Chapter II: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (2)

It came with the joyful June, love,
My need for the Irish vote;
I was not such a witless loon, love;
But I knew how to turn my coat;
So I vowed that the men of reason
Were Mr. Parnell and Co.,
Though I thought they were steeped in treason.
Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love.
My love for the National League.
And morning and noon and night, love,
I revelled in dark intrigue.
The worth of their vote had risen,
So I felt my affection glow
For the men I’d have clapt in prison
Only a year ago.

It came with the joyful June, love,――
The General election came;
And the persons who _light_ the _moon_, love,
Were my partners in the game.
But the voters were rude and cruel――
They called me the Empire’s foe,
Though they deemed me a priceless jewel
Only a year ago.

_St. Stephen’s Review._ June 12 & 19, 1886.

――――:o:――――

“MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.”

――――

THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION

(Answered with great wisdom by a Black-haired Beauty.)

My mother bids me dye my hair
The fashionable hue,
Which women now so often wear,
And Nature never grew.
She bids me at their _chignons_ peep,
And see how fair are they:
But _will_ dyed hair its colour keep?
And won’t it soon turn grey?

I see girls in the gay saloon,
Or on the grand parade,
And wonder in my heart how soon
Their hair’s light hue will fade.
Each night before they go to sleep
They dye it, I dare say:
But _will_ dyed hair its colour keep?
And won’t it soon turn grey?

My hair is like the raven’s wing,
So jet black are its curls:
What if away my fears I fling,
And dye, like other girls?
In potash if my head I steep,
I may be fair as they:
But _will_ died hair its colour keep?
And won’t it soon turn grey.

And then, who knows? “Revenge!” may be
Soon outraged Nature’s call,
And, haply, on fair heads you’ll see
The blight of baldness fall!
While such dread thoughts upon me creep,
O ne’er say Dye; Ma, pray!
’Twere best my own black hair to keep,
Till old age turns it grey.

_Punch._ January 6, 1866.

――――

THE GIRL (NOT) OF THE PERIOD.
(_After the jolly_ HAYDN.)

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My mother bids me dye my hair
The fashionable hue;
And change my _chataigne_ locks with care
To red――through green, or blue!
“You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less――
Or what will people say?”
But, ah! I only wish that PIESSE
And LUBIN were away!

[_An interval of two years is supposed to elapse._]

’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone.
That men have called so dear;
I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone,
But sigh for my head-gear!
How I shall look, I dare not guess.
Perhaps quite white or grey!
And folks will laugh aloud when PIESSE
And LUBIN _are_ away.

_Fun._ May 30, 1868.

――――

THE “LANCET” BIDS ME BE A PEER.

[The _Lancet_ urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which leadership of the Commons necessarily involves.]

The _Lancet_ bids me be a Peer,
With robes of gorgeous hue,
Tie up my form in lordly gear,
And act on Beaky’s cue――
Tie up my form in lordly gear,
And act, and act on Beaky’s cue.

For why, it hints, sit still and bear
The tease of Tories gay?
Alas! I own it has me there,
And long to get away――
Alas! I own it has me there.
And long, and long to get away.

’Tis sad to think how Randies clown,
And Wolffs and Wartons jeer;
I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,
And sigh when none can hear――
I gulp this horrid cough-drop down,
And sigh, and sigh when none can hear.

And while the gargle I apply,
Which really isn’t nice.
“The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry
To _Lancet_-framed advice――
“The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry
To _Lan_, to _Lancet_-framed advice.

_Funny Folks._ April 5, 1884.

――――

_Song._――CINDERELLA.

My mother bids me pinch my waist
Another inch or two,
For, though already tightly laced,
She says it will not do!
And, oh! she says that I must wear
A body cut so low――
My cheeks will flame with honest shame
As through the streets I go!

She says I must expose my charms,
And cause the roughs rare sport.
And leave quite bare my neck and arms,
Because we’re going to Court;
But I have heard our Court is pure――
I know our Queen is so――
She cannot, then, require, I’m sure,
Poor me half-dressed to go!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1884.

――――:o:――――

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay;
Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs――
Things that are made to fade and fall away.
When they have blossom’d but a few short hours.
Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may die――
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.
Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: the thing you love may change,
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not, love not.

Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said,
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head;
Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.
Love not, love not.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

――――

SMOKE NOT.

Smoke not! smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay,
Cigars are made from leaves of cauliflowers;
Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay,
Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours.
Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! the weed you smoke may change,
The healthiness of your stomachic tone;
Things to the eye grow queer, and passing strange,
All thought seems undefined――save one――to be alone.
Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! the tradesman whose weeds you smoke may die,
May perish from the cabbage bearing earth;
The sordid dun may to your chamber hie
Sent by the Trustees in their tinless dearth.
Smoke not! smoke not!

Smoke not! smoke not! O warning vainly said,
Cane and cap-paper since we first did try;
Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head,
And all in vain do anxious mothers cry
Smoke not! smoke not!

(Popular in Oxford in 1861).

――――

“STAY” NOT!
THE SURGEON’S SONG TO THE SEX.
(_Sung by Dr. Richardson._)

“Stay” not! No longer don
Tight cincture to your hurt,
Trust Lady Harberton,
Try the divided skirt.
Most parlous is your state,
Your only hope of cure
Lies――try it ere too late――
In dual garmenture.
“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

“Stay” not! The torturing steel,
The rib-compressing lace,
Will mar the human weal,
Will wreck the human race.
What profits waist of wasp.
Shape on the hour-glass model,
When you don’t breathe, but gasp,
When you don’t walk, but waddle?
“Stay” not! “Stay” not!

