Chapter XXVI: Part I (6)

Now, glory to the Lord Parnell, from whom all glories are!
And feathers for his enemies, and ignominious tar!
Now let Tay Pay blow off his steam, and Joseph Gillies prance,
And suffer bold O’Brien (Ireland’s lion) to advance!
And thou, Old Man, our Grand Old Man, who Erin’s acres bought us,
With coin filched from the Sassenach, and confiscation taught us;
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For impotent or dumb are they who wrought our bills annoy.
Whiroo! whiroo! Rip up the bond before it be too late,
The watchword of New Erin――rip! rip! REPUDIATE!

* * * * *

Ho! Morley of the mealy mouth; ho! Green and Grand Old Man;
Weep, weep, and rend what hair you have for downfall of your plan.
Ho! Rothschild lend (or Roseberrie) vast shekels (or pistoles)
To lure the Liberal and Rad from ratting at the polls.
Oh, loyal members of the League, kneel at his feet and pray
For him who with a royal hand hath squared the deal to-day.
For the King hath crushed the tyrant bond, the King hath raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the just, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to the dodgy one who crowned New Erin’s Fate,
And raised the cry, “Don’t pay your debts, but rip――REPUDIATE!”

Charles S. is come to marshal us, in all his livery drest,
And he has stuck a landlord’s scalp upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his creatures with a wary winking eye,
And then upon the Sassenach, and cried, “How’s this for high?”
Right knowingly he leered on us, as rolled from street to street
The shout, “The honest Pat’s played out; make ready for the cheat!
And if the Yankee dollars fail, as fail full well they may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a costly day.
Press where ye see the landlord’s scalp upon my hybrid pate,
And be your oriflamme, my boys, rip! rip! REPUDIATE!”

_The Topical Times._ March 20, 1886.

――――

THE GREAT RENT CASE.
(_A Lay of the High Court in the year_ 1865.)

Ho! Nazirs, sound your tom-toms!
Ho! Sheriff, clear the way!
The Judges ride, in all their pride,――
To the High Court to-day.
Shout! gallant little Crier!
Your eye-glass tightly fit,
Arrange your splendid Forum
So every Judge may sit.
Each Judge is robed in sable,
His gills flow long and wide,
Like Bull-frog in the fable,
He swells with conscious pride.

These are the opening lines of a long parody describing a trial in India, contained in “_Lyrics and Lays_,” by Pips, published in Calcutta, by Wyman Bros., 1867. The parody consists of more than 450 lines, and is both unintelligible and uninteresting to all but persons’ accustomed to Indian life and character.

――――:o:――――

BEFORE THE BATTLE.
(_And considerably after “Ivry.”_)
_A Song for the Sanguine._

Now luck unto the Liberal Host, to whom good luck should be!
And luck unto our Leader Old, undaunted William G.!
Now let the merry music sound a resolute advance,
Come, Hartington, why bite thy beard? Come, Joe, why look askance?
And Spencer, loyal Spencer gaze across the Irish water!
It is not rapture lights the eyes of those who schemed thy slaughter.
As thou wert constant in our ills, joy in our coming joy,
For glum, and mum, and dumb are they who wrought thy rule annoy.
Hurrah! How oft a single charge hath made the Tory flee,
Hurrah! Hurrah! for victory, and valiant William G.
Oh! how all hearts are beating, on this our opening day,
We see the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-praised patriots, and all its rebels red,
And Biggar’s beauteous body, and Tim Healy’s handsome head.
There sit the brood of anarchy, the troublers of the land;
And dark Parnell is in their midst, and holds them well in hand.
And as we look on them, we think of treason in full flood,
And good Lord Frederick’s manly breast bedabbled with his blood;
And we cry unto fair Fortune from their toils to set us free,
To fight for loyal liberty and valiant William G.

He comes once more to marshal us, in simple broadcloth drest;
As glorious are his scant white locks as any knightly crest.
He looked upon his Homer, and he heaved a scholar’s sigh;
He looks upon the Tory, and his glance is stern and high.
Right genially he smiles on _us_, as rolls from wing to wing
Down all our line the ready cheer. We’ve heard his voice outring:
“And if our flag should seem to droop, as seem sometime it may,
“For never saw I promise yet of such a fierce affray,
“Press where you see my banner wave, in battle’s front ’twill be,
“For whosoe’er fall to the rear, it won’t be W. G.”

Hurrah! The foe are stirring. Expect the mingled shindy,
Of Biggar tart and turbulent, and Bartlett wild and windy.
The Uncrowned King will cut us out some most unpleasant work,
With all his hireling patriots from Kerry and from Cork.
Now by the golden lips we love, _unitedly_ advance!
Charge Radical with Liberal!――don’t give the foe a chance!
A hundred times we’ve beaten them, now comes a crowning test,
A hundred times we’ve phalanxed close behind that snow white crest.
If now we mean to break their ranks, and beat them, it must be
All of one mind, charging behind our valiant William G.

Methinks the day may yet be ours. Carnarvon hath turned rein;
Hicks-Beach in vain hath paltered, Lord Randolph glozed in vain.
Their ranks are gaping; there be clouds upon each visage pale;
Their Irish pact won’t somehow act; it was foredoomed to fail.
It makes us dream of vengeance; and all along our van,
“Remember their Kilmainham charge!” is passed from man to man.
But what says generous William? “No Irishman’s my foe;
“Down, down with every thought of hate! For justice let us go!”
Was ever so magnanimous, so fair a foe as he――
Our much maligned old champion, our gallant William G.?

