Chapter IV: Introduction (4)

Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;
What he won foully he did freely spend.
He plundered no one knows how much a year,
But Chancery o’ertook him in the end.

No further seek his frailties to disclose:
For many, of his sins, should share the load:
While he kept rising, who asked how he rose?
While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?

_Punch._ February 26, 1853.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_Written near a Suburban Station House._
_By a Ticket-of-Leave-Man._

The muffin-bell proclaims the parting day,
The City clerks wind, weary, to their tea,
The Crusher cookwards plods his steady way,
And leaves the streets to Bill Sykes and to me.

Now far and wide there’s not a Blue in sight,
Like harmless loungers, safe our watch we hold,
Save that we grasp the life-preserver tight,
And the garotte arrange in artful fold.

Meanwhile from yonder station-house the snore
Of sleeping Crushers makes it very plain,
That Blues who snooze when they the streets should scour,
Will ne’er molest our solitary reign.

Within those well-warmed rooms Inspectors paid
Out of the parish rates the peace to keep,
Each in his watch-coat warm and snugly laid――
The mild protectors of the public――sleep.

The choking call of passengers forlorn,
With the garotte twitch’d dext’rous o’er their heads,
Cries of “Police!” and “Murder!” faintly borne,
No more will rouse them from their cosy beds.

For them at morn no pompous beak shall turn
To the charge-sheet made out so neat and square,
No prisoner nabb’d shall swell the night’s return,
Or grace the hand-cuffs o’er the Inspector’s chair.

Oft did the cook-maid to their flatt’ries yield,
Their fast how oft the rabbit-pie hath broke;
How many an area’s been their triumph’s field,
How much cold meat fall’n ’neath their sturdy stroke!

Let not harsh censure mock their nightly toil,
Their stolen chats and area conquests sure;
Nor RICHARD MAYNE with too much strictness spoil
The short and simple suppers they procure.

Nor you, householders, fix on them the fault,
If no cold joint e’er lasts its second day,
While through the cupboard-shelf and pantry-vault
The hungry household cat is free to stray.

Can mild reproof, or anger’s hasty gust
Back to its dish the rabbit-pie restore?
Can master’s threats recall the flaky crust,
Or wipe the mopped-up beer from off the score?

Perhaps in some neglected spot is laid
A heart, well stuffed, brown from the kitchen fire,――
Meat, that to water hermit’s chops had made,
Or waked a vegetarian’s desire!

Say, if it goes, can nought your wrath assuage?
No hint of area-sneaks or cats that stroll?
Must Missus with the Cook fly in a rage,
And the Police still come in for the whole?

Full many a gem of the Em’rald Isle so green,
The dark ungarnished Crusher’s coat may wear;
Can you expect such flowers to blush unseen,
Or fill their stomachs with the chill night air?

Some village LOVELACE, whom with dauntless breast.
Rustic CLARISSA painfully withstood;
Some mute inglorious DANDO here may rest;
Some SOYER, with a genius for food.

The smiles of real ladies to command,
Glances to win from more than cookmaid’s eyes,
Dinners and suppers in good style to stand,
And area-snacks and broken meat despise,

Their means forbade――nor circumscribed alone,
Their loves and pockets, their beats, too, confined:
Forbade to make the pot-house chair their throne,
And floor their glass like truncheonless mankind.

Far from the dangerous scenes of London life――
Garottes and Life-Preservers――let them stay,
And past the area-railings, free from strife,
Pursue the harmless tenor of their way.

For me, who for the Crusher snoring laid,
Do in these lines obvious excuses state――
If ever to the Hulks or Portland led
Some pal should kindly ask about my fate――

Haply may some grey-headed warder say,
“Oft have we seen him, in the convict rank,
Brushing with measured steps the dust away
From off the mill, or working at the crank.

“There in the school-room where the boys they teach,
The Chaplain he would queer, upon the sly;
Glib texts would quote, or contrite mug would stretch,
Tipping the wink to pals that sniggered by.

“When, in the chapel, duller rogues would scorn,
The Parson’s pains that to convert them strove;
He still would sigh both afternoon and morn,
And in his tearless eye his knuckles shove.

“One morn I missed him on the ’customed mill,
Nor at the crank, nor oakum room was he,
Another came his vacant cell to fill,
His game had proved the ticket――he was free.

“And in our Office here the other day,
Upon the prison-books I found him borne,
As one who, with his ticket sent away,
Would any station (house) in life adorn.”

MORAL.

If Life-Preserver or Garotte you’re worth,
O youth, to Portland and the Hulks though known,
The capital you’ll find the snuggest berth,
Its wide unguarded suburbs all your own.

Long though your sentence and your task severe,
The pious dodge a ticket soon will send:
You give the Chaplain all he asks, a tear,
You’ll find the Crusher (all you wish) a friend.

No farther seek the system to expose,
Or stop the ticket COLONEL JEBB bestowed;
To spoil the child the British public chose,
And on the grown-up Convict spares the rod.

_Punch._ November 29, 1856.

A LUNATIC PARODY.

The curlew rolls amidst the darting spray,
And showy birds ride boldly o’er the sea,
Striving the foaming clods to clear away,
And leave the earth to chaos and to me.

The glades are simmering in the red moonlight,
And Hanwell all a solemn stillness holds;
Nay, e’en the beadle feels the moaning light,
And jelly sparkles in the glistening moulds.

There on the jagged shells ’neath beauty’s shade,
Where melancholy watch the mole doth keep,
Each in his waistcoat straight for ever laid,
The well-bred lunatics of Hanwell sleep.

Haply, some keeper, hard-hearted, may say,
Oft have we seen him calling to the moon,
Beck’ning, with hasty thumb, the stars away,
To meet the sun when he comes out at noon.

There at the foot of yonder nodding tower,
That breathes so bold beneath the azure sky,
He’d form himself of oyster-shells a bower,
And pour his look on all that travelled by.

One noon we missed him, as about we dodged,
He drew his breath, but nothing could we see;
Another came――we had him safely lodged
In the asylum of Colwell Hanley.

_Fun._ April 1, 1865.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY,
WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

The big clock tolls the knell of parting day,
The tired WHIPS clubward now do adjourn to tea,
The SPEAKER homeward plods his weary way.
And leaves the House to darkness, and to me.

