Chapter VI: Introduction (6)

“The verse adorn again
“Fierce War, and faithful Love,
“And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
“In buskin’d measures move
“Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
“With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
“A voice, as of the Cherub Choir,
“Gales from blooming Eden bear;
“And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
“That lost in long futurity expire.
“Fond impious Man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud,
“Rais’d by thy breath, has quench’d the Orb of day?
“To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
“And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
“Enough for me: With joy I see
“The different doom our Fates assign.
“Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,
“To triumph, and to die, are mine.”
He spoke; and headlong from the mountain’s height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

THE BARD.
_A Covent Garden Ode._

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless John,[51]
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though bless’d with all the smiles of _ton_,
They mock the air with idle state:
Helm nor hauberks twisted mail,
Nor e’en thy sister’s[52] acting, shall prevail,
To save thy soul from nightly fears,
From O.P.’s curse, from O.P.’s cheers.”

Such were the sounds that from the gallery’s height
Roll’d thundering to the pit below;
Rous’d slumbering Uproar from her seat,
And wak’d the yell of clamorous _Row_:
Fierce Wienholt stood aghast in speechless trance;
To arms! Fitzgerald cried, and shook the sconce:
Perch’d on a box, with haughty brow,
Flush’d with the purple stream, in angry mood,
Rob’d in his soldier’s garb, he stood
Prepar’d the loose placard to throw.
With haggard eyes, surcharg’d with blood,
Shatter’d his garments, torn his hair,
His arms wide sprawling to the air,
With hurried voice and accent loud,
Thus bellow’d to the rebel crowd:
“Hark how each private box’s desert cave
Sigh’s to the torrent’s voice beneath――
Our fierce battalions deafening clamours breathe,
And high in air their hundred arms they wave,
Swearing they’ll not an added ducat pay,
For _high born_ Shakspeare’s harp, or _softer_ Otway’s lay.”

Stopp’d is the _Bank Clerk’s_ prattling tongue.
That rous’d the stormy scene,
Brave Cowlam sleeps upon a craggy bed,
O.P.’s ye mourn in vain;
Clifford, whose lawless bold harangue
Made lofty Graham bow his crested head;
In dreary _Rufus’ Hall_[53] they lie,
Struck with dismay, and ghastly pale,
Far, far aloof, the promis’d witness fail,
The Attorney-General screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of the noisy art,
Dear as the _ruddy drops_ that glad my eyes;
Dear as the hopes that lately fed my heart,
When first I saw the daring conflict rise.

No more I weep, they do not sleep;
In yonder hall, a grisly band
I see them sit, they linger yet,
And only wait a rallying hand.
With me in dreadful harmony to join,
And howl destruction to the Kemble line.
Peering high, and near the roof,
_Pale_ Confusion showed her face;
In accents wild, and sharp reproof,
Thus addressed her fallen race:――
Mark the hour, and mark the night,
When Thames shall echo with delight;
And to your ears the dreadful verdict bring:
When _Henry’s antique_ towers shall ring
With shouts that strike Thames Ditton with affright.
The wolf of law, with unrelenting fangs,
Tearing the bowels of our mangled mate;
Fell conviction, hovering o’er us, hangs;
The scourge of Justice, ah! what ills await;
Amazement in the van, and fear combined,
And poverty and cold imprisonment behind.
What tho’ Clifford, daring chief,
Has gained, _by chance_, a short lived fame,
That will to us bring no relief,
Who fed the fire and fann’d the flame;
From us the gallant hero’s dead,
And Wienholt too has _veil’d his head_.
The swarms that in the Statesman’s beams were born.
The public taste has laughed to scorn,
And all our efforts overwhelm;
In easy sail their _new built vessel_ goes,
Shakespeare at the prow, and Kemble at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hurl’d in dread repose, has lost its evening prey.

Lo! They fill the tragic bowl,
A rich repast prepare;
Reason’s feast and flow of soul
Again will triumph here;
While punishment and vengeance scowl
A baleful frown upon our baffled host.
Late we heard their battle bray,
Arm to arm and force to force;
Thro’ hours of havoc urg’d the course,
And thro’ all Bow-street squadrons mow’d their way.
These hours are gone, and gone our fame,
And nearly sunk is O.P.’s name.
Judgment suspended o’er their head,
Above, below, they deal the blow,
And o’er the plain our flying squadrons spread;
The _brothers_, smiling at our dismal doom,
Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terrors gloom.
But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless’d, unaided here to mourn.
In yon dark cloud, that skirts the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes;
But, ah; what dazzling scenes on Kemble wait!
Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll;
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye _crowded houses_, rush not on my soul;
No more their long-lost Shakespeare they bewail,
The flash of his far-beaming eye they hail,
And with him Otway, Southerne, Rowe,
Sublime, their starry frontlets rear.
And gorgeous dames in gallant show
In mimic majesty appear;
In the midst a form divine,[54]
Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line;
Her light’ning eye, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper’d sweet to ev’ry grace.
What sounds of acclamation fill the air!
What strains of trembling rapture round her play;
Hear from thy grave, immortal Shakespeare, hear;
She breathes a soul to animate thy clay;
Bright nature calls, and, soaring as she sings,
Waves, in the eye of Heaven, her many-colour’d wings.