Right well each man will have to fight who fights with us to-day,
And many a party pennon will fall earthward in the fray.
And we whose watchword’s “Unity!” must bear us well in fight;
For never yet was it more hard to follow simple right.
But when our standard-bearer the old, old flag hath ta’en,
Blazoned “Be just, and fear not!” flag that never flew in vain;
Up with it high, unfurl it wide, that all the host may know
Though with the League we won’t intrigue, to Ireland we’re no foe.
Then rally round whilst trumpets sound their challenge far and free;
Broad let it wave, a banner brave, for gallant William G.

Ho! Ladies of the Primrose, whose hearts for victory yearn,
Weep, weep for the majority you struggled to return.
Ho! Cecil, twist to Tory sense the verdict of the polls,
And do your best to lure the Whigs and scare all timid souls.
Ho! swollen cohort of the League, think not our hearts to fright.
Ho! followers of the Liberal Flag, keep clear your sense of right.
To foil Hibernia’s tyrant, yet to raise Hibernia’s slave,
Will tax the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave.
Yet here’s for having at the task, how stiff soe’er it be!
And here’s to him who’ll lead us on, our dauntless William G.!

House of Commons, Wednesday, January 20.

_The Daily News._ January 21, 1886.

――――:o:――――

A number of parodies of Lord Macaulay are scattered about in the back numbers of comic papers. It will suffice to give a verse or two from the most important.

LAY OF THE AMPHITHEATRE (ROYAL).
_The Combat._

As they entered the arena,
Their step was firm and brave;
Though of one or of the other,
They knew it was the grave.

Each took a little porter,
To nerve him for the scene;
They entered the arena,
So calm and so serene!

A thousand eyes were on them,
All eager for the fight;
The footlights flared before them――
The combat was by night.

And now they bare their falchions,
And foot to foot they stand,
Each sternly eyes the other
With look composed and grand.

Yet one is honest-hearted,
And true, as well as brave――
The other is a ruffian,
A sanguinary knave.

By turns their weapons clashing,
Right equal seems the game;
While “One, Two, Three,” says Simpson,
Smith doth repeat the same.

Sword upon sword descending,
While fiddle and trombone,
In time to that dread music,
Play slowly “Bobbing Joan.”

Yet not _in time_ exactly――
This night it may not be;
Yon churl who plays the fiddle,
Exceeding drunk is he!

Now Smith doth wicked Simpson
Into a corner urge;
Now Simpson drives him back upon
The stage’s utmost verge.

At length a blow so swashing
From gallant Smith’s claymore,
On that of Simpson thunders――
He totters――falls――’tis o’er!

* * * * *

And then――to show no malice
Fester’d his soul within――
The wicked corpse of Simpson,
He treated to some gin.

Now be each scheming villain
Like yonder Simpson floored;
And every gallant spirit meet
With gallant Smith’s reward!

(_Eight verses omitted._)

_Punch._ 1845.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND.
_Or, Ibrahim Pacha at Vauxhall._

Great Ibrahim of Egypt has promised the Lessee
The Masquerade at Vauxhall he’ll go in state to see;
To Allah he has vowed it――to Allah and the Clown,
That in his royal glass-coach he will in state go down.

This is the first of twenty-three verses of a not particularly good parody, which appeared in George Cruikshank’s _Comic Almanack for_ 1847.

――――

_The Month._ By Albert Smith and John Leech. In the number for December 1851, of this scarce little magazine, there was a long imitation of Macaulay, entitled

THE INAUGURATION OF THE MAYOR.

Up! Citizens of Cripplegate――come Billingsgate, begin!
Rise ye of ancient Candlewick――up Farringdon Within,
Now Castle Baynard, show your strength――now Aldgate, lead the van,
Ye City wards which ne’er were picked, since history began.

’Tis London’s ancient Festival, another Mayor to-day,
Begins the civic sceptre of the Mansion House to sway;
Blythe the self congratulation――sad the wail of discontent,
As the one gets into office, and the other out is sent.

From the plains of fair Belgravia, from Tyburnia and the north,
Troops of ruddy servant maidens on their holiday come forth,
Each with snowy kerchiefs laden, which they never will unfold,
Going wildly in directions just wherever they are told.

* * * * *

Twenty-two verses follow here, describing the Lord Mayor’s procession and banquet, topics which do not suggest any novelty to the poet, who concludes thus:――

Let us hope that in the waking from the darkness to the light,
The coming day may realise the visions of the night,
That the civic corporation may its funds so well bestow,
That a nation’s commendation may attend the Lord Mayor’s “Show.”

_Ainsi soit il._

――――

THE CITY TOURNAMENT.

Ho! Policemen! get before them!
Ho! Serjeants! clear the way!
The Sheriffs ride in state and pride,
To the Guildhall to-day!
To the Guildhall they’re coming,
Spite of the wind or rain;
To preside at Civic Tourney,
That makes a Chamberlain.

This is the first verse of a long, and uninteresting, parody which appeared in _Diogenes_, June 18, 1853, describing the contest between Sir John Key and Mr. Benjamin Scott, for the office of City Chamberlain (London). Sir John Key was then successful, but in 1858 Mr. Scott obtained the office.

_A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith, 1848, contains “A Lay of Ancient Rome,” describing the brave deeds of Marcus Curtius, in burlesque verses, but it is not exactly a parody of Macaulay’s style.

――――

BURLINGTON.
(_A Lay of Regent’s Park College._)

The Senate of the London U-
niversity they swore,
That the great house of Regent’s Park
Should pass its men no more.
By their M.A.’s they swore it,
And fixed the fatal day,
And bade all their Professors pen
Such questions as should keep the men
From taking their B.A.

There be an awful Senate;
The wisest in the land,
Who by the dread Examiners
Both morn and evening stand,
And with one voice the Senate,
Like mean and stingy brutes,
Have said, “Go forth, Examiners,
And pluck them like old boots.”