[_And they stay not――to listen_.

_Punch._ February 17, 1883.

――――

SONG OF THE ELECTION.

Vote not, vote not for me, I pray,
There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers,
My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away
Soon as they hear that you are one of ours.
Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild,
’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke,
I knew the value of your hate, and smiled,
But, oh! to have you for me is no joke!
Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given;
Oh, why be generous at another’s cost?
Against your vote alone I might have striven,
But when you used your influence all was lost.
He votes! all’s lost!

From _Poems of a Life_, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

――――:o:――――

SOME DAY.

(_Music by Milton Wellings._)
A PARODY.

We know not when the day shall be;
We know not how the cost to meet;
What sites to choose, should all agree;
Or will our plans work when complete.
It may not be till years have passed,
Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away.
Debate is long――but, poor, at last
Our wordy wars may end――Someday.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,
Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;
Tories first, Tories first――first have said they’d house you;
Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

We cared not once your woes to hear,
Nor how you died, nor how you live;
But now election time grows near,
Your votes to us we’d have you give;
And when we’re in, Someday, Someday,
Streets wider grown, well built, you’ll see;
And ev’ry man, new quartered, may
Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,
Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;
Tories first, Tories first――first have said they’d house you;
Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us now.

REPEALER.
_Truth._ November 15, 1883.

――――:o:――――

STRANGERS NOW.
(After “Strangers yet” by R. Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton.)
Set to Music by Claribel.

Years of chequered life together,
Days of fair and stormy weather,
Hours of toil and weary pain,
Moments of eternal gain――
All are gone――we know not how
And have left us strangers now!

Words that flowed to lighten care,
Thoughts which others could not share
Hopes too bright for mortal eyes,
Prayers for wisdom from the skies,――
All have ceased――we know not how
And have left us strangers now!

Will it evermore be thus?
Shall the past be lost to us
Can the souls united here
Never once again be near?
Must we to the sentence bow
“Strangers ever――Strangers now!”

Thorns amid the roses press
Earth is but a wilderness;
Flitting o’er a fallen race
Love can find no resting place.
Where his flowers immortal grow
Shall we strangers be as now?

_Once a Week._ 1869.

――――:o:――――

“THE BEATING OF MY OWN WIFE.”
(Air――“The beating of my own heart,” by Lord Houghton).

I’d melted all my wages,
Ere of beer I had my fill,
For a bob I asked the Missus
――There’s a way where there’s a will.
She refused, I took the poker,
The neighbours never stirred,
For the beating of my own wife
Was the only sound they heard.

A sneak blowed to the Crushers,
I was lugged afore the Beak――
But I know’d that it was nothing:
The old gal had her squeak:
They fined me forty shillings,
I paid it like a bird,
And the beating of my own wife,
Perhaps, that night was heard.

But rights is rights no longer;
CROSS swears he’ll eat his hat,
Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals,
Shall suffer from the Cat.
If that brutal measure passes,
Take WILLIAM SIKES, his word,
That the beating of his own wife
Will not again be heard.

_Punch._ November 21, 1874.

――――

LOVE AND SCIENCE.

[The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible.]

I wandered by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
The Sphygmophon was fixed there,
Its wires ran past the hill.
I heeded not the grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,
For the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

To test this apparatus,
One end I closely press’d,
The other, at a distance,
I hoped was next his chest.
I listened for his footfall,
I listened for his word,
Still the bumping of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not――
The night came on alone;
And thinking he had tricked me,
I loosed the Sphygmophon.
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr’d,
When――the thumping of his own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,
When some one stood behind,
His hand was on my shoulder
(But that I did not mind).
Each spoke then――nearer――nearer,
We shouted every word;
But the booming of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

_Funny Folks._ March 29, 1879.

――――

MY KING.
(After “My Queen.” Music by Blumenthal.)

When and how shall I meet him, if ever?
What are the words he first will say?
How will the barriers now that sever
Our kindred spirits be rolled away?
This self-same daylight on him is shining,
Shining somewhere the while I sing――
The only one who, my will resigning,
Could I acknowledge my King, my King!

Whether his hair be golden or raven,
Whether his eye be dark or blue,
I know not now, but ’twould be engraven
Some day hence as the loveliest hue.
Many a face I have liked for a minute,
Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring
But ever and aye there was something in it,
Something that could not be his, my King!

I will not dream of him, handsome and strong,
My ideal love may be weak and slight;
It matters not to what class he belong,
He would be noble enough in my sight.
He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord,
Or he may be learned in everything,
But if ever he comes he will touch the chord
Whose melody waits for the hand of its King!

But he must be courteous towards the lowly,
To the weak and sorrowful, loving too;
He must be courageous, refined, holy,
By nature exalted, and firm, and true.
To such I might fearlessly give the keeping
Of love that would never out-grow its spring:
There would be few tears of a woman’s weeping
If they loved such men as my King, my King!

_London Society._

“My Queen,” which appeared originally in _London Society_ some time before the above imitation, consisted of four verses, but as arranged by Blumenthal the second verse is omitted:――

Whether her hair be golden or raven,
Whether her eyes be hazel or blue,
I know not now but ’twill be engraven,
On that white day as my perfect hue.
Many a girl I have loved for a minute,
Worshipped many a face I have seen;
But ever and aye there was something in it,
Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

――――

MY SCHEME.
(As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r).