Lo! they adorn again
Fierce war and faithful love,
And truth, in fairy fiction dress’d.
In buskin’d measures move
Pale grief and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
And, hark, a cherub choir;
Gales of harmony, that bear,
Sounds that my very heart-strings tear;
Their horrid warblings pain my startled ear,
That, lost in Melody’s soft notes, expire.
Vain was our hope that deem’d the sanguine cloud
Rais’d by my breath would quench the orb of day;
To-morrow he repairs his golden flood,
And warms the nation with redoubled ray,
Enough for me, with dread I see
The different doom our fates assign;
Yours is despair and legal care,
Sorrow and defeat are mine.”
She spoke, and headlong from the gallery’s height,
Deep in the roaring pit she plunged to _endless night_.

FALKLAND.

_The Morning Post._ December 8, 1809.

This parody was also included in _The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810, which contains the history of the notorious O.P. Riots at Covent Garden Theatre, when John Philip Kemble was manager.

――――

THE UNION.

[A celebrated Debating Society in Cambridge, composed entirely of Members of the University, where political subjects were discussed, which the Master of St. John’s suppressed during his Vice-Chancellorship in 1817; on which occasion the following Parody on _The Bard_, by Mr. Marmaduke Lawson, M.P., for Boroughbridge, and Fellow of Magdalen College, made its appearance.]

I.

“Ruin seize thee, senseless prig!
Confusion on thy “optics” wait!
Though prais’d by many a Johnian pig,
They crowd the shop in fruitless state.
Hood, nor Doctor’s scarlet gown,
Nor N――th, nor P――th shall win renown;
Nor save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
The UNION’S curse, the UNION’S tears.”
Such were the sounds that o’er the pedant pride
Of W――d, the Johnian, scatter’d wild dismay,
As down the flags of Petty-cury’s[55] side,
He wound with toilsome march his long array,
Stout T-th-m stood aghast with puffy face,
“To arms!” cried Beverly,[56] and couch’d his quiv’ring mace.

II.

At a window, which on high
Frowns o’er the market place below,
With trousers[57] on, and haggard eye,
A member stood immersed in woe,
His tatter’d gown, and greasy hair,
Stream’d like a dishclout to the onion’d air.
And with a voice that well might beat the cryer,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:――
“Hark! how each butcher’s stall, and mightier shops
Sighs to the market’s clattering row beneath;
For thee the women squall, the cleavers chop,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe,
Vocal no more since Monday’s fatal night,
To Thirlwall’s[58] keen remark, or Sheridan’s[58] wild flight.

III.

Mute now is Raymond’s tongue,
That hushed the club to sleep;
The patriot Whitcombe now has ceased to rail;
Waiters in vain ye weep.
Lawson,[58] whose annual song,
Made the Red Lion[59] wag his raptur’d tail.
Dear lost companions in the spouting art,
Dear as the commons smoking in the hall,
Dear as the audit ale that warms my heart
Ye fell amidst the dying Union’s fall.

IV.

Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Jemmy’s race;
Give ample room and verge enough
To mark revenge, defeat, disgrace.
Mark the month and mark the day
The Senate widely echoing with the fray;
Commoner, Sizar, Pensioner, and snob,
Shouts of an undergraduate mob.

V.

Master of a mighty college,
Without his robes behold him stand,
Whom not a Whig will now acknowledge,
Return his bow, or shake his hand.
Is the sable Jackson fled?
Thy friend is gone he hides his powder’d head.
The Bedells, too, by whom the mace is borne,
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows,
While gently sidling through the crowded street
In scarlet robe, Clare’s[60] tiny master goes.
Ware[61] clears the road, and Gunning[61] guides his feet,
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway
That, hush’d in grim repose, marks Jemmy for its prey.

VI.

Fill high the Audit bowl!
The feast in hall prepare!
Reft of his robes, he yet may share the feast,
Close by the Master’s chair,
Contempt and laughter scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Gown to gown and cap to cap?
Hark at the Johnian gates each thund’ring rap,
While thro’ opposing Dons they move their way,
Ye Johnian towers, old W――d’s eternal shame,
With many a midnight imposition fed,
Revere his algebra’s immortal fame,
And spare the meek mechanic’s holy head.
Each bristled _boar_ will bear no more,
And meeting in the Combination Room,
They stamp their vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

VII.

Jemmy, lo! to sudden fate,
(Pass the wine――the liquor’s good)
Half of thy year we consecrate:
The web is now what was the _wood_,
But mark the scene beneath the senate’s height
See the petition’s crowded skirts unroll;
Visions of glory spare my aching sight,
Unborn commencements crowd not on my soul,
No more our Kaye,[62] our Thackeray[62], we bewail;
All hail! thou genuine Prince,[63] Britannia’s issue, hail!

VIII.

Heads of houses, Doctors bold,
Sublime their hoods and wigs they rear;
Masters young, and Fellows old,
In bombazeen and silk appear.
In the midst a form divine,
His eye proclaims him of the British line
What cheers of triumph thunder thro’ the air.
While the full tide of youthful thanks is pour’d.
Hear from your chambers Price[64] and Hibbert,[64] hear;
Th’ oppressor shrinks, the Union is restor’d.
The treasurer flies to spread the news he brings,
And wears, for triumph’s sake, yet larger chitterlings.

IX.