Now fade the Treasury Benches on the sight,
The mace no more my languid eye beholds;
No longer WHALLEY wheels his drony flight;
No longer GLADSTONE eloquently scolds.

Only from yonder gilt and fretted tower
BIG BENJAMIN doth to the night complain,
Recording mournfully the passing hour,
And pealing forth his mellow-toned refrain.

Unnoticed now beneath the gallery’s shade,
Where the mice gambol, and the beetles creep,
Prone on the floor-cloth worn and half-decayed,
The Echoes of Reform are laid to sleep.

The freezing chill of CRANBOURNE’S bitter scorn,
HOPE blundering hopelessly through what he said,
Sarcastic jibes and platitudes well worn,
No more shall rouse them from their dusty bed.

For them no more the fierce Debate shall burn,
Nor shrewd reporters ply their evening care;
No clamour for return upon return
Shall change their weary longing to despair.

Oft did the COMMONS to their influence yield,
The new-elected ne’er escaped their yoke;
LOCKE-KING and BAINES through them obtained a field,
Administrations fell beneath their stroke.

Let not the Upper House disdain the toil,
Nor by inaction rouse the slumbering storm;
Nor Bishops hear with a disdainful smile
Their proud position threatened by reform.

_The boast of Birmingham_ may make them cower,
And all that PALMERSTON or DERBY gave
May yield alike to Nonconformist power,
Nor even SHAFTESBURY his creatures save.

Nor you, REFORMERS, lay to us the fault,
If rotten boroughs still their prices raise;
If greedy agents still their victims _salt_,
And foul corruption shines with _sugary_ glaze.

Can Ballot-urn, where venal voters thrust
Their tickers, compensate for perjured breath?
Can candidates escape “down with the dust?”
As well might mortals hope to cheat grim Death.

Perhaps in yonder corner may be laid
Some tattered fragments of a former Bill;――
DIZZY’S, with fancy franchises o’erlaid,――
Or last year’s, which ADULLAMITES did kill.

Full many a traitor, outwardly serene,
That dark, mysterious cave, ADULLAM, bore;
Full many a plot was hatched, by BRAND unseen,
Combining men who ne’er combined before.

The stalwart ELCHO, that with dauntless breast
The tyrant of the Treasury withstood;
E’en mute inglorious DOULTON did his best;
And HORSMAN braved the vengeance dire of STROUD.

The applause of listening TORIES to command,
The threats of BEALES and DICKSON to despise,
To foster agitation through the land,
And read their speeches interspersed with lies,

Their lot was this; this their reward alone:
To OPPOSITION Benches still confined;
The RUSSELL Ministry by them o’erthrown.
To join the TORIES they had not the mind.

Far from desirous of avoiding strife,
They for official spoils ne’er cared to play;
But in the feuds of senatorial life
Pursued their own, their independent way.

Their names, their deeds, writ in the _Daily News_,
The place of power and salary supply;
On them REFORM LEAGUERS shower their foul abuse,
And _Telegraph_ and _Star_ their ribaldry.

Free was their action――let us hope, sincere,
The LEAGUE a recompense as freely sends;
Of “hard and fast lines” they confess a fear;――
The LEAGUE declares they are not Freedom’s friends.

No further seek their motives to disclose,
Nor cull from speeches phrases undefined;
Leave them among the shadows to repose,
And in REFORM a hopeful future find.

From _Echoes from the Clubs_. July 24, 1867.

――――:o:――――

AN ELEGY ON CREMATION.

Above yon mantel, in the new screen’s shade,
Where smokes the coal in one dull smouldering heap,
Each in his patent urn for ever laid,
The baked residua of our fathers sleep――

The wheezy call of muffins in the morn,
The milkman tottering from his rusty shed,
The help’s shrill clarion, or the fish-man’s horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lofty bed.

For them no more the blazing fire grate burns,
Or busy housewife fries her savory soles,
Though children run to clasp their sires’ red urns,
And roll them in a family game of bowls.

Perhaps in this deserted spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with terrestrial fire,
Hands that the rod paternal may have swayed,
And waked to ecstasy the living liar.

From _Scribner’s Monthly_. July, 1875.

――――:o:――――

LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The city clerk from daily toil is free,
Play-goers t’wards the Strand now wend their way,
And throng the theatre “Macbeth” to see.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Are seated round at this momentous hour,
Waiting to hear the Thane of Cawdor rave.

The curtain rises, and reveals to sight
The scenes all have assembled to behold;
But, long before the witching hour of night,
The public are convinced they have been sold.

Let not Ambition mock my fruitless toil,
My stagey gasp and readings most obscure;
I saw, alas! from their disdainful smile,
The critics thought _Macbeth’s_ performance poor.

(_Three verses omitted here._)

Haply some hoary-headed scribe[21] may say:
“Oft have I seen his ‘Hamlet’ and the ‘Bells.’
He is the greatest actor of the day,
The idol of our most fastidious swells.”

Thus does he seek my merits to disclose,
And leaves my frailties to the world unknown;
And thus I find things quite _couleur de rose_
Since the Lyceum marked me for its own.

From _The Figaro_. October 6, 1875.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_Written in Rotten Row by a Disconsolate Swell._

The Park proclaims the season’s had its day,
The “upper ten” are wending towards the sea;
My friends are gone――such as could get away,
And leave the town to emptiness and me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape from the sight
In picture galleries――solemn stillness holds
Where lately Fashion kept its droning flight,
And pull-back skirts extended lengthy folds.

From Westminster’s electric-lighted tower,
Still drowsy M. P.’s to the moon complain
That dull debates outlast the midnight hour――
’Tis ever so when ancient Tories reign.

The applause of listening Senates to command
Some late-elected Member vainly tries,
Brings in his Bill, and faltering takes his stand,
But reads his fate in every Member’s eyes.

Full many a Bill with confidence serene
Such Members to the House of Commons bear――
Full many a Bill thus brought them dies unseen
In wasted talking on St. Stephen’s air.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
The few remaining Members crave to stray;
And hints of cool, sequestered vales are rife.
Or mountains, seas, and foreign cities gay.