_Messrs. Bailey, Sale, and Edwards are sent up for Examination, the terrors of which are described at length, but they manage to pass._

Out came they, as not deigning
Those other men to see;
Naught spake they to the Porter,
Although he asked a fee;
But mentally in Regent’s Park
They saw the “House” appear;
And they hailed a Hansom cabman
Who happened to be near.

“Oh, Cabby! gentle Cabby!
To whom the students pay,
Three students’ lives, three students’ limbs,
Take thou in charge this day.”
So they spake, and, speaking, told
The cabman where to ride,
And with their books beneath their arms,
Plunged recklessly inside.

And now they gain the entrance;
Now on the steps they stand,
And round them flock the students,
To shake each by the hand;
And now, with shouts and laughter,
To the tune of the College Song,
They enter into the Common Hall,
Borne by the joyous throng,

They gave them of the buttered bread,
That was of public right,
As much as three big students
Could eat from morn to night;
They got the printed Class List,
And set it up on high――
And it exists until this day
To witness if I lie.

(_Twenty-five verses omitted._)

JOHN D. PARLEY. 1872.

From _Rambles in Rhymeland_.

――――:o:――――

ROUTH’S REVENGE.
_A Lay of the Tripos._

It was a future Wrangler, Smith,
And gallantly he swore,
“By blood and bones, by goose and groans,
I’ll coach with Routh no more!
I hate his problem papers,
His quills I do detest;
Revision too, and manuscripts
With horror fill my breast.
My mind is fixed, I’ll up at once
And give him the straight tip.”
And so he did; but Routh was out,
So he gave it to his gyp;
Then Routh he smole a horrid smile,
And grinned a ghastly grin;
“He wants to take it out of me,
He’ll be himself took in,
He’ll lose his place, alas, alas――
And I shall lose his ‘tin.’”

* * * * *

The Day is come, the list is read,
And Routh is there to see――
The list is read which gives to all
A high or low degree,
Name after name, till Smith
Came out a _Junior Optime_.

From _Light Green_. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Son,
1882.

――――:o:――――

THE NEW NASEBY.
_By Obadiah
Bind-the-Priests-in-Chains-and-the-Paddies-with-Links-of-Iron,
Officer in the Unionist Regiment._

Oh! wherefore went you forth as in triumph to the North,
With your speech at every station, which the Tories raging read?
And wherefore did your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And where be the gapers that your northward journey sped?

Oh, triumphant was your route, but bitter is its fruit,
And mistaken was the line of your Manifesto odd,
Where you railed against the throng of the wealthy and the strong,
And swore the People’s voice was the very voice of God.

It was about the noon of a sunny day of June,
That we saw their banners dance in Midlothian fair and fine;
And the Grand Old man was there, with his scant and snowy hair,
And Cowan, and Lord Rosebery, and Liberal hosts in line.

And the Chief by Scots adored raised his head and bared his sword,
And harangued his motley legions to form them to the fight;
And many a cheer and shout from their listening ranks brake out,
As the aged Sophist glosed upon justice, love, and right.

And hark! like the roar of the surf upon the shore,
The cry of battle rises along our loyal line!
For Union! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Salisbury the Splendid, and for Joseph the Divine!

(_Nine verses omitted._)

_Punch._ July 24, 1886.

There was also a political parody in _Punch_, February 12, 1887, comparing Lord Randolph Churchill to _Quintus Curtius_, and another on May 26, 1888, entitled “A Ballad of a late occurrence” addressed to Lord Wolseley, and written in imitation of Macaulay’s _The Armada_.

――――

LANDBILLIA.

(_Fragments of a Lay sung in the Via Celera the week after the great Battle between the proud Patrician Furius Cecilius Salburius, and the Tribune Billius Gladstonius, great Champion of the Commons, and framer of Agrarian Laws._)

Ye good men of the Commons, with sturdy souls and true,
Who stood by brave Gladstonius, as he had stood by you,
Come make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care,
A tale of what the Plebs have dared, and yet again may dare.

* * * * *

Of all the Upper Ten whose brows the Strawberry Leaves have prest,
Cecilius af the acrid tongue was proudest, haughtiest,
He stalked about the Senate like King Tarquin in his pride,
And most of the Patrician host were marshalled on his side.
And the Plebs eyed askance with doubt, which well he hoped was fear,
That swarthy brow, that curling mouth, that ever seemed to sneer.
That brow of black, that mouth of scorn, _looked_ signs of iron will,
And none believed Cecilius wished the Commons aught but ill.

* * * * *

Up from the Commons briskly the fair Landbillia came,
Offspring of great Gladstonius, that Plebs-loved son of fame.
And up the Senate stairs she passed, and, as she danced along,
Gladstonius warbled cheerily words of the good old song,
“She will return, I know her well!” thus the fond Sire out-sang,
And through the Senate’s portals his mellow accents rang.

* * * * *

So passed the fair Landbillia to those high halls above,
Where proud Patricians bowed to her they something less than loved.
So triumphed great Gladstonius, who rather grimly smiled,
As sour Cecilius once more led forth his cherished child,
Uninjured from the ordeal stern; but, smiling, dropt his blade,
And those two doughty champions, so late for fight arrayed,
Like Boxus and like Coxus, each on other’s shoulder fell,
What time the Commons chuckled, and the Plebs cried, “All is well!”

* * * * *

_Punch._ August 27, 1881.

――――

HIBERNIA.

(_Fragments of a Lay sung on the day when the Patriot Singer (and Lord Mayor) Sullivan was released from durance vile, to “The Harp that once in Tullamore the soul of music shed,” in strains af mingled patriotism and parody._)

Ye good men of the Commons, with loyal hearts and true,
Who stand by us bold Irish, who now will stand by you,
Come, light your weeds around me, and mark my tale with care,
Of what poor Ireland oft hath borne, and yet may have to bear.

