Chapter VIII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (8)

Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,
And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres,
Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.

Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades;
We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman’s ears,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers.

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,
The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,――
Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears.
Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers.

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes.
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers!

ANONYMOUS. (_Written about_ 1760.)

――――

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Upon the plains of Flanders,
Our fathers long ago,
They fought like Alexanders
Beneath old Marlborough;
And still in fields of conquest,
Our valour bright has shown,
With Wolfe and Abercrombie,
And Moore and Wellington.

Our plumes have waved in combats,
That ne’er shall be forgot,
Where many a mighty squadron
Reeled backwards from our shot.
In charges with the bayonet,
We led our bold compeers;
But Frenchmen like to stay not
For British Grenadiers.

Once bravely at Vimiera
They hoped to play their parts,
And sing fal lira, lira,
To cheer their drooping hearts.
But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks,
We gave three hearty cheers,
And the French soon turned their backs
To the British Grenadiers.

At St. Sebastiano,
And Badajos’s town,
Though raging like volcanoes
The shell and shot came down,
With courage never wincing,
We scaled the ramparts high,
And waved the British ensign
In glorious victory.

And what could Bonaparte,
With all his cuirassiers,
In battle do, at Waterloo,
With British Grenadiers?
Then ever sweet the drum shall beat
That march unto our ears,
Whose martial roll awake the soul
Of British Grenadiers.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

――――

BROOK GREEN VOLUNTEER.

Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Wellington,
Of Blucher and Lysander,
And of Napoleon.
But of all the gallant heroes,
There’s none for to compare,
With his Quick march! to the right about! Face!
To the Brook Green Volunteer.

Without the least occasion,
He rushes to the field,
From peril of invasion
Old Hammersmith to shield.
The geese loud cackling round him,
The donkies braying near,
Appal not the truly British heart
Of the Brook Green Volunteer.

Retreating do not mention,
Nor talk of War’s alarms,
When Duty cries, Attention!
And Valour, Shoulder Arms!
The soul despises danger,
The bosom knows no fear
Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man,
The Brook Green Volunteer.

In spite of vilest weather
Erect, and proud of mien,
Each night, for hours together,
He guards his native Green;
Catarrh and cough defying,
No matter how severe;
What a downright, thorough-going trump
Is the Brook Green Volunteer!

At this inclement season
The hero must be bold,
For no particular reason
To brave a death of cold.
Then yield the palm of glory,
And stand a drop of beer
To that gay, gallant, promising recruit,
The Brook Green Volunteer.

_Punch._ February 28, 1846.

This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in _Punch_, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled “The Blackguard Grenadier,” commenced thus:――

“Most regiments have some varlet,
Some rascal mean and base,
A stain upon their scarlet,
Their scandal and disgrace.”

This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards stationed in London. Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed, clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments.

――――

THE GALLANT SPECIALS.

(During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn in as special constables.)

They may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red,
They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue;
They may boast if they please, of such troops as these,
And of all the exploits they’d do.
But London town acknowledges,
That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals,
They’re not up to the mark, in the street or the park,
Of the gallant Spe-ci-als.

The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade,
And partial to kitchen stuff;
The Detectives, too, are by no means a do,
But perfectly up to snuff,
For what are they, I should like to know,
When the voice of duty calls,
To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks
Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als?

Oh! ’tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob,
Who thought insurrection to hatch;
And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold,
But funk’d when it came to the scratch.
Who swore that they did not care one whit,
For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls;
But who cut right away, with the devil to pay,
At the sight of the Spe-ci-als.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. III.

――――

THE THIEVISH PRIVATEER.

Oh! some talk about Jack Sheppard;
Bill Sikes a hero call;
And some speak of a worthy,
Whose name it is Sam Hall;
But there’s a thief in our belief
Whose crimes e’en worse appear,
Who in war’s dark hour doth the ocean scour――
’Tis the thievish Privateer.

While nations are contending――
While principles at stake,
Upon the strife depending,
The world’s foundation shake.
No thought has he of liberty,
No hopes of glory cheer;
But alone for the pelf,
To enrich himself,
Fights the thievish Privateer.

* * * * *

Then shall we suffer longer,
That letters called “of Marque,”
Shall save from England’s vengeance,
Each cut-throat pirate bark?
Oh, no! let’s hope henceforth a rope
Shall be knotted ’neath the ear,
As pirates to hang
Every man of the gang
Of each thievish Privateer.

_Diogenes_, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854.

――――

THE ORDER OF VALOUR (The V. C.)

Some talk of ALEXANDER,
And some of HERCULES,
And many a great commander
As glorious as these;
But if you want a hero
Of genuine pluck and pith,
It’s perfectly clear there’s none comes near
To full British PRIVATE SMITH.