Beneath these Hyde Park elms, this chestnut’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a flower-clad heap
(Haply the _brightest_ effort Lennox made),
I muse, or smoke, or read, or softly sleep.

Though uncouth squares, with shapeless sculpture deck’d,
I pass and give the tribute of a sigh――
Don’t care a pin what R. A.’s they elect,
Nor head the feud of Mapleson and Gye.

No more doth Beauty curl her lip in scorn
When the waltz-measure daintily we tread;
The four-horse Ascot drag with echoing horn
No more awakes me early from my bed.

I trust to dumb forgetfulness a prey
This smoky city soon will be resigned,
That for a season I may pass away,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.

_Funny Folks._ August 12, 1876.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_Written in a Country Rink._

The church clock strikes the knell of parting day,
And all the world is going home to tea,
The skater homewards takes his weary way,
And leaves the rink to solitude and me.

Now darkness o’er the scene a mantle flings,
And peace and silence through the air do float
Save where the band are packing up their things,
And the French horn emits a farewell note.

Save too, from yonder corner grumbling steals,
The fitter-on does to his mate complain,
Of such as coming there to mount their wheels
From liberal favours zealously abstain.

’Tis here beneath the bright and azure sky,
The rough-laid asphalte seems to rise and sink,
Where, under many a sharp maternal eye,
The youths and maidens of the village rink.

For them no more will croquet have delight,
The simple shuttlecock they will despise,
No more they’ll watch the winged arrow’s flight,
Nor draw the bow in quest of archer’s prize.

Let not ambition mock their simple style,
Nor from their thoughtless recreation shrink.
Nor Grandeur turn with half contemptuous smile
From these short simple annals of the Rink.

P’r’aps in this quiet spot we may descry
Some rinker pregnant with emotions grand;
This one, may be, will fill some office high,
This the applause of list’ning crowds command.

That youth we saw with hands upheld on high,
With form erect, pursue his eager way,
Though now in rinking lets his time go by,
May be the Gladstone of a future day.

That youth who “loathed melancholy” dreads,
Some mute inglorious Milton doubtless he;
While this who binds his fallen comrades’ heads,
In him a guiltless Cromwell we may see.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
Beneath the ocean’s depth is known to shrink,
So many a damsel’s born to skate unseen,
And waste her grace upon a village rink.

There was a youth to whom I once did give
Attention, though from notice he would shrink,
Some people told me that he rink’d to live,
Though others said he merely lived to rink.

Each morn his matutinal meal he’d eat,
And then be seen both out of breath and hot,
Rushing with eager steps along the street
To meet his comrades at the much-loved spot.

Then with his skates upon his feet fast strapp’d
He’d rink and rink through all the livelong day;
Now seemingly in meditation wrapp’d,
Now urged by eager thoughts and fancies gay.

At first some figure would he deftly trace,
Anon the wide-spread eagle would essay,
Then madly rush round and around the place,
Or in the outside edge his skill display.

One morn I miss’d him from his fav’rite spot
(The night before he fell and seemed in pain);
Another’ morn, but with it he was not,
Alas! alas! he never came again.

His comrades sore lamented him I fear,
For some at least upon his skill did dote,
And having dropped a sympathetic tear,
This was the epitaph they calmly wrote.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests from skating, by his much loved ground,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown
Science and Learning on him grimly frown’d
And Rinking only mark’d him for her own.

His birth was simple, and his ending sad,
His understanding and his means were small;
He gave to rinking all the cash he had,
And gain’d, his friends said “Serve him right,” a fall.

No father had he to direct his course,
Nor e’en from such a dismal fate to save,
For skaters own with pensive face, perforce,
The paths of rinking lead but to the grave.

From _Idyls of the Rink_, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London. Hardwicke and Bogue, 1877.

――――:o:――――

CREMORNE: AN ELEGY.

[_An application being made for the renewal of the license, it was stated that the proprietor had decided to have the ground built on. The counsel then said nothing remained but to put up a tombstone, and write the epitaph of Cremorne Gardens._]

The builder tolls the knell of Cremorne’s day
The navvy’s spade uproots each flower and tree,
Dumb waiters from their tables slink away,
And leave the spot to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glittering rocket from the sight,
And every nook a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the hodman climbs the scaffold’s height,
Or tinkling trowel the dabby mortar moulds.

The waltz and galop on the breezes borne
From orchestra with blazing lamps o’erhead,
The cornet, fiddle, flute, and echoing horn
No more will keep the Cockney from his bed.

For him no more will sparkling firework burn,
Or busy waiter ply his evening care,
No acrobat a somersault will turn,
Or from the _trapeze_ leap into the air.

Let not North Woolwich mock while they despoil
Cremorne’s quaint temples, grots, and glades obscure,
Some day the builder, with disdainful smile,
Will, too, its leafy avenues secure.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to Baum the fault,
If Chelsea triumphs while Cremorne decays;
And tipplers elsewhere seek their grog and malt,
And Canon Cromwell swells the note of praise.

Can photograph or picture from the dust
The glories of a Ranelagh bequeath?
Like Highbury and Vauxhall, Cremorne must
The auctioneer’s dread hammer fall beneath.

Oft have stern magistrates, in angry tone,
Its garish gaiety and “larks” maligned,
Forbade its reckless frolics with a groan,
And shut the gates of Cremorne on mankind.

For oft the madding crowd, in midnight strife,
From sober wisdom straying, hither came,
Threading the fevered paths of modern “life,”
While sleepy Chelseaites were loud to blame.

Alas! to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Cremorne will to the builder be resigned;
The bard who sees it rudely swept away
Yet casts one longing, lingering look behind.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies a garden, famous in its birth,
And once among the festive haunts of town;
But magistrates have frowned upon its mirth,
And Speculation marked it for her own.

From _Funny Folks_. 1878.

Cremorne Gardens were closed in 1877. These gardens had had a long and chequered career, and the ground they stood on has since been entirely built over. Elderly people can remember that fifty years ago a certain Count de Berenger started an Institution called “_The Stadium_,” or British National Arena, in the grounds of Lord Cremorne. Here archery, riding, swimming, and gymnastics were taught, but the venture did not succeed. The lighter, and more frolicsome, entertainments of Cremorne Gardens were tried instead.

