Chapter XV: Preface (15)

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I have always felt for you?
I’ve eighty-six companions too so pleasant, kind, and nice,
Who’ll welcome any friend of mine and help him in a trice.”
“Forgive me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “because I make so bold,
But about that Irish party there are awful stories told,”

“Sweet creature,” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,
On you the universal world now turns its wondering eyes,
I have an Irish looking-glass upon my parlour shelf――
You’ll be surprised if in that glass you but behold yourself,”
“I thank you, gentle sir, indeed for what you’ve pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now I’ll call another day.”

The Spider waited for a time inside his Irish den,
For well he knew the Grand Old Fly would soon come back again.
He wove his subtle Home Rule web in a little corner sly
And set his eighty-six _confrères_ to watch the Grand Old Fly.
Then wandered to his door again and merrily did say,
“Come hither, hither, dearest Fly――a moment step this way.”

There was no limit to the pride of that poor silly Fly.
He listened to the Spider’s voice, which flattered him sky high;
He buzzed about, he tossed his head, and near and nearer drew――
Deceived by his own vanity he thought the Spider true.
“No English Fly has soared so high,” said he, but now at last,
Caught in the cunning Home Rule web, the Spider held him fast.

_Moonshine._ June 5, 1886.

――――

A CHARITABLE INSTITUTION.
(_A Hint to some Hospitals nearer Home._)

“Will you walk into our death-trap?”
Say the surgeons so serene,
“’Tis the neatest little death-trap
That there ever yet has been;
The beds are most inviting,
The sheets are nice and white――
And when you get between ’em
You can bid the world good-night.”

“We have wards to suit all parties,”
Say the surgeons so serene,
“But the one we’re recommending
Is that special ward――eighteen.
Kindly cut your little finger,
And select your little bed――
Then, before a week is over,
You will certainly be dead.”

“If you fracture say your elbow,
And come here to get it dress’t――
Well, your arm is amputated
And you find eternal rest;
For your blood is surely poisoned,
And so deadly is the taint
That you’re here, perchance, one morning,
And, to-morrow, here you ain’t.

“When some nasty broken chilblains
Give you trouble with your toes,
Oh! we take your leg, and presto!
In a moment off it goes.
It is getting on quite nicely,
Is that amputated pin,
When, as certain as the sunrise,
Erysipelas sets in.

“Then walk into our death-trap――
Harry, Tommy Johnny, Bob――
We have instruments in plenty
And are always on the job;
’Tis the very surest death-trap
That the world has ever seen,
Make your wills and have a shake-down
In our special ward――eighteen.”

_The Sydney Bulletin._ August 7, 1886.

――――

HARCOURT AND CHAMBERLAIN.

“Will you walk into our parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly;
“’Tis the cosiest little parlour, friend, that ever you did spy――
The way into this parlour is quite wide, as you’re aware,
And, oh! we’ll do such wondrous things when once we get _you_ there!
Then, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you,
Pretty little fly?”

Now, as I’ve heard, this little fly was young, but wary, too,
And so he thought, I’ll mind my eye――the thing may be a do!
So “No, no!” said that little fly; “kind Sir, that cannot be,
I’ve heard what’s in your parlour, and I do not wish to see.”

That Spider he was portly, and that Spider he was bland,
And he played the part of siren for an even Older Hand.
Says he, “Oh, Fly, you must be tired of being on the shelf,
Why don’t you just step in awhile, if but to rest yourself?”

“Our parlour’s snugly furnished, for expense we never spare,
We’ve such a nice Round Table; you shall have an easy chair.
It seems incomplete without you as a sort of settled guest;
Turn up solitary buzzing now; step in and take a rest.”

That little Fly looked longingly. Thinks he, “I _do_ feel tired,
I’m fond of cosy parties, and I like to be admired.
Yet I have a slight suspicion that the thing may be a trap――
I twig something in the corner――I distrust that fat old chap.”

So “I’ll wait a little longer,” to the Spider said the Fly,
As he spread his wings (with friend Col-lings), and fluttered
towards the Skye.
But whether he’ll come back again, and try that parlour yet,
Is a thing on which a cautious man would hardly like to bet.

_Punch._ March 19, 1887.

_The Spider_, by Sir W. Y. Harcourt.
_The Fly_, by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.

――――

“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail,
“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle――will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance.”

* * * * *

From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.

There was a parody in _Will-o’-the-Wisp_, March 20, 1869, entitled “The Abbess and the Maid” concerning a law suit which attracted much attention at the time, but is now forgotten. It commenced:――

“Will you walk into my convent?” said the abbess to the maid.
“’Tis the prettiest little cloister ever nestled in the shade.”

Another long political parody in _The London Figaro_, August 7, 1886, commenced:――

“Will you come into our Chamber?” said the Marquis to “Grand Cross”
“’Tis a finely gilded chamber” (so went on the Tory Boss.)

Another appeared in _Punch_, June 30, 1888, soon after Mr. W. E. Gladstone had given his vote in favour of Watkin’s scheme for the Channel Tunnel. Two verses may be quoted:――

THE WATKIN SPIDER AND THE GLADSTONE FLY.

“Will you walk into my Tunnel?” said the Spider to the Fly,
“’Tis the handiest little Tunnel that ever you did spy.
You’ve only got to pop your head inside and peep, no more,
And you’ll see a many curious things you never saw before.
Will you, will you, will you, will you, walk in,
Grand Old Fly?”

Said the Spider to the Fly, “It’s most absurd, upon my soul,
To see so big a nation scared about so small a hole.
To share the scare that’s in the air is worthy, don’t you know,
Not of a Grand Old Fly like you, but of a midge like Joe!
Then won’t you, won’t you, won’t you, won’t you,
plucky Grand Old Fly?”