Why and when were we driven to moot it?
Was it knocked off in an afternoon?
Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it?
Have we set it afloat too late?――too soon?
Did we try it because we feared a flounder?
No matter.――Since still we reign supreme,
Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder,
Have we ever turned out than, “My Scheme, my Scheme!”

* * * * *

_Punch._ July, 12, 1879.

――――

ONLY A LOCK OF HIS HAIR.
(Companion to the popular song, “Only a lock of Her Hair.”)

Only a lock of his hair,
Last of some twenty and seven;
Souvenirs all to the fair,
In the heyday of ecstacy given.
Lost in the frolics of youth――
In the time to which thought has recalled one;
To the Phrynes, declaring, forsooth,
That the lover for them’s not a bald one.

Only a lock of his hair,
Last of the twenty and seven;
And then the bald pate, which the wag
Has wittily likened to heaven
(And whatever we think of the taste,
The wit there can be no denying)――
As a place bright and shining above,
Where there’s never more parting nor dye-ing.

――――

ONLY.

Only a common door yard
Back of a common flat;
Only a kitchen doorstep.
And an old J. Thos. cat
Lazily in the sunshine
Dozing on the mat.

Only an open window
Directly overhead;
Only a fiendish boarder,
His face with grins o’erspread
(All of which implies a big surprise
For that sleeping quadruped).

Only a pitcher of water
Dumped with precision square
Icy down upon that J. T. C.
So calmly sleeping there――
And a frenzied chunk of cat-meat
Jumps six ft. in the air.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

Only a hair on his shoulder,
Long, and wavy, and brown,
Only a cock-and-bull story
In exchange for his wife’s deep frown.
Only a broken broomstick
Wildly waved in the air;
Only a strip of court-plaster――
His wife had discovered the hair.

_The Evening Gazette._ [Aberdeen], _February_ 5, 1886.

――――

A CAT-ASTROPHE.

Only a cyclist gigantic,
Astride on a sixty-inch wheel,
Eyeing sidewise a maiden romantic,
As he drives on his swift steed of steel.

Only a poor little tabby,
Slinking slyly across the smooth street,
Her mottled fur dirty and shabby,
Out she darts from beneath the girl’s feet.

Only a sky-rocket header,
While the maiden just stands still and stares;
A poor feline, who couldn’t be deader,
And a whopping old bill for repairs.

_Once a Week._ June, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my
bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud
and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again,
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on
my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands
near,
The church where we were wed, Mary――I see the spire from here:
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break
your rest;
For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your
breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;
But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:――
There’s nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm’s young
strength was gone:
There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your
brow;
I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to
break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my
sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and
sore;
Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no
more.

I’m bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true,
But I’ll not forget you, darling, in the land I’m going to,
They say there’s bread and work for all, and the sun shines
always there;
But I’ll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I’ll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;
And I’ll think I see that little stile where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you
were my bride!

LADY DUFFERIN.

――――

THE TENANT’S FAREWELL.
(_A Lay of the 24th of December_.)

I’m flitting in the style, Mary,
Which each half year we’ve tried,
At Michaelmas and Lady-day,
Since first you were my bride.
The quarters follow quickly on,
And the rents mount up so high;
But there’s brass upon my cheek, Mary,
And there’s no green in my eye.

The place is greatly changed, Mary,
We’ve boned the fixtures all;
We’ve torn the locks from off each door,
The bell-pulls from each wall.
And we’ll miss our soft warm beds to-night,
To-morrow’s quarter day;
And the landlord’s waiting for the rent
I never mean to pay.

I’m very busy now, Mary,
The while yon cart attends,
For I’m packing up our furniture,
And all our odds and ends:
For these goods are all we have, Mary
Our household’s joy and pride;
And there’s nothing left to seize on now,
We’ve packed them all inside.

We’re bidding now a long farewell,
My Mary, to our den;
And we’ll not forget next Quarter-day
To do the same again.
Folks say it is but fair to pay
One’s landlord, I don’t care;
For I ne’er intend to do so,
Were it fifty times as fair.

_Diogenes._ 1853.

――――

THE LAY OF THE HENPECKED.
_By Lady Sufferin._

I’m sitting in a style, Mary,
Which doesn’t coincide
With what I’ve been accustomed to
Since you became my bride;
The men are singing comic songs,
The lark gets loud and high,
For I’ve ask’d――since you’re from home, Mary――
A party on the sly.

The place is rather changed, Mary,
Of smoke it slightly smells,
And the table and the floor are strewn
With heaps of oyster shells;
And the men have marked your damask chairs
With many a muddy streak,
And they’ve drawn burnt cork moustaches on
Your mother’s portrait’s cheek.

I’m very jolly now, Mary,
’Midst old and valued friends,
(Though they’ve in the carpet burnt some holes,
With their Havannahs’ ends).
For thou wert somewhat cross with me,
And ever apt to chide,
But there’s nothing left to care for now
You’re gone to the sea-side.

And yet I fear when all you’ve learnt,
This ev’ning’s work I’ll rue;
And I’ll not forget it, darling, for
You won’t allow me to.
In vain they sing “The Pope he leads,”
Likewise “Begone dull Care;”
For at thought of you, I vow I can’t
Sit easy in my chair.