* * * * *

Of all the wicked Tories still the names are held accursed,
And of all the wicked Tories black Balfour was the worst,
He stalked about the Chamber like a Bunthorne in his pride,
Or sprawled with lank and languid legs entangled or spread wide.
The Irish eyed with anger, not all unmixed with fear,
His lifted chin, his curling mouth that always seemed to sneer:
That brow of brass, that mouth of scorn, mark all the species still,
For never was there Tory yet but wished the Irish ill.
Nor lacks he fit attendance; for ever at his heels
That most notorious renegade, his Sub., King-Harman, steals,
His written answer ready, be the question what it may,
And the smile flickering on his cheek for aught his Chief may say.

* * * * *

“Now, by your children’s cradles, now, by your father’s graves,
Be men to-day, ye Liberals, or be for ever slaves!
For this did Cromwell give us laws? For this did Hampden bleed?
For this was the great vengeance wrought, upon the Stuart’s seed?
Shall a cat’s snarl alarm the race who braved the lion’s roar?
Shall we, who beat great Beaconsfield, crouch to the bland Balfour?
Oh, for that ancient spirit that curbed the nobles’ will!
Oh, for the men of Thirty-two, who passed the famous Bill!
In those brave days our Liberals stood firmly side by side,
They faced the Tory fury, they tamed the Tory pride;
Shall what their care bequeathed to us, our madness fling away?
Is the ripe fruit of three-score years all blighted in a day?
O crier, to the polling summon the eager throng!
O tribunes, breathe the word of might that guards the weak from wrong!
No, by the earth beneath us, and by the sky above,
We will not yield to Balfour’s hate, Hibernia, whom we love.
No, let the Maiden’s Home be free, its Rule be hers, with pride
She who now loathes ye――as a slave――will love ye――as a bride.
Spare her the inexpiable wrongs, the unutterable shame
Of being shackled and coerced to suit your Party game:
Lest, when her latest hope is fled, her friends are in despair.
Ye learn by proof in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!”

_Punch._ March 10, 1888.

――――

SONG OF DECEMBER.

The Saturnalia now prevail;
The white and classic foam
Soars high above the porter pots
Of proud and ancient Rome:
Upon the Capitol at night,
There is the cry of “beer,”
As the pot-boy, in his toga,
Salutes the vulgar ear,

And from the seven hills of Rome
There is a festive shout
Of youths who ask each other, “If
Their mothers know they’re out.”
Then hail the Saturnalia,
The toast, the ale, the flip,
For many a nose, a Roman nose,
In many a jug will dip.

――――

In _The Book of Ballads_ edited by “Bon Gaultier,” there are six burlesque poems supposed to have been written by competitors for the post of _Poet Laureate_, when, owing to the death of Robert Southey, that office was vacant. These are in imitation of Macaulay, Tom Moore, Tennyson, Lytton, and Montgomery. The imitation of Macaulay is entitled _The Laureate’s Tourney_, it is by no means striking in its resemblance, whilst it is utterly destitute of humour, except for the introduction of one line of vulgar slang, in the midst of what would otherwise pass for a fairly mellifluous second-rate ballad. The comic element in nearly every ballad in that collection is obtained by the same trick in composition, which is laughable enough when it is novel and unexpected, but becomes tedious on frequent repetition.

――――

The numerous parodies of Lord Macaulay’s prose writings will be
given in a volume of this collection to be especially devoted to
prose parodies, and imitations.

THE DEVIL’S PROGRESS ON EARTH.

Friar Bacon walks again,
And Doctor Faustus too;
Proserpine and Pluto,
And many a goblin crew.
With that, a merry devil
To make the airing vowed;
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laughed aloud.

Why think you that he laughed?
Forsooth he came from Court;
And there amongst the gallants
Had spied such pretty sport;
There was such cunning juggling,
And ladies gone so proud;
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laughed aloud.

With that into the city
Away the Devil went;
To view the merchants’ dealings
It was his full intent!
And there along the brave Exchange
He crept into the crowd,
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laughed aloud.

He went into the city,
To see all there was well,
Their scales were false, their weights were light,
Their conscience fit for Hell;
And Pandars chose magistrates,
And Puritans allowed.
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laughed aloud.

With that unto the country
Away the Devil goeth;
For there is all plain dealing,
For that the Devil knoweth.
But the rich man reaps the gains
For which the poor man ploughed.
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devil laughed aloud.

With that the Devil in haste
Took post away to Hell,
And called his fellow furies,
And told them all on earth was well:
That falsehood there did flourish,
Plain dealing was in a cloud.
Huggle Duggle, Ha! ha! ha!
The Devils laughed aloud.

ANONYMOUS.

This very odd, old poem doubtless gave the hint for the modern “Devil’s Walk,” of which several different versions exist, and the authorship of which has been variously ascribed to Professor Porson, to Robert Southey, and to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

――――:o:――――

The generally accepted account of the origin of “The Devil’s Walk” is that one evening, at the house of the late Dr. Vincent, Professor Porson, being _cut out_ at a whist table was about to take his leave. Mrs. Vincent pressed him to stay, saying: “I know you will not stay if you are doing nothing; but the rubber will soon be over, when you may go in, and, in the meantime, take a pen and ink at another table and write us some verses.” Dr. Vincent, in the midst of the game, seconded this request, and added, “I will give you a subject.”

“You shall suppose that the Devil is come up among us to see what we are doing, and you shall tell us what observations he makes.” Porson obeyed these injunctions, sat down to write, and carried on his composition till his cruel proscription from the cards was at an end. Sitting down to the new rubber he put the manuscript into his pocket.