* * * * *

_Punch._ June 30, 1888.

――――

Pray come along to Hawarden, says the Grand Old Man so fly,
(Or p’rhaps I should say spider), to convince you let me try.
Home Rule’s the grandest principle since first the earth began,
And to vote for C. S. Parnell and his friend, the Grand Old Man.
Pop in the train at Euston and to Chester then run down,
And don’t make speeches on the way (such conduct makes me frown,)
If but a Post-card you will send to say when you’ll arrive,
The Home Rule van shall meet you, and the Grand Old whip will drive.

* * * * *

This not very brilliant political parody will be found in an anonymous pamphlet entitled “_Glad-Par-Stonell-Iana_.” Waterlow & Sons, 1889.

――――

NURSERY RHYMES.

Parodies on Nursery Rhymes and Children’s Songs, which were interrupted in order to introduce those relating to Smoking, can now be resumed, as a few good ones still remain to be quoted. When the late Mr. J. O. Halliwell (Halliwell-Phillipps) first brought out his collection of Nursery Rhymes, his friend James Robinson Planché, the dramatist, wrote some little humourous skits on them. These were merely meant for playful badinage, but a few lines may be quoted from them:――

Ride-a-cockhorse
To Kennington-Cross;
Come and see Planché,
Who works like a horse
Sucking his fingers,
And roasting his toes;
He would have you come
Wherever he goes.

Halliwell-Halliwell,
My pretty man,
Make me a book
As fast as you can;
Write it and print it,
And mark it with P.,
And send it by
Parcels Delive_rye_.

Ding dong bell,
Planché’s at Stockwell.
What took him there?
His wife, you may swear.
When will he come back?
As soon as he can――good lack.

――――

The Prince of Wales was christened on January 25, 1842, for which occasion a very handsome cake was prepared, but it was remarked that it remained uncut, the Queen appearing unwilling to spoil this remarkable specimen of confectionary.

A Nursery Ballad, entitled “The Christening Cake,” was published on the occasion, (by Mr. John Lee, of 440, West Strand,) from which a few extracts may be quoted:――

When great Victoria ruled the land,
She ruled it like a Queen;
She had a Princess and a Prince
Not very far between.
The Princess was a girl, you’ll guess,
A pretty little thing;
Yet parties all agreed in this――
She never could be King.
But ere the year its course had run,
What universal joy!
On Lord Mayor’s Day there came to light
A glorious princely Boy!
The Queen gazetted him next week,
The caudle ran in pails;
She girded on his little sword,
And called him “Prince of Wales.”
“The christening shall be superb,
And worthy of our state.”
So spoke the Queen to Albert, her
Most true and royal mate.

* * * * *

The Banquet served, the brilliant throng
Proceed their seats to take;
The plate was grand, yet every eye
Was fixed upon the Cake!
The thistle, rose, and shamrock twined
The Prince’s arms and crest;
The Prussian Eagle, raised on high,
To please the Royal Guest.
In matchless beauty stood the cake,
The glory of the day;
And now each lady hoped to take
A little bit away.
Prince Albert raised a knife and fork,
Victoria looked a frown!
So, with a disappointed air,
He laid the weapons down.
She rose――and the distinguished guests
Their last obeisance make!
All murmuring, as they left the room,
“She never cut the Cake!”
The Queen and Prince, like other folks,
Their party gone away,
Sat for five minutes, chatting o’er
The pleasures of the day.
“When I’ve enjoyed a _fete_ so much
I really cannot tell;
From early morn till now midnight,
All things went off so well!”
“Nay, dear Victoria, pardon me,
You make a slight mistake;
For every thing _did not go off_.”
(He glanced towards the cake.)
“Consider our expenses, love;
Outgoings are so great,
Receiving foreign Potentates
With all this form and state.
Our family increases fast,
And cakes are _very_ dear;
The Prussian Eagle laid aside,
We’ll keep it for next year!”

This ballad shows that the Queen had a reputation for parsimony as long ago as 1842, the moral it enforces is similar to that contained in the old Nursery Rhyme the ballad parodies, concerning the famous plum Pudding of King Arthur:――

“The King and Queen ate of the same,
And all the Court beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The Queen next morning _fried_.”

It is somewhat curious that Poets should so often select incidents in the lives of Royal personages as topics for their poems, considering how ephemeral is the interest they excite.

The above ballad was, of course, only a burlesque, and had no claim to longevity, but of all the _serious_ adulatory poems written about the Queen, and her family, during the last fifty years how many have survived? With the exception of some few lines in Tennyson’s Dedications and Odes, the present generation knows nothing of them.

Where is Leigh Hunt’s poem on the birth of the Princess Royal? Where is Professor Aytoun’s Ode on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales? Where, oh, where is Mr. _Lewis_ Morris’s Ode for the Opening of the Imperial Institute? Forgotten, all forgotten, and nearly as obsolete as the Birthday Odes of the Poets-Laureate Eusden, Warton, and Pye.

Who reads or remembers Martin F. Tupper’s Welcome to the Princess Alexandra?

“And thus they warbled, in the style of Tupper,
Whose ode to our Princess is thought a fine
Sample of metre _Alexandra_-ine――
A poet arithmetical in fame,
Who lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came:”

THE JOY BIRDS’ ODE.

