Chapter IX: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (9)

But tho’ Free-trade our land may crush (to Cotton Lords the prey),
Still Christian is the Commons House that doth old England sway;
Tho’ Rome may thrive, and rank Dissent our Church assail to-day,
Our Christian test no Jewish gold shall ever thrust away.[14]
Not for this fine rich Jewish nobleman,
One of a wealthy kind.

From _Protectionist Parodies_, by a Tory. Oxford: J. Vincent. 1850.

――――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH INNKEEPER.

I’ll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,
Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date,
Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state,
And don’t forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate,
Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

His house, you’re told, is fitted up “regardless of expense,”
Although one half is obsolete, and t’other make pretence;
Exploded old four-posters, built in George the Second’s reign,
Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne;
At this fine old English Innkeeper’s, one of the olden
time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,
Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;
And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day,
For “attendance” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay
To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get,
Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,
As a “bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set,
And however nasty it may be a nice sum you’re in debt,
To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,
And use a pair “of wax-lights” (with a muttony perfume),
For which you’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame
That whether they be lit or not, they’re charged for just the
same,
By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,
For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:
And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel
Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,
As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

_Punch._ October 29, 1853.

――――

THE FINE OLD STANDARD TRAGEDY.

I’ll sing you a fine new song, tho’ it’s subject’s out of date,
Of a fine old standard tragedy that was once pronounced
first-rate,
To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state,
And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,”
Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of
prose,
And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes;
And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze,
And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close
Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all,
Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet
would bawl:
Nor was the slightest interest e’er given to enthral,
And, until five dull acts were o’er, the curtain would not fall,
On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

But better taste must come at last, and _such_ plays be put by,
And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die;
They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh,
And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty,
Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

And surely this is better far when managers are made
To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade;
And much more economical――for actors then are paid――
Exchequers filled, and houses cramm’d, to see the dramas play’d,
In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

From _Motley_, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith’s _Town and Country Miscellany_.)

――――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH OMNIBUS.

I’ll sing you a new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date,
Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can state,
Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate.
A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows,
And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows;
But how to get them open without breaking no one knows,
When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows,
In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days,
With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze;
But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red,
And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead,
In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its prime.

Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose,
And everybody’s forced to tread on everybody’s toes,
Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those
Who’ve corns or gout, and glare about as though you’re mortal
foes,
In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time.

Then if outside for air you’d ride, the clambering to your seat
Would, if performed at Astley’s, be pronounced a “daring feat;”
For ere you’re half-way up you hear them coolly cry “All right!”
And then the “knife-board” cramps you so, with pain you can alight
From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.

And then the cad who tends the ’bus――his virtues who may tell?
How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell:
How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down
Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town,
By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins,
Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:”
And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail
Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail
This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time.

Now months have rolled since we were told this fine old ’bus must
die,
That another and a cleanlier its place was to supply:
Yet for that “good ’bus coming, boys,” all vainly still we sigh,
And when we take our walks abroad that nuisance we espy――
The fine old English Omnibus: blot on the present time.

_Punch._ November 22, 1856.

――――

THE FINE OLD BRITISH SUBALTERN.

I’ll sing you a right good song, made by an honest pate,
Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate,
And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate,
Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait,
This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.

His room, so small, was hung around with many a map and plan,
Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man,
And every regulation sword worn since the world began,
And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan.
This fine old, &c.

His room was open to a few each night when mess was o’er.
To those who’d laugh at his old jokes he’d never close his door,
And none of his _old_ favourites e’er voted him a bore,
But kindly laughed at tales they’d heard a thousand times before,
From this fine old, &c.

And every year to town he went to state his wretched case,
And to Lord Fitzroy’s lévee never failed to show his face;
And though he gets some promises, and time wears on apace,
Still, still his name’s reposing in it’s old accustomed place,
This fine old, &c.

Then let us hope this fine old sub will be promoted yet,
Though in these days a company’s no easy thing to get;
Yet we will hope that by ill-luck he’ll cease to be beset,
And look for his promotion in the very next _Gazette_,
This fine old, &c.

From _Wiseheart’s New Comic Songster_. Dublin. No date.

――――

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH OFFICER,
(_As he is to be_,)

I sing of one whom now that we’ve begun to educate,
The House of Commons lately made the subject of debate:
Whose qualities each Member vied with each to numerate,
And what their fancy painted him I’ll now proceed to state;
’Tis the fine young English Officer, as he is to
be――in time.

His head so old on shoulders young with knowledge overflows,
Acquaintance with all sciences and arts its stores disclose,
All books and in all languages by heart almost he knows,
And he’s able to write legibly, and what is more, compose:
Like a wise young English Officer, the reason of my
rhyme.