Its easy to fight, with glory
At hand to gild your name,
And stick it up in story,
Among the sons of fame.
But SMITH, full British private,
Is expected to be brave,
With the cold “cold shade” above his head,
At his feet a nameless grave.

For Generals there’s the peerage,
With grant of public tin;
There’s regiments for Colonels,
For Captains steps to win.
But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost,
(If he avoided beer)
Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth
Some fifteen pounds a-year.

Till now the stars and garters,
Were for birth’s or fortune’s son,
And as oft in snug home-quarters,
As in fields of fight were won.
But at length a star arises,
Which as glorious will shine
On SMITH’S red serge vest as upon the breast
Of SMYTH’S scarlet superfine.

Though carpet-knights may grumble,
Routine turn up its nose,
Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS,
And AIREYS may oppose,
Yet shall the star of valour
Defy their scoffs and jeers――
As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line,
And plain SMITH of the Grenadiers.

Too long mere food for powder
We’ve deem’d our rank and file,
Now higher hopes and prouder.
Upon the soldier smile.
And if no Marshal’s bâton
PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears,
At least in the War, the chance of the star
With his General he shares.

_Punch._ February 23, 1856.

There was another parody of the same song in _Punch_, February 27, 1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled “Aitcheson’s Carabineers,” appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of Logan’s “Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs.”

――――

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER; OR, THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS.

Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,――
The Chief whose martial dander,
Asked worlds to stand at ease――
The Sayers of the prize ring,
In high Olympian spheres,――
But both, I’ll be bound, now-a-days would be found
Enrolled in the Volunteers.

Our soldiers they are heroes,
We know, in facing fire;
Our tars reduce to zeros
All fears the seas inspire.
But for going through fire _and_ water,
――To say nothing of small boys’ jeers――
There’s no service, I swear, that can compare
With the London Volunteers.

In June we’re now parading,
Last month was merry May,
But for Volunteer brigading
We’ve not had one dry day!
The aforesaid Alexander,
As a hero of _Greece_ appears
Of our kin to be, for _dripping_ are we
Poor London Volunteers!

Umbrellas and alpacas
We scorn, and oil-skin capes;
And the rain-drops from our shakos
May trickle down our napes.
We may continue drilling,
And manœvuring about for years,
But “_Wetter’uns_” some needn’t hope to become
In the London Volunteers.

But yet there’s no complaining;
Rheumatics we defy,
And though cats and dogs it’s raining,
We keep our powder dry.
Little think the small boys shouting
“Who shot the dog?” in our ears,
What an inward fire flares up to inspire
Us London Volunteers.

Then a fig for showers and sneerers,
Let’s show Sir Robert yet;
We can laugh at fire and fleerers,
As we’ve laughed at heavy wet.
And we hope to teach the foeman,
Who on our shore appears,
If home rains we’ve borne, French reins we scorn,
As London Volunteers.

Three cheers for all who’re willing
To be wetted through and through!
For those who stick to drilling
Till all is damp and blue.
May none of us blow our heads off,
Whether privates or brigadiers,
And the Queen, I pray, have one dry day,
For reviewing the Volunteers.

_Punch._ June 16, 1860.

The first year of the Volunteer movement will be long remembered as an exceptionally wet season.

――――

THE SOIREE OF THE CIVIL ENGINEERS.

Some talk of Archimedes, and some of Euclid prose,
Of Dædalus, Hæphæstus, and such great swells as those,
But of all the men of genius there’s none can prove a peer,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineer!

Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam,
Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream;
But ours are far more knowing:――their triumphs skill uprears,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car――
These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres,
Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers!

Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made,
Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade;
And soon the progress traces in cuttings, banks, and piers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, of the Civil Engineers!

And when their Soirée’s given, to George Street they repair,
And all the men most noted you’re sure to meet with there;
The most distinguished people adorning modern years,
Are on the very best of terms with the Civil Engineers!

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to these,
Bright ornaments of science and progress, if you please,
For enterprise and genius we’ll gladly raise three cheers,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!

_Fun._ June 9, 1866.

――――

HAXELL’S VOLUNTEERS
(Dedicated to the particularly active hotel service corps).

Come all ye dilettanti bold
Who fear not Gladstone’s frown,
Announce yourselves as Cids enrolled
(The fee is half a crown.)
The uniform is cheap and bright,
And ought to last for years,
For it’s likely they’ll not have to fight
In the Haxell’s Volunteers.

To stem the Russian’s reeking tide
We’ve pilots stout of limb;
We’ve Forsyth, Wheelhouse on our side,
And Captain Bedford Pim!
The Bard of Peterborough-court
With odes our efforts cheers,
And music-hall _trouvères_ support
The Haxell’s Volunteers.