_Our Miscellany_, edited by E. H. Yates, and R, B. Brough,
(London, Routledge & Co., 1856).

This amusing Parody had already been published in Albert Smith’s _The Man in the Moon_.

――――

SONG FOR THE SITZ.

I’m sitting in this style, Mary,
The bathman by my side;
And if you saw me now, Mary,
You would not be my bride;
They call this hatching health, Mary,
I cannot tell you why;
There’s water to my waist, Mary,
And water in each eye.

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by J. B, Oddfish. London: Simpkin Marshall & Co., 1865. The same amusing little work contains parodies of the following songs:――“Still so Gently;” “Kiss me quick, and go my Honey;” “The Storm” (Cease Rude Boreas); and a long one on “We’re a ’Noddin,” entitled “We’re all Pressing.” These Songs are explanatory of the treatment adopted at the various Hydropathic Establishments in Malvern.

――――

CHANGED FOR THE WORST.

I’m sitting at my window, Jack,
Where we’ve sat side by side,
Many a bright ev’ning long ago,
In life’s thoughtless, gay spring tide,
When we thought more of pleasure, Jack,
Than three per cents or four:
Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy――
But days we’ll see no more!

This place is greatly changed, Jack,
The fields are all “clean gone,”
The shady lanes through which we strolled
Have all been built upon:
My house is flanked by a “Dun Cow,”
A “Green Man,” and a “Duke,”
A chandler’s shop is opposite――
The owner’s name is Snook!

“Solitude” is now “Victoria-street,”
“The Hermitage” “Albert-square,”
“The Fairies’ Haunt” a Music Hall,
In which I’ve got a share.
A cab-stand’s near “Our Lady’s Well,”
A workhouse in “Love Lane,”
A church and schools in “Lovers’ Walk”
From near which starts the train!

We’re treated to all “London cries”
From morn till dewy eve,
And strong-lunged preachers in the streets
Beseech us to “believe;”
We’re taxed for water, streets, and gas,
And “Bobbies” by the score――
Ah, everything is changed, Jack,
From the happy days of yore!

But, worse than all, the weather, Jack,
Has quite “gone to the dogs”――
In May we’d sleet, in June we’ve frost,
In July we’ll have fogs;
I cannot leave the house, Jack,
But I shiver with the cold――
Ah, the weather’s not the same, boy,
As in the days of old!

And _I_ am greatly changed, Jack,
I do not walk so straight
As when each day beheld us
At pic-nic, race, or _fête_;
My hair has grown quite thin, Jack,
My lungs are far from right,
I’ve rheumatism, lumbago, gout,
I cannot sleep at night.

I think if I’d a wife, Jack,
She’d make me soon all right,
By watching o’er my comfort, boy,
Both morn, and eve, and night:
I’ll take one,――if I find a girl
Of beauty, youth, and wealth,
Who wants a husband sound at heart,
Though not quite sound in health!

_The Hornet._ June 21, 1871.

――――

THE CHURCHYARD STILE.
(An Imitation).

I left thee young and gay, Mary,
When last the thorn was white;
I went upon my way, Mary,
And all the world seemed bright;
For though my love had ne’er been told,
Yet, yet I saw thy form
Beside me in the midnight watch;
Above me, in the storm.
And many a blissful dream I had,
That brought thy gentle smile,
Just as it came when last we leaned
Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I’m here to seek thee now, Mary,
As all I love the best;
To fondly tell thee how, Mary,
I’ve hid thee in my breast.
I came to yield thee up my heart,
With hope, and truth, and joy,
And crown with Manhood’s honest faith
The feelings of the Boy.
I breathed thy name, but every pulse
Grew still and cold the while
For I was told thou wert asleep
Just by the Churchyard Stile.

* * * * *

ELIZA COOK.

――――

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,
’Twas on a market day,
A low-back’d car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck’d with flowers of spring,
No flow’r was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-back’d car――
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,
But just rubb’d his old poll,
And looked after the low-back’d car.

* * * * *

――――

THE LOW-NECK’D DRESS.

When first I saw Miss Clara,
A west-end ball ’twas at,
A low-neck’d dress she wore, and near
The open door she sat;
But when that door was thriving oak,
Exposed to tempests keen
And biting air
So much, ’twas ne’er
As the blooming girl I mean,
As she sat in her low-neck’d dress,
Becoming I must confess;
For of all the men round,
Not one could be found,
But looked after the low-neck’d dress.

The polka’s tumult over,
The fondest of mammas
Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls;
But scornful “hums” and “ha’s”
From Clara (artful goddess!)
The kind proposal meet――
Quite faint she feels――
She fairly reels――
She never could bear the heat!
So she sits in her low-neck’d dress;
But the heat would have troubled her less,
For long weeks will have roll’d
Ere she’s rid of her cold,
That she caught from the Low-neck’d dress.

I’d rather see those shoulders
’Neath dowdy cloak of fur,
Or pilot coat, and round that throat
A ploughman’s comforter;
For I’d know that tender bosom
Was safe from climate’s ill,
And the heart so sweet
Would much longer beat
Than I now feel sure it will
While she clings to her low-neck’d dress
I’ve proposed, and she answer’d “yes.”
Next week it’s to be,
But make sure I shall see
That it’s not in a low-neck’d dress.

_Diogenes._ October, 1853.

――――

THE DINING CAR.

