Chapter XXXIV: Part I (14)

Well, let’s liquor up, old chap――my stars! I forgot, yer don’t.
It’s extrornery cert’nly, but if yer won’t, yer won’t.
I’d like to know you a deal, for you ain’t so stiffish an’ high.
Tarnation! hyar’s the boat. Look hyar: keep the bowie. good-bye!

WILLIAM WILKINS.

From _Kottabos_. Trinity College, Dublin. Michaelmas Term, 1878.

――――:o:――――

JOSEPH SWIFE, OF POTIPHAR.
_A Man after Twain’s own “Harte.”_

There’s been some whales ’mong the buoys I’ve know’d,
(They was _all_ on ’em high above par);
But the rightest sperm as ever blow’d
Was Joe Swife o’ Potiphar.
Joseph’s heighth was seven fut three,
All mussell and grit when he stripp’d,
On his face a network of scars you’d see,
(That is, where the dirt had chipp’d.)

Whenever the buoys had a rowdy on,
Bet your currency Joe was there;
An’ ef he didn’t head inter the fun,
He’d see as all things went square;
’Twas a Fourth o’ July to see him hop round,
Along of his ’leven-inch knife,
And the way his man would nose the ground
Was the pootiest sight in life.

His Bowie was now jest a ’leven-inch rip,
(’Twas thirteen when it was bought,
But he wore two inches off the tip
With carvin’ the men he’d fought.)
A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer,
He didn’t let _that_ iron rust,
He’d spot a couple a day with her,
Would Joseph――when on the bust.

We reckon’d his “down-pins” about fourscore,
But we hadn’t the c’rect amount;
’Cos arter he’d notch’d up to seventy-four,
He lost the run of his count.
Where is he now? I knows no more
Nor you, in them respeks,
’Cos one arternoon in sixty-four
He had to “pass his checks.”

The way that it mayhap’d was thus:――
Up Potiphar they went “pard,”
An’ made a pile, that some thievin’ cuss
Stole――which _was_ derned hard;
I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad,
They wanted that skunk to knife,
An’ the lad that ’peared to git most mad
Was him as I’ve named――Joe Swife.

To see that critter cavortin’ around,
Was a sight to raise your hair,
Jest arx him if the thief was found,
If you wanted to hear a swear!
Joe left Potiphar then an’ came here to Creek,
An’ soon had a run o’ luck,
He hadn’t been prospectin’ more’n a week
’Fore he said a big pocket he’d struck.

One day we was lappin’ round Joggles’s bar――
The Cunnel, an’ Joseph, an’ me――
When in totes Long Hiram from Potiphar,
An’ we arxed him to drink ’long o’ we;
He call’d for a “spider”――(his fav’rite drink),
An’ was liftin’ the glass to his lips;
But he dropp’d it smash on the floor in a wink,
When he saw Joseph haul out his chips.

Ses he: “Joe Swife, my gentle son,
You’ll have for to strike your flag,
_You_ stole the pile, you son of a gun――
Our dust was _in that bag_!”
He glared at Joe like a grizzly bear,
Then he draw’d a bead an’ fired,
’Scavating a canon in Joseph’s hair,
In a manner we all admired.

But Joseph’s iron was ready to bark,
’Fore Hiram the dose could repeat,
Six shots, an’ Hiram was stretch’d out stark,
In a style as couldn’t be beat;
With “conical” holes he was reg’lar scored,
From his scalp-lock, down his legs,
He’d ha’ made a derned good cribbage-board,
If you’d on’y got the pegs.

Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear’d,
’Fore the fellows had time to _revanche_,
For the fust time in his life he was skear’d,
An’ mosey’d out of the ranche;
_He_ know’d, with men as digs and delves,
He dursent trust his breath,
“Killin’ a man was atwixt yerselves,”
But to go for his pile meant death.

When he found that the buoys were dead on “kill,”
Joe came for’ard an’ giv’ hisself up,
“You’ll settle my hash with a leaden pill,”
Ses he――“DON’T string me up like a pup!”
Openin’ his shirt, and slappin’ his breast――
“Here’s lodgings to let for a slug!”――
They fired, an’ Potiphar’s pride lay at rest,
Stiff an’ stark, with a smile on his mug!

_Funny Folks._ April 29, 1876.

This is an imitation of the style of Colonel John Hay’s poems, for which see page 246.

――――:o:――――

THE WIFE.

Her washing ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And passed the long, long night away,
In darning ragged hose.

But when the sun in all its state
Illumined the Eastern skies,
She passed about the kitchen grate,
And went to making pies.

From _Poems and Parodies_ by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S.
1854.

The same interesting little volume contains a number of clever parodies, of which those on the best known poets have already been printed in this collection. The remainder refer principally to American authors whose works are not very familiar to British readers. The book is out of print and very scarce, and although there is a copy of it in the Library, British Museum (11687. d), it is difficult to find, as it is improperly catalogued under _Cary_, instead of _Carey_.

Another curious American book is entitled “_Strange Visitors_, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Bronté, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others, now dwelling in the Spirit World.” Dictated through a Clairvoyant while in an abnormal or Trance State. New York. G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869.

Most of the papers in this volume are in prose, the following only are in verse:――

To his Accusers after Lord Byron.
The Lost Soul “ E. A. Poe.
To her Husband “ Mrs. E. B. Browning.
Hold Me Not, “ Adah Isaacs Menken.
A Spirit Revisiting Earth “ N. P. Willis.
Alone “ Allan Cunningham.
The Spirit Bride “ Adelaide A. Procter.