At supper he was asked to read it, and, as he commonly resisted every application for copies of his productions of this kind, a lady, with her pencil, beneath the table, wrote down what he read. Afterwards, with suitable apologies, she told him what she had done, and intreated him to revise her writing. Porson complied with her request, and the following is printed from the copy corrected by himself.

As usual, under such circumstances, there are other M.S. copies with material variations. The lines are coloured by the party feelings of the author, and several of the topics introduced serve to mark the date of the composition.

THE DEVIL’S WALK.

From his brimstone-bed at break of day,
The Devil’s a walking gone;
To visit his snug little farm on the earth,
And see how his stock there goes on;
And over the hill, and over the dale,
He rambled, and over the plain――
And backwards and forwards he switched his long tail,
As a gentleman switches his cane.

And pray, now, how was the Devil drest?
Oh, he was in his Sunday best;
His coat it was red, and his breeches blue,
With a hole behind, which his tail went through.
He saw a lawyer killing a viper,
On a dunghill by his own stable;
And the Devil he smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Cain and his brother Abel.

He saw an apothecary on a white horse,
Ride by on his avocations.
The Devil he smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Death in the Revelations.
He stept into a rich bookseller’s shop,
Said he, “We are both of one college,
For I myself sat, like a cormorant,[112] once,
Hard by the tree of knowledge.”

He saw school-boys acting prayers at morn,
And naughty plays at night.
And “Oho, Mr. Dean!” he shouted, “I ween,
My own good trade goes right.”
He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility;
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin,
Is pride that apes humility,

Down the river did glide, with wind and tide,
A pig with vast celerity;
And the Devil grinned, for he saw all the while
How it cut its own throat, and he thought with a smile
Of England’s commercial prosperity.
As he passed through Coldbath Fields, he saw
A solitary cell;
And the Devil he paused, for it gave him a hint
For improving his prisons in hell.

He saw a turnkey in a trice
Fetter a troublesome jade;
“Nimbly,” quoth he, “do the fingers move,
If a man be but used to his trade.”
He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man,
With but little expedition;
Which put him in mind of the long debates
On the slave trade abolition.

He saw a certain minister
(A minister to his mind),
Go up into a certain house,
With a majority behind;
The Devil quoted Genesis,
Like a very learned clerk,
How “Noah and all his creeping things
Went up into the Ark.”

Sir Nicholas grinned and switched his tail
With joy and admiration;
For he thought of his daughter Victory,
And his darling babe Taxation,
He saw General Gascoigne’s burning face,
Which put him in consternation:
So he hied to his lake, for, by a slight mistake
He thought ’twas a general conflagration.

A very similar version is included in the poetical works of S. T. Coleridge, with a note stating that several of the stanzas were written by Robert Southey. This version is dated September 1799, and it is stated that it was first printed in the Morning Post. Several slight verbal alterations occur in it, as well as the three following very inferior stanzas which do not occur in the version ascribed to Professor Porson:――

He saw an old acquaintance
As he passed by a methodist meeting;――
She holds a consecrated key,
And the Devil nods her a greeting.
She turned up her nose, and said,
“Avaunt! my name’s Religion,”
And she looked to Mr. ――――
And leered like a love sick pigeon.

He took from the poor,
And he gave to the rich,
And he shook hands with a Scotchman,
For he was not afraid of the itch.

In the edition of Southey’s works, collected by himself, Vol. III., the “Devil’s Walk,” is included, with a rather lengthy “Advertisement,” in which Southey states that, although the poem was the joint composition of Coleridge and himself, it had been claimed for Professor Porson. “Professor Porson,” he says, “never had any part in these verses as a writer, and it is for the first time that he now appears in them as the subject of two or three stanzas written some few years ago, when the fabricated story of his having composed them … was revived.” The stanzas in question are more explicit than complimentary to Porson, or to any other claimant of the authorship. This edition of the poem contains a somewhat detailed account of the manner in which Southey and Coleridge composed it between them――

“While the one was shaving
Would he the song begin;
And the other when he heard it at breakfast,
In ready accord join in,” &c.

In 1830 an Edition of _The Devil’s Walk_, was published in London, with numerous illustrations by Robert Cruikshank with a memoir of Porson by H. W. Montagu, and long and somewhat superfluous foot notes.

Following close upon this were two inferior imitations, both illustrated by Robert Cruikshank, “_The Devil’s Visit_; a poem, with notes by a Barrister,” London, W. Kidd 1830, and “_The Real Devil’s Walk_, NOT by Professor Porson,” London W. Kidd, 1831.

“Of the ‘_Devil’s Walk_’ there’s been much talk,
And folks seem mighty curious;
Now this is the ‘_Real_ Devil’s Walk,’
And all the rest are _spurious_.”

This poem consists of sixty stanzas, many of which are directed against leading politicians of the day, and generally it is out of date and uninteresting. Another long political imitation, entitled “_Satan Reformer_, by Montgomery the Third,” appeared in Blackwood for April 1832, this was in seven parts, and was a strong protest against the Reform Agitation, the great political question of the day. It is too long to quote in full, but the first part will give an idea of its tone, although not nearly so strong in its language as the others:

SATAN REFORMER.
_Part_ I.

Satan laugh’d loud, when he heard that peace
Was sign’d by the Ruling Powers:
He was sipping his coffee with Talleyrand,
And he put down his cup, and he slapp’d his hand,
And cried, Now then the field is ours!

He pack’d his portmanteau――for England, ho!――
Reach’d Calais――and sailing over
Look’d back upon France; for he sympathized
With a nation so thoroughly Satanized――
Till he landed him safe at Dover.