Italian, French, and Spanish, and Dutch, high or low, he’ll speak,
Count Troy-weight like a Trojan, tell the time of day in Greek;
And if to serve in India he be a chosen man, he
Will astonish all the natives in the choicest Hindostanee;
Like a polyglot young officer, fit for the future time.

Nor are his powers of body less than are those of his mind;
Quick eye, strong arm, and foot so fleet as ne’er to lag behind;
Good lungs, and constitution such as no fatigue can feel,
With iron nerves and sinews, and a heart as true as steel,
Has this brave young English Officer, to serve us in
his prime.

A Centaur in his horsemanship, an Angelo to fence,
In every manly pastime he makes way, nor makes pretence;
From battle-fight to fisticuffs good generalship he proves.
In glory’s race a winner, and a “wunner” with the gloves,
Like the plucky British Officer, of past and present
time.

He can draw with equal credit an earthwork or a cheque,
Keeps a spotless reputation, and accounts without a speck,
Knows staff-duties and horseflesh, can out-bargain Greek or Jew,
Has ready wit at his command, and ready money too:
This accomplished English Officer, one of the coming
time.

_Punch._ August 22, 1857.

――――

A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.

Of woman’s rights and woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of
late,
The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;
And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,
For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate
Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of
Time!

The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,
That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;
But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find,
If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,
In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.

If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,
You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face;
The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,
And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand,
Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

And her dress will be peculiar both in fabric and in make,
An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake;
Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express
The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,
When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined
To join the progress movement for development of mind.
If you enquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best
Such matter should be understood, but never be express’d,
By a stern suggestive Bluestocking in this mystic modern time.

She’ll converse upon aesthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from angels bright and fair to sympathise with niggers,
Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs
quite;
And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she’ll swear that black is
white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little ones, they’re black and blue with
dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking,
The plague of the modern time.

MORAL.

The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”
For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges;
Let woman’s proud and honour’d place be still the fireside,
And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride,
In this our nineteenth century,
The favour’d child of Time.

FRANK E. SMEDLEY.
_Gathered Leaves._ London, Virtue Brothers, 1865.

(This parody originally appeared in _Mirth and Metre_.)

――――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN OF THE PRESENT TIME.

I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,
Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,
But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.
Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,
Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.

His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows,
Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows,
And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose;
For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.

In winter’s cold, when poor and old, for some assistance call,
And come to beg a trifle at the portals of his hall,
He refers them to the workhouse, that stands open wide for all;
For this is how the parish great relieve the parish small,
Like this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.

When any of his working men are bold enough to press
For a trifle more of wages in a season of distress,
He answers like a thorough-going man of business:――
“Must I pay this or that for work which I could get for less?”
Says the fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present
time.

But rolling years will onwards flow, and Time, alas! will fly,
And one of these fine days this fine Old Gentleman will die!
Ah! will he then bethink him as he heaves life’s last sigh,
That he has done to others quite as he would be done by?
As the true Old Englishman did all in the olden time.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE FINE YOUNG LONDON GENTLEMAN.

I’ll sing you a fine new song all about a fine young spark,
Who’s a fine Young London Gentleman quite up to any lark;
Who takes supper very early, and breakfasts in the dark;
Who’s a real “dear old chappie,” as I needn’t p’raps remark,
Of a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He’ll bet in “monkeys,” “ponies,” though he has seldom ready
cash;
If his Tailor isn’t paid, yet he has rings and pins to flash;
At his fav’rite burlesque theatre he’s known as “such a Mash,”
When to a fifth-rate Actress he bouquets down will dash,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He round the corner hurries when the sparkling piece is o’er,
To see his favourite Beauties coming out by the stage-door;
He will jostle with his fellows to obtain a smile――nay, more,
To simply stare at her he’s seen some hundred times before,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He will hie him off to Hurlingham to join the dove _battue_;
He will “plank his pieces” down to join in battle with the Jew;
He will seek the same antagonist his “paper” to renew,
When he’s had the bank at baccarat, or “lost the quids” at loo,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He will say that port and sherry his nice palate always cloy;
He’ll drink nothing but “B. and S.” and big magnums of “the Boy;”
He’s the darling of the Barmaid, and the honest Waiter’s joy,
As he quaffs his Pommery “extra sec,” his “Giesler;” or “Irroy,”
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

On a Racecourse he imagines that he knows what _he_ is at,
He talks so scornfully of “mugs,” and says he knows a “flat;”
So wisely speaks of “roping,” and he always “smells a rat,”
But it very often happens that he’s put “into a hat,”
Is this fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

But there comes a time when barmaids and when theatres are no go,
When the “Boy” is voted nasty, and burlesques considered slow,
When ev’rything too stale is, and when life has lost its flow,
And the spirits once so high become dull, sluggish, bad, and low,
Of the fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

Then he recognises sadly there are others come, like he,
To make merry with the “fizz,” and likewise quaff the “S. and B.”
He is growing old and weary, having just turned twenty-three,
Existence is so tedious, all “life” a vast _ennui_
To the fine young London gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

_Punch._ February 11, 1882.