All these imitations are serious, and even sombre, not to be styled parodies, although of little merit, except, perhaps, the imitation of Mrs. E. B. Browning.

Her spirit speaks thus:――

TO HER HUSBAND.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see her in her glad surprise,
Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes;
Moving about you through the ambient air,
Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead!
In your lone path the unseen angels tread!
And when your weary night of earth shall close,
She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.

NATIONAL and PATRIOTIC SONGS
of the
United States of America.

It is not within the province of this collection to enter into the history of the numerous National Songs belonging to the United States, nor to give the songs themselves, except in so far as may be necessary to contrast them with the parodies which have been written on them.

Those desirous of further information on an interesting topic should refer to the following works:――

_Rebel Rhymes and Rhapsodies_, collected by Frank Moore. New York. G. P. Putnam, 1864.

_Poetry of the Civil War_, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

_A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs_, by Walter Hamilton, in _Our Ocean Highways_, London, 1872.

_The Songs of the War_, by Brander Matthews, in _The Century Magazine_, August 1887.

_The Dictionary of Music and Musicians_, by Sir George Grove. London. Macmillan & Co.

The following is a list of the more important songs,

_Yankee Doodle._ 1755.

_Hail Columbia!_ 1788. By Joseph Hopkinson. Adapted to the tune of “The President’s March.” This was always sung when George Washington went to the theatre.

_The Star-Spangled Banner_, written by Francis Scott Key, and first printed in the Baltimore _American_, shortly after the defeat of the British by the Americans at Fort McHenry.

_My Country ’tis of thee_, sung to the air of “God save the King.” As we stole this air from the Germans (or, as some say, from the French), so the citizens of the United States have appropriated it as one of their national songs.

_John Brown’s Body_, 1861.

_Marching through Georgia_, written and composed by Henry C. Work, near the close of the Civil War.

_Battle Hymn of the Republic_, by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, first published in The Atlantic Monthly. 1862.

_We are coming, Father Abraäm_, by John S. Gibbons, of New York. 1862.

Mr. George F. Root, of Chicago, was both the author and composer of the three following war songs:

_Tramp, Tramp, Tramp; the Boys are Marching._

_The Battle Cry of Freedom._ This was often ordered to be sung as the men marched into action. More than once its strains arose on the battlefield and made obedience more easy to the lyric command to rally round the flag. With true American humor the gentle lines of “Mary had a Little Lamb” were fitted snugly to the tune; and many a regiment shortened a weary march, or went gayly into action, singing,

“Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom;
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom.”

_Just before the Battle, Mother._

_When Johnny comes marching Home._ Written by P. S. Gilmore, in 1863.

_My Maryland_, by James R. Randall. April, 1861. (Southern States.)

_Advance the flag of Dixie_, by General Albert Pike. 1861. (South.) There were several versions of this song, one of the earliest having been sung in New Orleans by Mrs. John Wood in the Burlesque “Pocahontas,” in 1860.

Southrons, hear your country call you!
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
For Dixie’s land we take our stand
And live and die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!

ALBERT PIKE.

_The Bonnie Blue Flag._ By Harry McCarthy. (South.) 1861.

_Lorena._ (South.)

_A National Hymn for the United States of America_, written for the Centenary of the signing of the Constitution of the United States, by F. Marion Crawford. Printed in _The English Illustrated Magazine_, October, 1887.

――――:o:――――

YANKEE DOODLE.

In the words of the Hon. Stephen Salisbury, “Yankee Doodle is national property, but it is not a treasure of the highest value. It has some antiquarian claims for which its friends do not care. It cannot be disowned, and it will not be disused. In its own words,

‘It suits for feasts, it suits for fun,
And just as well for fighting.’

It exists now as an instrumental and not as a vocal performance. Its words are never heard, and, I think would not be acceptable in either public or private American entertainments.”

Sir George Grove, in his _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_, (Macmillan, London), fully examines the various theories as to the origin of this song. He inclines to the opinion that the words were written by Dr. Schuckburgh about 1755, with the title “The Yankee’s Return from Camp.” The tune was printed in 1784 in an opera by Arnold, entitled “Two to one,” where it is first properly styled _Yankee Doodle_.

There has been much discussion as to the derivation of the word Yankee, one theory being that it is the Indian way of pronouncing _English_. The Indians cannot sound the letter l, so they lengthen and soften the vowels. Hence the more advanced among them only manage to pronounce _English_ as _Eengeesh_, while a more common sound would be _Angees_, or _Ankees_. Possibly the Indians were more familiar with the French form _Anglais_. A writer in _Notes and Queries_ stated the above fact, citing Hutchinson’s “History of Massachusetts” as an authority; he added “Doodle is surely only an imitation of the crowing of a cock.” The meaning, if any, of _Yankee Doodle_ is “New Englanders, be on the alert,” or “show your spirit.” Another writer quotes a derivation suggested by Thierry, that the word _Yankee_ arose from the collision and jeerings of the Dutch and English in New York and New England, and that it is from the Dutch _Jan_――pronounced _Yan_――John, with the common diminutive _kee_, and doodlen, to quaver; which would make the whole into “quavering or psalm-singing Jacky or Johnny.”

Whatever may have been the origin of the term, it is only correctly applied to New Englanders, and not to the inhabitants of the other states.

Yankee Boy is trim and tall,
And never over fat, Sir,
At dance or frolic, hop or ball,
As nimble as a rat, Sir.
Yankee doodle guard your coast,
Yankee doodle dandy.
Fear not then, nor threat nor boast,
Yankee doodle dandy.