Think of old England’s righteous claims,
Her noble-minded _fils_;
Make haste and put down all your names――
They’re just concluding peace!
For craven Muscovite and Sclav
Are quaking with their fears;
Ah, what a muster we shall have
Of the Haxell’s Volunteers!

So seize a gun, the times are ripe
For Englishmen to act;
You’re bound to keep your names in type,
And eke your skins intact.
Perhaps there _may_ be some brigade
Worth ours in distant spheres,
At least we’re mighty in _parade_,
We Haxell’s Volunteers.

_Funny Folks._ May, 1878.

Written during the War Fever, when some of the newspapers were clamouring for war with Russia. It was then proposed to form a Corps of Active Service Volunteers, but the Government discouraged the idea.

――――

STANZA BY A SERGEANT-MAJOR.

In Egypt there’s an old stream
A long time known to fame;
But now beside the Coldstream,
The Nile must yield his name.
For of all the finest fellahs
There’s none for to compare
(With a right-fol-de-riddle-iddle-lol)
To the British Grenadier!

_Punch._ September 16, 1882.

――――

THE BRITISH HOUSE OF PEERS.

Some swear by Wilfred Lawson,
And some by Labouchere,
And some applaud Joe Chamberlain,
While some by Bradlaugh swear.
Down, down with cant and caucas,
Let’s greet the right with cheers,
And praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers.

For when they were commanded
To pass a Franchise Bill,
They bade a tyrant Premier
Inquire the nation’s will.
John Bright may rant like Rabshakeh,
And Rogers vent his sneers;
Let’s praise their pluck, and wish them luck,
The British House of Peers.

_The Morning Post._ August, 1884.

――――

THE ASTON RIOT.
(_During the Birmingham Election in 1884._)

Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
But Chamberlain’s commander
Far, bigger far than these;
For he commands at his demands,
A power rather tough;
In the vulgar shape of that beastly ape
The blackguard Brummy Rough!

_Chorus_――With a blackguard Brum,
And a Brummy black,
And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

The Radical of Brummagem
Possesseth strength to bray,
With his beery mouth and black pipe stem,
In a beastly sort of way;
But we’d never known how bad he’s grown,
Had he not shown such stuff
At the Aston storm, in his proper form,
As the blackguard Brummy Rough!

_Chorus_――With a blackguard Brum,
And a Brummy black,
And a blackguard Brummy Rough!

* * * * *

_England._ October, 1884.

――――

“THE SONG OF MRS. JENNY GEDDES.
(_Tune_――’British Grenadiers.’)

“Some praise the fair Queen Mary, and some the good Queen Bess,
And some the wise Aspasia, beloved by Pericles;
But o’er all the world’s brave women there’s one that bears the
rule,
The valiant Jenny Geddes that flung the four-legged stool.
_With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!_

“’Twas the twenty-third of July, in the sixteen thirty-seven,
On Sabbath morn from high St. Giles’, the solemn peal was given;
King Charles had sworn that Scottish men should pray by printed
rule:
He sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s danger in a stool!_

“The Council and the Judges with ermined pomp elate,
The Provost and the Bailies in gold and crimson state,
Fair-silken vested ladies, grave Doctors of the school,
Were there to please the King, and learn the virtue of a stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――there’s virtue in a stool!_

“The Bishop and the Dean came wi’ mickle gravity,
Right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e’e;
Their full lawn sleeves were blown and big, like seals in briny
pool;
They bore a book, but little thought they soon should feel a
stool.
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――they’ll feel a four-legged stool!_

“The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look,
He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book:
In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full;
Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool!
_With a row-dow――at them now!――firmly grasp the stool!_

“As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small,
So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall;
_Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool?_
No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged
stool.
With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool!

“A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware!
Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the
air,
With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool!
When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with
a stool.
_With a row-dow――at them now!――there’s nothing like a stool!_

“The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear,
The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear,
The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool,
And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool!
_With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny show the stool!_

“And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand,
Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land;
King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool,
But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool!
_With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――she conquered by the stool!_”

By Professor JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

_The Inverness Courier._ January 8, 1885.

――――

OUR BRITISH PREMIER.

Some talk of Bright and Cobden,
And some of Palmerston,
Of Chamberlain and Goschen,
And some of Hartington.
But of all old England’s heroes,
There’s none that can compare
To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!

Then up! for now he bids us
To rout the renegades.
Our Hawarden star is quenchless
By “Harden Star-Grenades!”
Up, up! with shouts and cheering
We’ll stun the traitor’s ear,
For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!