100,000 welcomes![34]
100,000 welcomes!!
And 100,000 more!!!
Oh! happy birds of Eden,
Sing like the Star of Sweden,
Yes, yes, like Nilsson sing, birds,
And make the island ring, birds,
As no land rang before;
And let the welkin roar,
To wel_kin_ her to shore;
Let miles of echo shout it,
And sparkling fountains spout it,
Let leagues of lightning flash it,
And tons of thunder crash it;
Let pouring rainfalls hail her name,
And fiery earthquakes sound her fame,
Till sky, and sea, and shore
Join in a vast _encore_,
100,000 welcomes,
And 100,000 more!

* * * * *

In justice to Mr. Tupper it must be admitted that these are not _exactly_ his lines, but only a very fair parody of them taken from _The Lays of the Saintly_, by Mr. Walter Parke. (London, Vizetelly, 1882.)

――――:o:――――

DR. FELL.

I do not like thee, Dr. Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this alone, I know full well,
I do _not_ like thee, Dr. Fell.

This little nursery rhyme claims ancient lineage. In Thomas Forde’s “Virtus Rediviva,” 1661, in a collection of familiar letters, is the following passage:――

“There are some natures so Hetrogenious, that the
streightest, and most gordion knot of Wedlock is not able
to twist, of which the Epigrammatist (Martial) speaks my
mind better than I can myself:――

Non amo te Sabide, nec possum dicere quare,
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.

Take the English in the words of a gentleman to his wife:――

I love thee not, Nel,
But why, I can’t tell;
But this I can tell,
I love thee not, Nel.”

The following is Clément Marot’s version as given in Chapsal’s ‘Modèles de Littérature Française,’ ii. p. 26:――

Jan, je ne t’aime point, beau sire:
Ne sais quelle mouche me point,
Ni pourquoi c’est je ne puis dire
Sinon que je ne t’aime point.

Another version, by Roger de Bussy, Comte de Rabutin (_ob._ 1693), ran as follows:――

Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas,
Je n’en saurois dire la cause;
Je sais seulement une chose;
C’est que je ne vous aime pas.

JOHN DRYDEN.

BORN August 9, 1631. | DIED May 1, 1700.

(_Was Poet Laureate from 1670 till the accession of William III. in 1688, when he was superceded by a Protestant poet, Thomas Shadwell._)

In the year 1683, a musical society was formed in London for the celebration of St. Cecilia’s Day, and from that time a festival was held annually on November the 22nd in Stationers’ Hall, and an Ode, composed for the occasion, was sung. These festivals continued, with a few interruptions, down to the year 1744, and some were held at even a later date; but these celebrations must not be confounded with the performances given by the “Cecilian” Society, which was established in 1785.

A collection of the Odes, written for the Festival of St. Cecilia’s Day, was first formed by Mr. William Henry Husk, Librarian of the Sacred Harmonic Society, and published by Bell and Daldy in 1857, in “_An Account of the Musical Celebrations on St. Cecilia’s Day_. To which is appended a Collection of Odes on St. Cecilia’s Day.” It is unnecessary to enumerate them all here, but as Odes written by Nahum Tate, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, Samuel Wesley, Joseph Addison, William Congreve, Alexander Pope, and the burlesque Ode by Bonnell Thornton are included, the volume has considerable literary interest.

John Dryden wrote a song for the Festival of November, 1687, but his great Ode, “Alexander’s Feast; or, the Power of Music,” was written and performed in 1697. For this poem it is said Dryden received forty pounds, its success was so great that it was frequently performed at later festivals, and in 1736 “Alexander’s Feast” was set to music by Handel. The poem has been frequently parodied, it will therefore be convenient to give the original Ode, followed by the parodies, or such parts of them as are fit for re-publication, for it must be confessed that some of the earlier imitations are excessively coarse.

ALEXANDER’S FEAST.

’Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won,
By Philip’s warlike son,
Aloft in awful state,
The god-like hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crown’d.)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth, and beauty’s pride.

_Chorus._
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus placed on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touched the lyre;
With trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The Song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above
Such is the power of mighty love:
A dragon’s fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press’d,
And while he sought her snowy Breast,
Then round her slender waist he curl’d,
And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
“A present deity!” they shout around;
“A present deity!” the vaulted roofs rebound.

_Chorus._
With ravish’d ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musican sung,
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young!――
The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
Flush’d with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face,
Now give the hautboys breath! he comes! he comes!
Bacchus ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain:

_Chorus._
Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure, after pain!

Sooth’d with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o’er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied――
Changed his hand, and check’d his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft Pity to infuse:
He sang Darius great and good!
By too severe a fate,
Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate
And weltering in his blood!
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast look the joyless victor sate.

_Chorus._
Revolving, in his alter’d soul,
The various turns of fate below;
And now, and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow!

The mighty master smil’d to see
That love was in the next degree:
’Twas but a kindred sound to move:
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures.
Soon he sooth’d his soul to pleasures
War, he sung, is toil and trouble:
Honor but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee!
The many rend the skies with loud applause,
So Love was crown’d; but Music won the cause.

_Chorus._
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish’d victor sank upon her breast!

Now strike the golden lyre again!
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awaked from the dead;
And, amazed, he stares around!
“Revenge! revenge!” Timotheus cries――
See the Furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in the air,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain!
Give the vengeance due,
To the valient crew!
Behold; how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods;――
The princes applaud, with a furious joy!

_Chorus._
And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey!
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame:
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

_Chorus._
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies!
She drew an angel down!

JOHN DRYDEN.

――――

SHAKESPEARE’S FEAST.

_An Ode on the recent rehearsal in the Town Hall
of Stratford._

I.

’Twas at the solemn feast, for laurels won
By William, old John Shakespeare’s son,
Aloft in awful state
The Mayor of Stratford sate,
Rais’d on a wool-pack throne:
His aldermen were plac’d around,
Their brows with spreading antlers crown’d,
(So city spouses should be found)
The lovely May’ress by his side
Sat like a plump High-German bride,
Not less for fat renown’d, than pride.