――――:o:――――

CIRCUIT ELEGY.
_By the late Lord Chelmsford._

On the occasion of a dinner given by the Bar Mess to Lord Justice Bramwell and Mr. Justice Denman, at Maidstone, on July 12, 1881, Mr. Justice Denman rose and remarked that amongst some old papers he had found a MS. by the late Lord Chelmsford, being a parody on Gray’s ‘Elegy;’ he then read it, and afterwards offered it to the Mess.

Mr. Day, Q.C., moved that it be accepted and entered in the Minute Book, and that copies should be printed and sent to the members of the Bar Mess.

The motion was carried unanimously.

The trumpets sound the coming of the Judge;
The anxious crowd rush wildly o’er the way:
The bustling clerks, well-laden, court ward budge
And leave the streets to dulness for the day.

Now eager necks are straining for a sight,
And all the Court a solemn stillness holds,
Save when the crier bawls with all his might
Or drowsy pleadings some dull voice unfolds.

Save that from yonder silky mantled seat
Some solemn owl does to the Judge complain
Of such as, wandering in with noisy feet,
Disturb the home-spun labours of his brain.

Beneath those rugged wigs, uncomely shade,
Where books and bags lay strewed in many a heap,
Each in a narrow space on elbow laid,
The lazy Juniors of the Circuit sleep.

A breeze between the Council and my Lord,
The tittering laugh at something idly said;
The voice of many attuning sweet accord,
Can scarcely raise a single heavy head.

For their approach no heated suitors burn,
Nor briefs delivered task their evening care;
No! children run indeed where’er they turn,
Or scrambling climb at wig and gown to stare.

Oft to their sophistry the sessions yield
Their labours oft have set at large a thief;
How jocund do they drive to such a field,
How bow their heads, when they receive a brief.

Let not their seniors mock this humble toil,
Which some regret that they can share no more;
Nor fain to treat with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple cases of the poor.

The boast of sergeantry the leaders’ power,
And all that purple, all that silk e’er gave,
Alike at sessions wait but for that hour
When profits path is opened――to the grave!

Nor yon, ye crowd, impute to these the fault,
If none in aught but stuff his form displays,
While o’er the long-drawn ranks incessant vault,
Some whom mere chance, and some whom hugging raise.

Can well-stored mind, and animated face
Call to their lodgings one attorney’s Clerk?
Can honor’s course advance a silent race,
Or flattering prospects open in the dark?

Perhaps neglected in this Court is laid
Some, who with fluent art a speech could fire
Many whose talent, were it only paid,
Might wake to emulate each living liar.

But none before their eyes that ample page,
Rich with its strong marked fees did e’er unrol.
Briefless they come――repressed their noble rage,
And frozen all their energy of soul.

Full many a mind of purest ray serene
To distant climes th’ unfathomed ocean bears;
Full many a man is born to live unseen――
And eat his fingers――up three pair of stairs.

Some village lawyer,[22] who, with dauntless breast
The Squire or Parson manfully withstood,
Might, perhaps, have drawn one from the inglorious rest,
And flushed his talent with a client’s blood.

The applause of listening juries to command,
The threats of angry judges to despise,
To scatter humour through a smiling band
And give their speeches to the public eyes

Their fates forbid; nor yet alone restrain
Their growing genius: but their dulness find,
Forbid to some to show their want of brain,
And shut their mouths in mercy to mankind.

The struggling pangs of still-born speech to bear,
To find no thought will come, and wonder when;
To load a cause, which prudence asks and care,
With nonsense borrowed from the Attorney’s pen.

Far from the hope of sharing in the strife,
Their wearied minds to other objects stray
To that glad moment when with fork and knife,
They keep their eager jaws at last in play.

Yet e’en in court, some slight relief to gain,
Small slips of paper, torn from foolscap nigh,
Which wretched rhymes and pointless puns contain,
From hand to hand across the table fly.

A name――a verse unsanctioned by the muse,
The place of wit and poetry supply,
And jingling jests which sound with sense confuse,
Will make the wags almost with laughter die.

For who to dumb attentiveness a prey,
This pleasing power of folly e’er resigned,
Kept the warm precincts of the court all day,
Nor cast one lagging, lingering joke behind?

In some fond jest the weary soul relies,
Some tinkling thought, the closing eyes require
E’en labouring dulness against nature tries,
And rakes the ashes of its brain for fire.

For thee who mindful of the briefless crew
Dost in these lines their hopeless cause relate,
If one perchance with nothing else to do
Should feel disposed to ask thy after fate.

Haply, some stuff-clad rusty sage may say,
“Oft have we seen his tall and lanky form
Brushing with hasty steps to court away
To take his place where all the idle swarm.

Then, in the midst of some dull nodding speech,
While Gurney all their mirth to hush would try;
His listless mind in verse and puns he’d stretch,
And pour them on the crew which babbled by,

Unchecked his aim by gravity, or scorn,
Mustering his scattered forces he would sit,
Now drooping woeful at a jest still-born,
Now worn with care in trying for a hit.

One circuit missed him (’twas the one in Lent)
From all the places where he used to be;
Another came, nor yet in Hertford, Kent,
In Essex, Sussex, Surrey, e’en was he.

The next we heard his country he had fled,
And died an exile under distant skies;
Approach and read――for it may well be read
This Epitaph which Bolland’s muse supplied.”

EPITAPH.

Here rests his body in Australia’s land,
A youth to naval glory not unknown;
But e’er promotion shook him by the hand,
The Palace Court had marked him for its own.

Large was his practice, as his age could reach,
And large his recompense, as well could be;
He gave to juries all he had――a speech,
He gained from clients all he wished――a fee.

No longer seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his blunders from this prison dark;
Where cheek by jowl, they lovingly repose,
The bosoms of the Attorney and his clerk.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_On a favourite Washerwoman, Mrs. Bridget Mulligan._

Farewell old friend and memory ever dear,
Thy earnest labour at the tub is o’er,
Let every friend to merit, shed a tear,
For Biddy Mulligan is now no more.

In peaceful cot she passed a busy life,
Secluded from the world, and all its ills;
A tender mother――a deserted wife,
And matchless in her doing up of frills.