He had sported his tail and his horns in a land
Of blasphemy, vice, and treason,
The vast admiration of Monsieur Frog;
But in England, quoth he, I must travel incog.
At least till the “Age of Reason.”

So his tail he tuck’d into his pantaloons,
With a Brutus, all stivering and hairy,
He hid his pared horns, or rather the roots;
And he look’d, with his hoofs in Wellington boots,
Like a Minister’s Secretary.

As he travell’d to London, he star’d about,
And it caused him some vexation
To see matters looking so very well,
But he went the first night to a noted Hell,
And it gave him consolation.

The Whigs left their cards as a matter of course,
For he’d letters of introduction;
And a very learned Gentleman Devil was he,
In Political Whig-Economy,
And gave them the best instruction.

They feasted him often at Holland House;
But he found so little to teach ’em,
They were such adepts in the art of misrule,
That he left them to lecture the Radical School,
Lest the Whigs should overreach ’em.

For that, quoth Satan, yet must not be,
And I hold it my chiefest glory,
If I make Whig and Radical coalesce――
And thus bring affairs to a damnable mess――
Then adieu to the reign of Tory.

* * * * *

――――

THE DEVIL’S DRIVE;
_An Unfinished Rhapsody_.

The Devil returned to hell by two,
And he stay’d at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in _ragout_,
And a rebel or so in an _Irish_ stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew――
And bethought himself what next to do,
“And,” quoth he, “I’ll take a drive.
I walk’d in the morning, I’ll ride to night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I’ll see how my favourites thrive.

“And what shall I ride in?” quoth Lucifer, then――
“If I followed my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish’d again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach’d away.

“I have a state-coach at Carlton House,[113]
A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they’re lent to two friends, who make me amends,
By driving my favourite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace.
I have something for both at the end of their race,

“So now for the earth to take my chance:”
Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepped across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop’s abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say
That he hover’d a moment upon his way,
To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perched on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blushed liked the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he:
“Methinks they have here little need of _me_!”

* * * * *

But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying――
As round her fell her long fair hair;
And she looked to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem’d to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch’d by the wall of a ruined hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done
And the fall of the vainly flying.

But the Devil has reached our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:
But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the _Men_ of the _Row_,[114]
Who bid pretty well――but they _cheated_ him though!
The Devil first saw, as he thought, the _Mail_,
Its coachman and his coat;
So instead of a pistol he cock’d his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
“Aha!” quoth he, “what have we here?
’Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer.”

So he sat him on his box again,
And bade him have no fear,
But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;
“Next to seeing a lord at the council board,
I would rather see him here.”

* * * * *

The Devil gat next to Westminster,
And he turn’d to “the room” of the Commons;
But he heard as he purposed to enter in there,
That “the Lords” had received a summons;
And he thought as a “_quondam_ aristocrat”
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;
And he walk’d up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

He saw the Lord Liverpool[115] seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk――a man of some size――
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon’s eyes,
Because the Catholics would _not_ rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard, which set Satan himself a staring――
A certain Chief Justice say something like _swearing_.
And the Devil was shock’d――and quoth he, “I must go,
For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues, when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.”

LORD BYRON.

――――

DEATH’S WALK.

Death rose from off his tombstone bed,
With joy and agitation,
For he had had Malthusian dreams
Of an overcharged population.

And first he ’gan to don his clothes,
His bony ribs to hide;
Of a couple of palls he made his smalls,
For his shanks they were somewhat wide.

For a kerchief around his neck he tied
A winding sheet in a noose,
And he slipt his feet in the coffins of twins,
Which made him a pair of shoes.

From fifty coffins the cloth he tore,
(The owners were dead as mutton)
And a gay coat made――for on it he wore,
A death plate for every button.

As to what he had to cover his skull
I really cannot speak poz,
But he made of his dart a walking stick,
And went forth _like a Plague_ as he was.

First he called on a brewer of high renown,
And begged of him to taste his own swig,
But scarce had he time to twig the hop
Ere Death made him _hop the twig_.

He saw a parson, like many there are,
Much fonder of taking than giving,
So Death for once played the Bishop’s part,
And deprived him of his _living_.

He made a lawyer (who was first in the law)
And disclaimed all interference
With the courts on earth――on those below,
Soon _enter his appearance_.

He caught a thief with purse in hand――
The halter stopped his breath――
For, as if by the sudden tidings killed,
The _noose_ it was his death.

A bellows maker at his work
Death saw, and seeing, grinned,
And he who made the bellows blow,
Right soon did _slip the wind_.

Unto a cobbler in his stall
No better fate befell,
Death quickly made him leave _his awl_,
And bid his _last_ farewell.

A gardener――one of old Adam’s trade――
Who rose before Aurora,
Death saw and straight his power displayed
By proving the florist’s _Floorer_.

But Death at last met with his match,
An annuitant eighty and eight,
Death knew that his life would be death to a score,
(For nought kills like envy and hate),
So, because he should thereby get victims galore,
He bade the old gentleman wait.

ANONYMOUS.

From _The Original_, No. III. March 17, 1832. A weekly magazine, published by G. Cowie, Strand, London.

――――

THE PRINTER’S DEVIL’S WORK.

To Printing-house Square at close of day
The young Printer’s Devil is bound
To set up the Paper that _circulates_ most,
Or the paper that most _turns round_.

And over the leader, and over the news
He skimm’d, and over the speeches;
And the lines in the leader stood wide apart,
Like W――――l’s waistcoat and breeches.

And pray what did the Devil do?
Oh! he was expert at the art;
At first just to keep his hand in play,
In a “Horrible Murder” took part.

But the Devil he very soon finish’d the job,
And came to a regular stand;
When, for the want of some better employment
In a “Robbery” he had a hand.