Happy, happy, happy May’r!
None but the fat,
None but the fat,
None but the fat deserve the bouncing fair.

II.

The bard of Ferney, plac’d on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch’d the wooden lyre:
The notes, tho’ lame, ascend as high
As civic joys require.
The song began from G――K’s toil,
Who left his Litchfield’s native soil,
(Such were his hopes of golden spoil)
King Richard’s crooked form bely’d the man:
Sublime on high-heel’d shoes he trod,
When first he courted Lady Anne
In Goodman’s Fields, till then an unfrequented road.
As Hastings next round Pritchard’s waist he curl’d,
Or shew’d, in Drugger’s rags, an idiot to the world.
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present Shakespeare, loud they shout around:
A present Shakespeare, loud the rafter’d halls rebound.
With prick’d up ears
His May’rship hears;
Assumed the play’r,
Affects to stare,
And shakes the room about his ears.

III.

The praise of ven’son, then, the rapt enthusiast sung;
Of ven’son, whether old or young:
The jolly haunch in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush’d with a purple grace,
It shews its currant-jelly face:
Now give each feeder breath: it comes, it comes;
Ven’son, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys can best reveal;
Fat of ven’son is a treasure,
Eating is the glutton’s pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet as stuffing is with veal.

* * * * *

From _The Court Miscellany_. 1769.

――――

The following Parody will be found in a scarce little volume entitled “_Pranceriana Poetica_, or Prancer’s Garland. Being a Collection of Fugitive Poems written since the publication of Pranceriana and the Appendix. Dublin: Printed in the year M.DCC.LXXIX.” This volume opens with a very satirical dedication to the Right Honourable Sir J――n B――q――re, Knight of the Bath, Alnager of all IRELAND, and Bailiff of Phœnix Park; in this he is taken to task for “placing the most improper man in the Kingdom at the head of our College.” The College alluded to was Trinity College, Dublin, and the individual who had been appointed at its head was nicknamed the “Prancer,” as “more fit to be a dancing master than a Provost.”

PRANCER’S FEAST,
_or, the Power of_ ORATORIAL FLATTERY.

I.

’Twas at Election Feast for College, won
By Bregah’s wond’rous son,
Aloft in awful state
The prancing Hero sate,
On academic throne;
His supple Voters plac’d around,
Who on Election Day were faithful found
(Minions only by self Interest bound,)
The grim Ben Saddi by his side
(Not like a blooming Eastern Bride)
With awkward stiffness, awkward pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but Ben Sad,
None but Ben Sad,
None but Ben Sad deserves a Prancer’s care.

II.

The great Pomposo rose
To utter his Harangues,
Writhing with oratorial pangs,
Puffing as when a Bellows blows,
Or when a bagpipe twangs.
His speech from Bregah he begun
To flatter Prancer――Bregah’s son,
(Though one would think it all was Fun)
He shew’d what a fine nimble Lad
Was Bregah――this our Prancer’s Dad,
How long ago he was stark wild
To get his Sheelah great with child;
And when he had with Raptures entranc’d her
He stamp’d an image of himself, a mighty Prancer.
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound,
Great Prancer’s fame they shout around,
Great Prancer’s name the vaulted roofs rebound.
With ravish’d ears
McBregah hears,
Adjusts his wig,
Looks bluff and big;
Anon he smiles and leers.
Pomposo then held forth in Praise of Prancer,
Both as a Fencer and a Dancer,
In minuet step how he advances!
Strike up the Fiddles, see, see how he dances!
With his well-turn’d Pumps
How he skips and he jumps!
Clear tables and chairs, for he prances, he prances.
He dancing lectures did ordain
And drove out all the Muses’ Train;
Dancing is a Prancer’s Pleasure.
Rich the Treasure!
Sweet the Pleasure!
Sweet the Pleasure that requires no Brain!

* * * * *

――――

“To commemorate the Naval Review at Portsmouth, the Oratorio of Alexander’s Feast is to be performed at one of the Theatres Royal, by command of his Majesty, with the following alterations, by William Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureate.”

ALEXANDER’S FEAST, PARODIED;

OR, THE GRAND PORTSMOUTH PUPPET-SHEW.

’Twas at the royal show, and grand display
Of all the navy which at Portsmouth lay;
Aloft in laughing state,
Britain’s monarch sat,
And look’d serenely gay.
Goldstick, and other peers were plac’d around,
Their hair in bags of silken ribbons bound;
So should, ye fair, our men of arms be crown’d!
Charlotte smil’d sweetly at his side,
Yet inwardly, alas! she sigh’d
At George’s folly, and at Twitcher’s pride.

_Air._

Happy, happy, happy pair,
How they rejoice!
How they rejoice!
To see the weather grown so fair!

Then Sandwich plac’d on high,
Amid the tuneful band,
Struck the loud kettle-drums with mighty hand;
The deaf’ning notes ascend the sky,
And sound along the strand.
From Fred’rick began the strain,
Who left Germania’s bleak domain
For England――such the pow’r of Stuart’s reign!
Augusta then his Highness woo’d,
Got children, as all Princes should,
When he to Saxe-Gotha press’d,
And while he sought her snowy breast:
Then round her waist his arms he spread,
And stamp’d an image of himself――a Prince without a head.
The list’ning tars admire the lofty sound;
A Prince without a head――they shout around;
A Prince without a head――the vaulted skies rebound.

_Air._

Not us’d to hear
Such truths sincere,
At first he shrinks
Before he thinks,
That tars must have their jeer.