――――

A FINE OLD ENGLISH GENERAL.

I’ll sing you a good old song,
That was made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English General,
Of a very modern date,
Who helped to keep his country
In a fit defensive state,
And every quarter drew his pay
At a bountiful old rate――
Like a fine old English General,
One of the modern time!

How Horatio kept the bridge
In the good old times you’ve read;
But this fine old English General
He kept, as a rule, his bed;
For he suffered from obeseness.
And had swimming in his head;
Whilst the gout, like an active foeman,
About his body fled――
This fine old English General, &c.

But like a brave old warrior,
Prepared to do and dare,
This fine old English General,
Kept ready his Bath-chair;
That if the foe should threaten,
He to the front might fare,
And with limbs swathed in flannel,
The victory he might share――
This brave old English General, &c.

He’d never been in actual fight,
But had in fun fought hard;
And right through many a desperate night
At the Bank had he kept guard;
Whilst many a day had he “relieved”
In St. James’s Palace Yard;
And once on duty in the streets
Was wounded by a shard――
This brave old English General, &c.

But though in no campaign he’s been,
Of medals he’s a score;
And every year that he can live
His honours will be more;
And should he reach four score and ten
Still higher he will soar;
For he will be Field-Marshal then,
Before his life is o’er――
This fine old English General, &c.

Nor let the country mourn that she
But one such General owns;
She has a hundred at the least,
That scarce can move their bones;
A hundred gouty sons of Mars,
Who, gulping down their groans,
May from their beds command their troops
Through patent Telephones――
These fine old English Generals, &c.

From _Finis_.

――――

THE FINE OLD ATOM-MOLECULE.

(_To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and
“Scientists”_).

We’ll sing you a grand new song, evolved from a ’cute young pate,
Of a fine old Atom-Molecule of pre-historic date,
In size infinitesimal in potencies though great,
And self-formed for developing at a prodigious rate――
Like a fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it slept all the forces in our cosmos that run rife,
To stir Creation’s giants or its microscopic life;
Harmonious in discord, and coöperant in strife,
To this small cell committed, the World lived with his Wife――
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In this autoplastic archetype of Protean protem lay
All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day,
From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey,
To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but bray――
So full was this Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove,
All that pains the sense or pleases, all the heart can loathe or
love,
All instincts that drag downwards, all desires that upwards move,
Were caged a “happy family” cheek-by-jowl and hand in glove,
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

In it Order grew from Chaos, Light out of Darkness shined,
Design sprang up by Accident, Law’s rule from Hazard blind,
The Soul-less Soul evolving――against, not after, kind――
As the Life-less Life developed, and the Mind-less ripened Mind,
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

Then bow down, Mind, to Matter; from brain-fibre, Will, withdraw;
Fall Man’s heart to cell Ascidian, sink Man’s hand to Monkey’s
paw;
And bend the knee to Protoplast in philosophic awe――
Both Creator and Created, at once work and source of Law,
And our Lord be the Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ON SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE.

Yes, I’ll sing you a good old song that, alas, seems out of date,
Of a fine old English statesman who for long had served the State,
And a sterling reputation had been able to create
For his courtesy and honour and strict fairness in debate,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman,
One of the good old kind.

He never stooped to treachery, nor can he comprehend,
How politicians can to tricks and throwing mud descend.
Nor will he principle forsake nor sacrifice a friend,
Though he is ready to the last his party to defend,
Like a fine Old English Statesman,
One of the good old times!

_Truth Christmas Number_, 1885.

――――

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

I’ll sing to you a brave new song, about the Grand Old Man,
Whose tongue and pen are ever found to forward freedom’s plan,
Who in the march of liberty has always led the van,
And ever stretched his strong right hand to help his fellow man
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Who stands up for the right.

This Grand Old Man wears on his brow no coronet of gold,
He does not claim a long descent from titled rogues of old,
He owns no broad domains for which he hath his country sold,
But looks the whole world in the face, for honour makes him bold――
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Plain Gladstone is his name.

In times gone by this Grand Old Man the cause of Free Trade led,
With Bright and Cobden he has helped to give the poor man bread,
And in dark homes of poverty, the light of plenty shed,
And little children bless his name, for he their lips hath fed――
This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Who pleads the people’s cause.