So, fill, fill up a bumper,
His health let none refuse;
Who wears the high, high collar,
Who wears the plaided trews.
Long may he live――our jewel,
Our _stone_ without a peer;
The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man,
Our British Premier!

AMBULATOR.
_Truth._ July 15, 1886.

――――:o:――――

LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.

O, let me like a soldier fall,
Upon some tented plain!
This breast expanding for the ball,
To blot out every stain.
Brave manly hearts confer my doom,
That gentler ones may tell,
Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell.

I only ask, for that proud race,
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last, and not disgrace,
Its ancient chivalry.
Although no banners o’er me wave,
trumpet requiem swell
Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,
He like a soldier fell.

――――

LET ME LIKE A FEATHER FALL.

Yes, let me like a feather fall,
If tumble then I must;
Not I desire that vulgar sprawl
To rudely kiss the dust.
No, I’ll recline as gracefully
As if ’twas by a spell,
And they that stay and see shall say,
“He like a feather fell.”

Yes, from the pig skin I’ll descend.
And on the dust recline
So gently, that a smiling friend
May claim it all sublime.
But the pig skin I shall try to keep,
For to part like that’s a sell,
Yet they shall say, if we part that way,
“He like a feather fell.”

Yes, the vile cropper I despise,
The gentle I admire,
And all are free to criticise
The spill that I desire.
But when I tumble give the song,
And true that song shall tell,
How through what space, and with what grace
“He like a feather fell.”

_Whizz_; the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_. 1880.

――――:o:――――

THE GIRLS THEY’VE LEFT BEHIND THEM.

Our gallant Guards have marched away,
Each eye with pleasure flashing,
On Eastern shores to join the fray,
And give the Bear a thrashing.
To Englishmen they still are dear,
And absent ties shall bind them,
Thus our first care shall be to cheer
The girls they’ve left behind them.

* * * * *

(_Two verses omitted_).

_Diogenes_, Vol. III., page 104. 1854.

――――

THE WIVES THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM.

We cheer our soldiers on their way,
We crowd and we huzza them,
And as they go to seek the fray
Effusively “Ta-ta” them.
Then ere they’re safe upon the foam,
And distance serves to blind them,
We cry, “Turn out of house and home,
The wives they’ve left behind them.”

And so our fighters meet the foe,
And bleed, should duty bid them;
A thrust may come to lay them low,
Of life a bullet rid them.
Oh, gladly must these heroes face
The dangers that may find them,
Who know how we, to our disgrace,
Treat those they’ve left behind them.

We don’t think much of Tommy A.’s――
Indeed, we rather scout them
In times of peace――yet these are days
When we can’t do without them.
In future, let us recollect
This fact, and oft remind them
That England’s ready to protect
The wives they’ve left behind them.

_Funny Folks._ March 7, 1885.

――――:o:――――

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.

When the sand of the lonely desert has covered the plains of
strife,
Where the English fought for the rescue, and the Arab stood for
his life;
When the crash of the battle is over, and healed are our wounds
and scars,
There will live in our island story a Tale of the Tenth Hussars.

They had charged in the grand old fashion with furious shout and
swoop,
With a “Follow me, lads!” from the Colonel, and an answering roar
from the troop;
From the Staff, as the troopers pass’d it, in glory of pride and
pluck.
They heard and they never forgot it, one following shout, “Good
luck!”

Wounded and worn he sat there, in silence of pride and pain,
The man who’d led them often, but was never to lead again.
Think of the secret anguish! think of the dull remorse!
To see the Hussars sweep past him, unled by the old White Horse!

An alien, not a stranger; with heart of a comrade still,
He had borne his sorrow bravely, as a soldier must and will;
And when the battle was over, in deepening gloom and shade,
He followed the Staff in silence, and rode to grand parade;

For the Tenth had another hero, all ripe for the General’s praise,
Who was called to the front that evening by the name of Trooper
Hayes;
He had slashed his way to fortune, when scattered, unhorsed,
alone,
And saving the life of a comrade had managed to guard his own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a soldier can――
“The Army’s proud of your valour; the Regiment’s proud of their
man!”
Then across that lonely desert, at the close of the General’s
praise,
Came a cheer, then a quick short tremble on the lips of Trooper
Hayes.

“Speak out,” said the kindly Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad,
to say;
Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done
to-day!”
But the trooper gnawed his chin strap, then sheepishly hung his
head;
“Speak out, old chap!” said his comrades. With an effort, at last,
he said――

“There sits by your side on the Staff, sir, a man we are proud to
own!
He was struck down first in the battle, but never was heard to
groan;
If I’ve done aught to deserve it,”――then the General smiled, “Of
course!”――
“Give back to the Tenth their Colonel――the Man on the old White
Horse!