* * * * *

From _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit._ 1786.

――――

THE COVENT GARDEN ROW.

’Twas at a _glorious row_, for Clifford won,
By german Wienholt’s son,
After the play was done,
Aloft in drunken state
Was placed the stupid candidate,
For O.P. fame and fun.

* * * * *

This parody, relating to the famous O. P. riots, will be found in _The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810, which contains a full account of that curious theatrical episode.

A long political parody of Dryden’s Ode, relating to Irish affairs, and entitled _Ode to St. Patrick’s Day_, appeared in Vol. ix. of _The Spirit of the Public Journals_, 1806, and in Vol. xvi. of the same series, (1813) was a parody describing a law case. It commenced:――

“’Twas where the fam’d Home Circuit is begun.”

Neither of these parodies possesses any interest for modern readers.

Another parody, of which only the title can be given, was “W――――S’s Feast, or Dryden Travesti; a mock Pindarick: addressed to his most Incorruptible Highness, Prince Patriotism.”

――――

SIR FRANCIS’S[35] FEAST.
_An Ode for the anniversary of a Westminster Election._

’Twas at a feast, giv’n to their Baronet
By his own factious set,
Placed by the chairman’s side,
Sate Piccadilly’s pride,
With airs of coy regret.
His noisy friends were ranged about,
With dirty shirts, and pots of heady stout:
Meet dress, meet drink for such a rout!
The valiant Cochrane, by his side,
Sate, snappish, yet self satisfied,
In naval garb and northern pride.
Happy, happy, happy day!
None but the mob,
None but the mob,
None but the mob are fit to sway!

Cobbett, exalted high,
Amid that unwash’d train,
Roar’d lies and libels out amain;
Yet still he ’scapes the pillory,
And sells the sland’rous strain.
The King he first assail’d:

Gold, in this reign, he said, had fail’d
(For gold such patriots ever rail’d!)
Your flimsy notes, he cried, bely a King:
Old England was another thing,
When her great Monarch had a mint,
And stamp’d an image of himself, the money of the World!
The gaping mob admire the lofty sounds.
“Burdett and Bullion!” all the street rebounds:
With ravish’d ears
The Bar’net hears,
Affects to rouse
The Commons House,
And wake the torpid Peers.

The muse of Cobbett then extoll’d the drabs and rogues,
Whom Cold-bath prison disembogues:
From them the Bar’nets honours flow
Salt-box play, and whistle blow!
Deck’d with St. Giles’s graces,
They shew their greasy faces.
They come! stop, salt-box! whistle, cease to blow!
Cold-bath prison disembogues
Glorious food for discontent:
Any grievance is a treasure,
A patriot’s instrument and pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet a charge in Parliament.
Swell’d with the puff, Sir Frank grew vain,
Spoke all his speeches o’er again,
And thrice he damned the Ministers, and thrice the war in Spain.

Cobbett[36] saw the madness rise,
His open mouth, his rolling eyes,
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Chang’d the tune, and check’d his pride.
He chose an awkward story,
To damp his blazing glory:
He sang this chief, so fond of pow’r,
With notable disgrace,
Taken, taken, taken, taken,
Taken by the Speaker’s mace,
And caged within the Tower:
Afraid at his return to meet
Th’ expectant rabble in the street,
He skulks incog to Piccadilly――
Did ever patriot look so silly?
Long, long, and longer grows the hero’s face:
He meditates, in sullen mood,
On fickle popularity:
He’d blush, if blush reformer could,
And lets the toast go by!

* * * * *

The remainder of this parody refers to political events of little interest to modern readers.

It is taken from _Posthumous Parodies_, an anonymous collection of poems having a strong Tory bias, published in London by John Miller, 1814.

――――

COMMEMORATION DAY.

Commemoration day: a day devoted to prayers and _good living_, _i.e._, feasting.

“_Who leads a good life is sure to live well._”――_Old Song._

The following Ode on a College Feast Day, will hardly be read with dry _lips_, or _mouths_ that do not _water_. Whoever was the author of it, he certainly appears to have been a man of taste.

I.

Hark! heard ye not yon footsteps dread,
That shook the hall with thund’ring tread?
With eager haste
The Fellows pass’d,[37]
Each intent on direful work,
High lifts his mighty blade, and points his deadly fork.

II.

But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth,
With steps, alas, too slow,
The College GYPS, of high illustrious worth,
With all the dishes in long order, go.
In the midst a form divine,
Appears the fam’d sir-loin;
And soon, with plums and glory crown’d,
Almighty pudding sheds its sweets around.
Heard ye the din of dinner bray?
Knife to fork, and fork to knife;
Unnumber’d heroes, in the glorious strife,
Thro’ fish, flesh, pies, and puddings cut their destin’d way.

III.

See, beneath the mighty blade
Gor’d with many a ghastly wound,
Low the fam’d sir-loin is laid
And sinks in many a gulf profound.
Arise, arise, ye sons of glory,
Pies and puddings stand before ye;
See the ghosts of hungry bellies
Point at yonder stand of jellies;
While such dainties are beside ye,
Snatch the goods the gods provide ye;
Mighty rulers of this state,
Snatch before it is too late;
For, swift as thought, the puddings, jellies, pies,
Contract their giant bulks, and shrink to pigmy size.

IV.

