Chapter XXII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (22)

The spirit of your fathers,
Look on from nook and shade;
Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad,
Peer forth from every glade.
Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move
Their spectres long to show
How to stand, bat in hand,
Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.

Long, long, on lawn of noble,
And in the cottage field,
This game of games to English hearts,
Its healthy joys shall yield;
And oft at eve, when stumps are drawn,
The fragrant weed shall glow;
As ye tell, how they fell,
Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_. J. Vincent.

――――

THE CRICKETER.

There’s a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and
cot,
’Tis the first in boyhood’s happy years, in this our island plot.
The stripling thinks himself a man, when once he owns a bat;
A flush beams on his youthful brow when comrades vote for that.
’Tis a noble game, deny it who can!
The pride of a fine young Englishman!
’Tis, &c.

It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true,
And trains our youth in nerve and eye――things well to keep in
view;
It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere,
And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear,
’Tis a noble game, &c.

There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to
peer:
Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer;
Canada adds a loving word, America its praise,
Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise.
’Tis a noble game, &c.

To gallant South and noble North a welcome tribute bring
Of Lillywhite, old Fuller, Mynn, this day, my boys, we sing;
Still Parr and Daft are words that burn――W. G. the champion is;
The Walkers, Littletons are grand! Whoever should them quiz.
’Tis a noble game, &c.

’Tis a noble land that bears such sons, who fight in love and
peace.
May concord, truth, and unity through all the world increase;
May those who win and those who lose united ever be――
Old England’s pride shall be, my boys, good cricketers to see.
’Tis a noble game, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

(_Written about the time of the Canadian Cricketers’ tour._)

IRISH SONGS.

――――

MOLLY BAWN (OR, FAIR MOLLY).

Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely, waiting here for you?
While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they’ve nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you;
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash’d with dew,
Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine;
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
He takes me for a thief you see;
For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be.
Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.

SAMUEL LOVER.

There was a parody of this song in the first volume of _The Man in the Moon_, unfortunately it is very coarse:――

Oh! Molly, pawn without repining,
That wedding-ring I gave to you,
Where three gilt balls are brightly shining,
Because they’ve customers to do.

* * * * *

――――

A VOICE FROM CANNES.

OH, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining,
Lone waiting here for news from you?
With LEADER now I’m idly dining,
Because I’ve nothing else to do.
The Whigs were into office creeping,
We hear, to try a brush with you;
But their nurse, RUSSELL, set them sleeping,
Their sanguine faces turn’d to blue.
Oh, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining, &c.

The pretty flowers were made to bloom, BOB;
The pretty moon to wax and wane;
A tidy wig was made for BROUGHAM, BOB――
Ah! cruel, was it made in vain?
There’s wicked CAMPBELL at me snarling;
He takes me for a rat, you see:
I wish you’d take me, Robert darling!
Then ratified my hopes would be.
Oh Robert, &c.

_Punch._ 1846.

The above song refers to a rumour that Lord Brougham (then residing at Cannes) was making overtures to Sir Robert Peel, in the hope that if Sir Robert returned to power, he, Brougham, would again be made Lord Chancellor.

“Brougham was still amused by the prospect of holding the Great Seal under Sir Robert Peel.”――_Life of Lord Brougham._

――――:o:――――

THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.”

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended the knee.
“Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”

* * * * *

SAMUEL LOVER.

――――

A woman half sleeping, o’er a window was peeping,
For her husband had not come to dinner or tea:
And the watchman was telling the hour that was knelling,
And he cried, “Past eleven,” most vociferously.

The hours while she number’d, her anger still slumber’d,
And she thought where the deuce her wild husband could be!
Oh! where is he snoring till this hour of the morning,
Oh! I’m certain he can’t be in good companie.

Sich hours to be keeping, is quite overleaping
The bounds of decorum and all modesty;
I think it is rather improper in a father,
Who might sit quietly at home, in his wife’s companie.

And five in the morning, saw Jenkins returning,
And the wife gloom’d, her husband half-drunk for to see,
And he, while undressing, his folly confessing,
Cried, I’ll never take up with such bad companie.

_The Irish Comic Vocalist._ 1862.

――――:o:――――

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

O come to the Wild West, O come there with me,
To see th’ exhibition of Buffalo B――,
Where the fair ladies shoot at the glass balls up-thrown;
O come to the wild west――and come not alone.
I’ll treat you, I’ll show you the pictures, and best
Of all, I will show you Bill Cody’s Wild West.

The North has attractions, I do not deny;
It’s Hampstead, its Hall, and its Palace on high.
Let ’Arrys at Hampstead enjoy themselves best,
The Indian location is down in the west.
So go there with me, and it will be confessed,
You’ll have fun for your money at Cody’s Wild West.

The South has its Palace of Crystal, ’tis true;
All sparkling in sunlight, and lamps not a few;
Half greenhouse, half theatre, it hasn’t the zest,
It’s right small potatoes compared to “Wild West.”
So come to the “Yankeries”――Earl’s Court is best
Place for a ticket――the Bully Wild West!

From _Max in the Metropolis_. By Max P. Romer. 1887. George Routledge & Sons. London.

――――

A parody of Samuel Lover’s _The Low-Backed Car_, entitled _The Gin Shop Bar_, was written by J. A. Hardwick. It was, however, very coarse and slangy. Another long parody was in _Diogenes_, Volume III, 1854, entitled _The Haughty Czar_:

When first I saw the Emperor,
’Twas on the Ascot day.
Beside our gracious Queen he sat,
And chatted free and gay:
And when the cup was won, they named
The horse “The Emperor,”
No compliment to the horse, we thought,
But flattering to the Czar:
The bullying northern Czar:
The crazy northern Czar,
As fast as that steed to run he’ll have need,
When with us he goes to war.