“I came to the front with my pals here, the boys, and the brave
old tars,
I’ve fought for my Queen and my country, and rode with the Tenth
Hussars;
I’m proud, of the fine old regiment!”――then the Colonel shook
his hand――
“So I’ll ask one single favour from my Queen and my native land!

“If ever a man bore up, sir, as a soldier should with pluck,
And fought with a savage sorrow the demon of cursed ill-luck――
That man he sits before you! Give us back, with his wounds and
scars,
The man who has sorely suffered, and is loved by the Tenth
Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from his comrades, and echoed across the
sand,
And was borne on the wings of mercy to the heart of his native
land,
Where the Queen on her throne will hear it, and the Colonel
Prince will praise
The words of a simple soldier just uttered by Trooper Hayes!

Let the moralist stoop to mercy, that balm of all souls that
live;
For better than all forgetting is the wonderful word “Forgive!”

_Punch._ March 15, 1884.

――――

A TALE OF THE TENTH HUSSARS.
(Not to-day, Baker.)

When the train, on its lonely journey, was near to the scene of
strife
Where the woman fought for her honour――far dearer to her than
life;
When the crash of the opening doorway left her standing outside
the cars,
It gave to our island a story of one of the Tenth Hussars.

He was “charged” in the good old fashion, as one of the criminal
troop,
With a “Follow me sharp!” from the “Bobby,” which made him tremble
and droop;
And his staff, as the “Peeler” shewed it in glory of pride and
pluck,
Was seen as he went to prison, but nobody cried “Good luck!”

Wounded and hurt she sat there, in silence of pride and pain,
Her womanhood all insulted, her honour left under a stain.
Think of her secret anguish! think of her dull remorse!
When she got away from the fellow, who now rides an old white
horse.

An alien, not a stranger, but yet ’twould be stranger still,
Tho’ he’s borne his rightful sentence, to hail him with right good
will;
For when Teb’s battle was over, and thousands there were slayed,
He reached his port in safety, with few on the grand parade;

But the Tenth had another hero, quite right for the General’s
praise,
A thick and thin thoro’ Briton, his name was Trooper Blaze;
He had never insulted a woman, and scattered unhorsed, alone,
He had saved the life of a pal of his, and managed to save his
own.

The General spoke out bravely as ever a General can:――
For once the swell and Private could speak as man to man;
And across the lonely desert, at the close of the General’s
praise,
Came a shout of wonder that the swell could talk to Trooper
Blaze.

“Speak out,” said the splendid Colonel, “if you’ve anything, lad,
to say;
Your Queen and your dear old country shall hear what you’ve done
to-day!”
But the Trooper knawed his chin-strap, and sheepishly hung his
head;
“Speak out, old man,” said his comrades, and here’s what he should
have said――

“There sits on your side by the Staff, sir, a man whom the world
has known
As not a protector of woman, when one’s by herself alone;
And all he’s got he deserves it――the General smiled, “Of course;”
And nobody thought the better of the man on the old White Horse!

“I’ve fought very well for my pals here, along with the boys and
tars,
And I have never――no, never――dishonoured the Tenth Hussars;
But one has done that for the regiment”――then the Colonel shook
his hand――
“So I’ll ask one simple favour from my Queen and my native land!”

“If ever a man did wrong, sir, as a thing devoid of pluck,
And fought with a poor, weak woman, and trusted then to luck――
That man he sits before you, the hero of railway cars――
Don’t let that man be e’er replaced to d――n the Tenth Hussars!”

Then a cheer went up from the regiment, and echoed across the sand,
And was borne on the wings of justice to a woman-loving land,
When the Queen on her throne will heed it, and the Colonel Prince
won’t dare
To reinstate a man who tried a lady to ensnare.

Let the aristocrats call “mercy,” but let England’s honour live――
There are crimes to be forgotten――there is one we can’t forgive!

Valentine Baker, Colonel of the Tenth Hussars, was found guilty of having committed a dastardly attack on a young lady in a railway carriage, sentenced to imprisonment and dismissed from the English army. He subsequently took part in the Campaign, as an officer of the Egyptian government.

THE “JINGO” WAR SONG.

“The men of action got a nickname, they were dubbed the Jingo Party. The term, applied as one of ridicule and reproach, was adopted by chivalrous Jingoes as a name of pride. The Jingoes of London, like the Beggars of Flanders, accepted the word of contumely as a title of honour. In order to avoid the possibility of any historical misunderstanding hereafter about the meaning of Jingo, such as we have heard of concerning that of Whig and Tory, it is well to explain how the term came into existence. Some Tyrtaeus of the tap-tub, some Körner of the music-halls, had composed a ballad which was sung at one of these caves of harmony every night, amid the tumultuous applause of excited patriots. The refrain of this war song contained the spirit-stirring words:――

‘We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo! if we do
We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too.’