Oft have I marked her on a summer’s day,
Prone o’er her tub, regardless of the heat
With sleeves tuck’d up, she’d stand and scrub away,
And then from lines suspend her work so neat.

Each closing week at eve, she took the road,
With vests, with shirts, with handkerchiefs, and frills
Collars and socks, in parcels neatly stowed,
Pinned to the parcels were her little bills.

One winter’s day I passed her cottage by,
And wondered where the worthy dame could be,
I saw a heap of clothes disordered lie,
Nor at the tub, nor at the lines was she!

The piercing cold had laid her low at last,
Her busy nimble hands are now at rest,
They’re bleaching in the chilly northern blast,
Pale as the shirts their skilful fingers press’d.

Adieu! ye spotless vests of white Marseilles,
So white ye gave me pleasure to put on;
Ye snowy bosomed shirts, a long farewell;
Alas! poor Biddy’s occupation’s gone.

No laundress of the vulgar sort was she,
(Cruel the fate which thus could snatch her from me,)
A faithful soul, and from pretence so free,
It went against her grain to wash a “Tommy.”

Full many a worshipper at Fashion’s shrine,
Owed half his neatness to her starch and iron;
From swells who sport their shirts of cambric fine,
To dandy boys with collars _a la_ Byron.

Not all the symmetry of well made suits,
Nor hats of silk, so exquisitely glossed,
Nor spicy ties, nor jetty varnish’d boots,
Console me for the treasure I have lost!

Oh! Mulligan, thy shirts perfection were,
Now I ne’er put one on but feeling pain,
And buttoning close my waistcoat in despair,
Feel I can never show their like again!

Nymphs of the tub attend the fun’ral throng,
Plant _mangle_ wortzel near where she is laid,
And scatter snowdrops as ye press along,――
Fit emblems of the whiteness of her trade.

Let no bombastic lines be carved in stone,
No fulsome epitaph, no flattering hope,
Be this the plain inscription――this alone――
“She never yet was badly off for soap.”

C. E. TISDALL, D.D. Dublin,

_The Elocutionist._ July 15, 1882.

――――:o:――――

GRAY’S ELEGY.
(_In an Irish Prison._)

They think to toll the knell of prisoned GRAY,
The servile herd who bend to law the knee!
Pooh, Pooh! the slaves will soon be “out of play,”
And leave the game to DAVITT and to me!

Vile Saxon scum! a Sheriff held in thrall!
(It moves my soul of flame to noble fury)
Because he uttered what they choose to call
Injurious remarks about a jury.

* * * * *

_Punch._ September 2, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE S. K. RING’S REQUIEM.

The turret-clock proclaims the hour eleven;
Sir Francis Bolton[23] from his tower descends;
The last illumined shower drops from heaven,
And so the much-bepuff’d “Colinderies” ends.

Now fade the glimm’ring lamps amongst the trees,
And all seems dismal now, and dark and dead,
Save where the crowds still t’wards the station squeeze,
And through the Subway plod with weary tread.

And save where in a snug official room
The members of the S. K. Ring have met
To talk of things that in the future loom,
And the conclusion of their “Shows” regret.

Sad were their faces as they sat and heard
The clock strike out the Exhibition’s close,
And gloomily together they conferr’d
As to the Epitaph they would propose.

_After conferring for some time, the following, it is agreed, shall be the_

EPITAPH ON THE “COLINDERIES.”

Here ends a Show which, started with high aim,
Was soon for its degenerate features known,
And an apotheosized Cremorne became,
Which reckless Folly quickly made her own.

Large were its profits, and its crowds immense;
But larger still the expenses it defrayed,
Thanks to the notable munificence
With which its lavish staff it overpaid.

Of such gross jobbery it was the spring,
So big the perquisites which it did rain,
That much we fear, as an official Ring,
We ne’er shall look upon its like again.

_Truth_, November 11, 1886.

――――:o:――――

PARNELL-EGY
Written in a Westminster Palace-yard.

The clock-tow’r tolls the bell of coming day,
The Saxon herd departs ere stroke of three,
The cabman homeward whips his wheel-y way,
And leaves the “Yard” to Denning, and to me.

Now fade the gibbering Tories on the sight,
Against no form the watchful peeler rubs
Where, just before, men filed to left, or right,
And lobby tinklings stirred the distant clubs.

* * * * *

“The catty “call”――of incensed breathing born,
The shallow tittering from the empty head,
The “cock-a-doodle-do,” the nasal horn,
No more are heard――their authors are a-bed.

Oft did the Commons to our pickle yield,
Our guffaw oft some stubborn speech has broke,
How jocund did we bring our team afield!
How bow’d the Whips beneath our sturdy stroke!

Let not Refinement mock abuse-ful toil,
Unceasing “jaw,” and ancestry obscure,
Nor Breeding hear, with a disdainful smile,
The sharp and shady annals of “the flure.”

The “cheek” of Harr――n, the rant of Power,
And all that Bunkum, all that stealth e’er gave,
Await alike th’ unenviable hour,
The ways of Sexton lead to much that’s grave.

Nor you ye _Times_, impute to me the fault
And――in fac-simile――your trophies raise,
Where, ’neath the book-stall’d station’s grimy vault,
The steaming engine swells the note that brays.

Can story’d speech or animated bust
Back to their cerements conjure wraiths that lurk;
Can B――kle’s voice avenge the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Burke?

* * * * *

The scorn of Saxon senates to command,
The threats of Peel and Balfour to despise
To scatter terror o’er a suff’ring land,
And blend our history in a nation’s cries

Our lot requires; nor circumscribed we feel
By growing numbers, or by crimes confined,
We have to march through rapine to repeal,
And shut the mouths of protestant mankind.

Our names, our deeds, spelt by the daily Muse
The place of Fame and Elegy supply,
And many a nasty gibe around she strews
That cause the Irish moralist to shy.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, his head upon a lump of clay,
A man, to Hansard and to Dod well known;
Fair Science had not much was in his way,
But Disaffection marked him for her own.

Large was his satire, and his purpose clear,
Egan did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Loy’lty――all too bad――a sneer,
He gain’d in Egan,――well, not quite a friend.