The page of knowledge to the poor had never been unrolled,
And poor men’s papers all were taxed to spare the rich man’s gold.
But the Grand Old Man removed the ban with purpose brave and bold,
And now we’ve schools――and papers too――and what we have we’ll
hold――
Thanks to the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is the poor man’s friend.

The Grand Old Man with tongue of fire St. Stephen’s echoes woke,
And wrong and cruelty stood ashamed whenever Gladstone spoke,
And as his strong and brave right hand could fell the noble oak,
So cowards and tyrants toppled down beneath the sturdy stroke
Of this brave, true-hearted Grand Old Man,
Who fights in Freedom’s cause.

With vision clear the Grand Old Man looked on Fair Erin’s Isle,
And saw the land lie desolate for many a barren mile;
He vowed he would our Sister save from force and fraud and guile,
And Ireland’s hills and fertile vales should wear their ancient
smile――
So said the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is Green Ireland’s friend.

Then weeping Ireland dried her tears, and took him at his word,
She knew his cry of Justice! is far mightier than the sword;
His plan it shall not fade and shrink like Prophet Jonah’s gourd,
But triumph still till Briton’s sons are all of one accord
With the bold and faithful Grand Old Man,
Who’ll triumph in the end.

Then Britons rally round his flag and aid him in the fight,
Though foes and traitors show their teeth he does not fear their
bite,
For tyrant lords must hide their heads before the people’s might:
Then vote for the good old Liberal cause, for Justice and the
right,
And for that brave and Grand Old Man
Who pleads in Ireland’s name.

J. F. B.

Published by the National Liberal Printing and Publishing Association, Limited. 1886.

――――

AN OXFORD PARODY.

I’ll sing you a sporting song, for you all love well the chase,
Of a gallant pack, and huntsman too, who go the fastest pace,
He rides right bravely to his hounds, whatever be his steed
And says “Let scent be ne’er so bad, this day the fox shall
bleed,”
Like a first-rate English fox-hunter,
One of the present time.

His room at home is hung around with emblems of his pride,
With sporting prints and fox’s heads, which in good runs have
died:
Th’ Oxonians on hacks, in “teams,” do gladly gather here
To view his hounds and horses, and to taste the hearty cheer,
Of this first rate, &c.

And when at break of early day he sallies to “the meet,”
How well appointed! ain’t it, boys? how sportsmanlike! how neat!
In Heythrop’s grassy avenue, a goodly sight, I ween,
Is Redesdale’s lordly turn out, and the lads in Lincoln green!
They’re first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.

“The silent system” Jim forswears: how to his voice they run!
See now they’re in the covert: look out, my boys, for fun!
“The varmint” trembles as he hears the foe approaching nigh
And hopes it is the ――――[15] or else he sure must die
For this first-rate, &c.

List! list! Old Vanguard challenges: the pack in turn reply;
And Jim’s “Hark forward!” now is heard as on they quickly fly:
He leads the van on Spangle: next Jack[16] upon his mare;
There’s neither wall nor water shall stop the gallant pair
Of first-rate, &c.

A check! a check! now freshman bold, “hold hard, Sir, if you
please:”
Just watch Jim’s clever casts, Sir, just watch his “busy bees:[17]
He has it now! Right merrily “that sweetest music” rang;
So press your steeds, my gallant lads, and catch him if you can――
This first-rate English fox-hunter.
One of the present time.

And now the pace doth tell a _tale_: press on, ye happy few;
’Tis forty minutes racing speed――we run him now in view;
His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down,
indeed!
Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed,
Ye first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.

Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game;
His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same
And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times
three,
May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see
This first-rate English fox-hunter,
One of the present time.

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_.
Oxford. J. Vincent. No date.

――――

THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

I’ll sing you a good old song of the powerful Fourth Estate,
Of a bold and reckless Special of the very latest date,
Who is able countless horrors to in print accumulate,
And will wire false news from anywhere at the usual cable rate.

_Chorus._――Like a Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When on the war-path he proceeds and takes his daily rides,
The enemy sends shots at him, and then in terror hides,
As he clears whole batteries at once with the steed that he
bestrides,
And from a hissing shell a light for his cigarette provides.

_Chorus._――Does this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

He knows not fear――’tis grand to see how he his nerves controls,
As midst the grape and canister, he calmly caracoles,
Whilst bullets in his pocket-book make inconvenient holes;
And a well-pitched ball from out his hands the pencil often bowls.

_Chorus._――Of the Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When incidents are dull or few, he’ll reckless lies invent,
Or he’ll date his telegrams from towns to which he never went;
To vilify a famous man he’ll readily consent,
And will act on orders sent from home to any base extent.