Some one whose pulses this lyrical outburst of national pride failed to stir, called the party of its enthusiasts the Jingoes. The writer of this book is under the impression that the invention of the name belongs to Mr. George Jacob Holyoake. The name was caught up at once, and the party were universally known as the Jingoes. The famous adjuration of the lady in the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’ had proved to be too prophetical; she had sworn ‘by the living Jingo,’ and now indeed the Jingo was alive.”――_A History of Our Own Times_, by Justin McCarthy, M.P. 1882.

So much for the words, as to the melody, which was not unmusical, Sir William Fraser wrote to _Notes and Queries_ in May, 1886, saying that it was taken from Mozart’s Twelfth Mass. But next week the following denial appeared in _N. & Q._, “I beg to state, as author and composer of the above song, that this statement is unwarrantable and devoid of truth, and in justice to my reputation as a composer, I must request that you will insert this my denial.――G. W. HUNT.”

ON THE WARLIKE NEWSPAPERS.

We don’t want to fight,
But by Jingo! if _you_ do,
We’ve got the ink, we’ve got the pens,
And we’ve got the papers too.

_Punch._

THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT WITH THE RESERVES.

There’s Connaught does not want to fight,
But, by Jingo, if he do;
He has to be kept out of range,
And out of danger too.
He’s been to battle once,
But if report be true,
When he marched upon the field the fight was over!

_Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886.

――――

SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!
(_On the return of Lord Beaconsfield from Berlin with
“Peace and Honour.”_)

See, the Conquering Jingo comes
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Let all Jingodom rejoice,
And raise to heaven its cheerful voice.

Come and join the rabble rout;
Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout!
Britons! hail his glorious feats;
Drag him, drag him through the streets!

Safe from lowering Channel fog:
Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog;
Safe from tedious long discussions
With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians.

On his brow are leaves of laurel――
Victor in the bloodless quarrel.
Honour sits upon his crest,
Secret treaties in his vest!

All his foemen swiftly dwindling,
Dished by most successful * * *
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
See, the Conquering Jingo comes!

LINGO.
_The Echo._ July 17, 1878.

――――

THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE.

――――:o:――――

So many subscribers have asked for a copy of this clever parody of Thomas Hood’s _Dream of Eugene Aram_ that it is given here, although it somewhat interferes with the arrangement of the Song Parodies. “The Bilious Beadle” is admirably adapted for public recitation. The author, Mr. Arthur Shirley, is a well-known dramatist.

T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp,
And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp,
Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp;
And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan
They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can.
But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man――
His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze――
He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze,
So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at
ease.

Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied,
It tortured him to see _them_ eat, _he_ couldn’t though he tried!
Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed,
At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took,
Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look,
And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book――
“You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good!
What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?”
“It’s _Hessays on the Crumpet_, sir, as a harticle of food!”

He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet,
His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump
it,
And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet.
“How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells,
Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells,
While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’
And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought,
The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.

With pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught,
Oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! Take my advice, ’tis best shun
All such tempting tasty things, tho’ nice beyond all question,
Unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion!
One, who had ever made me long――a muffin man and old――
I watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold,
And for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled.
I crept up to them, thinking what an appetite I’d got,
I gloated o’er them lying there elastic and all hot;
I thought of butter laid on thick, and then I prigged the lot!

I took them home, I toasted them, p’raps upwards of a score,
And never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before,
‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’ll go to bed, and dream of eating more.’
All night I lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side,
At first without one wink of sleep, no matter how I tried;
And then I dreamt I was a ’bus, and gurgled ‘Full inside!’
I was a ’bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest,
Now launched like lightning through the air, now stop’d, and now
compressed;
I felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest!

I heard their bells――their horrid bells――in sound as loud as
trumpets,
Oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! Ye cruffins and ye mumpets!
I must be mad! I mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets!
Then came a chill like Wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam;
I could not move a single limb! I could not even scream!
You pauper brat, remember that――all this was but a dream!”

The boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were
oozing,
And for the moment all respect for his dread function losing,
Made this remark, “Well, blow me tight, our Beadle’s been
a-boozing!”
That very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly;
He pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly,
And he lives still at Pentonville with hair not long or curly!

ARTHUR SHIRLEY.

Bob shave great GEORGE our King!
Make him look just the thing!
Bob shave the King!
Razor and razor rag,
Powder and powder bag,
Hold up your chin, my Lad,
Bob shave the KING!

――――

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

The subject of the following song is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors. It is given in Volume II. of Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, where it is stated that it was first printed in the reign of James the First. Bishop Percy says he found it among some poems and songs in a book entitled “Le Prince d’ Amour,” dated 1660.