When first I used the railway,
’Twas in Mugby Junction days,
With their sandwiches so salt and stale,
Their buns with the fly-blown glaze,
Their Melton pies of weight and size,
Soup too hot down to fling,
And sausage-rolls, if not men’s souls,
Their stomachs made to wring.
As you jumped from your first-class car,
The minxes at Mugby Bar
Your change tossed down,
With a flounce and a frown,
And a haughty, “There you are!”

Five minutes, a frantic fixture,
You strove with might and main
To gulp some scalding mixture,
While the bell rang――for the train!
Your tea or soup you swallowed,
As much as did not fly
On your shirt-front or your waistcoat,
From the dense crowd hustling by:
While the minxes at Mugby Bar,
Smiled, serene, upon the war,
For they’d learnt the art,
And looked the part――
Of “We are your betters far.”

But in PULLMAN’S dining-car, Sir,
Now run on the Northern Line,
You’ve a soup, and a roast and _entrées_,
And your cheese and your pint of wine.
At his table snug the passenger sits,
Or to the smoke-room moves,
While on either side the landscape flits,
Like a world in well-greased grooves.
Thanks to PULLMAN’S dining-car,
No more Mugby Junction Bar――
No more tough ham and chicken,
Nor passenger-pickin’
For the minxes behind the Bar!

Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir,
With elbow-room allowed,
And leisure to dine and sip your wine,
And blow the digestive cloud.
_Punch_ takes off his hat to PULLMAN,
And his sleeping and eating car,
In the cause of British digestions,
Against Mugby Junction Bar!
Be the journey never so far,
With his dining and sleeping-car,
At our ease in our inn,
Along we spin,
Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar!

_Punch._ November 1, 1879.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD BRIGADE.

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade
Who fought with us side by side?
Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade,
Fought till they fell and died!
Who so ready and undismayed?
Who so merry and true?
Where are the boys of the Old Brigade;
Where are the lads we knew?
Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder
Steadily blade by blade!
Ready and strong, marching along,
Like the boys of the Old Brigade.

* * * * *

F. E. WEATHERLY.

This stirring song, set to a martial air by Odoardo Barri, was dedicated to the Royal Artillery Brigade, it is also a favourite march of the celebrated old corps, the London Rifle Brigade, whose band generally plays it on parade after the Regimental march “Ninety-five,” of which a parody is given on page 20.

――――

THE LIBERAL BRIGADE.

Sons of the old and staunch brigade,
Who marched on side by side,
Muster your forces of every grade,
And scatter the foemen wide.
Let us be ready and none dismayed,
Let us be steady and true;
As sons of the old and staunch brigade,
The old pioneers we knew.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,
Ready and none dismayed,
Marching along, steady and strong,
Like sons of the old brigade.

Form in the streets of the busy town,
Form in the rural lane,
Form where the turreted mansions frown,
And form on the open plain.
Liberals all, give your cheerful aid,
Manfully play your part;
And, like your sires of the old brigade,
You’ll live in your country’s heart.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,
Ready and none dismayed;
Marching along, steady and strong.
Like sons of the old brigade.

From _Songs for Liberal Electors_, 1886.

――――

PROFESSOR BROWNE’S WONDERFUL TONIC LOTION.

Rare were the joys when our hair decayed,
We’d naught but to hide our pride:
Older and older, shade did fade,
Naught but to tell it died.
Who so ready as Browne to aid
With Tonic Lotion true?
Try, and with joy see, undismayed,
Hair where before none grew.

Then steadily bolder and bolder,
Steadily shade by shade,
Healthy and strong, hairs come along,
Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

Over the sea far and wide they cry――
“Browne’s Tonic Lotion we love;
Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry,
And fresh comes a crop above.
Not weak and shabby, now they are made
Strong, full of grace, and smart;
So great our joy, thanks to Browne’s best aid.
That deeply we’ll praise Browne’s art.”

Then steadily bolder and bolder,
Steadily shade by shade,
Healthy and strong, hairs come along.
Oh! the joys of Browne’s potent aid.

――――:o:――――

_Solo._――MRS. KENDAL.

I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty five!
And so to keep I shall contrive,
Until I long enough have played
An ample fortune to have made,
Then I, with bitter scorn, intend
The stage to fiercely reprehend,
And publicly to set my face
Against this national disgrace.
Meanwhile, ’till I can this contrive,
I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

When I the age of forty see,
No more the stage shall know of me;
No more will I take leading parts
With actresses who show their _cartes_;
That is, I won’t unless, of course,
Things unforeseen my hand should force.
If all goes well, though, at that age
I mean to gladly quit the stage!
Meantime, until my time arrive,
I’m thirty-five! I’m thirty-five!

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1884.

Mrs. Kendal (of the St. James’s Theatre, London) read a paper on the modern stage at the Social Science Congress, held in Birmingham, in September, 1884. Some of the opinions she expressed gave great offence in theatrical circles.

――――:o:――――

FAR AWAY.
_A Song of Swindling Directors._

Where is our last big _coup_?
Far, far away!
Where are our profits, too?
Far, far away!
’Till, in our indigence,
We think of getting hence,
Perhaps clients have less sense,
Far, far away!
Far away! Far away!

Where are those “specs” we made?
Far, far away!
Where is our quiet trade!
Far, far away!
Once we had mansions fine,
Now lodgings are our line;
In two-pair backs we pine――
Far, far away!
Far away! Far away!