Fond, impious man, think’st thou thy puny fist,
Thy “_Wood_-en sword” has broke a British club?
The Treasurer soon augments our growing list,
We rise more numerous from this transient rub,
Enough for me: with joy I see,
The different doom our fates assign;
Be thine contempt and big-wigged care,
To triumph and to die are mine.”

He spoke, and headlong from the window’s height
Deep in a dung-cart near, he plung’d to endless night.

“This Society is now happily restored, and is supported by men of every standing. The Debates, however, are restricted to events previous to 1800: and no new subject is allowed to be introduced after 10 o’clock.” So says the “_Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, or New University Guide to the Academical Customs, and Colloquial or Cant terms peculiar to the University of Cambridge,” written by a Brace of Cantabs, and published by John Hearne, London, 1824. The parody is taken from that amusing volume, it may also be found in _Facetiæ Cantabrigiensis_ (London: Charles Mason, 1836), an anonymous collection of anecdotes and smart sayings written by, or relating to, celebrated Cantabs.

――――

THE BARBER.

The following imitation of “The Bard” is ascribed to the Hon. Thomas Erskine (afterwards Lord Erskine) who wrote it when a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. Having been disappointed of the attendance of his college-barber, at his lodgings over the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary, he was compelled to forego his _commons_ in hall. Determined to have his revenge, and to give his hairdresser a good _dressing_ he composed the following “Fragment of a Pindaric Ode” wherein he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of style to be adopted by a future generation. The exact date of the parody is not known, part of it is quoted in the _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, which was published in 1824, it is also given in full in _Oxford and Cambridge Nuts to Crack_. A. H. Baily & Co., 1835. London.

“Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe!
Confusion on thy frizzing wait,
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more should’st touch my pate.
Club nor queue, nor twisted tail,
Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail
To save thy horsewhipped back from daily fears,
From Cantabs’ curse, from Cantabs’ tears!”
Such were the sounds that o’er the powder’d pride
Of Coe the barber scatter’d wild dismay,
As down the steep of Jackson’s slippery lane
He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy way.

In a room where Cambridge town
Frowns o’er the kennels’ stinking flood,
Robed in a flannel powdering gown,
With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood!
(Long his beard, and blowzy hair,
Stream’d like an old wig to the troubled air);
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner.
Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell,
With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell!
O’er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave,
Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave;
Vocal in vain, through all this lingering day,
The grace already said, the plates all swept away.

“Cold is Beau **** tongue,
That soothed each virgin’s pain;
Bright perfumed M ** has cropp’d his head:
Almacks, you moan in vain!
Each youth whose high toupee
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp’d head
In humble Tyburn-top we see;
Esplash’d with dirt and sun-burn’d face;
Far on before the ladies mend their pace,
The Macaroni sneers, and will not see.
Dear lost Companions of the coxcomb’s art,
Dear as a turkey to these famish’d eyes,
Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart,
Ye sunk amidst the fainting misses’ cries――
No more I weep――They do not sleep:
At yonder ball, a slovenly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet
Avengers of fair Nature’s hand;
With me in dreadful resolution join
To crop with one accord, and starve thy cursed line.

“Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of barber’s race,
Give ample room and verge enough
Their lengthen’d lanthorn jaws to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When all their shops shall echo with affright,
Loud screams shall through St James’s turrets ring,
To see, like Eton boy, the King!
Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws
That scrape the foretops of our aching heads,
No longer England owns thy fribblish laws,
No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds.
They wait at Dover for the first fair wind,
Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast beef behind.

“Mighty barbers, mighty lords,
Low on a greasy bench they lie!
No pitying heart or purse affords
A sixpence for a mutton pie!
Is the mealy ’prentice fled?
Poor Coe is gone all supperless to bed.
The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat,
Comb their lank hair on forehead flat:
Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux,
While vainly strutting through a silly land,
In foppish train, the puppy barber goes,
Lace on his shirt, and money at command,
Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway,
That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey.

“The porter mug fill high,
Baked curls and locks prepare;
Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live!
Close by the greasy chair
Fell thirst and famine lie,
No more to art will beauteous nature give.
Heard ye the gang of Fielding say,
Sir John,[65] at last we’ve found their haunt
To desperation driven by hungry want,
Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.
Ye towers of Newgate! London’s lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[66] fame,
And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head.

“Rascals! we tread ye under foot,
(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun):
Our beards we pull out by the root:
(The web is wove; your work is done).”
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn,
Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d here to mourn.
Through the broad gate that leads to College Hall,
They melt, they fly, they vanish all.
But oh! what happy scenes of pure delight,
Slow moving on their simple charms unroll.
Ye rapturous visions, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Coventry we wail:
All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature’s issue, hail!

“Not frizz’d and fritter’d pinn’d and roll’d,
Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames and judges old
Without their têtes and wigs appear;
In the midst a form divine,
Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line:
Her port demure, her grave religious face
Attemper’d sweet to virgin grace.
What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air,
What crowds of little angels round her play.
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! Oh hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now, soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her Quaker-colour’d wings.