(_Three verses omitted._)

――――:o:――――

CAVOUR.

In July, 1859, the Emperor Napoleon III. concluded a sudden and unexpected armistice with Austria, just at a time when all the world was expecting to see Italy freed from the hated rule of the Hapsburgs, and the Bourbons. Count Cavour resigned his ministerial posts, the indignation of the Italians was unbounded, and revolutions broke out all over the Peninsula.

Count O’Cavourneen, the bubble is breaking
You’ve had the last scene, Solferino’s red hill,
The cannons no longer the echoes are waking,
Count O’Cavourneen, what, Minister still?
O, hast thou forgot the diplomacy clever
In which thou didst bear so distinguished a part,
Thy vow to clear out all the Hapsbugs for ever?
The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart.

Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers
Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight;
In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers,
But Italy’s Hapsbugs continue to bite.
Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle
That fired all the pulses of Italy’s heart;
And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle;
Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman’s part.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1859.

――――

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.
(_Her Answer._)

Oh! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking,
To open the window would give me a chill,
The lark――of last evening――has left my head aching,
So don’t sing outside there, but let me lie still.
My hair is in papers――three screws on each side, dear,――
Not very romantic for lovers to see.
The “Voice of your heart” has a thrifle of pride, dear,
And that’s why I’m silent, which pray let me be.

Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now;
Don’t throw up the pebbles, you’ll break every pane;
Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now,
I’ll get very mad if you wake me again.
It may be for five years, it may be eleven
Or even fourteen, or for life we must part,
But this is no reason to wake me at seven,
So don’t come again, till I’ve made myself smart.

――――:o:――――

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.[74]

With deep affection
And recollection
I often think of
Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.
On this I ponder
Where’er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I’ve heard bells chiming,
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine;
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music
Spoke naught like thine.
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I’ve heard bells tolling
Old “Adrian’s Mole” in
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o’er the Tiber,
Pealing solemnly.
Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

There’s a bell in Moscow,
While on tower and kiosk O!
In Saint Sophia
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air,
Calls men to prayer
From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem
More dear to me――
’Tis the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY (_Father Prout_).

――――

In Memoriam.
FATHER PROUT.
(REV. FRANCIS MAHONY.)

In deep dejection, but with affection,
I often think of those pleasant times
In the days of “Frazer” ere I touched a razor,
How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes;
When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal,
Of Water-grass Hill, O renowned P. P.――――
May “The Bells of Shandon,”
Toll blythe and bland on
The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty,
In this social city, have I heard since then――
(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o’er me,
Of those Attic suppers and those vanished men!)
But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken.
Or hath left a token of such joy in me,
As “The Bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.”

The songs melodious, which――a new Harmodius――
“Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword;
With their deep vibrations and aspirations,
Fling a glorious madness o’er the festive board;
But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre
Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee――
Of the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There’s a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes,
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,
And a white stone flashes o’er Goldsmith’s ashes,
In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar;
So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest,
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,
While the bells of Shandon
Shall sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

Father Prout (Francis Sylvester Mahony) was an early contributor to _Frazer’s Magazine_, he died on Friday, May 18, 1866, and the author of the above imitation of his poem died on Good Friday, 1882. Mahony was buried in Cork, on the banks of the river Lee, and within sound of the Bells of Shandon.

――――

“FRAZER.”[75]
_Obit._――A.D. 1882.

Oh, the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on,
The pleasant waters of the river Lee,
Ne’er tolled so sadly where once so gladly
They pealed their merriest old “Yorke,” for thee,
As when they laid thee with those that made thee
Of “broths of boys” that blithest company,
That round the table (while they were able)
Of friendly Frazer held rare revelry.

_Eheu, fugaces!_ Their vacant places,
Like empty tumblers tell of vanished glee,
Of jokes and jokers now stiff as pokers,
Of silent singers, shut-up repartee,
Of wits phosphoric all dumb as “Yorick,”
Fun, fire and fancy, and philosophy;
With that rich cargo at Death’s embargo,
The good ship “Frazer” ne’er more sails the sea.

Ah! well they knew it (why did they do it?)
Who spoilt the gallant rig we loved to see?
That double column grown broad as solemn,
The old brown coat turned modern filagree.
Yet while there lingers of those sweet singers,
That jovial crew still pleasant memory
In mood as frisky, we’ll fill the whisky.
And make sweet end in mirth and melody.

Maclise’s pencil, that rare utensil,
It gives those brave boys immortality,
As still they’re sitting, the swift wit flitting,
Like lightning forked round Frazer’s snuggery――
Sage, singer, joker, from Crusty Croker,
Gay Theodore, that “divil” for a spree,
To th’ Reverend Barham (garter and star him!)
The prince of ballad-singers, Ingoldsby.

There’s the gentle Barry (Cornwall won’t marry
With rhyme at all) famed for sweet minstrelsy,
And that rare old thinker, the whisky drinker,
Brave Father Prout――ould Irish Mahony,
Blockhead and blockheart who loves not Lockhart,
Singing the brave old song of chivalry;
But of those brave brothers, above all others
Bold Barry Lyndon! turn our hearts to thee.

_Eheu, fugaces_! e’en younger faces
No more will gather ’neath thy old roof-tree――
Those “boys” so curly, the slashing “Shirley,”
Hypatia’s hero, dull “A. K. H. B.”
All――all are vanished, for ever banished
From their old happy haunt of life and glee,
But as sons to father come home, they’ll gather
With joy to welcome, dear old “Frazer,” thee.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

“THE BELLS I’VE SHAMM’D ON.”[76]

The Bells I’ve Shamm’d on,
This town so grand on,
Have made me famous among greater names.
Though silent swinging,
Nor proudly ringing,
They’ve sent no music over Father Thames.