_Chorus._――Will this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

He loves to don a uniform and swagger with the best,
And when no English are about wears medals on his chest;
And for the news he cables home attention to arrest,
That British troops are cowardly curs he glibly will suggest.

_Chorus._――Will this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

He has an altogether strange and wondrous sense of sight,
For he can see a brilliant moon upon a moonless night;
And has been known the lowest types of passion to excite,
By writing of a fabulous “Baboon and Potboy” fight.[18]

_Chorus._――Has this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

“Untamed and ancient Savages” he also can espy,
And many other curious sights――if no one else be nigh!
But, if he should have company, why, then, his magic eye
No longer non-existent moons and mortals can descry.

_Chorus._――For this Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

When brought to mix with gentlemen, he acts in such a way,
That they are bound to rid themselves of him without delay;
For he toadies to gain confidence, which straightway he’ll betray;
And there’s no trick too mean for him to readily essay.

_Chorus._――This Special Correspondent, one of the modern
time!

In short, he’s arrogant and false; he gushes to excess,
He makes his facts to suit the views his master may express;
His self-conceit’s contemptible, so are his style and dress,
And he’s brought already quite enough dishonour on the Press.

_Chorus._――Has the Special Correspondent, all of the
modern time!

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1882.

――――

THE FINE YOUNG AGRICULTURIST.

The winter comes, as winter came some fifty years ago――
Sometimes muggy, warm, and wet, and sometimes frost and snow;
And, weather notwithstanding, comes the Christmas Cattle Show;
But the modern English farmer our forefathers wouldn’t know,
In the fine Young Agriculturist――one of the
modern time.

He don’t take days to travel up by daily coach and mail,
And stop at roadside posting-houses, drinking rum and ale.
Or waste his time to dine, and hear the landlord’s oft-told
tale,
But speeds at forty miles an hour to town express by rail.
This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

In former days his dress was baggy sandy-coloured suits,
A great top-coat, with pockets deep, knee-breeches and top-boots,
And all his thoughts were how to grow the finest crops and roots,
And all his talk of ripening corn and rearing Christmas brutes.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But now the modern farmer is a transformation quite――
His coat made small, and cutaway――his trousers fitting tight.
His Balmoralish patent leather button boots are light,
A Champagne Charley glossy hat, curl’d brim, and small in height,
On this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

The past young English farmer was so vulgar and ill-bred――
A gross, fat, clumsy lump of human nature over-fed;
His goggle-eyes were lustreless――his bacon chops all red,
His hair hung coarse and shaggy all about his pumpkin-head.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

But the modern English farmer, now, ’tis pretty well agreed,
Is a very different person――of a very different breed;
He comes up to the Cattle Show a gentleman indeed,
And doesn’t lounge about the town, and drink, and overfeed.
Not the fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s quite a genteel fellow, nothing “fast,” and nothing “flash”;
Can very soon distinguish good amusements from the trash;
His nature full of spirits, and his pocket full of cash,
And he cultivates your friendship――and a very large moustache.
Does this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He talks to you of chemical manures――salts and phosphates,
Discusses freely politics of home or foreign states;
In science, too, is well read up to hold out long debates;
Can play the “fancy” science, too, for punishing rogue’s pates.
This fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

He’s not a _Tony Lumpkin_ now, to muddle time away
In public-house, or skittle-ground, and smoke the vulgar clay.
But, having more refinement, can the game of billiards play,
Or join the ladies on the lawn at love-making croquet.
Can this nice Young Agriculturist, &c.

Look round, too, at his Christmas stock――the same improvement own;
No longer for a tallow show the Christmas cattle grown:
No more beneath oppressive fat shall porkers lie and moan,
But well-developed form and flesh, and very little bone.
By this fine Young Agriculturist, &c.

Now, isn’t this much better that the live-stock should be so,
Than as seen by our grandfathers some fifty years ago?
And may the price of butchers’ meat a great deal cheaper grow;
Then success attend exhibitors, and the Christmas Cattle Show!
And the fine Young Agriculturist, one of
the modern time.

From _Banter_, Edited by G. A. Sala. December 9, 1867.

――――

THE ROMANCE OF KELLY’S POST-OFFICE DIRECTORY.

We hear of days long passed away, and glorious times of old,
And how Young England’s sons affirm we’re getting dull and cold;
But yet romance is not quite dead――in common daily life
She still exists; of which great fact you’ll find examples rife
In the Post-office Directory, all of the
present year.

The mighty minds of every age you’ll meet therein combined,
John Milton, as a tea dealer, in Mary’bone you’ll find;
And Isaac Walton in the East, has stores of pens and quills;
And Hogarth trades in ham and beef, and Butler deals in pills,
In the Post-office Directory, &c.