No farther seek his secrets to disclose,
Or draw his frailties, in these faltering rhymes,
From where they――some of them, ’tis said――repose――
The _sanctum_ of his Walter and his _Times_,

_Moonshine._ April 30, 1887.

DETACHED FRAGMENTS
OF
PARODIES ON THE “ELEGY.”

――――

EPITAPH ON “THE PIC-NIC.”
_Written in a Newsman’s Shop._

Here lie, enwrapt within a dirty sheet,
_Pic-Nics_ unsold――of course to fame unknown;
Fair Fashion’s patronage they did not meet,
And _Grenville_ still may claim them for his own.

Large were its pages, and its type most clear,
Its price t’ ennoble did as largely tend:
But _fourteen numbers_ clos’d its bright career;
It found thus soon (what all must find) an end.

No farther seek its merits to disclose,
Or o’er its faults one briny tear let drop;
Here they alike on dusty shelf repose,
To add fresh lumber to the newsman’s shop.

_The Morning Post._ 1803.

――――:o:――――

EPITAPH ON A NOTED HIGHWAYMAN.

Here, high suspended on a gibbet hangs
A youth to ev’ry crime and plunder prone;
’Till caught at length, by law’s resistless fangs,
The gaping gallows seiz’d him as its own.

Bad were his sentiments, his actions worse;
And when he mounted Newgate’s fatal drop,
He gave the hangman a tremendous curse,
And got from him――what he deserv’d――a rope.

_The Spirit of the Public. Journals_, Volume X. 1806.

――――:o:――――

A POLITICAL PARODY.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea;
Now to the Lords, see Jenky take his way,
And leaves the House of Commons unto me.

* * * * *

Full many a country gentleman and squire,
The hinder seats and those back benches bear;
Full many a one who represents a shire,
There wastes his sweetness on the desert air:

Some city member, with his meal opprest,
May there, perhaps, in sleep digest his food;
Some mute inglorious Alderman may rest,
Some grocer, guiltless of his country’s good.

For knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne’er enroll;
Fair Science smil’d not on their early age,
Nor Genius gave an impulse to the soul.

Their names, their merits in the _Morning Post_,
The place of honest eulogy supply,
With many an idle tale, and many a boast,
And many a silly speech, and many a lie.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
A place or pension ever yet resigned,
Quitted the Court, like Canning, as they say,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

This parody (consisting of thirty-two verses in all) originally appeared in _The British Press_ of September 14, 1812; it was afterwards reprinted in _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, Volume XVI. 1813.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY IN ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL.

The candles tell the close of parting day,
The members bor’d wind slowly up to tea,
Some few to dinner plod their hungry way.
And leave the House to Dyson and to Ley.

Now fades in slow debate the lingering night,
And each dull speech in solemn stillness ends,
Save where Bragge-Bathurst wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy Hiley cheers his stammering friends;

Save that, from yonder nook with placemen stor’d,
Old Rose doth to the Treasury Bench complain
Of such as wandering near the Navy Board,
Molest his ancient pensionary reign.

Beneath that gallery’s height, that pillar’d shade,
Where heave those seats with many a slumbering heap,
Each, in his narrow row, supinely laid,
A silent band, the Country Members, sleep.

The pettish call of nonsense-breathing Pole,
Vansittart, tittering o’er his boxes red,
The shrill Charles Yorke, Sir Joseph, livelier soul,
No more can rouse them from their rugged bed.

Oft did the question to their influence yield;
Their vote, full oft, the Court’s designs hath broke;
How jocund was the Income-Tax repeal’d!
How bow’d the Malt-tax to their sturdy stroke!

Let not proud office mock their useful toil,
Their votes, though silent, and career obscure;
Nor grandeur mock, with a disdainful smile,
The “ignorant impatience” of the poor[24].

The boast of place, of interest, and of power,
Of all that worth can claim, or gold can buy,
Must yield alike, in dread division’s hour,
To Country Gentlemen’s majority.

Nor you, ye Whigs, impute to these the blame,
If some faint cheer its puny homage pays,
While, through some long drawn speech, in periods lame,
A stammering placeman courts their lingering praise.

* * * * *

Yet, chance, in that sequester’d spot is laid
Some heart well fram’d for ministerial hire,
Hands that for Treasury job had well been paid,
Or wak’d to fame some Admiralty lyre[25].

But Treasury to their eyes the ample page,
Rich with a people’s spoil, did ne’er unrol;
Some puny job must fire their noble rage,
And ope the loyal current of their soul.

Full many a Castlereagh, with hands yet clean,
The hinder benches on his side may bear,
Full many a sad Fitzgerald blush unseen,
And waste his diffidence on desert air.

Their names, their numbers, to the public gaze,
May show as fair as some of nobler note,
And many a holy hint Charles Long conveys,
To teach the rustic senator to vote.

For he (division’s stern demand to meet),
His custom’d place and company resign’d,
Oft leaves the precincts of his Treasury seat,
To coax some longing lingering lout behind.

On helps like these each pension’d soul relies,
Such aid each new-rais’d salary requires,
Though from the press the voice of Croker[26] cries,
Though in the Courier live his wonted fires.

And thou who, mindful of that honour’d scribe,
Dost for a salary like Croker’s wait,
If, chance, by kindred calculation led,
Of his four thousand pounds you ask the fate.

Haply some Admiralty Clerk may say,
“Oft have we seen him, at the morning’s call,
Brushing, with hasty step, on quarter day,
To meet his salary near fair Whitehall.

“Then, at the lower end of yonder Board,
He’d hold his vain fantastic head so high,
You’d think the Regent had made _him_ first Lord,
And put his duller master, Melville, by.

“Oft to the Courier Office, as in spite,
Muttering half-form’d, half-witted squibs, he’d rove,
Now all the Quarterly’s worst trash indite,
Now woo th’unwilling Grub Street Muse to love.

“One eve we miss’d him on his custom’d round,
Nor at the Board, nor at the House, was he;
Nor ’mid the Courier’s devils was he found,
Nor was he scribbling for the Quarterly.

“The next, to condign doom in due debate,
His annual thousands came, a sad display!
Approach and read, where all may read, their fate,
In all the papers of the following day.”