I’ve stood all tremblin’,
’Neath the vaulted Kremlin,
While aisles vibrated with a solemn hum.
But what’s all _their_ mettle
To Westminster’s kettle?
That gave one bang out, and then was dumb.

Men were well wearied
Of chimes so varied,
And longed some simple song to hear;
And _my_ cracked pitcher,
If it were not richer,
At least was newer to the world’s ear.

At midnight waking,
And thro’ silence breaking,
Some bells would seem a solemn sound to tell;
A song of nations,
In the deep vibrations,
Sending the echo, thro’ many a far-off dell.

But _my_ harsh screamer,
With the shrill cry of steamer,
Awakes no memory of distant times,
Nor rings a benizon,
But the knell of DENISON,
Who first invented these cruel chimes.

――――:o:――――

BRIAN O’LIN.

Brian O’Lin had no coat to put on,
He borrow’d a goat skin to make him a one,
He planted the horns right under his chin,
“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Lin. &c.

* * * * *

A NEW IRISH MELODY.
(_To an old Air, viz., “Brian O’Lin.”_)

Daniel O’Connell’d no mischief to brew,
So he started Repeal just for something to do,
And the watch-word like mad through Hibernia ran;
“Och! the rint is a mighty fine income,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell found nothing would do
But to keep up a regular hullabaloo,
Till he found himself frying like fat in a pan;
“Faith, I’m thinking I’d like to be out on’t,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell said rather too much,
About blackguards, and tyrants, and Sassenachs, and such,
Till the Government shut up the turbulent man;
“Arrah! here’s a gintale situation,” says DAN.

Daniel O’Connell had friends to his back,
So he got out of prison again in a crack;
And he now is exactly just where he began,
“Arrah! What in the world will I do now,” says DAN.

_Punch._ 1844.

――――:o:――――

TOM MOODY.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom’s knell,
A more able sportsman ne’er followed a hound
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.
No hound ever open’d, with Tom near the wood,
But he’d challenge the tone, and could tell if ’twere good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,
When he cheer’d up the pack, “Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark!
High!――wind him! and cross him!
Now, Ratler, boy!――Hark!

* * * * *

ANDREW CHERRY.

PAT FAGAN.

You all knew Pat Fagan, the labourer, well;
The bell just done tolling, was poor Paddy’s knell:
A more able hodsman can never be found,
St. Giles’s well known to him every inch round.
No pal that e’er cross’d him, whether little or big,
But he’d challenge the boy, and flourish his sprig;
And all with attention would eagerly fix,
When they cheered up the boy with, “Paddy, more bricks!
A little water!――more mortar!
Below, Pat, below!”

Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress’d,
Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest;
His hod, which he styled the best hod in the world,
(On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that’s unfurled,)
His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound,
And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” sound;
But no more, sure, the boys his loud “hollo” will fix,
Nor the buildings resound with, “Paddy, more bricks!
A little water!――more mortar!
Hollo, Pat, hollo!”

Thus Pat spoke, “My honies, now I give up de ghost,
I hope of my death you’ll all make de most;
One favour I’ll ask――the same I will crave――
Kick a thundering big row up, now, over my grave;
And, unless I jump up and flourish my sprig,
My boys, you’ll conclude I’m as dead as a pig!”
Honest Pat was obey’d――the howls rent the sky,
And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” cry.
“Hubbaboo!――philliloo!
Arrah, my darling, why did you die?
Och, murder!――Pat, come back!”

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

WADE’S VERSION.

Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale
Must be told by the light of the moon,
In the grove at the end of the vale.
O remember! be sure to be there;
For though dearly the moonlight I prize,
I care not for all in the air,
If I want the sweet light of thine eyes.
Then meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight was made for the gay,
For the thoughtless, the heartless, the free!
But there’s something about the moon’s ray
That is dearer to you, love, and me.
Oh! be sure to be there, for I said
I would show to the night-flowers their queen.
Nay, turn not aside that sweet head――
’Tis the fairest that ever was seen.
Then meet me by moonlight alone.

ABBÉ DE PROUT.

Viens au bosquet, ce soir, sans témoin,
Dans le vallon, au clair de la lune;
Ce que l’on t’y dira n’a besoin
Ni de jour ni d’oreille importune.
Mais surtout rends-toi là sans faillir,
Car la lune a bien moins de lumière
Que l’amour n’en sçait faire jaillir
De ta languissante paupière.
Sois au bosquet au clair de la lune.

Pour les cœurs sans amour le jour luit,
Le soleil aux froids pensers préside;
Mais la pale clarté de la nuit
Favorise l’amant et le guide.
Les fleurs que son disque argentin
Colore, en toi verront leur reine.
Quoi! tu baisses ce regard divin,
Jeune beauté, vraiment souveraine?
Rends-toi là donc au clair de la lune.

FRANCIS S. MAHONY.

――――:o:――――

THE WIDOW MALONE.

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone
Alone?
Oh! she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts,
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more;
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.

* * * * *

CHARLES LEVER.

――――

Thackeray, as is well known, had a knack of writing humorous burlesque Irish songs, in imitation of the brogue and whiskeyiana of Lover and Lever. The following is, perhaps, the best of its kind, the metre resembles that of Lever’s “_Widow Malone_.”

LARRY O’TOOLE.