From the table now retreating
All around the fire they meet,
And with wine, the sons of eating,
Crown at length their mighty treat;
Triumphant Plenty’s rosy graces
Sparkle in their jolly faces;
And mirth and cheerfulness are seen
In each countenance serene.
Fill high the sparkling glass,
And drink th’ accustom’d toast;[38]
Drink deep ye mighty host
And let the bottle pass.
Begin, begin the jovial strain,
Fill, fill the mystic bowl,
And drink, and drink, and drink again;
For drinking fires the soul.
But soon, too soon, with one accord, they reel
Each on his seat begins to nod;
All conquering Bacchus’ pow’r they feel,
And pour libations to the jolly god.
At length, with dinner, and with wine, oppress’d,
Down in the chairs they sink, and give themselves to rest.

From _The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_. By a Brace of Cantabs. London. Printed for John Hearne, 1824. It had previously appeared in _The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1799_. London, 1800.

――――

ODE TO A WRANGLER’S SPREAD.

’Twas at the roaring feast for _Wrangler_ won,
By Wiggin’s tipsy son,
As high in lofty state,
That classic Hero sate
A music stool upon.
The large eyed Lucy by his side
Blush’d like a codling, Autumn’s pride;――
And spirits; fit to stem the tide
Of Fortune’s current rough,
Alike her frailties to deride,
Or for her many dangers tried,
Still ne’er to cry “Enough!”
Throng’d round the Hero as he gave
The toast in liquor brave,
And by his ruling nod
Rous’d the huzzas of gladness
O’er the blue devils sadness,
Waking the drowsy God,
That slumber’d in the soul of each,
To Wine, to Jollity, and Speech.

* * * * *

From _The Cambridge Odes_, by Peter Persius. Cambridge W. H. Smith. No date.

――――

THE KENNINGTON COMMON REVOLUTION.

’Twas on the Common of famed Kennington,
Reynolds (old Reynolds’ son),
Aloft in mimic state,
Upon a waggon sate――
The driving box his throne.
The idle riff-raff stood around,
Some of their brows――for recent fractures――bound
(So theft and mischief should be crowned).
The Chartist, Williams, by his side,
With envy his position eyed,
As if for chairmanship he sighed.
Precious, precious pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave
Deserve the chair!

Young Reynolds, placed on high,
Produces half a quire
Of correspondence, which, without desire,
He reads, in notes that reach the sky,
And shouts of “Hear!” inspire.
Note one――bid Sir George Grey,
Before a certain day,
Leave Ministerial sway,
And send the reins of power, straight from his hand,
To Mister Reynolds, somewhere in the Strand;
When he, of the said reins possessed,
Would guide the State himself, in style the very best.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
“A plucky chap this here,!” they shout around,
And dabs of mud against the van rebound.
With lengthened ears
Young Reynolds hears,
And thinks, with joy,
“Yes I’m the boy
That means to shake the spheres.!”

Praise of the French he next in glowing accents sung――
French Freedom――very fair, but very young.
But a poor baker’s cart there comes:
With their fingers and their thumbs,
The mob to their disgrace,
(Blush every honest face!)
Would fain have stole the bread――the crusts, the crumbs!
Freedom, very, very, young,
Surely never did ordain
Making baker’s carts a treasure,
Robbing their contents at pleasure――
Pleasure to the owners’ pain.

To their disgust, the very rain,
Resolved such conduct to restrain,
Came down as if to say――“You shan’t do that again.”
Young Reynolds saw the vast supplies
Of rain pour down before his eyes.
While he the Government defied,
Away he saw the meeting glide
He chose a wilder strain
To bring them back again.
He spoke of France, so great and good;
Of Louis-Philippe’s fate,
Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n;
From his high estate,
And flying with his brood.
Deserted at his utmost need
By those who on corruption feed,
From his own realm in fear he flies,
To England turns his anxious eyes,
Still, in the rain, young Reynolds boldly sate,
Until there lingered scarce a soul;
The wet had cleared the ground below,
And down the van he gently stole
Thinking――he’d better go.

_Punch_, 1848.

This refers to a meeting held at Kennington in connection with the Chartist agitation, when certain reforms were demanded, which were then ridiculed as revolutionary, but which have since either been granted, or else have come within the scope of practical political discussion.

――――

JOSH HUDSON’S FEAST.

’Twas at the dinner given, the prime tuck-out,
By Josh, the boxer stout:
Aloft the worthy sat,
His corpus lin’d with fat,
And, pleas’d, he gaz’d about:
His jovial pals were plac’d around,
For fancy feats and milling deeds renown’d,
And for their fistic worth with glory crown’d.
His blooming missus by his side,
Smok’d like a hock of bacon fried,
In glow of health and beauty’s pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair,
None but the fat,
None but the fat,
None but the fat deserves the fair.

Jack Fogo, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
Touch’d with his fives the laureate lyre;
The sounds discordant reach’d the sky,
And set their souls on fire.
Of law he curs’d the rod
That sent fat Josh to quod.
And swore it was too bad, by G――――!
But now at length from durance vile releas’d,
With spirit buoyant and in flesh increas’d,
He took his seat that happy day the father of the feast.
The list’ning coves admir’d the lofty sound,
Jolly Josh Hudson’s health they shout around,
“The John Bull fighter” all the roofs rebound:
With ravish’d ears
The fat one hears,
Swore it was odd
He went to quod.
And drank their health with cheers.

The praise of prime old Tom then Fogo sung,
A liquor always dear to old and young.
Let a dram our dinner crown,
To keep the beef and pudding down.
Waiter, ’tis Josh’s pleasure,
You bring in a gallon measure,
The very best and strongest in the town.
Spirit ever bright and clear!
Who from drinking can refrain?
Who can censure without blushing
The joy, the extacy of lushing?
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
To imbibe a cordial drain.
Pleas’d with its praise fat Josh grew vain,
Fought all his battles o’er again,
And swore his max was very prime, and better than champagne.