Gone are our prancing steeds,
Far, far away!
Gone those expensive weeds.
Far, far away!
Gone with our mashing suits,
Gone with our varnished boots;
Gone with our hothouse fruits――
Far, far away!
Far away, far away!

Once there were “bogus” lines,
Far, far away!
Likewise much “salted” mines,
Far, far away!
O how we “bulled” their shares,
Then how we turned to “bears,”
None now such “sells” prepares,
Far, far away!
Far away, far away!

P’rhaps folks can still be “done,”
Far, far away!
So we will cut and run,
Far, far away!
Here swindles now are vain,
But, once across the main,
We may pick up again,
Far, far away!
Far away, far away!

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1884.

――――

THE FARNBOROUGH SOW.

During the Anti-Tithe Agitation in Kent, in 1885, the following Parody was sung by the Farmers, one verse only is omitted, on account of its coarseness. In other respects the song is an exact copy of one obtained at an Anti-Tithe Meeting in Farnborough, April, 1885:――

There is a fine old sow,
Down Farn-boro’ way,
She belongs to Brave Joe Stow.
And people say,
The Parson tried to sneak that sow
In a dirty way.
But Joe, he made the mud to fly,
Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh,
And made them from the village hie
Far, far, away.

Oh! where is the old Sow now?
Safe Farn-boro’ way.
And where is the Parson gone,
Nobody can say.
But Kentish Farmers all have swore
To pay his monstrous tithes no more,
And spite of Bailiffs by the score,
The Farmers win the day.

Let us lend Joe Stow a hand,
Down Farn-boro’ way.
To fight the Parson and his band
Who will ruin him they say:
Let’s fight against this cruel law,
Which from our labours fill the maw
Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw,
Let’s sweep the curse away.

――――

There was another parody of _Far Away_ which was very popular in the Music Halls a short time ago. Several of the verses were coarse and slangy, the following were the best:――

FAR, FAR AWAY.

Where is a bobby found,
Far, far away!
It’s ten to one he’s off his round,
Far, far away!
Should you do wrong and hold the pelf,
And tip to some blue coated elf,
Where does he take himself,
Far, far away!

I sent off thirty stamps so meek,
Far, far away!
To learn to earn five pounds per week,
Far, far away!
It turned out a swindling plan,
The answer came, and thus it ran,
Start a baked potato can;
Far, far away!

Where are my Sunday clothes?
Far, far away!
Resting in sweet repose,
Far, far away!
Well looked after there’s no doubt,
They are simply up the spout,
But where’s the coin to get them out?
Far, far away!

The cry of outcast London’s known,
Far, far away!
All may hear their bitter moan,
Far, far away!
Homeless, starved, without a friend,
While we to savages attend,
All our Charity we send,
Far, far away!

――――

NUNEHAM.
“_Dulce est desipere in loco._”

Where is now the merry party
I was with a month ago,
At that jovial Nuneham picnic,
Where the ladies flirted so?
On that balmy summer evening
Chaperons behind did stay;
All the rest dispersed and wandered
In the woods, far away.

Some of us in paths secluded.
With the girls we loved did roam,
Mothers’ knew their pretty daughters
Soon would find another home;
So they like indulgent mothers
Were content to let them stay,
With us as we strolled in silence
Far away, far away.

Some unwed are still remaining,――
Will remain so to the last;
Some have changed their names, and like their
New names better than their past.
And they bless with all their little
Hearts that balmy summer day,
When in Nuneham’s woods they wandered
Far away, far away.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_. By Adon. (London, Chapman and Hall, 1874).

――――:o:――――

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There’s none like pretty Sally,
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

* * * * *

HENRY CAREY.
――――

A parody of this famous song, entitled _The Rhino_, appeared in _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1824. It was devoted to insulting Queen Caroline (the unfortunate wife of George IV). and her advisers, Lord Brougham and Alderman Wood, and is quite obsolete now.

In “The Bentley Ballads” (London. Richard Bentley) is a complete Latin version of _Sally in our Alley_, entitled _In Saram_. It will be found on page 406 of the 1862 edition, and is signed G. K. Gillespie, A.M.

――――

SOLLY IN OUR ALLEY.
(By a grateful Cadger.)

Of all the flats with blunt that part,
There’s none so green as Solly;
He’s got a kind benevolent ’art,
And is know’d in our Alley.
Oh, don’t I like the blessed day
As comes afore the Monday!
Cause why, it is old Solly’s way
To go to church on Sunday.

And there a-watching nigh the door,
We beggars waits for Solly;
He takes sitch pity on the poor――
My eye, wot precious folly!
In mud and wet I slops about
Without a shoe or stockin,’
And all in rags, there’s not a doubt
But what my looks is shockin’.

But wet and dirt I never minds:
A hobjec’ melancholy,
I bears it all, because I finds
Thereby a friend in Solly.
I’m bound I’d get a underd pounds,
By cadgin’ out of Solly,
His wealth and riches so abounds,
And he’s a muff so jolly.

_Punch._ September 18, 1852.

――――

A SALLY IN FAVOUR OF OLD HARRY.

Of all the Peers within the House,
(And pretty well I know ’em),
There isn’t one with half the nouse
Of gallant HENRY BROUGHAM.

* * * * *

We for his equals look in vain,
’Twill take some time to grow ’em:
So let us hope we shall retain
Some long time yet――old BROUGHAM.