“No more toupees are seen
That mock at Alpine height,
And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound;
All now are vanish’d quite.
No tongs or torturing pin,
But every head is trimm’d quite snug around:
Like boys of the cathedral choir,
Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear,
Each simpler generation blooms more fair,
’Till all that’s artificial shall expire,
Vain puppy boy! think’st thou yon essenced cloud,
Raised by thy puff, can vie with Nature’s hue,
To-morrow see the variegated crowd
With ringlets shining like the morning dew!
Enough for me: with joy I see
The different dooms our fates assign!
Be thine to love thy trade and starve;
To wear what Heaven bestow’d be mine!”

He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs’ height,
Quick through the frozen street he ran in shabby plight.

THOMAS ERSKINE.

――――:o:――――

“THE WORLD” PARODY COMPETITION.

The first prize for a composition on “Mr. Gladstone in Midlothian,” in the style of Gray’s Pindaric ode, “The Bard,” was awarded to Etonensis; the second to Apis Matina.

FIRST PRIZE.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless Earl!
Confusion on thy banner fall,
Though courtly gales its silk unfurl
Above St. George’s fretted stall.
Coronet, nor Garter’s twist,
Nor e’en thy works of fiction, novelist,
Shall purge thy conscience from election fears,
From Scotia’s curse, from Scotia’s tears!”
Such were the strains of wild Homeric war
That struck down England’s Premier with dismay.
From market-hall they came, from Pullman car,
From every vantage-ground on William’s way.
Stafford turned pale; but Salisbury’s sterner mood
Couched in his mind some ultimatum rude.

“Weave the warp and weave the woof,
Lord Beaconsfield to bury in;
Give ample room and verge enough
To trace the Treaty of Berlin.
Mark the year and mark the night
When Westminster reëchoes with affright;
Shrieks of defeat from every poll that ring,
And fagot votes in anguish sputtering.
O Torydom, with unrelenting fangs,
Thou tear’st the bowels of this mangled State;
A Turnerelli wreath above thee hangs,
And Cyprian flowers; but; O, what terrors wait!
Afghanistan, with massacre combined,
And Cetewayo’s form, and all the Boers behind.

Fill high the loving bowl,
The turtle-soup prepare;
Reft of majority, he shares the feast:
Close by the Lord Mayor’s chair
The civic magnates scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
A voice as of a financier
Gales from blooming Budgets bear;
And distant surpluses thrill on my ear,
And lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think’st thou thy sanguine cloud
Has blurred the Liberal programme from the skies?
To-morrow rises its resistless flood
Round fleet and army, church and colonies.

Enough for me; with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign――
Be thine Despair and Gartered care;
To translate and to hew are mine.”
Thus spake the Bard; and, from the mountain’s brow,
Swinging his axe, he vanished in the snow.

ETONESIS. (The Rev. J. S. VAUGHAN.)

――――

SECOND PRIZE.

“Ruin seize thee, reckless guide,
All nations’ scourge, thy country’s shame,
Though folly, greed, and senseless pride
Combine to glorify thy name:
Hedging speech, nor specious phrase,
Nor all thy followers’ boasts and fulsome praise,
Shall shield thy whitening locks from vengeance dire:
From Erin’s curse, from Albion’s ire.”
Such were the sounds that through the serried ranks
Of Jingo’s henchmen, winged with hatred, thrilled;
Rolled the harsh words on Lothian’s braes and banks,
Spread as they rolled, and Britain’s boundaries filled.
Sly Beaconsfield looked on with pitying smile;
“Revenge!” wild Cranbrook cried, and conned a speech the while.

On a stump, whose leafy crown
Had erst Dalmeny’s wood adorned,
Wrapt in an agèd Ulster brown,
Tireless the statesman stood and mourned.
Plaudits replied, and from the distant shore
Mingled the wild wind’s sighs and sorrowing ocean’s roar.

Raise the voice, and swell the cry!
The cry of sweet Hibernia’s woe;
From Asia myriad tongues reply,
And Afric bears a burden low.
Hear the wind, and hear the wave!
That bear the stifled wail of Cypriote slave:
Mingled with vexed Bulgaria’s murmurs hoarse,
Plaints of the yet unburied corse,
All――all in fearful unison combine:
“Thine was the hand that struck, the voice that doomed us thine!”

Count we the hoarded gold,
Tell out the augmented store!
Stripped of renown, we yet have wealth behind――
Void is the chest. No more,
Where countless millions rolled,
Aught but thy bills shall future rulers find.
Men of Midlothian! ever shrewd and keen,
These are your wasted goods, your fruitless toil,
The life-blood wrung alike from great and mean
Squandered in titles, or a trickster’s spoil!
The mild Hindoo, the brave Zulu,
To vex and harass these we waste;
But prostrate trade, and bills unpaid,
Naught of the wild profusion taste;
While venal voters of the false Buccleuch
Quell our indignant voice, and mask our utterance true,

More might have followed; but he felt it rain,
Hailed the first cab, and left by special train.

APIS MATINA. (H. PATTINSON.)

_The World._ December 17, 1879.

――――

GLADSTONE IN MIDLOTHIAN.

“Plague upon thee, Earl of B――――
Bad luck attend thy servile crew,
Though gull’d awhile, they bend the knee
In worship of a wily Jew!
Inscrutability, nor sham
Veil’d in a wealth of brilliant epigram,
Shall prop for long thy fast-decaying power,
Or stave off Dissolution’s dreaded hour!”