EPITAPH.

Here rests his pension, strangled in its birth,
His name to merit, as to praise, unknown;
Yet Fortune frown’d not on his little worth,
For Castlereagh had mark’d him for his own.

Large was his impudence, nor small his gains,
For well such talent did its master grace;
He gave the Court, a sorry gift, his brains;
The Court gave him, ’twas all he wished, a place.

No farther seek his merit to disclose,
Or draw the annual increase to his pelf;
Hopeless alike his fame and pence repose,
Lost to the Court, the office, and himself.

From _The New Tory Guide_. London. J. Ridgway, 1819.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
(_For the “Mirror,”_ 1825.)

The pealing clock proclaims the close of day,
Th’ attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea;
And mine begins to plod his weary way,
And leave my rooms to solitude and me.

Now fades the glitt’ring river on my sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness feels;
Save when some rake wheels round his rapid flight,
And drowsy watchmen follow at his heels.

Save, that from yonder darkly shaded tow’r,
The moping sage does solemnly complain
Of such, as wandering near his lonely door,
Molest his quiet, unassuming reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that old tree’s shade,
Where ancient seats in many a mould’ring heap
Spread out, where in repose you may be laid,
Most sweetly to enjoy the balm of sleep.

Whilst the mild beams which ev’ning does adorn,
The gay young student laughing at your head;
The Postman’s bell, or th’ echoing horn,
Rouse you no longer from your lowly bed.

For you, the blazing hearth ne’er does burn;
Or, busy housewife ply her ev’ning care,
Or children run to lisp their sire’s return,
And climb your knees the envied kiss to share.

But still thy juniors to thy learning yield,
When you put on the stately law peruke,
To prove their arguments are all afield
And make them bow at your hard stroke.

* * * * *

Yet do not think thy wig so sprucely deck’d,
Will ne’er entice a brief that’s straying by:
Whose strange and uncouth words its nonsense do protect
And for it gain the tribute of a sigh.

Thy name, thy years, thy thin and wrinkled face,
Insure success: thy fame will then supply
A stream of briefs, your fortune to replace,
And wealth, and peace, await you ere you die.

And you, whom dumb forgetfulness and care,
T’anxiety and bitter want resigned;
Will hail with joyous look and altered air
Th’ increasing strength and vigour of your mind.

* * * * *

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A TOWN CHURCH YARD.

The church-bells peal the message――“Come and pray!”
The gay-dressed crowd appear, to bend the knee,
The shabby, poor man turns another way
And leaves the church to Dives and to me.

Now fades the noisy stir of weekday sights,
And all around a Sabbath stillness dwells,
Save where a doctor from his trap alights,
And merry tinklings sound from tramcar bells;

Save that, as if to make display of power,
An army howls, while marching to the strains
Of noisy bands, regardless of Nott-Bower,
And blocks the passage of our streets and lanes.

Beneath those railway lines that man hath made,
Where slabs lie prone upon the embankment’s heap,
Each sacrificed to compensation paid,
Our Leeds forefathers down by Kirkgate sleep.

The snorting puff of carboniferous smoke,
The engine clattering from the loco-shed,
The whistle’s shrieking, and the piston’s stroke
No more shall rouse them, though they mock the dead.

For them, if chance the hearts of loved ones yearn,
No weeping mourners tend the grave with care,
No children to this spot their footsteps turn
To seek the dead ’mid desolation bare.

Oft did the town of Leeds their labours know,
Their efforts oft the way to progress cleared;
How lie they now, forgotten, cold, and low!
How is a patriot townsman’s name revered!

Let not ambition seek for the cold clay
A homely tomb from sacrilege secure;
Nor grand men seek when they have passed away
A safer six feet title than the poor.

The mighty alderman, the men of power,
And all our beauties, all of wealth the slaves,
Must take their chance that there may come an hour
When railroad sleepers share their quiet graves.

(_Fourteen verses omitted_).

For thee, who, mindful of the thus outraged dead,
Dost in these lines set down their graveyard’s state,
If chance, by their perusal, some be led
To test the truth of what thou dost relate,

Haply some ancient Kirkgate dame may say,
“Methinks I’ve seen him here at eve and morn,
As past the Parish Church he’s made his way
I’ve watched his look,――half pity and half scorn.

“Here, near the base of yonder noble tower,
That stands with venerable head so high,
Repose the dead, neglected hour by hour,
Unheeded by the crowd that passes by.

“Round through yon bridge upon his journey borne,
By some strange fancy led he seemed to stray,
Then on the other bank he’d gaze forlorn,
Then looking disappointed turn away.

“One morn I saw him on the railway’s side,
Among the slabs, some broken, some moss-grown;
Once more he came: he looked again, he sighed,
Then ceased the search for the forgotten stone.

“And then I saw that ere he went away
One little leaflet from a book he tore,
On which he wrote this simple poet’s lay,
Which some one found attached to yonder door.”

AN EPITAPH.

Here rest, on either side this mound of earth,
Neglected dead, forgotten and unknown,
Ere science learnt the iron horse’s worth
The grave had marked them and had claimed its own.

True to their country, to their town sincere,
Thus does posterity their deeds commend,
And takes their graves to make a railroad here,
For fear their usefulness with life should end.

No farther seek fresh merits to impose,
Let the poor battered stones sink in the sod,
Where rich and poor in trembling earth repose,
To wait, ’mid engine shrieks, the trump of God.

From _The Yorkshireman’s Comic Annual_. 1885.

――――:o:――――

NEWALL’S BUILDINGS.

The clanging crow-bar rings the pile’s decay
The busy labourers make their work complete
Daily the well known buildings glide away,
And space and brightness grow upon the street.

This was the first verse of a long parody which appeared in the “Free Lance” a paper published in Manchester, many years ago. A celebrated chop house stood in Newall’s Buildings, and the parody describes its principal frequenters, but the allusions are too local to be of any general interest.

――――:o:――――

THE SCALES.

The piano sounds the knell of parting day;
Next door the singing pupil shrieks high C;
The cornet practices across the way,
And gives the night to anguish and to me.

――――

“Full many a man, who now doth cheat the printer,
Will waste his voice upon the heated air,
And vainly sigh for cooling breeze of winter
When he is punished for his sins down there.”