_(The Author continues to string notable names together in this
style for six more verses.)_

In fact, there’s nought or nobody the keen compilers spare,
And all we have immortalised are _bona fide_, there;
Just turn to the last copy, and you’ll find them all forthwith,
Unless you chance to lose yourself amongst the tribes of Smith,
In Kelly’s last Directory, all of the
present year.

From _A Pottle of Strawberries_, by Albert Smith. 1848.

――――

In the following notes, extracts are given from a few parodies which are not sufficiently amusing to be quoted in full.

An uninteresting political parody of the “The fine old English Gentleman” in eight verses, is contained in a small pamphlet entitled _Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet_, published by Houlston and Sons, London, about 1883.

It commences thus:――

I sing a brand new song which may old faiths eradicate,
About the B. whose buzzing has been heard so much of late,
Whose craze it is to scheme to be Protector of the State,
And thinks that being bulky is the same as being great,
A much mistaken demagogue,
Of the self-anointed line.

The Christmas number of _The World_ for 1885 had a parody commencing,

“A good old English gentleman, all of the olden school,
Is a person who our sympathy commands”

which dealt with political topics; whilst the very unpoetical subject of the Irish Land Acts was considered at great length, and in a rather heavy style, in a parody which appeared in _Kottabos_ for 1881, over the signature M.

THE INDEFEASIBLE TITLE.

I’ll sing you all a song that was made by an honest pate,
Of a fine old Irish gentleman, who mortgaged his estate
To a bluff old English mortgagee, who swore he couldn’t wait,
But would sell the lands at any price and at an early date,
Like a business-like old Englishman, all of the olden time.

* * * * *
(_Nine verses omitted._)

_Kottabos_ was a small magazine issued from Trinity College, Dublin, and published by William McGee.

――――:o:――――

A PARODY BY CHARLES DICKENS.

The following parody, written by Charles Dickens, appeared in _The Examiner_ for Saturday, August 7, 1841. Mr. Forster thus refers to it in his _Life of Charles Dickens_: “The last of these rhymes I will give _entire_. This has no touch of personal satire in it, and he would himself, for that reason, have least objected to its revival.” Thereupon Mr. Forster quotes seven only out of the eight stanzas he professes to give in full, omitting one which quite destroys his assertion that there was no personal satire in the parody. Mr. Forster was once described by a cabman as “that ’ere _h_arbitrary cove;” to give a garbled quotation, and state that it is the entire poem is indeed an arbitrary act. The following is a complete reproduction of Mr. Dickens’s parody:――

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.
New version (_to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners_.)

I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,
Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;
When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate,
On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and
chains,
With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,
With rebel heads, and seas of blood, once hot in rebel veins;
For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains,
Of the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,
And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies,
To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,
Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

The good old times for cutting throats, that cried out in their
need,
The good old times for hunting men who held their father’s creed,
The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,
Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed.
Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
When will they come again?

In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,
But sweetly sang of men in power like any tuneful lark;
Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;
And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.
Oh, the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

(The following stanza was omitted by Mr. Forster.)

Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din;
For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win;
For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,
Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the
main;
That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was
plain;
The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;
A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,
With the fine old English Tory days,
All of the olden time.

The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the
land,
In England there shall be――dear bread! in Ireland――sword and
brand,
And poverty and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,
So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,
Of the fine old English Tory days;
Hail to the coming time!

The allusions contained in the sixth stanza require some explanation. In 1813 Leigh Hunt and his brother, as proprietors of _The Examiner_, were sentenced to undergo two years imprisonment, and each to pay a fine of five hundred pounds, for publishing an article in that paper containing the following remarks on the Prince Regent:――

“What person would imagine in reading these astounding
eulogies in _The Morning Post_, that this ‘Glory of the
people’ was the subject of millions of shrugs and
reproaches! That this ‘Conqueror of Hearts’ was the
disappointer of hopes! That this ‘Exciter of Desire’
(Bravo, _Morning Post_!), this ‘Adonis in Loveliness,’ was
a corpulent man of fifty! In short, this _delightful,
blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true
and immortal_ Prince was a violator of his word, a
libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of
domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a
man who has just closed half a century without one single
claim on the gratitude of his country, or the respect of
posterity.”

The Hunts were informed that if they would undertake to abstain from commenting on the actions of the Prince Regent for the future the sentence would be remitted. They declined to give the required undertaking, but paid their fines, and went to prison. The severity of the sentence caused great delight to the friends of the Prince Regent, and Theodore Hook wrote the following apropos parody of Cowper’s poem on Alexander Selkirk:――

VERSES.

(Supposed to be written by the Editor of the _Examiner_,
whilst in prison.)

I am tenant of nine feet by four,
My title no lawyer denies,
From the ceiling quite down to the floor,
I am lord of the spiders and flies.