Jack Fogo saw his madness rise,
His rosy snout, his staring eyes;
And to subdue his furious fit,
Swore he would bring him down a bit.
He sung a mournful ditty
To rouse fat Josh’s pity:
He sung of Gyblett’s, boxer prime!
By law’s relentless rule
Sent to stonejug, and doom’d from thence
To cross the herring pool.
Deserted, in his utmost need,
By all the traps his bounty fed
Deprived of max, depriv’d of shag,
Without a friend, without a mag.
With downcast look the John Bull fighter sate,
And gaz’d upon the tuneful bard:
“Alack! for Charles, my friend,” cried he;
“What! must he go across the sea?
’Tis gallows, gallows hard!”

But Frosty Fogo’s powers began to fail;
The sounds he tried to vent
Within his throat were pent,
Subdu’d by max, and heavy wet, and ale.
He, who on eagle’s wing
Was wont sublime to soar
In fruitless effort still to sing,
Pitch’d headlong on the floor!

――――

In November 1884 Mr. Alexander Henderson produced a new comic opera at the Comedy Theatre, London, entitled _The Great Mogul_. In this piece Miss Florence St. John had to appear with live snakes writhing about her, an innovation which was not appreciated by the audience, whilst the songs written by H. B. Farnie, were received with derision. Although the house was packed with the friends of the Lessee, on the opening night (for no money was taken at the doors) the opera met with a very cool reception, and the following parody appeared in _The Referee_ on November 23, 1884:

ALEXANDER’S FIRST.
(_With apologies to the late Ingenious Mr. Dryden._)

’Twas at the Royal Comedy (where none
But friends of Hender_son_
Were let to pass the gate
On first night held in state)
This week A. H. got “done.”
The folks therein on Monday found
Had had free passes to that spot renowned
(There was no money’s jingling sound).
The gentle Farnie stood aside,
And all the preparations eyed
With all a mighty author’s pride.
And then they cried――that peerless pair
“None but our friends,
None but our friends,
Shall see _our_ first nights, we declare.”

Van Biene, placed on high,
Amid his tuneful quire
(All wearing swallow-tail attire)
’Gan wave his bâton by-and-by
His comrades to inspire.
Anon commenced to play
(A comic opera, let me say,
Penned some time back in Paris gay),
And first the “house” did to applause give vent,
As up the curtain went.
Stalls, boxes, pit, and gallery soon expressed
Their joy when Florence entered sweetly dressed.

She charmed them by her voice’s flute-like sound;
But later, on the crawling snakes they frowned,――
_That_ exhibition they disgusting found.
Their whispered sneer
Did Alec hear.
But like a god,
Assumed to nod
As though he felt no fear.
The praises of pale ale anon the chords sung.
But, strange to say, no sounds of “Encore!” rung.
When Leslie through his teeth ’gan hum
His pretty air――it worried some.
The Song too of the “Steak”
Did not applause awake.
That lyric, like the rest, in rhythm was so rum.
For Farnie to the wings had flung
All rules for writing verse ’twas plain,
Mostly halting was his measure;
(Let him mend it, at his leisure).
When a measure
Gives no pleasure
It is apt to give you pain!

The company worked hard, in vain,
But dull and duller grew the strain,
And no finale was a “go”――no, weaker did it wane.
Then Alec heard the hiss arise
Among the “friends” he used to prize.
Even the Jingo gags they guyed
And H. B. Farnie did deride.
A most unequal muse
Had Audran stooped to choose.
Then Alexander, great and good,
Began his teeth to grate――
Galling, galling, galling, galling,
Galling was his sorry state,
Dismayed, abashed, he stood,
Deserted all at once was he
By those whom he admitted free,
“What! hissed by deadheads!” Alec cried;
“What, by my own packed house defied!”
Then D’Albertson, the smart and the sedate
(With rich moustache with curlèd ends),
Said Farnie could not take a call――
“Yah! we don’t want him!” cried the “friends”――
“Ugh! good job too!” did others bawl.

* * * * *

“Revenge!” great Alexander cries;
Hear the hisses that arise!
E’en the snakes, they ne’er cheered;
At most “numbers” they jeered.
This ingratitude gives me surprise;
Such cheek from _my_ band
I cannot understand――
I have used them on first nights again and again
But the ads shall remain
In their first-arranged vein.
I will show all this crew
That I know what to do,
Though they serve me like this, and thus dare to express
_An opinion_, I’ll show I can fight against odds――
I’ll defy all these treacherous pittites and “gods”――
Go, announce it at once: “An Enormous Success!”

* * * * *

Not long ago
(Ere Henderson received this blow)
I ventured to dispute
That A. in this respect was ’cute.
I struck my lyre
And told him that this dodge few people could admire
At last, you see, to spoil his game,
His dead-head “friends” rise up to blame;
Henceforth, perhaps, he’ll try this trick no more,
But warned by Monday’s gruesome sounds,
Will run his premières upon proper grounds,
And do as others do――take money at the door.
So henceforth, Alec, wisdom try――
Don’t on the Public frown;
A failure, e’en when “friends” _don’t_ guy,
Will never draw the town

CARADOS.

――――

LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF JOHN MILTON.
(_In Tonson’s Folio Edition of “Paradise Lost,” 1688._)

Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed,
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go;
To make a third she joined the former two.

Mr. Malone suggested that the idea of these lines was borrowed by Dryden from Salvaggi’s Latin distich:――

“_Græcia, Mæonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem._”

But in a little work, printed in 1676, entitled “Anima Astrologia,” a verse occurs which bears a much nearer resemblance to Dryden’s epigram:――

“Let envy burst; Urania’s glad to see
Her sons thus joined in a triplicity;
To Cardan and to Guido much is due,
And in one Lilly we behold the two.”