He’s always out on training day,
Commencement, or election,
At truck or trade he knows the way
Of thriving to perfection.
_Chorus_――Yankee Doodle, etc.

His door is always open found,
His cyder of the best, Sir,
His board with pumpkin-pie is crown’d,
And welcome ev’ry guest, Sir.
_Chorus_――Yankee Doodle, etc.

Tho’ rough and little is his farm,
That little is his own, Sir,
His hand is strong, his heart is warm,
’Tis truth and honor’s throne, Sir.
_Chorus_――Yankee Doodle, etc.

His country is his pride and boast,
He’ll ever prove true blue, Sir,
When call’d upon to give his toast,
’Tis “Yankee-doodle-doo,” Sir.
_Chorus_――Yankee Doodle, etc.

The following verses are cited from an American Paper, “The Transcript,” in Willis’s Current Notes for 1852:――

THE ORIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE.
_After the manner of the old Continental Ballad writers._

Once on a time old Johnny Bull,
Flew in a raging fury,
And swore that Jonathan should have
No trials, Sir, by jury!
That no elections should be held,
Across the briny waters!
“And now,” says he, “I’ll tax the tea
Of all his sons and daughters.”
Then down he sat in burly state,
And blustered like a grandee,
And in derision made a tune
Called “Yankee doodle dandy.”
“Yankee Doodle”――these are facts――
“Yankee doodle dandy!
“My son of wax, your tea I’ll tax――
“Yankee doodle dandy.”

John sent the tea from o’er the sea
With heavy duties rated;
But whether Hyson or Bohea,
I never heard it stated.
Then Jonathan to pout began――
He laid a strong embargo――
“I’ll drink no tea, by Jove!” so he
Threw overboard the cargo.
Then Johnny sent a regiment,
Big words, and looks to bandy,
Whose martial band, when near the land,
Play’d “Yankee doodle dandy.”
“Yankee doodle――keep it up!
“Yankee doodle dandy!
“I’ll poison with a tax your cup,
“Yankee doodle dandy.”

A long war then they had, in which
John was at last defeated――
And “Yankee doodle” was the march
To which his troops retreated.
Cute Jonathan, to see them fly,
Could not restrain his laughter:
“That tune,” says he, “suits to a _T_,
I’ll sing it ever after,”
Old Johnny’s face, to his disgrace,
Was flushed with beer and brandy,
E’en while he swore to sing no more,
This “Yankee doodle dandy.”
“Yankee doodle――ho! ah! he!
“Yankee doodle dandy――
“We kept the tune, but not the tea,
“Yankee doodle dandy.”

I’ve told you now the origin
Of this most lively ditty,
Which Johnny Bull dislikes as “dull
And stupid”――what a pity!
With “Hail Columbia!” it is sung,
In chorus full and hearty――
On land and main, we breathe the strain,
John made for his tea-party.
No matter how we rhyme the words,
The music speaks them handy,
And where’s the fair can’t sing the air,
Of “Yankee doodle dandy?”
“Yankee doodle――firm and true――
“Yankee doodle dandy――
“Yankee doodle, doodle doo!
“Yankee doodle dandy.”

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

A parody of “Yankee Doodle,” too coarse for republication here, will be found in _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election_, October. 1812. It is principally directed against Henry (afterwards Lord) Brougham, one of the candidates.

The mighty Brougham’s come to town,
To sweep away corruption,
And other filth, but ten to one,
He’ll meet with interruption.
_Yankee Doodle_, etc.
* * * * *

――――

AN APPENDIX TO “YANKEE DOODLE.”

Yankee Doodle sent to Town
His goods for exhibition;
Every body ran him down,
And laugh’d at his position.
They thought him all the world behind;
A goney, muff, or noodle;
Laugh on, good people――never mind――
Says quiet Yankee Doodle.
_Chorus._――Yankee Doodle, &c.

Yankee Doodle had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,
And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went a-head,
And they came nowhere arter.
_Chorus._――Yankee Doodle, &c.

* * * * *

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don’t mention
I guess that Colt’s revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By Yankee Doodle, too, you’re beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chaw’d up as by a vulture.
_Chorus._――Yankee Doodle, &c.

You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But Chubb’s and Bramah’s Hobbs has pick’d
And you must now be view’d all
As having been completely licked
By glorious Yankee Doodle.
_Chorus._――Yankee Doodle, &c.

_Punch_, 1851.

――――

“PUNCH” ON THE CIVIL WAR.

Yankee Doodle went to war,
On his little pony,
What did he go fighting for,
Everlasting goney!
Yankee Doodle was a chap
Who bragged and swore tarnation,
He stuck a feather in his cap,
And called it Federation.
Yankee Doodle, etc.

Yankee Doodle, he went forth
To conquer the seceders,
All the journals of the North,
In most ferocious leaders,
Breathing slaughter, fire and smoke,
Especially the latter,
His rage and fury to provoke,
And vanity to flatter.
Yankee Doodle, etc.

* * * * *

These verses are taken from a long parody which appeared in _Punch_ (London), August 17, 1861, shortly after the defeat of the Northerners at Manassas Junction. The cartoon represented John Bull sneering and jeering at the retreating Yankee soldiers, and the tone of the whole poem was most insulting, whilst it showed that _Punch_ (following in the wake of _The Times_) sympathised with the Confederate States.

It actually classed the protective duties levied by the Northern States for the encouragement of native industry, as equally immoral with the institution of slavery, which had given rise to so many horrors in the South:――

“These for negro slavery strike,
Those for forced protection.
Yankee Doodle is the pot,
Southerner the kettle;
Equal morally, if not
Men of equal mettle.