You’ve all heard of Larry O’Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;
He had but one eye,
To ogle ye by――
Och, murther, but that was a jew’l!
A fool
He made of de girls, dis O’Toole.

’Twas he was the boy didn’t fail,
That tuck down pataties and mail;
He never would shrink
From any strong dhrink,
Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale;
I’m bail
This Larry would swallow a pail.

Och, many a night at the bowl,
With Larry I’ve sot cheek by jowl;
He’s gone to his rest,
Where there’s dhrink of the best,
And so let us give his old sowl
A howl,
For ’twas he made the noggin to rowl.

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

NORDISA.

Did you hear of _Nordisa’s_ first night?
A sight!
“Old Drury” choke full. First Act bright
And light.
The Second was dull,
But it wasn’t a mull,
As an Avalanche put it all right,
We quite
Screamed _de Gus-tibus_ Harris in fright!

The Third Act took place in a _serre_,
Plants rare!
The Avalanche had arrived there,
You stare?
And the storm being strong,
Took _Nordisa_ along,
And carried her in ’twixt the pair
Who were
Being married! Oh my! What a scare!

Then _Oscar_ (M’Guckin), in throes
Soon shows
His heart is less false than his nose
(_I_ knows),
Miss Burns becomes riled,
And this makes _Oscar_ wild,
Reparation _Nordisa_ he owes
For woes
He has caused, so he turns to propose.

Then enter old man with a crook,
Or hook,
He’s hither “conducted by Cook”
(Aynsley Cook).
He says _Nordi’s_ mother,
Was some swell or other.
Perhaps she’s the heiress of Snook――
I’ll look,
But I do not see this in the book.

_Punch._ May 14, 1887.

――――:o:――――

ERIN GO BRAGH.

Towards the close of the last century, when a French invasion seemed imminent, a caricature was published, entitled “The Allied Republics of France and Ireland,” in which the French are represented as having enriched themselves by plunder with the assistance of the Irish rebels. A Frenchman mounted on Ireland, which is represented as a donkey, sings:――

From Brest in the Bay of Biskey,
We come for de very fine whisky,
To make de Jacobin friskey,
While Erin may go bray.

We have got de mealy potato
From de Irish democrato,
To make de Jacobin fat, O,
While Erin may go bray.

I get by de guillotine axes,
De wheats and de oats, and de flaxes,
De rents, and de tydes, and de taxes,
While Erin may go bray.

I put into requisition,
De girl of every condition,
For Jacobin coalition,
And Erin may go bray.

De linen I get in de scuffle,
Will make de fine shirt to my ruffle,
While Pat may go starve in his hovel,
And Erin may go bray.

Fitzgerald and Arter O’Connor,
To Erin have done de great honour,
To put me astride upon her,
For which she now does bray.
She may fidget and caper and kick, O,
But by de good help of Old Nick, O,
De Jacobin ever will stick, O,
And Erin may go bray.

――――:o:――――

THE SHAN VAN VOGHT.[77]

Oh! the French are on the sea,
Says the Shan Van Voght;
The French are on the sea,
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Oh! the French are in the Bay,
They’ll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Voght.
Oh! the French are in the Bay,[78]
They’ll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Voght.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Voght.
To the Curragh of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Voght.

Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
What _will_ the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
What _should_ the yeomen do,
But throw oft the red and blue,
And swear that they’ll be true
To the Shan Van Voght?
What should, &c.

And what colour will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
What colour will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
What colour should be seen
Where our Fathers’ homes have been,
But their own immortal Green?
Says the Shan Van Voght.
What colour, &c.

And will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurra for Liberty!
Says the Shan Van Voght.
Yes! Ireland, &c.

There are many other versions of this song. It has always been a favourite with the Irish people at all times of political excitement; either varied or re-written, according to circumstances. At the time of the celebrated Clare election, carried by Daniel O’Connell while the “Catholic Emancipation” cause was yet pending, they sang a street ballad in Dublin running thus:――

“Into Parliament you’ll go, (meaning O’Connell,) says the Shan
Van Voght,
To extricate our woe, says the Shan Van Voght;
Our foes you will amaze,
And all Europe you will plaze;
And ould Ireland’s now at aise,
Says the Shan Van Voght.

“Our worthy brave O’Connell, says the Shan Van Voght,
To have you in we’re longing, says the Shan Van Voght;
Sure you we well have tried,
And you’re always at our side,
And you never took a bribe,
Says the Shan Van Voght.”

During the “Repeal” movement (about 1840) the
original song was revived, with the exception of the first
verse, and the name of O’Connell was substituted for that
of Lord Edward.

――――

JAN VAN BEERS.

There’s a Dutchman in the town,
Says the Jan Van Beers;
There’s a Dutchman in the town;
Though he’s more than half a clown,
Still folks pay their shillings down,
Says the Jan Van Beers.

Oh! what should the English do?
Says the Jan Van Beers;
What should the English do,
But admire my red and blue,
And swear that I’m “too too!”
Says the Jan Van Beers.

And shall not Artists kneel?
Says the Jan Van Beers.
No! Artists will _not_ kneel,
But express contempt they feel
For your incense and _pastille_,
Mister Jan Van Beers.

So said _Punch_ about an exhibition of clap-trap foreign pictures which, in 1886, attracted sightseers of morbid tastes, in search of the horrible and the grotesque. Cunning arrangements of black curtains, grinning skeletons, headless bleeding bodies, and ghastly wounds made up a show, in which but little true art could be found.

――――:o:――――

The rollicking Irish song _Ballyhooly_, which was introduced in the highly successful burlesque _Monte Cristo junior_, was written by Mr. R. Martin, according to rumour an officer in the Royal Artillery.

THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY,
A Parody of “_Ballyhooly_.”

There’s a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country’s joy,
But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me.
He often takes command in a fury-spouting band
Called the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.
At Donnybrook’s famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,
A “Pathriot” he’s called, and may be truly,
It is catching, I’m afraid, for when _he_ is on parade
There seems scarce a sober man in “Ballyhooly.”

_Chorus._
Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,
Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,
Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate,
In the “Ballyhooly” Parliamentary Army.

The Spayker, honest soul, finds they’re quite beyond control,
Discussion takes a most extinded radius,
It’s about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer.
But the “bhoys,” they never seem to find it “tadyious.”
And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,
That is in being ructious and unruly,
If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,
Faith, they howl him out of court in “Ballyhooly.”
_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

They’re supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,
Which one and all they do their best to injure;
I have said their talk’s as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.
The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own
The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,
And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol
The intemperate brigade of “Ballyhooly.”
_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

There’s a moral to my song, and it won’t detain yez long,
Of Party spirit e’en the merest “nip” shun.
It’s poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly “ginger-beer,”
As ye’ll own when I have given the prescription.
You take heaps of Party “rot,” spirit mean, and temper hot,
Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly;
For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,
Faith, they call it “Statesmanship” in “Ballyhooly.”
_Chorus_――Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

_Punch._ August 13, 1887.

――――:o:――――

MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE.

Mary, I believed thee true,
And I was blest in thus believing;
But now I mourn that e’er I knew――
A girl so fair and so deceiving!

Few have ever loved like me,――
Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely!
And few have e’er deceived like thee,――
Alas! deceived me too severely!

* * * * *

THOMAS MOORE

――――

LINES TO MARY.

O Mary, I believed you true,
And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew――
That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face――
It would have been an unfair feeling
To dream that you had pilfered lace――
And Flints had suffered from your stealing.

Or when my suit I first preferred,
To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammered out a word,
How could I dream you’d heard a sentence?

Or when with all the warmth of youth
I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction?

How could I dream that ivory part,
Your hand――where I have looked and lingered;
Altho’ it stole away my heart,
Had been held up as one light-fingered?

In melting verse your charms I drew,
The charms in which my Muse delighted;
Alas! the lay, I thought, was new,
Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run
A chance of hanging on your own too!

You said you picked me from the world――
My vanity it now must shock it,
And down at once my pride is hurled,
You’ve picked me――and you’ve picked a pocket?

Oh! when our love had got so far,
The banns were read by Doctor Daly,
Who asked if there was any _bar_――
Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey”?

But when you robed your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_!

And when the parson came to say
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honour and obey,
Who could have thought――“O Bay of Botany!”

But, oh!――the worst of all your slips
I did not till this day discover――
That down in Deptford’s prison ships,
O Mary! you’ve a hulking lover!

THOMAS HOOD.

――――:o:――――

PLAIN COLD WATER.

The days are gone when claret bright
Inspired my strain,
When I sang on every festive night
About champagne.
Prime thirty-four in floods may pour,
And glasses gaily clatter.
But there’s nothing half so safe to drink
As plain cold water.

Though the bard may make a greater noise
Over his wine,
When with other Bacchanalian boys
He chances to dine.
Yet if he wake, with a headache,
And wonders what’s the matter,
He learns there’s nought so safe to drink
As plain cold water.

There’s Doctor Hassall, he proclaims
That water’s full
Of curious brutes, with curious names
In every pool.
Now you will see that this must be
A most important matter,
For it’s clear there’s meat as well as drink
In plain cold water.

Professor Clarke, of Aberdeen,
Says chalk is there,
And Monsieur Chatin, iodine
Finds everywhere.
If this be true, ’tis clear to you
It’s just so much the better,
For there’s meat and drink, and physic too,
In plain cold water.

From _Health and Pleasure_, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish. London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. 1865.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

HORATII ROSARUM.

Eheu rosarum floruit ultima!
Vel mille nuper cincta sororibus,
At nunc amicarum cohorti
Floribus et sociis superstes!

Nec una mansit conscia quæ propé
Suspiriorum suavë olentium,
Suspiret ultro――quæ rubenti
Erubeat, pia frons, vicissim.

Non te relinquam stemmate, lugubre.
Quæ singulari fers caput, unica!
Iere dormitùm sodales,
Tu ceteris comes ito――dormi!

Sparsis amicà sic foliis manu,
Finire tristes pergo tibi moras;
Siccis odoratas per hortum
Frondibus i superadde frondes.

Et mi sit olim sors eadem, precor!
Quando sodales, quæque micantia,
Ornant amicorum coronam
Gemmata, depereunt――perire!

Abrepta fato dissociabili
Quando tot eheu! corda jacent humi
Quis poscat annos? vita talis
Nonne foret mera solitudo?

FATHER PROUT.

――――

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

’Tis the first rose of summer, I saw it come out,
Its arrival I hailed with a rapturous shout.
I took off my hat (for politeness I’m famed),
And striking an attitude, thus I exclaimed:――

“Oh! clear first rose of summer, it gladdens my heart,
To behold thee thus lovely and bright, as thou art;
I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed _me_,
Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee.

“But _thou_ hast no cough, I may fairly suppose,
Such as I had all winter, delectable rose――
A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear;
And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear!

“I’ll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree,
Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me.
This summer’s the last that will ever be thine,
And I somehow believe ’tis the last, too, of mine.

_Judy._

――――

THE LAST “QUID.”

’Tis the last “quid” of many
Left sadly alone,
All its golden companions
Are changed, and are gone;
No coin of its kindred,
No “fiver” is here,
To burn in tobacco,
Or melt into beer.