Such were the words that fill’d with wild despair
The ruling Tories and their ductile lambs,
Indignant Dizzy raved and tore his hair,
As to his chums he read the telegrams.
Stout Stafford stared――his senses in a mist――
“What cheek!” cried angry Cross, and clench’d his brawny fist!

In the hall, cramm’d to excess
With all “Auld Reekie’s” Liberal blood,
Attir’d in his sombre dress,
With piercing eyes Mac Gladstone stood
(His tie awry, his locks of grey
Had not known comb for many a day),
And with a silvery tongue and eyes that flamed
He thus to canny Scots declaimed:――
“Behold, in each event of this strange time
A thousand signs the Tories’ reign is o’er;
For thee, oh Benjamin, thou man of crime,
A deadly retribution is in store!
Hush’d is poor Harty’s tongue,
That erst was loosed in scorn;
Brave Bright is half asleep, I sometimes fear;
Liberals, ye may not mourn
Roebuck, who wildly flung
Alike at friend or foe his caustic jeer.
But _ye_, tried sailors in the Liberal ship,
Dear as potatoes shortly will become――
Dear as the ruddy claret that I sip――
I cannot brook to think that _ye_ are dumb!
No more regret――they’ll help us yet――
In fancy now I see them both,
Inspired by my eloquence,
Shake off their censurable sloth!
Weave _we_ slowly, day by day,
The winding-sheet of Torydom;
Give our foes rope enough, and they
Will hang themselves, and our turn come!
Mark the day when we, no doubt,
Shall send them to the right-about!”
He spoke, and once again resumed his chair,
Whilst hearty Scottish plaudits rent the air!

From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. London, Wyman & Sons. 1880.

――――

“_The Bostonian Prophet._” An Heroi-comico-serious-Parodical-Pindaric ODE, in imitation of _The Bard_. With Notes Critical, Satirical, and Explanatory, by the Editor. London. C. Etherington, 1779. Quarto. This was a parody relating to the American War of Independence, the first act of which occurred in Boston in November, 1773, when the populace refused to pay the obnoxious tax upon tea, and cast hundreds of chests of it into the sea. The parody describes the corruption and inefficiency of the English statesmen and commanders in language too coarse to reprint, even if the Parody were of sufficient present interest to render it desirable to do so.

There is another parody of Gray’s “Bard” which cannot be inserted here, it may be found in “_The Authentic and Impartial Life of Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke_,” by W. Clarke, London. T. Kelly, 1809. This Mistress Clarke lived for some time “under the protection” of H.R.H. the Duke of York, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. She obtained large sums of money by the sale of the commissions, appointments, and promotions which were at the disposal of her royal, but ever needy, lover. Finally an enquiry was held, and the Duke of York was compelled to resign the office he had disgraced. The parody above mentioned gives a history of the scandal, but it would be unintelligible unless accompanied by details of profligacy and corruption, such as are unsuited for any work but the Newgate Calendar. In addition to these parodies and imitations, _The Bard_ was translated into Welsh in 1822.

――――:o:――――

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

The following Parody of Gray’s “Descent of Odin” was written by James Hay Beattie, son of James Beattie, L.L.D., author of “The Minstrel.” Young Beattie was born in 1768 and died in 1790. In 1794, Dr. Beattie printed “Essays and Fragments in Prose and Verse” by his son, but only for private circulation.

Young Beattie had a clerical friend who made a sea voyage from Aberdeen to Rotherhithe, and suffered therefrom as described in

THE DESCENT OF TIMOTHY.

Tim crawl’d on board; no phiz e’er sadder;
Stepp’d backward down the coal-black ladder;
Then twisting sidelong, like a crab, in,
Stagger’d into the after cabin.
Him spied the dog of Newfoundland,
That by a bulk-head chanced to stand;
His chaps, whence fat and froth distill’d,
With well-gnaw’d bones of bull-beef fill’d.
Straight with neck upstretch’d he howls,
Eyes that glare, and throat that growls,
And with vociferations vain
Stuns the poor preacher’s dizzy brain.
Onward his tottering Reverence hitches,
The deck beneath him rolls and pitches,
Till from its shelf an empty keg
Down dancing drives against his leg.

Pensive on a cask of gin
He sat, and stroked his aching shin;
While near him snored in drunken state
The carcase of the slumbering mate.
Facing to a starboard beam
Tim put to flight the seaman’s dream,
Discharging thrice, in accents dread,
Yells that almost might wake the dead;
Till the toss’d blankets part asunder,
And forth these sullen grumblings thunder.

_Mate._ What rascal with his thumps and screaming
Dares break the quiet of my dreaming?
Whose hand is this that pulls my head,
Labouring to lug me out of bed?
These ears have heard for weeks together
The long, long roar of wintry weather,
Pumps, waves, ropes rattling, tempest squalling;
But such a pinching and a bawling――
Zounds! I believe he’ll twist my neck――
On deck, there, ho! ye dogs on deck,
What means this execrable yelling?
Have ye let all the fiends of Hell in?

_Tim._ A traveller I, to thee unknown,
An honest man’s and woman’s son,
By hunger, thirst, and sickness undone,
And bound to Redriff first, then London.
But whose is that mug, pray? and spread,
For whom yon comfortable bed?