Unfortunately _The Times_ was then considered abroad to represent the public opinion of Great Britain, and much ill feeling arose in consequence of its misrepresentations. At one time it seemed as if this country would become embroiled in the war, and what was worse, on the side of the slave owners.

During this excitement many songs and parodies were written about us in the States which were decidedly uncomplimentary, reminding Britons that in their previous wars with America they had suffered almost invariable defeat.

Several of these parodies are given in _The Poetry of the Civil War_ (one, an especially bitter one, is entitled “John Bull, my jo John,”) but it would serve no useful purpose to repeat them, now that the ill feeling has passed away with the causes which led to it.

Mr. James R. Lowell’s dignified protest in the _Biglow Papers_ may, however, be quoted:――

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

It don’t seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,――
Your cousin, tu, John Bull.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
We know it now,” sez he,
“The lion’s paw is all the law,
Accordin’ to J. B.,
Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”

Blood ain’t so cool as ink, John:
It’s likely you’d ha’ wrote,
An’ stopped a spell to think, John,
_Arter_ they’d cut your throat?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
He’d skurce ha’ stopped,” sez he,
“To mind his p-s an’ q-s, ef thet weasan’
Hed b’longed to ole J. B.,
Instid o’ you an’ me!”

Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John,
On _your_ front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait an’ sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
I on’y guess,” sez he,
“Thet, ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell,
’T would kind o’ rile J. B.,
Ez well ez you an’ me!”

Who made the law thet hurts, John,
_Heads I win,――ditto, tails?_
“_J. B._” was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
(I’m good at thet,)” sez he,
“Thet sauce for goose ain’t _jest_ the juice
For ganders with J. B.,
No more than you or me!”

When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn’t stop for fuss,――
Britanny’s trident-prongs, John,
Was good ’nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
Though physic’s good,” says he,
“It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller.
Prescriptions signed ‘_J. B._’
Put up by you an’ me!”

We own the ocean, tu, John:
You mus’n’t take it hard,
Ef we can’t think with you, John,
It’s jest your own back-yard.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
Ef _thet’s_ his claim,” sez he,
“The fencin’-stuff’ll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honour, when it meant
You didn’t care a fig, John,
But jest for _ten per cent._?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
He’s like the rest,” sez he:
“When all is done, it’s number one
Thet’s nearest to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We give the critters back, John,
Cos Abram thought ’t was right;
It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John,
Provokin’ us to fight.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
We’ve a hard row,” sez he,
“To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow
May heppen to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An’ close to every door, John,
A school-house an’ a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
It is a fact,” sez he,
“The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J.B.,
Ez much ez you or me!”

Our folks believe in Law, John;
An’ it’s for her sake, now.
They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John,
The anvil an’ the plough.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
Ef’t warn’t for law,” sez he,
“There’d be one shindy from here to Indy;
An’ thet don’t suit J. B.
(When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)”

We know we’ve gut a cause, John,
Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;
We thought ’t would win applause, John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
His love of right,” sez he,
“Hangs by a rotten fibre o’cotton:
There’s natur’ in J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

The South says, “_Poor folks down!_” John,
An’ “_All men up!_” say we.――
White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John:
Now which is your idee?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
John preaches wal,” sez he;
“But, sermon thru, an’ come to _du_
Why, there’s the old J. B.
A crowdin’ you an’ me!”

Shall it be love, or hate, John?
It’s you that’s to decide;
Ain’t _your_ bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world’s beside;
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Wise men forgive,” sez he,
“But not forget; an’ some time yet
Thet truth may strike J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru’ from sea to sea,
Believe an’ understand, John,
The _wuth_ o’ being free.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
God’s price is high,” sez he;
“But nothin’ else than wut He sells
Wears long, an’ thet J.B.
May learn like you an’ me!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

――――

“YANKEE DOODLE” FROM THE SOUTHERN POINT OF VIEW.

Yankee Doodle had a mind
To whip the Southern traitors,
Because they didn’t choose to live
On codfish and potatoes.
Yankee Doodle――doodle doo,
Yankee doodle dandy,
And so to keep his courage up,
He took a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found
By all the census figures,
That he could starve the rebels out,
If he could steal their niggers.
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle made a speech;
’Twas very full of feeling.
I fear, says he, I cannot fight,
But I am good at stealing.
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle drew his sword,
And practised all the passes;
Come, boy, we’ll take another drink
When we get to Manasses.
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle soon found out
That Bull Run was no trifle;
For if the North knew how to steal,
The South knew how to rifle.
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle wheeled about,
And scampered off at full run,
And such a race was never seen
As that he made at Bull Run,
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame,
You’re always intermeddling;
Let guns alone, they’re dangerous things;
You’d better stick to peddling.
Yankee, &c.

Yankee Doodle, you had ought
To be a little smarter;
Instead of catching woolly heads,
I vow you’ve caught a tartar.
Yankee Doodle, doodle doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Go to hum, you’ve had enough
Of rebels and of brandy.

From _Rebel Rhymes and Rhapsodies_, collected by Frank Moore. New York, George P. Putnam, 1864.

――――

A YANKEE SOLDIER’S SONG.

I hearkened to the thundering noise,
And wondered what ’twas for, Sir!
But when I heard ’em tell our boys,
I started up and swore, sir!
Yankee boys will fight it out!
Yankees brave and handy!
Freedom be our battle shout!
Yankee doodle dandy!

They said that traitors tore our flag,
Down there in Dixie’s land, sir;
I always loved the stripèd rag.
And swore by it to stand, sir.
Yankee boys will fight it out, &c.