I’ll not leave thee, thou last one,
All lonely to pine,
As the others have left thee,――
Go seek them in wine.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy shillings away,
Like those of thy comrades,
To moisten my clay.

So soon as I’ve changed thee
To silver, alas!
It flies like the sparkle
Of froth in the glass;
I’ll seek, when I’ve spent thee――
If credit’s not flown――
What’s hard to obtain in
This bleak world-a loan!

_Fun._ July 20, 1887.

――――

THE LAST FLY.

’Tis the last fly of summer
Left buzzing alone,
All its club-footed comrades
Have buzzed and passed on.
No remnant pestiferous
Save this one is nigh,
To tickle our proboscis,
Or bob in our eye.

I’ll not leave thee, old buzzer,
To feast upon me――
Take that, thou tormentor――
To other lands flee.
It is folly to spare thee
Swear words to maintain,
When the mates of thy raidin’
Stick flat on the pane.

Sound, sound, shall we slumber,
When thou art away――
When the bedroom is quiet
In cool of the day.
Really, all things considered,
Both beauty and tone.
We’d much rather inhabit
This queer world alone.

WILLIAM LYLE.

――――:o:――――

THOSE BICYCLES.

Those bicycles, those bicycles!
How merry a tale their image tells,
Of youth and health, and that fleet time
When last I heard their whistle’s chime.

Those boyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Out of or in town darkly dwells,
And rides not now those bicycles.

Again ’twill be――they are not gone;
That gleeful wheel will still roll on,
While I help bards _to wire_ their shells
And sing your praise, fleet bicycles.

From _Lyra Bicyclica_, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.

――――:o:――――

STRONG AND SURE.

Strong and sure were the skates she wore,
And a neat little hat on her head she bore;
But, oh! her grace, so wondrous that,
Beyond her skates, or her dainty hat.

“Lady! dost thou not fear to rink,
So hard is the ground should’st thou chance to sink?
Are Plimpton’s skates of so great renown
As not to be tempted to let you down?”

“Nay, nay! I feel not the least alarm,
No skate of Plimpton’s will bring me to harm:
Though at night I love dancing on polish’d floor,
By day――I love skating and rinking more.”

On she went, and her magic skill
Guided her safely without a spill;
And happy are they who trust their fates
To Plimpton’s rollers and Plimpton’s skates.

From _Idyls of the Rink_, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. 1877.

――――:o:――――

ON AN UNANSWERED LETTER.

I knew by the dirt that so greasefully lined
All its corners and sides, that an answer was due;
And I said if a sheet in my desk I can find,
My pen that is ready shall fill it for you.

――――:o:――――

THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL OBSTRUCTION.

Where stood the Bar, we’re building love,
A something all stone, and some gilding, love,
Ah! the best of all ways
Can be stopped up by drays,
When we steal a few feet from the road, my love.

_Punch._ October 9, 1880.

――――:o:――――

Oh, there is not in nature
A bliss so complete
As the _first glass of toddy_――
Strong, smoking, and sweet.
All care it dispels,
Drives blue devils away,
’Tis the _first glass of toddy_,
That makes our hearts gay.

――――:o:――――

Oft in the chilly night,
Ere solar rays had bound us,
Have we for heat cried out
With blankets all around us.

But now when Sol has got the call
To dry us up like leather.
We sigh for ice, with breezes nice,
And civil-service weather.

――――:o:――――

A BALFOUR BALLAD.
Air――“_The Young May Moon._”

Most Irish questions are about
A Peeler, a Pauper, or Carman, O!
They’re quite beneath _me_,
As Chief Se-cre-ta-_ree_――
I hand ’em all o’er to King-Harman, O!

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF BEER.

(At a meeting of the United Kingdom Alliance, Sir Wilfred Lawson said the publicans were like a great army armed with bottles.)

The publican on his raid has gone.
All over the land you’ll find him;
A bottle of Bass he has girded on,
And a barrel is slung behind him.
“Oh, drink divine,” said Boniface,
“What though teetotallers make thee
A thing of scorn and of black disgrace,
_I_ never will forsake thee!”

He did _not_ fall, for Common Sense
Soon brought the enemy under,
And the bottle of Bass we Britons dense
Refused to smash asunder.
Sir Wilfred――well, he looked quite demure,
For, fallen out of favour, he
Was shown that we Britons will not endure
Stern prohibition’s slavery.

_Judy._ July, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THE MILITIAMAN.

The militia man to parade is gone,
In single file you’ll find him;
The Albert hat he was fain to don,
His blunt spade left behind him.
“Land of wheat,” said the warrior-clod,
“Tho’ Sir Robert now neglect thee,
_One_ bayonet still upholds the sod,
_One_ plough-boy will ‘protect’ thee.”

* * * * *

From _Mephystopheles_. February 28, 1846.

This illustrated satirical journal commenced, as a rival to _Punch_, on December 13, 1845, and lasted until March 28, 1846. It contains several other parodies, all of which are uninteresting at the present time, but they may be enumerated.

_The Medical Gent_, à la Tennyson.
_Pledge Rescinding_, after Campbell’s Hohenlinden.
_“When other lips with other arts.”_
_The Schoolmaster_, after Oliver Goldsmith.

――――

THE ROW.

I knew by the noise that I heard all around
In the street where I was, that a row it was near;
And I said, “If there’s fun this good night to be found,
As I love it so dearly, I shall sure find it here.”
Every tongue seem’d employ’d, and the row did increase,
Whilst the Charleys their rattles so cheerily spring.