_Punch._ June 23, 1855.

――――

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

[As corrected by the Rev. Howling Blazes, of Clapham, to meet the views of the Directors of Exeter Hall, who refused to allow the song to be sung with the “objectionable” verse describing the singer’s enjoyment of Sunday.]

Of all the days that’s in the week,
I ’umbly love but one day,
To which I give a Jewish name,
But heathens call a Sunday;
For then between three sermon-times,
I sit in my dark alley,
And think upon the wickedness,
Of this here worldly Walley.

_Punch._ March 29, 1856:

―――

BALLAD FOR JOHN BULL.

Of all the folks in purse that smart
I best know money’s valley;
My pocket lies so near my heart――
I _do_ hate that Shere Ali!

I ne’er enjoy a mind serene
On any blesséd one day;
Not e’en on that which comes between
The Saturday and Monday.

Those telegraphs, they break my rest;
From one ere I can rally,
Another comes about that pest
Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali!

But, for a hundred million pounds,
I must not shilly-shally:
With Russia close behind his bounds,
’Twon’t do to stand Shere Ali.
_Punch._ October 26, 1878.

――――

SALLY. (Sarah Bernhardt.)
(From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.)

Of all tragediennes so smart,
There’s none like famous Sally;
She’d be the darling of each heart
If she would’nt shilly shally,
There is no actress in the land
Who knows so well her “valley;”
No spoiled child of a noble art
So paid and puffed as Sally.

Of all the pets of the Francaise
There was but one the fashion,
And that’s when Sarah had to play
In scene of love and passion;
And then decked out in fine array,
With Hollingshead to rally,
They cared not what they had to pay
If they could witness Sally.

They thought of Sarah when at church,
And for her voice of honey
They left poor Irving in the lurch
To spend unbounded money
Upon this famous Gallic wench,
Who spoke so musically;
And those who knew the least of French.
Were loudest praising Sally.

’Tis true that many an English star
Was prone to rail at Sally,
And say the slaves of fashion are
Like slaves who row a galley.
Since, therefore, at the Gaiety
She can no longer dally,
How happy they――and we――shall be
To hear no more of Sally.

_Funny Folks._ July 19, 1879.

――――

BULLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the brutes I loathe to meet,
One lives in our alley;
He leaves his wife with nought to eat
When he for drink doth sally.
Of all the days within the week
He only loves but one day,
And that’s the day that comes between
The Saturday and Monday.

For then, until his cash is gone,
He fills a flowing measure,
And ere he goes to bed at dawn,
He kicks his wife for pleasure.
Poor soul! she drinks a little too,
And gets in debt with “Tally,”
For which he beats her black and blue――
That Bully in our Alley.

She locks him up, but lets him free
By answering shilly-shally,
And he half kills her in his glee,
That Bully in our Alley.
May Justice, lately something slack,
And much inclined to dally,
Soon leave her mark upon his back――
That Bully in our Alley!

_Funny Folks._

THE LAST DAYS OF SALLY AND OUR ALLEY.
(_A Sanitary Comic Song by_ S. BRETT.)

Of all the girls in our town
There was none that suffered like Sally;
For Sal and her parents got broken down,
And with them, our alley.

Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats,
Round Holborn Hill and its valley;
And Sal sold mats and bought old hats,
When out she chose to sally. Chorus.

One unlucky night, the cats did afright,
And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally;
Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats
That kicked up a row in the alley.

_Repeat 1st verse for Chorus._

The very next night, the cats out of spite,
Stole a first-class door mat from Sally,
Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats
That stole all the lost goods in the alley.

Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats,
That belonged to the mother of Sally;
Then Sal let loose her father’s rats,
That destroyed all the cats in the alley.

Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got,
And he tarried to bully poor Sally,
And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog,
And destroyed all the rats in the alley.

Then the neighbours joined the cat’s meat men,
To have their revenge upon Sally,
And they set all their dogs at her, and then
Sal slew all the dogs in the alley.

The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame?
The neighbours said, ’twas Sally!
But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm,
And never mind the alley.

Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot,
And Sal’s neighbours and parents, and Sally,
And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done,
The School Board took the alley.

――――

THE GAIETY BAR.

Of all the days that’s in the week,
Your actor loves but one day;
And that’s the day that comes betwixt
The Friday and the Sunday.

For then he’s dressed all in his best,
At Spiers and Pond’s he’ll dally;
The ghost has walked, and he doth “part”
Like a Prince in Prosser’s Alley.

――――

SHILLY-SHALLY.

Of all the follies on _our_ part
There’s none like Shilly Shally,
A weakness that the Liberal cart
Upsets continually.
There’s not a cry,――Home-Rule, Church, Land,――
To which I will not rally,
But there’s one thing I _cannot_ stand,
That’s foreign Shilly-Shally.

Of policies absurd and weak
_The_ worst is Shilly-Shally.
If Office we’re about to seek,
I fear that principally.
Put to the test, I’ll do my best
Enthusiastically,
And follow Gladstone like the rest,
But oh! _don’t_ Shilly-Shally!

Let “Pussy”[3] be allowed to purr,
As Leader, musically;
But _not_ as Foreign Minister,
To play at Shilly-Shally!
If at the F. O. we may see
True nerve and _nous_, O Halle-
Lujah! how happy we shall be
Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally!

_Punch._ February 6, 1886.