I knew them Southern chaps, high bred,
Had called us “Mudsills” here, sir:
If on these sills they try to tread,
I guess ’twill cost them dear, sir,
Yankee boys, &c.

Down South I marched, rat-tat-a-plan,
With heart brim full of pluck, sir;
I held my head up like a man;
A righteous cause brings luck, sir.
Yankee boys, &c.

――――

From _Poetry of the Civil War_, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

――――

COCK-A-DOODLE.

Mr. Stanley went to found
A Congo trading station.
The Stars and Stripes he hoisted up,
And cried “No annexation.”
But M. de Brazza came along,
The natives to “canoodle;”
He gave them “tricolours” all round,
And sang out “Cock-a-doodle!”

Mr. Stanley, very cross,
Called de Brazza “Poodle!”
M. de Brazza said, “Pooh, pooh!
You’re one Yankee Doodle!”
Whilst the natives took the flags,
As our view discloses,
Made them serve as coverings,
And to blow their noses!

_Truth Christmas Number._ 1882.

――――

RANDY CHURCHILL.

Randy Churchill’s gone to pot,
Melted just like candy;
Once he was, but now is not,
And that’s the last of Randy.

When he thought that he was great,
Fellows thronged about him,
Swearing that affairs of State
Couldn’t move without him.

Then a somersault he threw,
Tumbled in the gutter,
Spilt his salt, and sugar, too;
Lost his bread and butter.

Still the wheels will move, no doubt,
Running on quite gaily,
Doing better far without
That Brummagem Disraeli.

_American Paper._ January, 1887.

――――:o:――――

JOHN BROWN’S BODY.

The origin of this celebrated anti-slavery song is obscure and involved. John Brown attempted to incite the negroes to rebel against slavery, and although he did not succeed in this, he, with a few fanatical followers, seized a small fort at Harper’s Ferry. The United States troops attacked them, captured or killed Brown’s followers, and Brown himself was hanged on December 2, 1859. Insignificant as was this episode, it was the warning of the coming storm between North and South, and was the death knell of slavery. “John Brown’s Body” appears to have been first adopted as a marching song by the Twelfth Massachusetts Volunteers, commanded by Colonel Fletcher Webster. The soldiers of this regiment sang it as they marched down Broadway in New York, July 24, 1861, on their way from Boston to the front.

A RADICAL SONG.

_To the tune of “John Brown’s Body lies mouldering in the Grave”_

Raise a shout of gladness for the dawning of the day,
Ever steady, onward to the foremost of the fray:
Every Tory barrier, boys, will soon be swept away
As we go marching on.

_Chorus._
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
As we go marching on.

Tory knaves oppressed us in the ages long ago,
Tory knaves have left us all a heritage of woe,
Tories now must tumble, for we mean to lay them low,
As we go marching on.

Joseph’s coat of colour now is fluttering in the wind,
Joseph and his brethren are the leaders of the blind,
Joseph and his “gentlemen” must all be left behind
As we go marching on.

Rally round the standard of our great democracy,
Rally round your leader, boys, and on to victory,
Rally as your fathers did, and Ireland shall be free,
As we go marching on.

Hand in hand our army with the workers o’er the wave,
Hand in hand we’ll battle till the people we shall save,
Hand in hand for Torydom we’ll dig a yawning grave,
As we go marching on.

Shout, for Time with victory our strife is sure to crown;
Shout, for million voices join the chorus of renown;
Shout, and at the anthem every wrong shall crumble down,
As we go marching on.

D. EVANS.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 17, 1887.

――――:o:――――

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

This song was written in 1862 just after President Lincoln had issued a proclamation calling for 300,000 men to fill up the ranks of his army. The author was Mr. John S. Gibbons, a Quaker of New York. The poem was first published anonymously, in the “Evening Post” New York, on July 16, 1862, and was then generally ascribed to William Cullen Bryant, the editor of that paper.

We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore;
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before,
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill tops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind an instant tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride;
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more.

If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;
And children from their mothers’ knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow, against their country’s needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door――
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tide,
To lay us down for freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside;
Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,
And in the fore of foreign foes its fragments to parade.
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before――
We are coming Father Abraam, three hundred thousand more!

JOHN S. GIBBONS.

――――

AN AMERICAN LYRIC.――TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN,
_On his demand for_ 300,000 _Men_.

We’re coming, Father Abraam, we’re coming all along,
But don’t you think you’re coming it yourself a little strong?
Three hundred thousand might be called a pretty tidy figure,
We’ve nearly sent you white enough, why don’t you take the nigger?

Consider, Father Abraam, and give the thing a thought,
This war has just attained four times the longitude it ought;
And all the bills at Ninety Days as you have draw’d so free,
Have been dishonoured, Abraäm, as punctual as could be.

We’ve fought, old Father Abraäm, and fought uncommon bold,
And gained amazing victories, or so at least we’re told;
And having whipped the rebels for a twelvemonth and a day,
We nearly found ’em liquoring in Washington in May.

Now, really, Father Abraäm, this here’s the extra ounce,
And we are almost sick, you see, of such almighty bounce;
We ain’t afraid of being killed at proper times and seasons,
But it’s aggravating to be killed for Mac’s strategic reasons.

If you’d be so obliging, Father Abraäm, as to write
To any foreign potentate, and put the thing polite,
And make him loan a General as knows the way to lead,
We’d come and list. Jerusalem and snakes! we would indeed.