_Mate._ The bed’s our Captain’s bed, d’ye see――
I wish you’d let a body be――
The mug, you mean that has the grog in?
That, master, is the captain’s noggin.
He, good soul, must have his potion:
Thirst can reach the sons of ocean.
Unwilling I my lips unclose;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

_Tim._ Once again my call obey,
Master mate, awake, and say,
Which way I to bed may go;
Pray have ye one for me or no?

_Mate._ There on the floor mattress and bolster are,
Who wish for more may ask the upholsterer.
Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

_Tim._ Master mate, my call obey,
Rouse yourself once more, and say,
If in this ship a poor starved sinner
May sup; to day I had no dinner.

_Mate._ Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard
Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward:
A sooty seaman blusters there,
Who never comb’d his lamp-black hair,
Nor scrub’d his angry brow, nor pared
The bristles of his shaggy beard.
He by your chop or steak shall sit,
Hissing on gridiron, or on spit,
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, I beg you, to repose.

_Tim._ Once yet again awake, and tell us
Who are those surly ragged fellows;
Why each about so madly hops,
Howling, and tugging tarry ropes;
Why at the slacken’d cords they swear,
And fluttering sails that flap in air:
Tell me whence this hubbub rose,
Then I leave thee to repose.

_Mate._ Ha! no traveller art thou;
Fresh-water fiend, I smoke thee now
As ignorant a rogue as ever――

_Tim._ No mate genteel, polite, and clever,
Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor;
But, as I rather guess, a tailor.

_Mate._ Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy,
Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye.
Hence! or I’ll drive you; for no fellow
Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow,
Till this cold pitchy cloud of night
Melt in the warmth of morning light;
That is, till four o’clock, or three, Sir,
What, won’t you go!――――Here, Cæsar, Cæsar.

_Desunt caetera._

――――:o:――――

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.[67]
_By the Muse of the Museum._
(_Slightly altered from Gray._)

Owen’s praise demands my song.
Owen wise and Owen strong,
But in spite of Owen stout,
All the beasts must toddle out.
Out with weazles, ferrets, skunks,
Elephants, come pack your trunks;
You no longer dwell with us,
Yawning hippopotamus.

Dusty, straddling, split giraffe,
You have stayed too long by half,
Go and take some nice fresh air
With that grim-eyed Polar bear.
“Fish, fish, fish,” your Duty calls
Somewhere else than in these walls,
Flounders, you must go, that’s flat,
With the salmon and the sprat.

Cloud of birds, ascend and fly,
Migrate to some kinder sky
Perky, shiny, glittering things,
Leave the wing that holds your wings.
Fossil Man, you too must pack,
Take your slab, Sir, on your back,
Or if you’d prefer a ride,
Mount the Mammoth by your side.

Eggs, be blowed, if you’d not break,
You your eggsit now must make;
Yes, your yolk must turn to legs,
Yes, as sure as eggs is eggs.
All those myriad butterflies,
Pins and all, must please to rise,
We can use in other ways
Miles of camphor-scented trays.

Diamonds black, and diamonds bright,
Henceforth charm suburban sight,
Follow beasts and birds and bones,
All you tons of labelled stones.
From that yellowish liquor take,
Every coil, you spotted snake,
“Bonny beetles in a row,”
Stir your stumps, for you must go.

Mother Nature, beat retreat,
Out, M’m, from Great Russell Street!
Here, in future, folks shall scan
Nothing but the works of Man.
Yet look glad, for Owen stands
Moulding Gladstone to his hands;
Soon you’ll have a Palace new,
Worthy Owen, us, and you.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1861.

――――

Gray’s Pindaric Odes were not very favorably received, their chief fault being obscurity. Gray was pressed by his friends to append explanatory notes, which, for a long time, he declined to do, writing “I would not have put another note to save the souls of all the owls in London. It is extremely well as it is――nobody understands me, and I am perfectly satisfied.” In 1760 there appeared two burlesque odes by G. Colman and R. Lloyd, one inscribed to “Obscurity”――That, said Gray, is me――the other to “Oblivion,” which was directed against Mason. In these parodies the friends Gray and Mason, are treated with contempt both as men and poets. Gray wrote to his fellow victim, “Lest people should not understand the humour, letters come out in _Lloyd’s Evening Post_ to tell them who and what it was that he meant, and says it is like to produce a great combustion in the literary world. So if you have any mind to _combustle_ about it, well and good, for me, I am neither so literary nor so combustible.” He also informed Dr. Wharton that a bookseller to whom he was unknown, had recommended him to purchase the satire upon himself as “a very pretty thing.” Gray was too proud to show that he was hurt by these satires, but he was too sensitive not to be annoyed at the ridicule, and except a single piece which was written upon compulsion (the Ode for the Installation of the Duke of Grafton), he attempted no more serious verse. These “Odes to Obscurity and Oblivion” are not now of sufficient interest to be reprinted in full:――

Daughter of Chaos and old Night,
Cimmerian Muse! all hail!
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil!

What poet sings, and strikes the strings?
It was the mighty Theban spoke.
He, from the ever-living lyre,
With magic hand elicits fire.

Heard ye the din of modern Rhymer’s bray?
It was cool Mason, or warm Gray
Involv’d in tenfold smoke
The shallow fop, in antic vest,
Tir’d of the beaten road,
Proud to be singularly drest,
Changes, with ev’ry changing moon the mode.