He set up a joke by W――――l;
But, thinking it couldn’t be meant,
The Devil smil’d, for he headed it
“A Serious Accident.”

A speech of the Marquis of L――――’s came next
But it was beyond endurance;
So the Devil took pity and headed it
“A Melancholy Occurence.”

But then the young Devil bethought himself,
He might in an error fall;
For a speech such as that, he clearly saw,
Requir’d no _head_ at all.

He then had a speech of H――――t’s to do,
Where, _mirabile dictu!_ a word or
Two of his Latin Mr. H. recollected;
And he called that a “Horrible Murder.”

A Joke, too, by C――――r, came into his hands,
But it was too witty a brevity
To be C――――r’s own; so he headed it
“Extraordinary Longevity.”

However, he thought at a heading like that,
Some persons might kick up a bobbery;
And, as the joke was a decided Joe Miller,
He called it a “Daring Robbery.”

He set up a leading article on
The advantage ’twould be to the nation――
If Lord Grey would but make a new batch of peers,
Which he called “Beauties of the Creation.”

A speech on Reform, too, by W――――l, he did
So full of disjointed inelegance,
And so far from the purpose, he headed it
With the title of “Foreign Intelligence.”

The debate on Pluralities next he compos’d;
But, finding the incomes so large
And the duty so little, he headed it
“Extraordinary Charge.”

An extract from Satan Montgomery’s poems
Is the next thing the Devil commences;
But he sees that it’s humbug, and, when it’s composed
He puts it among the “Offences.”

A speech of St. P――――l was his next job;
But it was too much for the elf.
And he was unable to set up the speech,
For he could’nt set up himself.

So into a corner the Devil sneaks,
O’ercome by so prosy a sample,
Composes himself, and leaves the _Times_
To follow his example.

This originally appeared in _The Comic Magazine_, 1832. It was afterwards included in “_Songs of the Press, and other Poems relating to Printing_,” collected by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son & Co. 1845.

――――

THE DEVIL’S DREAM.

The Devil, one day, lay down to sleep,
Though the fact improbable seem:
(Mankind is so used to his whip and rein,
He knew he could trust his team!)
And straightway, having a quiet mind,
The Devil began to dream.

And as dreams recall what best is known
To men in their waking hours,
The Devil, of course, could do no less
Than dream of this world of ours,
Where, though the _Tomahawk_ is deceased,
His potent effigy towers.

He first imagined himself in France;
But his stay had been so long
Therein, with the godly Emperor-King
And the Communistic throng,
That he flew hap-hazard over the seas,
With an execration strong.

He lit him down on a chalky shore,
That a mist perpetual cools;
And he knew at once he was in the land
That an absent Sovereign rules;
For had he mistaken England’s fogs,
He had recognized her fools!

And hereabout, he wandered at will,
’Mid sights that gladdened his heart;
For his friends seemed many in every place,――
The church, the camp, and the mart;
And the foes of himself and Ignorance,
Were few and weary at heart,

He heard in his dream a curate preach
The horrible sin of doubt,
The duty of mental cecity,
And of SOME-ONE always about;
And the Devil smiled; for he knew such men
Were certain to find _that_ out.

He saw a person, who wrote burlesques,
In the act of forcing puns,
And thought he must be a man of weight;
For he knew, though such things he shuns,
That the heads of persons who write burlesques
Weigh ever so many tons.

He dreamed of a Minister who told
His electors all his mind,
And he smiled in his dream, remembering
That the blind conducting the blind
Shall both be housed in the well-known ditch
For all such unions designed.

He dreamed that he smelt a corpse-like smell,
And flying, by instinct, o’er to it,
Discovered a Small-Pox Hospital,
And, in high good humour, swore to it,――
“If not the abode itself of Death,
You certainly are next door to it!”

A knot of persons exceeding wise
Were trying a sailor brave
Who, sent to sea, in a rotten ship,
His crew had contrived to save;
And the devil bowed,――respecting the man
Who had beaten both him, and the wave.

(_Six verses omitted._)

_The Hornet._ November, 22, 1871.

――――

THE DEVIL’S POLITICS.

From his brimstone bed at break of day
The devil a walking is gone,
To visit his snug little farm, the earth,
And see how his stock goes on.

At St. James’s Hall, like a prophet of good
He commences humanity’s work――
“Unsheathe holy Russia, thy sanctified sword,
Nor spare the ‘unspeakable Turk.’”

With a twist and a twirl, and a sulphurous smell,
He departs with applause at his _hoof_;
And glancing at Bennet’s, he winds up his tail,
And to Constantinople spins off.

At Berlin he stops for a minute to breathe
And to tell the good news to his cousin:
“The doting ‘old woman’ to _me_ you may leave,
But, dear BIZ, _you_ must rub up the Russian.”

He passed by Vienna, Count Andrassy saw him,
And asked him to stop for a chat;
But the Devil replied, “You may keep on see-sawing,
I’ll call on you when I come back.”

Arriving in Turkey, but changing his dress,
He repaired to the Russian Headquarters,
And gave in his card――“_A gentleman of the press――
Instructed to write up Bulgarian slaughters_.”

ANONYMOUS.

January 1, 1878.

――――

Of the three following imitations only short extracts are given, with the dates on which they appeared, the complete poems can easily be obtained at _Punch_ office, Fleet Street, London.

THE FORESTALLER’S WALK.
(_After Southey――and after a bad night._)

From his restless bed at break of day
The Forestaller walking has gone,
To visit the half-ruined farms for his mirth,
And see how the crops get on.

And over the hills, and through the wet fields
He walked, and over the plain,
And outward or homeward he heard the long tale
Of the ruin caused by the rain.

He saw a Widow with Orphans three
Go up to a Baker’s door,
But she had to leave the loaf untouched,
For he wanted a penny more.