But as the matter stands, Old Abe, we’ve this opinion, some.
If you say “Come,” as citizens of course we’re bound to come,
But then we want to win, you see; if Strategy prevents,
We wish you’d use the nigger for these here experiments.

Hereditary bondsman, he should just be made to know
He’d convenience us uncommon if he’d take and strike a blow.
The man as will not fight for freedom isn’t worth a cuss,
And its better using niggers up than citizens like us.

So, Father Abraäm, if you please, in this here game of chess,
You’d better take the black men against the white, I guess,
And if you work the niggers off before Rebellion’s slain,
Which surely ain’t expectable,――apply to us again.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

――――:o:――――

TRAMP! TRAMP! TRAMP! THE BOYS ARE MARCHING!

As we muster for the fray,
In our thousands every day,
By one hope and by one purpose we are buoyed.
We will never cease to fight
Until Ireland claims by right
That same freedom which so long we have enjoyed.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching!
Justice for Ireland there shall be;
For beneath our Leader’s flag
Not a man shall lurk or lag,
Till old Ireland, like Great Britain, shall be free!

_Chorus._ Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching!
Cheer up! the foes begin to run!
See where Gladstone waves the flag,
And let no man lurk or lag
Till the Battle of the Ballot-box is won!

Since we last time joined in fight
We have lost some men of might,
Thanks to envy and to spite and to ill-will;
But we need to waste no tears
O’er these jealous mutineers,
For we have our grand old leader, Gladstone, still!
Tramp! tramp! tramp! with him we’re marching!
Forward! we shall win the day!
For we will not flinch nor turn
’Till with purpose grim and stern
We have swept the Paper-Unionists away!

* * * * *

(_Several verses omitted._)

If we Parliament divide,
By our foes it is implied
That a fatal risk too surely we shall run;
But ’tis better, we maintain,
To one Parliament make twain,
If thereby we can but make two nations one.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! for this we’re marching!
Tramp! tramp! Gladstone’s at our head,
And poor Ireland soon to be
From a Paper-Union free,
Shall be linked to us by heart and hand instead!

__Truth._ July 1, 1886.

――――:o:――――

MY MARYLAND.

This song was written in April, 1861, by Mr. James R. Randall, a native of Baltimore, and first published in _The Delta_, whence it was soon copied into every journal in the Southern States.

It is sung to the tune of a favourite college song, entitled “Lauriger Horatius,” which itself is borrowed from a German air known as “Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum.” Two young ladies, Miss H. Cary and Miss Jennie Cary, first set it to music, and sung it to the Confederate troops in their camp at Manassas.

The despot’s heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,
Maryland!
My Mother-State, to thee I kneel!
Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! ’Tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,
_Sic Semper!_ ’Tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise, in majesty again,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Come, for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come, for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng,
Stalking with liberty along,
And chaunt thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire before thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder-hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb!
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes! She burns! She’ll come!
She’ll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!

It should be mentioned that the metre (with a slight modification), and the style of the poem, are copied from “The Karamanian Exile,” written by that eccentric genius, James Clarence Mangan, who died in 1849.

THE KARAMANIAN EXILE.

I see thee ever in my dreams,
Karaman!
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams,
Karaman! O Karaman!
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams,
As when the deepening sunset seams
With lines of light thy hills and streams,
Karaman!
So thou loomest on my dreams,
Karaman! O Karaman!

* * * * *

From “_The Ballads of Ireland_,” edited by E. Hayes, fifth edition, vol. ii. p. 392.

――――

The following parody of the Rebel War song alludes to the failure of the Southern forces to hold Maryland, the object of General Lee’s advance northward, and which was defeated by the battles of South Mountain and Antietam.

Ah me! I’ve had enough of thee,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Dear land, thou art too dear for me,
Maryland, my Maryland!
I’ll take the nearest ford and go,
I’ll leave thee, darling, to the foe,
But do not let him kick me so,
Maryland, my Maryland!

You’ve dashed my hopes, ungrateful State,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Go! bless your stars I came too late,
Maryland, you understand!
I meant to dress you well in black,
And scar you with the battles track,
And I had scourges for your back,
Maryland, my contraband!

Oh, where are Longstreet, Hill and Lee?
Maryland, my Maryland!
And “Stonewall” Jackson, where is he?
Maryland, my Maryland!
Four coat-tails streaming in the breeze,
And that is all a body sees;
Better than dangling from the trees,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Gray geese are flying southward, ho!
Maryland, O Maryland!
It’s getting cold up there, you know,
Maryland, O Maryland!
I should have thought it rather warm,
South Mountain yonder took by storm,
Antietam yielded in alarm,――
Maryland, O Maryland!

Blood-red my hand, and dead my heart,
Native land, my native land!
Columbia from her grave will start,
Murder’d land, my murder’d land!
Thy flag is like a sword of fire,
I’ll fly, I’ll fly its vengeful ire;
Beneath its stroke its foes expire,
Native land, my native land.

From _Harper’s Weekly_, also reprinted in _Poetry of the Civil War_, selected by R. G. White. New York, 1866.

A LIBERAL LYRIC.

There’s a crisis coming on,
Mary Ann,
That I dread to think upon,
Mary Ann!
In the papers there appears
Quite enough to raise our fears
For the Commons and the Peers!
Mary Ann!

For, apart from all the rows,
Mary Ann!
And the squabbles, threats, and vows,
Mary Ann!
That are sure to emanate
From the “Gifted, Good, and Great;”
Oh, the Rads will demonstrate!
Mary Ann!