It will at once be seen that it is the original of the more familiar song, _The Fine Old English Gentleman_, which immediately follows it, and which, has itself, been the subject of numerous imitations and parodies.

An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the Queen’s,
And the Queen’s old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages;
They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong’d to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study filled full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen, that maintain’d half a dozen old cooks;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows,
And an old frize coat, to cover his worship’s trunk hose.
And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With a good old fashion, when Christmasse was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb;
Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier, &c.

But to his eldest son, his house and land he assign’d,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin’d;
Like a young courtier of the King’s,
And the King’s young courtier.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
And takes up a thousand pound upon his father’s land,
And gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong’d to good house-keeping, or care,
Who buys gaudy-colour’d fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other women’s hair;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new-fashion’d hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good,
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne’er stood;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays,
And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays.
With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days;
And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is compleat,
With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat,
With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat;
Like a young courtier, &c.

With new titles of honour[13] bought with his father’s old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors’ old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold,
Among the young courtiers of the King,
Or the King’s young courtiers.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman,
Who had an old estate;
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate.
Like a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.

His hall, so old, was hung around
With pikes, and guns, and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
That had stood against old foes;
’Twas there “his worship” held his state,
In doublet and trunk hose;
And quaff’d his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose.
Like a fine, &c.

When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow,
He open’d house to all;
And though three score and ten his years,
He fleetly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer,
E’er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne’er forgot the small.
Like a fine, &c.

But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight,
And years roll swiftly by;
And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d
The old man――he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
Gave up life’s latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reign’d around,
And tears bedewed each eye.
For this good, &c.

Now surely this is better far
Than all the new parade,
Of Theatres and Fancy Balls,
“At Home,” and Masquerade:
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a prime new song,
That was made by a young chap’s pate,
Of a fine young English gentleman,
Who’d come to an estate;
Who kept his hunters and his hounds
At a d――――d expensive rate.
With servants gay, to drive away
The poor folks from his gate;
Like a fine young English gentleman,
Born in the modern times.

His study it was strew’d around
With what?――Lord only knows!
Foils, boxing-gloves, and pistols,
Which he us’d with friends and foes:
’Twas there “the squire” took his wine
And cigar whene’er he chose;
Perusing the _Court Journal_,
Or Blackwood’s tedious prose.
Like a fine, &c.

He was, when merry winter came,
The gayest of them all;
At five-and-twenty he was seen
At ev’ry fancy ball.
At each theatre――masquerade――
This gentleman would call;
And while he feasted with the great,
He quite forgot the small.
Like a fine, &c.

But cash, alas! too soon takes flight,
And sov’reigns roll away;
And creditors, who have long bills,
At last will call for “pay;”
They came upon him tranquilly,
And caught him out one day;
“My cash is gone,” he cried, “so I
Must in the Queen’s Bench lay.”
Like a fine, &c.

Now this he thought was better far
Than all the old parade――
Of taking tea in peace at home,
Along with some old maid.
It must be economical,――
The bills were all unpaid;
You cannot show me one, I know,
Who does so much for trade
As a fine, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FAST YOUNG UNDERGRADUATE.

I’ll sing you a modern song, that was writ by a man of late,
Of an independent gentleman who had a small estate,
And kept up his rooms in Trinity at a d――――d expensive rate,
And was always on the books of the porter at the gate,
Like a fast young Undergraduate, all of the modern time.

(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.

These rooms so fine were hung about with boxing-gloves and sticks,
Wherewith when TOWN and GOWN was cried, he floored the snobs like
bricks;
And there he often used to sit, and his gin-and-water mix,
For he was _also_ partial to the _flooring_ of his lips.

(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.

His custom was, when drunk, to go to Barnwell in a fly,
With Poll and Kate to joke and flirt, and that continually.
He was always getting into rows with the dons of Trinity.
For he never went to chapel but of necessity.

(_Chorus_)――Like a fast, &c.

But terms and seasons roll along: an idle man was he――
Examination came at last――he was plucked for his degree;
And when he mounted on the coach to leave the ’Varsity,
His creditors stood round about, a mournful sight to see.

(_Chorus_)――For this fast, &c.

But though this Undergraduate hath eloped and cut away,
But though other Undergraduates have got no cash to pay,
But though our credit may not be so boundless as before,
We’ve tradesmen left who’ll credit give as they were wont of yore.

(_Chorus_)――To _other_ fast young Undergraduates,
All of the modern time.

From _The Individual_. Cambridge, November 29, 1836.