Say, shall not then the heaven-born Muses too
Variety pursue!

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

Gray’s _Ode for Music_, performed in the Senate House at Cambridge, July 1, 1769, at the installation of the Duke of Grafton, Chancellor of the University, commenced as follows:――

AIR.

Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground,
Comus and his midnight crew,
And ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue!

Mad Sedition’s cry prophane,
Servitude that hugs her chain,
Nor in these consecrated bow’rs
Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent train in flow’rs.

CHORUS.

Nor Envy pale, nor creeping Gain,
Dare the Muse’s walk to stain,
While bright-ey’d Science walks around;
Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground.

* * * * *

Two long parodies of this ode may be found in Volume IV. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_, London, 1786, both treat of the political questions of the day, and refer to persons long since forgotten, so that it is unnecessary to quote more than a verse or two from each:――

TRAVESTIE

_Air._

Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground,
Wilkes, and all his free-born crew;
Within our pale no room is found,
Ye modern Algernons, for you.
Mute be the bold Alcaic strain
Of liberty, that spurns a chain,
Nor in these pliant courtly bow’rs
Let harsh Phillippic weeds choke adulation’s flowers.

_Chorus._

Virtue hence! with brow severe!
Public spirit come not near,
While servile int’rest walks around;
Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground!

――――

ANOTHER TRAVESTIE.

_Air._

Hence avaunt, ’tis sacred ground;
Let pallid freedom ever fly,
Let innocence in chains be bound,
Nor e’er come truth or virtue nigh!
Opposition’s cry prophane,
Liberty that scorns the chain,
Nor in these consecrated fields,
Let injur’d justice weep, that she to tyrants yields.

_Chorus._

Nor dare bright truth, the patriot’s friend,
The minister’s high walk offend,
While stern-ey’d Fitzroy stalks around;
Hence! avaunt! ’tis sacred ground.

_Recitative._

From yonder realms of ministerial sway
Bursts on my ear th’ applauding lay:
There sit the pension’d sage, the peer prophane,
The few whom interest gives to reign
O’er every unborn place or yet unclaim’d domain,
Deep in the nation’s business they,
Yet hither oft a glance from high,
They send of triumph and of joy,
To bless the place, where first, on freedom’s soul.
He bade the Scottish thunder roll.
’Twas N――t――n rais’d that deep-ton’d voice,
And as discordant murm’rings round him rose,
The Speaker’s self bends from his chair on high,
And shakes his awful wig, and joins the courtly cry.

_Air._

Ye high o’er-hanging walls
That sure no monarch loves,
Where fain would freedom linger with delight,
Oft at the break of day
He’s sought your wearied way,
Oft by the glare of flambeaux glitt’ring light,
In chariot close, fresh from the haunts of folly,
With Nancy by his side, sworn foe to melancholy.

_Recitative._

But hark! the door’s unbarr’d, and marching forth,
With gouty steps and slow
Gen’rals and shrives, and peers of royal birth,
And mitred bishops home to dinner go;
North, with th’ exchequer laurels on his brow,
From haughty Greville torn,
And sad Fitzpatrick on his bridal morn,
That weeps his fault too late; and proud Dundas;
And watchful Dy――n; and the paler Burke,
The rival of his fortune, and his place;
And either Onslow there.

_Quartette._

What are pensions without power?
Heavy toil, insipid pain.
Who but would wish like thee to gain
The guidance of the public weal?
Sweet is Dundas’s golden show’r,
Cli――e’s visionary treasure sweet,
Sweet Holland’s rise but sweeter yet,
The still small place of privy seal.

“_A Long Story_,” which Gray himself considered unworthy a place amongst his Poems, does not appear to have attracted enough attention to be parodied, but a _sequel_ to it was written by John Penn, and inserted in Hakewill’s _History of Windsor_, and a further sequel to that by the Poet Laureate, Henry James Pye.

“_Poems by Mr. Gray._” Dublin. Printed by William Sleater, at No. 51 in _Castle Street_, 1775. This volume, published only four years after the death of Gray, contains poems which show that his reputation had already made its way to the Continent. It contains several Latin translations of the Elegy; a Latin address “_Ad Poetam_,” and an Italian version of the Elegy written by Signor Abbate Crocchi of Sienna. It also gives Mason’s continuation of Gray’s fragmentary _Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude_; the Ode to Raneleigh, a Parody; An Evening Contemplation in a College, a Parody; and Lloyd and Colman’s Burlesque Ode, all of which parodies have already been quoted.

“_Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue_,” in the manner of Mr. Gray. By Thomas James Mathias. Quarto. London, 1781. Price one shilling and sixpence. This imitation of Gray by the learned author of the once famous _Pursuits of Literature_, has nothing of a burlesque character, indeed it opens with a complimentary address to Gray:――

“Pardon me, Mighty Poet, that I turn
My daring steps to thy supreme abode,
And tread with awe the solitary road,
To deck with fancied wreaths thy hallow’d urn.”

WILLIAM COWPER,

_Born, November_ 15, 1731. _Died, April_ 25, 1800.

――――

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.

_Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again._

The story of John Gilpin’s ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet a sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the “Public Advertiser,” November 14th, 1782, anonymously.

A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons’ Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere――in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. It has fully preserved its popularity to the present date.