Oh, Justice! how awkward it is
To be griped by thy terrible squad!
I did but indulge in a _quiz_,
And the Quorum have sent me to _quod_.

Dear scandal is out of my reach,
I must pass my dull mornings alone.
Never hear Mr. Brougham make a speech,
Nor get audience for one of my own!

The people, provokingly quiet,
My fate with indifference see:
They are so unaccustomed to riot,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Personality, libel, and lie,
Ye supports of our Jacobite train,
If I had but the courage to try,
How soon I would sport you again!

My ranklings I then might assuage
By renewing my efforts to vex,
By profaning the rev’rence of age,
And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold
Resides in that dear little word,
More rich than the silver and gold
Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity,
No stomach for high-season’d leaven,
And though we be never so witty,
They trim us when judgment is given.

O ye, who were present in Court,
In pity convey to me here
Some well-manufactured report,
Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell?
Does the public attend to my lines?
O say that my Newspapers sell
Though the money must go for my fines!

How fleet is the growth of a fib!
The astonishing speed of its flight
Outstrips the less mischievous squib
Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge,
“When he knows how it helps off his papers
Were it not――that the thought of the judge
Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his discharge――
_The beast_ is let loose from his cover:
Like him I shall yet be at large,
When a couple of years shall be over.

For law must our liberty give,
Though _Law_ for a while may retard it
Even I shall obtain it, who live
By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

Severe as was the punishment inflicted on the Hunts it did not have a deterrent effect; indeed the trial was a political blunder, it gave enormous publicity to a libel which would otherwise have been seen by few, and have soon been forgotten; it offended many, who whilst having no sympathy with the Hunts, were still in favour of a free Press; and finally it encouraged the publication and sale of many other attacks upon the Prince Regent, and his friends. The most active and zealous purveyor of this kind of literature was William Hone, of Ludgate Hill, who published numerous pamphlets, leaflets, parodies and squibs; most of these were written by Hone himself, and illustrated by George Cruikshank. The Prince Regent’s personal appearance, his intemperance, his vanity, and his conduct towards his wife, were mercilessly exposed and ridiculed; whilst the actions of the ministry were also held up to public scorn and contempt.

Eventually the government took legal proceedings against Hone for publishing political parodies, namely, John Wilkes’s Catechism, the Political Litany, and the Sinecurist’s Creed.

There were three separate trials held in the Guildhall, London, on December 18, 19 and 20, 1817, and in each trial the Jury found a verdict of _Not Guilty_. Here, again, the government prosecutions defeated their own ends. Hone became the hero of the day, the martyr in the cause of the liberty of the Press; a large sum of money was raised for him by public subscription, and what was worse, the parodies were republished, and, owing to the publicity given to them by the trials, the sales were enormous. Even now these little pamphlets are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curiosities, and of _Cruikshankiana_, especially those relating to the Prince Regent and his illtreated wife. The most successful example of Hone’s skill was a parody entitled “The House that Jack built,” of which more than fifty editions were rapidly sold off. A few extracts will show the bitter tone of this parody; and Cruikshank’s portrait of the _Dandy of Sixty_ was scarcely more complimentary than Leigh Hunt’s written description of the “fat Adonis of fifty.” The subjects of Cruikshank’s illustrations are given within parenthesis.

THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

(_A Temple of Liberty._)

This is the WEALTH that lay in the House that Jack built.

(_Magna Charta_, _Habeas Corpus_, _Bill of Rights_.)

These are the VERMIN that plunder the _Wealth_, that lay in the
House that Jack built.

(_Court Official_, _Bishops_, _Lawyers_, _Army_, _Tax-collectors_.)

This is the THING, that in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_, that plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(_A Printing Press_.)

This is the PUBLIC INFORMER,
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_, that plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the House, that Jack built.

(_The Attorney General_.)

These are the REASONS OF LAWLESS POWER,
That back the _Public Informer_,
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That in spite of new Acts, &c., &c.

(_A Gaoler, an Artilleryman, a Horse Guard, and a Grenadier_.)

This is THE MAN――all shaven and shorn,
All cover’d with Orders――and all forlorn;
THE DANDY OF SIXTY,
Who bows with a grace,
And has taste in wigs, collars, cuirasses, and lace;
Who, to tricksters and fools, leaves the State and its treasure,
And, when Britain’s in tears, sails about at his pleasure,
Who spurn’d from his presence the Friends of his youth,
And now has not one who will tell him the truth;
Who took to his counsels, in evil hour,
The Friends to the _Reasons of Lawless Power_;
That back the _Public Informer_
Who would put down the _Thing_,
That, in spite of New Acts,
And attempts to restrain it, by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the _Vermin_,
That plunder the _Wealth_,
That lay in the _House that Jack Built_.