From _Quads_.

――――

PASSAGE FROM LORD GREY’S ELEGY.

Rads toll the knell of England’s passing day:
The low dull herd will land her “up a tree.”
Why _will_ they not send GLADSTONE’S gang away,
And leave the world to Whigdom and to Me?

_Punch._ September 10, 1881.

――――

A PERVERSION.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its fragrance on the desert air;
Full oft, the filthy oleomargarine
Is served as premium butter from a fair,

――――

THE AUTHOR.

No longer seek his failings to disclose,
Nor on his faulty readings rudely press;
But leave the jurist to his deep repose,
Safe in the bosom of his loved MS.

――――

PENSIVE IN A BONEYARD.
_A Fragment._

Perhaps in this selected spot are laid
Some legs once regnant on bicyclic wire,
Hands that the rod of riding may have swayed,
And waked to parody the rotal lyre.

_Lyra Bicyclica._ By J. S. Dalton, 1885.

――――:o:――――

IMITATIONS OF GRAY’S ELEGY.

Imitations of Gray’s “Elegy” are not only numerous, but are, as a rule, both long and dull. It is not, therefore, advisable to reprint them in this collection, but for the sake of completeness, some of the best must be enumerated.

William Mason, the poet, and biographer of Gray, ventured to write an imitation, entitled “An Elegy in a Churchyard in South Wales.”

Mason said his desire was to describe a _day_ scene, so as to contrast it with the twilight scene of Gray’s “Elegy.”

But Mason’s presumption and self-sufficiency were extreme, not only could he venture to put forth this mawkish elegy, written in a churchyard by _day_, as a companion-piece to the far-famed _twilight_ scene; but he also had the effrontery to tack a paltry tail-piece to Gray’s exquisite fragment on “Vicissitude,” and even believed himself capable of improving Gray’s epistolary compositions, although Gray was known to be one of the most fastidious, and most correct of writers. Mason’s tampering with Gray’s letters has been repeatedly exposed, and his imitations of Gray’s poetry now rest in merited oblivion. Another author, with almost equal temerity, ventured to publish a

SUPPLEMENT
to
GRAY’S ELEGY IN A CHURCH YARD.

“The celebrated elegy in a Church Yard, by Gray, is well known, and justly admired by every one who has the least pretensions to taste. But with all its polish, and deep poetic beauty and feeling, it always appeared to me, to be defective, and I have met with a remark in Cecil’s Remains, to the same effect. Amid a scene so well calculated to awaken in a pious mind reflection on the sublime truths and inspiring hopes of Christianity, Gray, with the exception of two or three somewhat equivocal expressions, says scarcely a word which might not have been said by one who believed that “death was an eternal sleep,” and who was disposed to regard the humble tenants of these tombs as indeed “Each in his narrow cell _for ever_ laid.” With these views I have regretted, that sentiments similar to the following had not sprung up in the heart, and received the exquisite touches of the classic pen of Gray. They might with great propriety have followed the stanza beginning, “Far from the madding crowds’ ignoble strife.”

No airy dreams their simple fancies fired,
No thirst for wealth, nor panting after fame;
But truth divine, sublimer hopes inspired,
And urged them onward to a nobler aim.

From every cottage, with the day arose
The hallowed voice of spirit-breathing prayer;
And artless anthems, at its peaceful close,
Like holy incense, charmed the evening air.

Though they, each tome of human lore unknown,
The brilliant path of science never trod,
The sacred volume claimed their hearts alone,
Which taught the way to glory and to God.

Here they from truth’s eternal fountain drew
The pure and gladdening waters day by day,
Learnt, since our days are evil, fleet and few,
To walk in wisdom’s bright and peaceful way;

In yon lone pile, o’er which hath sternly passed
The heavy hand of all-destroying Time,
Through whose low mouldering isles now sighs the blast,
And round whose altars grass and ivy climb:

They gladly thronged, their grateful hymns to raise,
Oft as the calm and holy Sabbath shone;
The mingled tribute of their prayers and praise,
In sweet communion rose before the throne.

Here, from those honored lips, which sacred fire
From Heaven’s high chancery hath touched, they hear
Truths which their zeal inflame, their hopes inspire,
Give wings to faith, and check affliction’s tear.

When life flowed by, and, like an angel, Death
Came to release them to the world on high,
Praise trembled still on each expiring breath,
And holy triumph beamed from every eye.

Then gentle hands their “dust to dust” consign;
With quiet tears, the simple rites are said,
And here they sleep, till at the trump divine,
The earth and ocean render up their dead.

These lines, which originally appeared anonymously in an American Newspaper, are quoted in _Relics of Literature_. by Stephen Collett, A.M. London. Thomas Boys, 1823.

(“Stephen Collett” was said to be a name assumed by Thomas Byerley.)

――――

THE FOUNDLINGS.
_An Elegy._

Far from the madding Tumults of the Town,
Which where bright _thought_ should reign usurp the seat;
Far from those Tempests which Reflection drown,
I seek with breathless Haste a calm Retreat.

* * * * *

An anonymous imitation, published in quarto, by William Flexney, London. 1763.

――――

AN EVENING CONTEMPLATION
in a French Prison:

Being a humble Imitation of Gray’s _Elegy in a Country
Church Yard_.
By H. P. HOUGHTON,

_Now an English Prisoner at Arras in France._
London. J. Burditt. 1809.

The Sun’s bright orb, retiring, dimly glares,
In strict compliance with the law of power;
Each pris’ner to his cheerless roof repairs;
And I, in thought, amuse the vacant hour.

Now sable Night, o’er all her mantle throws,
And solemn silence reigns throughout the yard;
Save where yon vet’ran to his station goes,
A poor, disabled, solitary guard!

Save that from yonder room in mournful strains,
With melancholy tone, and plaintive air,
Some tender Father, to the Night complains
Of children left without a parent’s care.

Within these ramparts, by fam’d Vauban made,
Where hapless youths for Freedom learn to weep,
On beds of humble straw, till morning laid,
The brave and dauntless Sons of Neptune sleep.

* * * * *
――――

AN ELEGY
_Wrote under a Gallows._