I hopp’d into the crowd, the news for to catch,
But scarcely had open’d my mouth to inquire,
When a rascally thief made off with my watch,
Tript my heels, and so laid me flat down in the mire.
The watchmen surrounded, and bore me away,
And in limbo was kept till the dawn of next day.

To the justice they took me, to tell my sad tale,
Who ask’d me what in defence I’d to say,
I told him that rogues in the crowd did assail,
Used my person quite ill, and my watch bore away.
He looking quite grim, bade me good hours keep,
Pay a shilling――and go to my home with all speed.

――――

THE COOK SHOP.

I knew by the smoke that so greasefully curl’d,
From a kitchen below that a cook-shop was near,
And I said if a gorge’s to be found in the world,
The man that is hungry might hope for it here.
Ev’ry plate was at rest,
And I heard not a sound,
But the knives and forks rattling,
Sweet music for me.
And here in this snug little box would I sit,
With a joint that was lovely to nose and to view,
With a sirloin of beef, a turkey and chine,
How bless’d could I live, and how calm could I dine.
Ev’ry plate, &c.

――――:o:――――

The _New Whig Guide_ (London: W. Wright. 1819), contains several parodies of the songs of Thomas Moore and of Lord Byron, but being all on political topics they are now out of date, almost unintelligible, and not generally interesting. They are styled _English Melodies_, the first lines are as follows:――

“Oh! the time is past when quarter-day my cares would chase.”
(Moore’s _Love’s Young Dream_.)

“Old Tierney came down like a wolf on the fold.”
(Byron’s _Destruction of Sennacherib_.)

“Believe me, when all those ridiculous airs.”
(Moore’s _Believe me, if all those endearing young charms_.)

“Son of the faithless! melancholy rat!”
(Byron’s _Sun of the Sleepless_)

“Fare ye well――and if for Easter.”
(Byron’s _Fare you well――and if for ever_.)

In the early days of the century Moore and Byron were the Society poets, their verses were on everyone’s lips, and naturally parodies of them abounded. In addition to the translations of Moore’s melodies already given, several other Greek, Latin, and French versions will be found in the collected works of Francis S. Mahony.

WELSH SONGS.

――――

TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN.

“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef,
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone.

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in;
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin;
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed,
I took up a poker and flung it at his head.”

Taffy is a corruption of Taffid, the Welsh form of David. This very old nursery rhyme owes its origin to the continual raids and cattle-lifting expeditions which took place on the Welsh borders in the middle ages, but it has long since lost all serious meaning with those who repeat it. Twenty years ago the late Mr. Shirley Brooks completely re-modelled the poem very much in Taffy’s favour.

Taffy is a Welshman:
Taffy’s not a thief;
Taffy’s mutton’s very good,
Not so good his beef:
I went to Taffy’s house,
Several things I saw,
Cleanliness and godliness,
Obedience to the law.
If Taffy rides to my house,
Or unto Pat’s doth swim,
I think my Taffy will remark
That we might learn of him.
He does not drink, my Taffy,
(Not leastwise as a rule);
He goes to chapel regular,
And sends his boys to school;
He dresses well on Sunday,
His family the like;
He’s not too fond of over-work,
But seldom cares to strike;
He never lurks behind a hedge
To pay his rent with slugs.
Up craggy hills of steep incline
His garden mould he lugs;
And there he grows his garden,
His cabbages and leeks;
His kids get green meat in their mouths,
And roses in their cheeks.
Taffy is a Welshman,
And glories in the name,
To laugh at which enjoyment
Appears to me a shame.
You compliment the Scotchman
Who talks of Bruce and Burns;
You tolerate the Irishman
Who vaunts ancestral Kerns;
You’re nuts on your own pedigree,
Won’t call it English, fair,
But prate of “Anglo-Saxons,”
Till Reviewers nearly swear.
Why shouldn’t gallant Taffy
Have his relics and his bones,
Llewelyns and Cadwallos,
And Griffyevanjones?
To say nothing of the question
Whether Taffy’s mother-tongue
Wasn’t quite a fine old
When all of ours were young.
He says he has good poets,
Leave him his own opinion:
You like obscure old ballads,
And Taffy likes Englynion.
Pray are not “moel,” “afon,”
And “Morwyns” (pretty rogues),
At least as good as “birks” and “braes,”
“Mavourneens,” “Arrah Pogues!”
By all Nantfrancon’s Beavers,
Of the pre-historic age;
By Aberglaslyn’s hoary bridge,
And the Swallow’s roaring rage;
By the trout of Capel Curig,
By Carnarvon’s Eagled Tower,
The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch,
And the frown of Penmaenmawr;
By yon lonely Puffin Island,
And the monster head of Orme,
The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh,
Llanberis, Pass of Storm;
By the magic bridge of Bangor,
Hung awful in the sky,
By the grave at sweet Beddgelert,
Where the Martyr-hound doth lie;
By the lightnings that on Snowdon
Glint, the jewels of his crown,
Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right,
And never be put down.
If all Victoria’s subjects
Were half as good as thou,
Victoria’s subjects would kick up
Uncommon little row.
And _Punch_, Incarnate Justice,
Intends henceforth to lick
All who shall scorn or sneer at you,
You jolly little Brick!