Though the delegates seem mixed,
Mary Ann!
And the date is hardly fixed,
Mary Ann!
There will be a meeting, mark!
In that innocent Hyde Park,
And most likely after dark,
Mary Ann!

An enthusiastic crew,
Mary Ann!
But what aim do they pursue?
Mary Ann!
Well, I’m sure I cannot say!
Yet, wherever asses bray,
Fools are sure to go astray,
Mary Ann!

Oh, our policy once stood,
Mary Ann!
For the nation and its good,
Mary Ann!
Now, alas! it only drains
From the senatorial brains,
To be howled in railway trains,
Mary Ann!

There are better times in store,
Mary Ann!
When these wrangling feuds are o’er,
Mary Ann!
And an interest for the State
Have usurped this Party prate;
But you’ll have some time to wait,
Mary Ann!

_England._ October 11, 1884.

――――

YANKEE-LAND.
_Novus Ordo Cyclorum._

The destined wheel is on thy shore,
Yankeeland!
Its perch is at thy ample door,
Yankeeland!
Ascend the gay exotic goer
That flashed the streets of Boston o’er,
And beat the boneshaker of yore,
Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

Hark to the wondering son’s appeal,
Yankeeland!
“My mother dear, I want a wheel,”
Yankeeland!
For life and health, for “go” and weal,
Thy beardless cavalry reveal,
And speed their beauteous limbs with steel!
Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

They must not tumble in the dust,
Yankeeland!
Their beaming steel should never rust,
Yankeeland!
That slender firmness you may trust
Like slender blades in warlike thrust,
Held by those numbered with the just,
Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

Come, for the wheel is bright and strong.
Yankeeland!
Come, for thy carriance does thee wrong,
Yankeeland!
Come for thy young bard in the throng,
Who stalks with levity along,
And gives a new key to much song,
Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

This iron forms no tyrant’s chain,
Yankeeland!
Britannia _now_ sends not in vain,
Yankeeland!
She greets her kindred o’er the main――
_Slick transit!_ be the wild refrain
We shout in greeting back again,
Yankeeland, my Yankeeland!

_The Wheeling Annual_ for 1885, quoted this parody without any acknowledgment of the source from whence it was derived. It was written by Mr. J. G. Dalton, and published in his volume of poems entitled _Lyra Bicyclica_. Hodges and Co., Boston, U.S. 1885. There was another cycling parody in _The Umpire_ for May 5, 1888, on the same original, but not so good as the above.

――――:o:――――

HAIL COLUMBIA!

The new verses to “Hail, Columbia!” written by Oliver Wendell Holmes for the American Centenary are as follows:――

1798.

Hail, Columbia! Happy land!
Home of heroes――Heaven-born band,
Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause,
Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cause,
And when the storm of war was gone
Enjoyed the peace their valour won.
Let independence be our boast,
Ever mindful what it cost:
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm――united――let us be,
Rallying round our Liberty.
As a band of brothers joined,
Peace and safety we shall find.

* * * * *

1887.

Look our ransomed shores around,
Peace and safety we have found!
Welcome, friends, who once were foes.
Welcome, friends, who once were foes.
To all the conquering years have gained
A nation’s rights, a race unchained!
Children of the day new born,
Mindful of its glorious morn,
Let the pledge our fathers signed
Heart to heart for ever bind!

While the stars of heaven shall burn,
While the ocean tides return,
Ever may the circling sun
Find the Many still are One!

Graven deep with edge of steel,
Crowned with Victory’s crimson seal,
All the world their names shall read!
All the world their names shall read!
Enrolled with his hosts that led,
Whose blood for us――for all――was shed.
Pay our sires their children’s debt,
Love and honour――nor forget
Only Union’s golden key
Guards the Ark of Liberty!

While the stars of heaven shall burn,
While the ocean tides return,
Ever may the circling sun
Find the Many still are One!

Hail, Columbia! strong and free,
Firm enthroned from sea to sea!
Thy march triumphant still pursue!
Thy march triumphant still pursue!
With peaceful stride from zone to zone,
And make the Western land thine own!
Blest is the Union’s holy ties,
Let our grateful song arise――
Every voice its tribute lend――
In the loving chorus blend!
While the stars in heaven shall burn,
While the ocean tides return,
Ever shall the circling sun
Find the Many still are One!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Before leaving the American Poets a few supplemental parodies of E. A. Poe may be inserted here. His works were dealt with in Volume II. of this collection (Parts 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18), but since then, May 1885, several excellent parodies of his poems have appeared, besides which a few others have come to light which had then escaped attention.

_Annabel Lee_ was printed on p. 61, Vol. II., the following are some additional parodies of it:――

DEBORAH LEE.

’Tis a dozen or so of years ago,
Somewhere in the west countree,
That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know
By the name of Deborah Lee:
Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,
But Deborah by me.

Now I was green, and she was green,
As a summer’s squash might be,
And we loved as warmly as other folks,――
I and my Deborah Lee,――
With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom
Coveted her and me.

But somehow it happened a long time ago,
In the aguish West countree,
That a chill March morning gave the _shakes_
To my beautiful Deborah Lee;
And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came
And bore her away from me,――
The doctor and death, old partners they
In the aguish countree.

The angels wanted her in Heaven
(But they never asked for me),
And that is the reason, I rather guess,
In the aguish West countree,
That the cold March wind and the doctor and death,
Took off my Deborah Lee――
My beautiful Deborah Lee――
From the warm sunshine and the opening flower,
And bore her away from me.

Our love was as strong as a six horse team,
Or the love of folks older than we,
Or possibly wiser than we;
But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,
Was rather too many for me;
He closed the peepers and silenced the breath,
Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee,
And her form lies cold in the prairie mould,
Silent and cold――Ah me!