――――

THE RAAL OULD IRISH GINTLEMAN, THE BOY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

I’ll sing you a dacent song, that was made by a Paddy’s pate,
Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman who had a fine estate,
Whose mansion, it was made of mud, wid thatch and all complate,
With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate;
Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show,
Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose,
And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose,
Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair,
For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when
there;
And while the rich they feasted him, he oft among the poor,
Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens
roar,
Like a raal ould Irish Gintleman――the boy of the oulden time.

But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock,
And one that kilt him――’case he couldn’t overget the shock;
They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan,
Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did ye die? och hone!
Then they wak’d this Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

Tho’ all things in their course must change, and seasons pass away,
Yet Irish hearts of oulden time, were just as at this day.
Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man――
To serve a friend, and bate a foe, it always was the plan
Of a raal ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.

――――

THE OLD AND NEW CANTAB.

There’s a fine old song for fine old gents, with fine old wine
elate,
Of a fine old, etcetera――the rest I needn’t state;
And _Punch_ unto that fine old air new-fashioned words would mate,
Of the fine old Cantab as he was before this change of late――
The fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

His rooms their range of ballet-girls and running-horses showed,
And a fox-brush, meant to indicate that up to hounds he rode;
There at vingt-un or loo he’d sit, until the cocks they crowed,
Nor ever thought of how to pay the various ticks he owed――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time!

From Eton or from Harrow he came cramm’d with longs and shorts,
An ambition to drive tandem, and a taste for fruity Ports;
And his hardest work was playing, till he deafened half the
Courts,
Concertos on the cornet, in keys of different sorts――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

As a Freshman he wore sober ties, and gave a Don the wall,
But came out, his second year, in short coat and fancy shawl,
And treated the authorities with no respect at all.
Was seldom seen at lectures, and never dined in Hall――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

So he managed to forget the trifling all he once did know,
And by a very narrow shave got through his little-go,
And then he took “a coach” with cram what brains he’d left to
stow――
Arithmetic to the Rule of Three, and some Algebra, also――
This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.

Thus, loo, larks, liquor, and late hours, made time and money fly,
Till when three years brought on the Poll, he was plucked
disgracefully,
And his disgusted gov’rnor came and paid off, with a sigh,
Ticks to a tune which nearly sucked the poor old pump quite dry,
For his fine old Cantab of a son, one of the olden time.

But times are changed henceforth, we know; for, from
eighteen-forty-nine,
The sons of Alma Mater must choose a different line;
And if you try the Muses round, not a lady of the nine
Out of whom he won’t be qualified with ease to take the shine――
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

For reading and not racing he’ll have to keep his book,
He’ll blush at his own pink, and hang his tops upon the hook;
And if e’er he use a cue, ’twill be for motion’s laws to look;
And for milk punch he’ll drink his toast――and water from the
brook――
Our fine young Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

He’ll put off the old Adam for the new one――Adam Smith;
Political Economy will bring private, p’r’aps, therewith:
At Ge―― or else The――ology he’ll spend his pluck and pith,
Tea and Theorems ousting loo and lush, which will be all a myth
To our new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time.

Save for studying the pendulum, he’ll never try a tick;
A novel definition he’ll invent for the word “brick;”
Not one who braves the Proctor, or bargee can slang or lick,
But who digs up Hebrew roots like beans, and knocks off Morals
slick――
Such our new Cantab is to be, all in the future time.

Old Dons will shake their heads, no doubt, and the good old days
deplore,
When reading men were voted slow, and lectures all a bore;
But still let’s hope that Cambridge will furnish, as of yore,
All the wisdom of our ancestors, and perhaps a leetle more,
To the fine new Cantab that’s to be, all in the future time!

_Punch._ November 25, 1848.

――――

THE FINE RICH JEWISH NOBLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, that was penned by a Christian hand,
Of a fine new Jewish Baron with a foreign name so grand,
Whose money heaped around him was as plentiful as sand,
So he said, “By the beard of my forefathers, for the City I will
stand,
Like a fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.”

The Common-hall was crowded then with all the Christian’s foes,
And the Lord Mayor came forward there the Baron to propose,
Loud shouted many a Hebrew voice; and many a Hebrew nose
It’s hook up-raised and Rothschild praised, the man the Hebrews
chose.
He was such a fine Jewish autocrat,
One of a wealthy kind!

When Manners came (a man whose name we all have heard before)
And raised his voice, the Hebrew choice to negative once more,
The Baron showed a wondrous zeal to help the voters poor,
None seeking his Committee-room unpitied left the door,
Of this fine rich Jewish millionaire,
One of a wealthy kind.

But gold, tho’ _much_, can’t _all_ things do, and money’s power
will fly――
An English House of Lords again the Baron’s seat deny!
He won’t resign quite tranquilly, and still again will try,
But tho’ his City friends may howl, they know it’s “all my eye,”
About this fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.