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The Welsh were naturally much pleased with this version, and speedily translated it into their own language:

Cymro ydyw Taffy,
Lladratta byth ni wna;
Mae _mutton_ Taffy’n gampus,
Nid yw ei biff mor dda.
Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy,
I wel’d ei ddull o fyw――
Mae’n lân a duwiol yn ei dy,
I’r gyfraith ufudd yw,
Os merchyg Taffy yma,
At _Pat_ os nawf y lli,
Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef
Fod ganddo wers i ni:
Nid ydyw Taffy’n yfed.
Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant,
I’r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn,
I’r ysgol gyr ei blant;
Ymwisga ’n hardd y Sabbath,
A’i deulu yr un modd;
Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith,
A _strike_ ni fyn o’i fodd;
Ni lecha byth tu ol i’r gwrych,
I dalu ei rent a phlwm;
Mae’n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith
I fyny’r llechwedd llwm;
Ac yno tyf ei foron,
A’i genin yn ei ardd.
Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau ’i blant,
A gwrid i’w gruddiau hardd.
Cymro ydyw Taffy,
A dyna’i fynych fost,
Ymddengys gwawdio’r fath fwynhâd,
I mi’n gywilydd tost:
Canmolwch yr Ysgotyn
Am son am Bruce a Burns;
A goddef wnewch i’r Gwyddel tlawd
Ymffrostio ’n nheulu Kerns;
Ni fynwch chwithau chwaith,
Eich galw ’n Saeson teg,
Ond dwndro am “Anglo-Saxons” wnewch,
Nes peri i ddyn roi rheg.
Pa’m na chaiff Taffy ddewrwych
Am ei hynafiaid son――
Caswallon a Charadoc fawr.
A Gryffydd Ifan Shon?
Heb son dim oll am holi,
Allasai ’i famiaith fod
Yn hen iaith bur y pryd nad oedd
Ein holl rai ni mewn bod.
Mae’n d’weyd fod ganddo brif-feirdd,
Boed iddo ’i farn ar hyn;
Hen gerddi tywyll hoffwch chwi,
Englynion yntau fyn.
Ai nid yw “moel,” ac “afon,”
“Morwynion” (hudol rôgs),
Yn llawn mor dda a “birks,” a “braes,”
“Mavourneens,” “Arrah pôgs?”
Yn enw efeingc gwylltion
Nantffrancon oes a fu,
Y bont ar Aberglaslyn,
A’r Wennol groch ei rhu,
Britbylliaid Capel Curig,
Twr Eryr Arton hen.
Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr,
A Than y Bwlch a’i wên;
Yn enw Ynys Seiriol,
A’r Gogarth erch ei drwyn;
Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd,
Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn;
Yn enw Crog-bont Menai,
Sy’n hongian yn y nen;
Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi
A’r garnedd uwch ei ben,
Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa,
Sy’n euro ei goron fawr.
Sa ’i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl,
Na’th fwrier byth i lawr,
Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug
Yn hanner mor ddi fai,
Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith
Yn llawer iawn yn llai;
Mae _Punch_, y Barnwr Cyfiawn,
Am roddi curfa ci
I bawb ro’nt ddirmyg it’ rhagllaw
Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.

This translation is taken from a most entertaining as well as useful work, entitled _The Gossiping Guide to Wales_, written by the late Mr. J. Askew Roberts, and published by Woodall, Minshall & Co., Oswestry 1886.

――――

Bouncer was a welsher,
Bouncer was a thief,
I won a bet of Bouncer,
And came to awful grief.

When I went to Bouncer,
He said he hadn’t bet it,
Put his thumb up to his nose,
And wished that I might get it.

――――

Of the favourite Welsh songs, such as _Jenny Jones_, _Ah hyd y nos_, and _The Maid of Llangollen_, only a few parodies are to be found, and they are scarcely worth reprinting.

TERM COMMENCES.

On by the love of costs we’re goaded――
“Term” begins then mischief’s boded,
For we’ve hearts as hard as steel
What care we for wrong or right,
When we hold a client tight,
Or the least compunction feel!
Like serpents now, we’re slyly creeping,
Then on our prey like tigers leaping.
In a twinkling we garotte him――
No escape when so we’ve got him.

While on him there is a stopper,
We clean him out of every copper.
Stick unto him till we bag
All he has to the last mag;
His body then, by way of ransom,
We seize and squeeze out something handsome.

Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring――
In our charges fast keep pouring;
Actions ne’er by us are stayed.
Ours is a safe and thriving trade;
To the Law Courts let’s away,
Expenses call and we obey.

――――

THE TORY MARCH.

With blaze of fireworks, fêtes, and dancing,
Lying speeches, vain romancing,
See the boastful foe advancing
Onward to the fray.
Banners now are gaily streaming!
In Liberal colours falsely gleaming,
Hoping by thus meanly scheming,
Yet to win the day.

Jingo shouts are hoarsely braying,
Brazen trumpets loudly playing,
High-toned churchmen warmly praying
For Tory victory.
Like the ass in olden fable,
Clothed in lion’s skin unstable,
They can but bray (to roar unable)
Of Tory liberty!

Turn from them with loathing,
Contempt and anger both in,
And ever they
Will rue the day
They dressed in Liberal clothing;
Honest truth will overcome them,
The stolen skin will not become them,
So tear the lion’s covering from them,
And show the ass beneath.

_Songs for Liberal Electors._ 1885.

――――

LIBERAL MARCHING SONG.

Brothers, up, to win new glory,
That shall brighten future story,
Sweeping off abuses hoary,
Shaping righteous laws;
To the Ballot early go, men;
That we mean to conquer, show, men;
Well, we vote to win, we know, men

For the good old cause.
For ourselves we’re fighting,
The people nobly righting;
Quick, come all, at Freedom’s call,
To do her will delighting.
On, your Blue to victory bearing:
Nought for all their vauntings caring:
For the Right all dangers daring――
Better lives and laws.

W. C. BENNETT.

――――:o:――――

OLD ENGLISH SONGS.

――――

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL?
(Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.)