The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,
And the prairie’s sweet wild flowers,
In their odorous beauty around it wave,
Through all the sunny hours,
The still bright summer hours;
And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass,
And the nectar-laden bee,
With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass,
She wakes no more to me;
Ah! never more to me;
Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,
She wakes no more to me.

Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night,
A vision of beauty I see,
Gliding soft to my bedside,――a phantom of light,
Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,
My bride that was to be;
And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death,
And the cold March wind should stop the breath
Of my darling Deborah Lee――
Adorable Deborah Lee――
That angels should want her up in Heaven,
Before they wanted me.

ANONYMOUS.

_American Paper._

――――

CAMOMILE TEA.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a cot by the Irish sea,
A decoction I knew of which _you_ may know,
By the name of Camomile tea;
A stuff which was brewed with no other end
Than to plague and be drunk by me.

I was a child, a mere bit of a child,
When I lived in that cot by the sea;
But I hated with hate which was more than hate
That horrible Camomile Tea.
A hate which was visible, I have no doubt,
To the eyes of my――Aunt Magee.

And this is the reason, I happen to know,
Why she always was down on me,
Whenever I had the least malady, filling
A tumbler with Camomile Tea,
And drenching me three times a day with the same――
The horriblest bore that could be――
And shutting me up in my bedroom for hours,
With a tract and more Camomile Tea.

Even now, strange it seems, I have hideous dreams
Of that horrible Camomile Tea;
Of its taste when I think I still shudder and shrink
At the nauseous Camomile Tea;
And I muse in amaze at that old woman’s craze,
On the loathing, the loathing I felt in those days,
When I lived in that cot by the sea,
In that cot with my Aunt Magee.

_Punch’s Almanac._ 1883.

――――

“W. E. G.”

’Tis not so much as a year ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
That a statesman was at the top of the House
Known as old W. G.;
And this statesman he lived with no other thought
Than a premier always to be.

I had a vote――not a faggot-vote――
In Midlothian by the sea,
And I gave, with a love that was more than love,
That vote for W. G.;
Tho’ a vote that the Tories, striving in vain,
Tried muchly to win from me.

The Tories not feeling happy in mind
At the Budget which was to be;
And this was the reason (as all men know
In this kingdom by the sea)
That petitions came swarming from every pub.
And toppled o’er W. G.

And that was the reason this hurricane came
In this much-taxed land of the “Free”;
Just a row o’er the tax, which completely snuffed out
This tree-felling W. G.
In his dark days a _Sunbeam_ brightened the gloom,
In the shape of Sir Thomas Brass-ie,
Who took him a-starring to “Norroway’s” shores――
To “Norroway” over the sea.

But my faith got a shake in Bill’s taxing ways,
His liquor tax didn’t suit me――
He should have piled it on to the tea;
And I’ve split with the “Libs.” all over the shop,
And stick to Lord Randolph C.
And never――no, never――again will I vote
For the grand old W. G.

_Judy._ October 21, 1885.

――――

ALBERT MCGEE.

It was not very many years ago,
In a city by the sea,
That there lived a man whom none of you know,
By the name of Albert McGee;
And this man he lived with no other thought
Than to read for his Math. Degree.

He was quite a child when he first came up
To this city by the sea,
But he read in a way that you’d scarcely believe
(For you didn’t know Albert McGee),――
In a way that the bejants all agreed
Was really frightful to see.

And this was the reason he always said no,
When invited out to a spree
(His favourite excuse was a very bad cold,
But that was all fiddle-de-dee).
And always at midnight his landlady came,
Bringing him gallons of tea;
And he wore wet towels around his head;
And he always sat up till three.

* * * * *

The examiner, not knowing half so much,
Envied this prodigy.
Yes! that was the reason, I always thought
(And Albert agreed with me),
Why he ploughed him, not once but several times,
Finally killing Albert McGee.

But his ghost is more persistent by far
Than Banquo’s (_Macbeth_, Act III.)
That appeared to Macbeth at a spree;
And neither tonics, nor change of air,
Nor the best advice can set free
That wretched man from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Albert McGee.

For at night in his dreams he frequently screams,
“Go away, dear Mr. McGee!”
And at morn he will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing he will see,
There, sitting down by the side of his bed
With several towels around his head,
And an Algebra laid on its knee,
Is the spectre of Albert McGee!

_The University News Sheet_ (St. Andrews, N.B.) February 24, 1886.

――――:o:――――

E. A. Poe’s “The Bells” was printed on p. 75, Vol. II. The following are some additional parodies:――

THE SWELLS.

Here the drive is filled with swells――
Noble swells!
What a mass of snobbery their toggery fortells
How they snigger, snigger, snigger
In the spicy air of day
At the girls who cut a figure
On their horses――looking bigger
And particularly gay.
In a trot, trot, trot
All about one spot
To the super-admiration, that so admirably tells
Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
And the laughing and the chaffing of the swells.

Here’s the op’ra and the swells――
Full dress swells
What a taste for music each swell’s countenance fortells
With their pretty well gloved paws
How they tap out their applause
At the prima donna’s notes
All in time.
While the liquid music floats
Till it filters in their mouths and down their throats
Oh, sublime!
Oh, what are the gal’ry yells
To the gush of bravos that unanimously wells!
On the belles――
How it dwells!
On the singer――how it tells!
Oh the rapture it impels
Does the rapping and the tapping
Of the swells, swells, swells,
Of the swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
Does the calling and the bawling of the swells.