Just then the Sun’s bright turning face,
He saw with consternation,
And home pell-mell his way did take;
For the Forestaller thought ’twas a great mistake,
And it filled him with indignation!

_Punch._ September 10, 1881.

――――

THE DEVIL’S WALK.

From his sulphurous realm as the sun goes down
The Devil is walking once more,
To visit his favourite vineyard, the Town
That stretches by Thames’s shore.

Over the bridges and through the Parks
He strolls, and along the streets,
A presence that fails to elicit remarks
From the hurrying hundreds he meets.

There is nought to suggest that he comes as a guest
From regions torrid and drouthy,
He has altered his ways since the simpler days
Of Coleridge and Southey.

A jacket of red and breeches of blue
He knows would be far too striking,
And as for a tail!――even Darwin’s crew
Would hold that in sore misliking.

He sees a spectral scare-crow thing
Slink into a slum-fouled alley,
And he mutters, “With cowl and with scythe and wing,
_He_ might lord it in Death’s own Valley.”

He sees a roof-rotten, muck-sodden den,
To the gutter ready to tumble.
Says he, “Well, if this be the dwelling of men,
_We_ haven’t much reason to grumble.”

Then steps he into a “tenement-house,”
Through a dark but doorless entry.
“Little need,” chuckles he, “for a lock or a key
Whilst _my_ brace of friends stand sentry.”

He climbs a rotten and rickety stair,
Foul filth its cracked walls smearing.
“Why, chaos,” says he, “had a pleasanter air,
And needed less careful steering.”

He sees commingling of Labour and Vice
In joint contamination.
Quoth he, “This, indeed, were a spectacle nice
For Belial’s contemplation.”

Sees Childhood, broken with ill-paid toil,
’Midst sin’s contagious venom.
Says he, “For friend Moloch’s favourite spoil,
This beats the Valley of Hinnom.”

Then he sees a House-jobber grubbing for gold
Amidst festering Vice and Poverty cold,
And says he, “I’ve one henchman more trusty and bold
Than the ogre worshipped in Ammon:
Beelzebub’s doughty, and Astaroth’s good,
As snarers of souls with a crown or a snood,
But the first, most ubiquitous, best of my brood,
Is my ruthless, _respectable_ Mammon!”

So Satan, seeing that all went right
In his big branch-Hades by day and night
To his personal pleasure and profit,
Back to headquarters swift wended his way.
“I shall sicken,” said he, “if much longer I stay:
For though sulphur’s not pleasant, I really must say
‘Mammon’s Rents’ are more choky than Tophet.”

_Punch._ November 17, 1883.

――――

THE DEVIL’S LATEST WALK.

From his villa in town at the dawn of day,
A-walking the Devil is gone,
To visit his snug little urban estates,
And see how his game goes on.

Over the city, the suburb, the slum,
He rambled from pillar to post,
And backward and forward, observant, though dumb,
As a fleetly noctivagant ghost.

He peeped in the Houses of Parliament,
And found but a factious Babel.
To a smile he was moved, for he thought, “They’ve improved
On the story of Cain and Abel.”

He saw Law trying a Viper for slander,
And searching a muck-heap for truth;
And he held his nose, and he said, “I suppose
That poison and filth in a duplicate dose
Have medicinal virtues for Youth.”

He went into a Bookseller’s shop
Hard by to a learned College;
And there, peeping over the shoulder of Youth,
He saw how new Pilates played ninepins with Truth;
How neo-Greek noodles, in poem and fiction,
Draped dirtiest thoughts in the daintiest diction;
How Art uninspired sought some stimulant fresh
In charnel conceits, and the lusts of the flesh.
Cried he, “This is culture! The gauntest vulture
On garbage will fatten, allowed to batten
On the fruit of _this_ tree of knowledge.”

He saw huge Stores that small shopkeepers smashed,
To whose portals cash-paying patricians up dashed;
Big Companies, that piled lucre――and crashed;
And the eyes of the Devil they sparkled and flashed,
And he capered with great agility.
Said he, “Big Monopoly’s now all the go;
Mankind is enamoured of size and of show,
Modest industry’s stupid, small enterprise slow,
No room now for trade’s little fishes, oh! no.
To succeed you must be a big whale who can ‘blow.’
I shall re-arrange all my affairs down below,
And convert them into a Joint-Stock Co.,
With ‘Limited Liability.’”

_Punch._ June 18, 1887.

――――

THE DEVIL’S EXCURSION TO LONDON.

Old Nick had just finished his London reports,
Which gave him so much satisfaction,
That he tucked up his tail, took the Underground rail,
Bought a “Saturday Sneer” and a “Dublin Mail,”
And went off to the scene of action.

As he passed the palatial mansions and clubs,
He nodded to many a friend;
And he feasted his eyes on the fetid styes,
And his ears on the brutal oaths and cries,
Where the poor were packed and penned.

And it made his sable majesty grin,
For it needed no prophet to tell
That the seeds thus sown of sorrow and sin,
Harrowed by filthiness, watered by gin,
Would provide a rich harvest for hell.

He saw civic Dives, and some of his brood,
At a sybarite feast in the City;
And he thought of the thousands pining for food,
And the Devil himself was almost in the mood
To feel a sensation of pity.

He called at the Mansion House, saw the Lord Mayor,
“Permit me to wish you good day, sir.
The City and I have been excellent friends,
But if all comes about that our Ritchie intends,
The last of Lord Mayors is _Decay-sir_.”

To the Houses of Parliament next he went,
But to stay he was quite unable,
For the jabber and jaw made him feel so queer,
That he swore to his friend Hughes-Hallett, “Oh dear,
It is worse than the Tower of Babel!”