matter whom I may send,
They always find in the old brown box
Some stockings for me to mend.
I must put up my fancy crocheting,
I must go for that horrid old yarn,
And set to work at it, smiling,
Though I hate it――learning to darn.

I never can measure the hole
In even the tiniest stocking,
Nor number the stitches giving way
Of the ornamental clocking;
But the hole must somehow be darned,
And the clocking must be replaced,
And done, too, in such a way
That the stocking be not defaced.

Over and over again
The yarn through the needle goes,
And over and over again
I mend the heels and the toes;
Once doing will not suffice,
And the doing seems, sometimes, in vain
When, after mending it twice and thrice,
A stocking needs mending again.

But though socks that have once been darned
Are never so soft to the feet,
And, mending, if twenty times done,
Is just as hard to repeat;
While sorrowful tears may fall
As my heart grows weary with strife;
I must forget all and darn,
Would I ever be somebody’s wife.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND’S SONG.

Men say that I’m a humourist, and I can tell them why:
Upon the ways of life I look with keen observant eye.
So looked three centuries ago old England’s wondrous WILL,
Whose magic pen immortal made the precincts of Gad’s Hill,
For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.

Not to be poet I pretend――there are but two or three:
And dear old THACKERAY’S caustic touch is not the thing for me.
I could have sketched in modern prose with tolerable skill,
The wild young PRINCE, and reckless POINS, and FALSTAFF on Gad’s
Hill,
For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.

Ay, sweet JACK FALSTAFF! Verily, his humour was sublime;
I introduce my PICKWICK, the FALSTAFF of the time:
Imagine that rare hero engaging with a will,
A mob of men in buckram by moonlight on Gad’s Hill!
For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name.

All round the year men read me: and faith! I mean to write,
So long as these clear eyes of mine are filled with living light,
So long as oddities abound, and laughter lingers still,
So long as there is magic in the memory of Gad’s Hill.
For GAD’S HILL CHARLIE is my name, my boys,
GAD’S HILL CHARLIE[70] is my name.

_Echoes from the Clubs._ September 25, 1867.

――――:o:――――

OVER THE GARDEN WALL.

Oh! my love stood under the walnut tree,
Over the garden wall,
She whispered and said she’d be true to me,
Over the garden wall.
She’d beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair,
She was not very tall, so she stood on a chair,
And many a time have I kissed her there,
Over the garden wall.

_Chorus_――Over the garden wall
The sweetest girl of all.
There never was yet, such eyes of jet,
And you may bet, I’ll never forget,
The night our lips in kisses met,
Over the garden wall.

* * * * *

――――

OVER THE HANDLES.

One day I was riding my wheel so free,
Towards the garden wall;
A charmer was standing and looking at me,
From over the garden wall,
Her face was fair,
So saucy her air
I was rattled completely,
And right then and there
I took a bad header,
And flew through the air
Over the garden wall.

_Chorus_――Over the garden wall, a terrible, terrible fall;
I never did yet a header get
That filled my soul with such regret,
As the time I struck, head-first in the wet,
Over the garden wall.

I picked myself up and said, “How do you do?”
Over the garden wall.
She said, “I’m certainly better than you,”
Over the garden wall;
“But much I should like,
To know why you strike,
And get so hot, and muddy, and dusty like,
And take such a header from off your bike,”
Over the garden wall, &c.
_Chorus_――Over the garden wall, &c.

“My dear,” said I, “I can surely explain,”
Over the garden wall;
“The case in a moment, if I may remain,”
Over the garden wall;
“Your glance was so shy,
I wished to be nigh,
So over the handles I went with a fly!
But now I’ll beware of a saucy black eye,”
Over the garden wall.

_The Wheeling Annual._ 1885.

――――

OVER THE GARDEN WALL.

Willie M’Cann one midsummer night,
Over the garden wall;
Crept to greet his Julia bright,
Over the garden wall.
The daisies gemm’d the tender grass,
And flowers enshrin’d the lovely lass,
Said Willie, “the happiest hours I pass,
Over the garden wall.”
“Over the garden wall――the sweetest time of all!
I’m happy to come, delighted to stay,
Each hour I wish as long as a day;
And sorry I am to wander away
Over the garden wall.”

The hours flew by and an old man peer’d
Over the garden wall;
Then stealthily into the house he steer’d,
Over the garden wall,
But soon returned with a big thick stick,
And caught poor Willie a terrible lick,
That made him scramble excessively quick
Over the garden wall.
Over the garden wall――the sweetest time of all!
He was happy to come, delighted to stay,
But somehow that night I’m sorry to say,
He hurried extremely in getting away
Over the garden wall.

F. L. RICHARDSON.

――――

POPULAR IRISH CHORUS.
(_As sung in April, 1887._)

Then down with the Castle wall!
Home Rule once for all!
On Gladstone yet
Our hearts are set
And you may bet
He’ll never forget
How the wishes of Ireland must be met.
Down with the Castle wall.

――――:o:――――

THE TWO OBADIAHS.

Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,
I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry.
Said the old Obadiah, to the young Obadiah,
Well, that’s queer, Obadiah, so am I.
So am I.

But the two Obadiahs had between them not a brown,
And all they sought to borrow from responded with a frown.
You must pay us what you owe before we lend you what you need,
Said the old Obadiah “that be d――――d.”

* * * * *

This not very elegant song had a considerable music-hall popularity, it was parodied by L. M. Thornton in a version, entitled “_The Two Marias_,” which was rather more vulgar, and less amusing than the original.

――――

THE TWO TORY OBADIAHS.[71]