These lines allude to Jerome Cardan, the Astrologer (1501-1576), to William Lilly, also an Astrologer (1602-1681), and to Ubaldo Guido, an Italian Mathematician (1540-1601). Dryden was a firm believer in astrology, and as he must, in all probability, have been well acquainted with this book, it is probable these lines were in his mind when he composed his own more polished epigram.

On page 233, Vol. 2, of this Collection, a number of parodies of the Epigram will be found, but the following imitations were accidentally omitted.

ON HYPATIA. MADAME AGNESI, AND MRS. SOMERVILLE.

“Three women, in three different ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;
Rare as poetic minds of master flights,
Three only rose to science’ loftiest heights.
The first a brutal crowd in pieces tore,
Envious of fame, bewildered at her lore;
The next through tints of darkening shadow passed,
Lost in the azure sisterhood at last;
Equal to these the third, and happier far,
Cheerful though wise, though learned, popular,
Liked by the many, valued by the few,
Instructs the world, yet dubbed by none a Blue.”

There is a little confusion in these lines, both Madame Agnesi and Mrs. Somerville were born in the same “age” if by that _century_ is meant, and although Hypatia talked Greek she was an Egyptian, whilst Mrs. Somerville was not English at all, having been born in Scotland. Hypatia, a female philosopher in Alexandria, was brutally murdered by an ignorant mob; Madame Agnesi, an Italian lady of great scientific attainments, died a _Blue_ Nun in a convent at Milan in 1799. Mrs. Mary Somerville wrote several scientific books, of which perhaps the best known was “The Connection of the Physical Sciences.”

Three Richards lived in Brunswick’s glorious reign,
In Westminster the first[39], the next in Warwick Lane[40],
In Dumbleton the third[41], each doughty knight,
In spite of nature, was resolved to write.
The first in penury of thought surpassed,
The next in rambling cant; in both the last.
The force of dulness could no further go,
To make the third she joined the former two.

By Dr. James Drake, then an Undergrad of St. John’s College, Cambridge, printed in _Anonymiana_, 1809.

――――

Biographies of John Dryden are so numerous and accessible that it is unnecessary here to discuss the weak points of his character. To use the mildest language possible, he was a time-server, a turncoat, and a court sycophant. He had written in praise of Oliver Cromwell, he wrote equally laudatory verses on Charles II., he had strongly defended the Protestant religion, yet within a twelvemonth of the accession of the Catholic James II. the following entry appeared in Evelyn’s Diary, January 19, 1686: “Dryden, the famous play writer, and his two sons, and Mrs. Nelly (Miss to the late King) were said to go to mass; such proselytes were no great loss to the Church.” His conversion brought him Court patronage, and in April 1687 he published a defence of his new religion in verse, entitled “_The Hind and the Panther_.” This was a long allegorical poem in which the Hind represented the Catholic Church, and the Panther the Protestant Church of England. It gave rise to much controversy, and many burlesques were written upon it, ridiculing the work, and the character of its author. The most famous of these parodies was one of exquisite humour, the joint production of Charles Montague (the future Earl of Halifax) and Matthew Prior. This was called “The Hind and the Panther Transversed to the story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse.” The principal characters in the famous farce _The Rehearsal_, Bayes, Smith, and Johnson, were revived in this witty production, which is unfortunately much too long to reprint. Dryden’s poem commences:――

A milk white Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged;
Without, unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.
Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds,
And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds
Aimed at her heart; was often forced to fly,
And doomed to death, though fated not to die.

The first lines of the parody are:――

A milk-white Mouse immortal and unchanged,
Fed on soft cheese, and o’er the Dairy ranged
Without, unspotted; innocent within,
She feared no Danger, for she knew no gin.
Yet had she oft been scor’d by bloody claws
Of winged owls, and stern Grimalkin’s Paws
Aim’d at her destin’d Head, which made her fly,
Tho’ she was doomed to death, and fated not to die.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER POPE.

BORN May 21, 1688. | DIED May 30, 1744.

Dryden’s Odes for St. Cecilia’s Day have already been mentioned, and in 1708 Pope was also induced, by Richard Steele, to write an ode for the annual festival. This is acknowledged to be the finest poem of its kind that had appeared since Dryden’s odes were produced. In fact, as Pope himself said, “Many people would like my ode on music better if Dryden had never written on that subject. It was at the request of Mr. Steele that I wrote mine; and not with any thought of rivalling that great man, whose memory I do, and have always reverenced.”

Pope chose the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice as the theme for his ode; it is too long to quote in full, but the first verse, and last quatrain, will serve as key notes for the parodies which follow.

ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S DAY.

Descend ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound;
While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.

* * * * *

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given,
His numbers raised a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heaven.

ALEXANDER POPE.

――――

AN ODE TO TOAST-MASTER TOOLE.[42]

“Descend, ye Nine!”
No common theme is mine――
I sing of thee, O Toole!
Bacchus baptised thee in a font of wine,
And from the roseate pool
Thy face received the sunny tint it wears,
And thus illumed (blest face!) a thousand “chairs.”

Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal
And nobly paid a guinea for a meal
(Where soup and fish
And every new-made dish,
Just verged upon the cold;
Or else the _very_ tough, or _very_ old――
Except the tepid salad, which appear’d
Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d),
Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue
With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er――
The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto
Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore
Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl
With such stentorian lungs,
That we opine the walls of old Guildhall
Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues――
“Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout
Is to obey.
The hand that’s in the act of pouring out
Is forced to stay――
“Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer
Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer.

* * * * *