(_A crowd of starving people_.)

These are the PEOPLE
All tattered and torn,
Who curse the day wherein they were born,
On account of taxation too great to be borne,
And pray for relief, from night to morn:
Who, in vain, Petition in every form,
Who, peaceably meeting to ask for Reform,
Were sabred by Yeomanry Cavalry,
Who were thanked by _The Man_,
All shaven and shorn, all covered with Orders
And all forlorn;
THE DANDY OF SIXTY,
Who bows with a grace, &c., &c.

* * * * *

The Report of Hone’s three Trials is an interesting work, full of curious parodies, of which a detailed account will be given in the Bibliographical Volume of this Collection. But for the present Leigh Hunt, William Hone, George Cruikshank, and George, Regent, and King, must be dismissed, and Thackeray’s burlesque Epitaph will fitly close this chapter.

He never acted well, by man or woman.
And was as false to his mistress as to his wife.
He deserted his friends and his principles.
He was so ignorant he could scarcely spell;
But he had skill in cutting out coats,
And an undeniable taste for cookery.
He built the palaces of Brighton
And of Buckingham,
And for these qualities and proofs of genius,
An admiring aristocracy
Christened him the “First Gentleman in Europe.”
Friends, respect the King whose statue is here,
And the generous aristocracy who admired him.

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

When mighty Roast Beef was the Englishman’s food,
It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;
Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.
Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England,
And, oh! for Old England’s Roast Beef!

Then, Britons, from all nice dainties refrain,
Which effeminate Italy, France, and Spain;
And mighty roast beef shall command on the main.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

But since we have learnt from effeminate France,
To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance;
We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout and strong,
And kept open house, with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song,――
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee and tea and such slipslops were known;
The world was in terror if e’en she did frown,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again,
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

Oh! then we had stomachs to eat and to fight.
And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right,――
But now, we’re a――hum!――I could, but Good night,
Oh! the Roast Beef, &c.

This song was first printed complete in Walsh’s “British Miscellany” about 1740. It was written and composed by Richard Leveridge, with the exception of the first two verses which were written by Henry Fielding, for a comedy entitled “Don Quixote in England.” This piece was acted at the New-Theatre in the Haymarket, 1733.

――――

KAIL-BROSE O’ AULD SCOTLAND.

When our ancient forefathers agreed wi’ the laird
For a piece o’gude ground to be a kail-yard,
It was to the brose that they paid their regard:
O! the kail-brose o’ auld Scotland,
And O! the Scottish kail-brose.

When Fergus, the first of our Kings, I suppose.
At the head of his nobles, had vanquished our foes,
Just before they began, they’d been feasting on brose,
O! the Kail-brose, &c.

Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose,
Wi’ their bonnets and belts, which their dress did compose,
And a bag of oatmeal on their backs to be brose,
O! the Kail-brose, &c.

But now since the thistle is joined to the rose,
And the English nae longer are counted our foes,
We’ve lost a great deal o’our relish for brose.
O! the Kail-brose &c.

Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,
Likes always to feed on a cog o’ gude brose,
And, thanks be to heaven, we’ve yet plenty of those.
O! the Kail-brose, &c.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE GROCER’S DELIGHT, OR A SUGAR PLUM FOR MASTER BILLY.

When good George the Second did sit on the throne,
A Pitt we could boast, and a Pitt of our own,
A true Whig was he to the very back-bone.
Oh, the true Whigs of old England,
And oh, the Old English true Whigs.

He went to the city to dine with the mayor,
The King and the Queen, and the courtiers were there,
The people huzza’d him, which made the King stare.
Oh, the true Whigs, &c.

The feast of the Grocers is not the same thing,
His son, Master Billy, is all for the King,
And therefore a different song we must sing
Oh, the back-stairs of St. James’s,
And oh, the St. James’s back-stairs.

Billy bluster’d and vapour’d, and gave himself airs,
He spoke for the people, and swore he was theirs,
Till Jenkinson usher’d him up the back stairs.
Oh, the back stairs, &c.

_Dundas_ is his counsel, and _Thurlow_ his guide,
The lords of the bed-chamber with him divide,
The bishops, God mend’em, are all of his side.
Oh, the back stairs, &c.

He holds his head high and he talks very big,
For the Commons of England he don’t care a fig;
But the House of Lords swear he’s an excellent Whig.
Oh, the poor Whigs of Old England!
And oh, the poor Old English Whigs.

Since the fortunate days of King William the Third,
When Nassau to Stuart was wisely prefer’d,
Such doctrines as these are, sure never were heard,
By the staunch Whigs of Old England,
By the Old English staunch Whigs.