The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who, lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. He died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred years.

John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
“Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.

“To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.

“My sister, and my sister’s child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.”

He soon replied, “I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.

“I am a linendraper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go.”

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.”

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O’erjoyed was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
Were never folks so glad!
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse’s side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got in haste to ride,――
But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

’Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming, came downstairs――
“The wine is left behind!”

“Good lack!” quoth he; “yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.”

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,
His long red coat, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So “Fair and Softly,” John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt when he set out,
Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
Like streamer long and gay,
Till loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed.
Up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, “Well done!”
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin――who but he?
His fame soon spread around:
“He carries weight!” “He rides a race!”
“’Tis for a thousand pound!”

And still, as fast as he drew near,
’Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks
Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the Wash about,
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.

“Stop, stop, John Gilpin!――Here’s the house!”
They all at once did cry;
“The dinner waits, and we are tired.”
Said Gilpin, “So am I!”

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why?――his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly――which brings me to
The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till, at his friend the calender’s,
His horse at last stood still.

The calender amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:――

“What news? what news? your tidings tell?
Tell me you must and shall――
Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?”

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke:――

“I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,――
They are upon the road.”

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit:
“My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.

“But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.”

Said John, “It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.”

So turning to his horse, he said,
“I am in haste to dine;
’Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.”

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spoke, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin’s hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?――they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell,
“This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well.”

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy’s horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:――

“Stop thief! stop thief!――a highwayman!”
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike-gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing long live the King,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

W. COWPER.

――――

MRS. GILPIN RIDING TO EDMONTON.

Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said
Unto her children three,
“I’ll clamber o’er this style so high
And you climb after me.”

But having climbed unto the top,
She could no further go,
But sate, to every passer by
A spectacle of woe,

Who said, “Your spouse and you this day
Both show your horsemanship,
And if you stay till he comes back,
Your horse will need no whip.”

The above verses in the handwriting of Cowper were found among Mrs. Unwin’s papers, with a drawing, supposed to be by Romney, of Mrs. Gilpin sitting on the top of a gate. The idea seems to be that Mrs. Gilpin having tired waiting for her husband, wandered into the fields, and in an attempt to get over one of those awkward styles for which Enfield was then famous, got upon the top, but could not get down again. The drawing is very ludicrous.

_From Hone’s Table Book_, Vol. II., pp. 79-80.

――――

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF MOORE’S LIFE OF BYRON.

_Shewing how the Poet burnt the original, and afterwards published the copy._

Lord Byron was a nobleman,
Of wonderful renown,
A splendid poet eke was he,
Of famous London Town.

Lord Byron said to Tommy Moore,
Tho’ living I have been
At Newstead, ten long years, yet I
No happiness have seen.

To-morrow I shall sail for Greece
And you may then repair
To London (or to Jericho,
[Aside] for what I care.)

I’ll leave my life unto your child,
Whenever I may die;
And mind John Murray pays him well
For my Biography.

Tom Moore replied, I do admire
Of Poet-kind but one――
And you are he, my dearest Lord,
Therefore, it shall be done.

I really am not worth a damn,
As all the world doth know,
But if Lord Byron says I am,
Why, then, it must be so.

Quoth young Childe Harold that’s well said,
But for, that I’m a man!
Be sure you do not murder me
As you did Sheridan.

Tom Little shook him by the hand,
O’erjoyed was he to find,
That when he went, he meant to leave
His manuscript behind.

The morning came――the Poet went,
And when his life was o’er,
The tale of all his wicked loves
Was left with Tommy Moore.

So, on his table it was laid,
And he turned o’er the leaves;
Two precious volumes all agog,
And thick as any thieves.

Smack went the pen into the ink,
Was never Tom so glad?
His chin did chuckle up and down,
As if his jaws were mad.

From _The National Omnibus_. April 1, 1831.

Thomas Moore’s biography of Lord Byron was severely criticised, both for what it contained and for what it omitted. That Moore, the cherished friend of the great poet, should display all the faults and frailties of Lord Byron was ungenerous and ungrateful, but his ill-judged suppression of certain important matters of fact was far more inexcusable and damaging to Byron’s reputation.

――――

A BALLAD MADE FOR THE DELECTATION OF ALL TRUE SPORTSMEN.

Prince Albert is a sportsman bold,
And eager for the chase,
Out with the hounds, like GILPIN oft
He seems to ride a race.

And oft in Windsor’s courtly Park
He loves to ply the gun,
Where hares so well bred are, that they
Up to his muzzle run.

Now when her gracious Majesty
To Stowe a visit paid,
(The newspapers contained a list
Of all the cavalcade.)

Scarce had the royal pair arrived
At BUCKINGHAM’S proud seat,
The Prince began in sportsman’s style,
The noble Duke to greet

“What shooting have you here, proud Duke?”
“Shooting, great Prince,” he cried,
“Not vainly in my choice preserves
I feel a housewife’s pride.”

* * * * *

A sporting suit his Highness donn’d,
On murderous thought intent
He sallies forth, his every look
Betrays the sporting gent.

Not far behind, the portly form
Of ROBERT PEEL was seen,
His mind, less sporting than his coat,
Is far away I ween.

Five times ten keepers armed with sticks
Entered in close array,
And beat the cover, where the hares
Like lords in waiting lay.