――――:o:――――

ALICE GRAY.

She’s all my fancy painted her, she’s lovely, she’s divine,
But her heart it is another’s, it never can be mine;
Yet I have lov’d as man ne’er lov’d, a love without decay,
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of Alice Gray.

* * * * *

LORD GREY.

“The poor Duke of Wellington has not yet got over his attempt to supplant Lord Grey’s ministry. The remembrance of his discomfiture still haunts him by day and night, and in the evenings, just before sun-set, he may be heard by the stranger passing underneath the windows of Apsley, to sing in pathetic tones, the following plaintive melody:――

It’s all my fancy painted it,
It’s lovely, it’s divine;
But, alas! it is another’s,
It never can be mine.

Yet strove I as he never strove,
Efforts without decay;
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking,
For the place of premier Grey.

His table now is loaded,
With notes in black and white,
And his salary so liberal,
He clutches with delight.

The cash, alas! is not for me,
The money’s turned away;
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
For the place of premier Grey.

For that I’d take the liberal side,
For that the bill call good,
For that I’d dare the rabble strife,
Though it cost a sea of blood.

By night I’d take no slumbers,
Whate’er e’en Praed might say,
But scorn’d is the heart that’s breaking,
For the place of premier Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath Reform’s bright sun,
I’ve shook ’neath Brougham’s blast;
But my pilgrimage is nearly done,
The heavy conflict’s pass’d.

And when the great Act digs my grave,
Party will haply say,
“Oh! his heart, his heart was broken,
For the place of premier Grey.”

_Figaro in London._ August 11, 1832.

――――

SALLY MAY.

She’s naught my fancy painted her,
She’s not at all divine;
I wish she was another’s
But fate has made her mine:
I’m used as man was never used;
I never have my way――
My peace, my peace is broken,
By cruel Sally May!

Her sandy hair is scattered o’er
A face of dingy white,
Her goggle eye now sleepy looks,
Now flashes fierce with spite!
Her sandy hair I hate to see――
Her eyes are set awry,
My rest, my rest is broken,
By cruel Sally May.

From her I’ve climb’d the mountain’s side,
From her have braved the flood!
With her I’ve felt the battle’s strife,
For she has shed my blood――
By night she breaks my slumbers,
And watches me by day,
My rest, my rest is broken,
By ugly Sally May.

I’ve sung beneath that noisy tongue,
And trembled as she passed,
But, now my business is done,
She’s broke my head at last,
And when the doctor binds my wound,
In pity he will say,
His head, his heart was broken
By wicked Sally May!

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

CAPTAIN GRAY.

He’s all his agent painted him,
A captain in the line;
But his pay he spent on others,
And none has e’er been mine.
I work’d as ne’er a tailor work’d
For him without delay;
And I became a bankrupt,
Through trusting Captain Gray.

In dark blue coat all braided o’er,
In ducks of spotless white,
In bright velvet waistcoat,
He flashes out at night,
That coat was braided all by me;
Those ducks and waistcoat gay
I made, and am a bankrupt,
Through trusting Captain Gray.

I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch,
I’ve into gaol been cast;
But my imprisonment is done,
And I’m white-washed at last.
Oh, when the court my schedule had,
My lawyer there did say,
Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt,
Through trusting Captain Gray.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ALICK GREY.

He’s all my fancy painted him,
He’s all I thought divine;
But his heart it is decoy’d away,
He never can be mine:
Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d,
A love without decay:
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
For the love of Alick Grey.

I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun,
And tremble in the blast,
But now my course is nearly run,
The weary conflict’s past;
And when the turf lies o’er my grave,
May pity haply say,
Oh! her heart, her heart was broken,
For the love of Alick Grey.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

She’s not what fancy painted her――
I’m sadly taken in;
If some one else had won her heart, I
Should not have cared a pin.
I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e’er could be;
I wonder how she ever could
Have so much humbugged me.

They cluster round and shake my hand――
They tell me I am blest:
My case they do not understand,
I think that I know best.
They say she’s fairest of the fair――
They drive me mad and madder,
What do they want by it? I swear,
I only wish they had her.

’Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall:
What would they say to see the box
In which she keeps them all?
Her taper fingers it is true,
’Twere difficult to match;
What would they say if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?

_Punch._ 1842.

――――

KITTY BROWN.

She’s all the chimney sweep described,
She’s eats as much as nine,
But her appetite it is her own,
And never can be mine;
Yet eat I more than any man,
In country or in town.
Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying
For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

Her false and crooked teeth fix in
A mouth both grim and wide,
Her pig like eyes squint now and then,
And sometimes leer aside.
She did not buy those teeth for me
But food to gobble down――
Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying
For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

For her I’d keep an eating-house
If she provided cash,
For her if she would send a haunch,
I’d make some venison hash;
Charms which I never saw I’d praise,
Change to a smile her frown――
Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying
For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain,
And suffered hunger dread,
But the cursed cat has run away,
With my bonny baked sheep’s head;
And as I rove, some wag may say,
That fool without a crown.
His _head_ lost, while he _warmed_ his _heart_,
For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――:o:――――

HER HAIR IS TURNING GREY.

No wonder that they’ve painted her,
With rouge and carmine high,
And made her look so beautiful,
I guess the reason why:
She long has pass’d her prime of life,
Her flesh now falls away,
And, few men ever choose a wife,
Whose hair is turning grey!