Chapter XVIII: Part II: Recitative (2)

Wordsworth’s ‘Guilt and Sorrow,’ an imitation of Thomson, written in
1802.

Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Iliad.’

Worsley’s Homer’s ‘Odyssey.’

――――

THE ALLEY.
(_A Burlesque imitation of Spenser._)

In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with houses low;
Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed,
And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall:
How can ye, mothers, vex your children so?
Some play, some eat, some lean against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie:
A brandy and tobacco shop is near,
And hens, and hogs, and dogs are feeding by;
And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry.
At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between;
Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.

The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries;
The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.

Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, Whiting, oyster, mackarel, sprat or plaice;
There learn’d the speech from tongues that never cease.
Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,
With Envy, (spitting cat) dread foe to peace;
Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,
And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.

(_One very coarse verse omitted._)

Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, statues, urns, and John’s dog and bitch,
Ne village is without, on either side,
All up the silver Thames, or all adown;
Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed
Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor’s towery pride.

ALEXANDER POPE.

――――

THE HOLIDAYER.

The sportive swain in Sunday clothes is dressed,
And struts he proudly, head high held in air;
His sweetheart, who’s with charms like his impressed,
Thinketh, perdie, ‘Are we not both all there’?
Nor lacketh she adornment’s artful aid,
But with enticements rare is she yclout;
My pen, I ween, would fail describe the maid,
But she with practised skill is trickéd out,
And that she pleaseth Lubin fair Chloe doth not doubt.

From train and chaise they run to where the sands
Invite the lovers――many joys be there.
They foot it to the strains of German bands,
And at time-honoured Punch and Judy stare.
The wheedling portrait-taker catcheth them,
Their likeness taketh, and their cash also;
The wily boatman useth stratagem,
And out upon the billows they do go――
Not soon will they forget what followeth, I trow.

Then viands meet for holiday they buy――
Pork pies, fresh “natives,” sausages, cold beef――
And as, forsooth, such cakes make folk’s mouth dry,
The flowing cans do furnish much relief.
At length the railway bell doth loudly ring,
To tell them they no longer mote there stay;
They crowd in train, they songs again do sing,
As from the festive scene they go away.
When morrow cometh――ah, that dreadful holiday!

_Funny Folks_, June 12, 1886.

The following is the title of a small book written in imitation of Spenser’s style:――

“An original Canto of _Spencer_ (sic): Designed as part of
his Fairy Queen, but never Printed.”――Now made Publick by
NESTOR IRONSIDE Esq.――The Second Edition. LONDON. Printed
for James Roberts, near the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane,
MDCCXIV.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

BORN, 1667. | DIED, October 29, 1745.

THE STATE-COACH.
(_In Imitation of the Manner of Dr. Swift._)

Once on a time a grand lord-may’r
(No matter when, no matter where)
Kept a huge pompous coach of state,
Of most enormous bulk and weight;
And on the times of public joy,
To wheel about the pond’rous toy,
He kept besides a noble string
Of horses, fit to draw a king;
All of high blood, all beasts of breeding,
But vicious from excess of feeding;
Of course, intractable and heady,
Yet in one point perversely steady,
Viz., each good steed was true and hearty
To his own interest and his party;
Nay, this curs’d spirit hast possest
To such degree each sturdy beast,
That not a single chuff would move
From threats or soothing, fear or love,
Unless in partnership he drew
With those of his confed’rate crew,
Though thus the clumsy and the clever,
Ill-pair’d oft hobbled on together.
Hence when the coach was order’d out,
Buck would refuse to match with Stout,
At least one inch would not proceed
Unless impetuous Di’mond led,
Who when of late our grand premier,
And then uncheck’d in his career,
While he tugg’d on the vast machine
O’er rough and smooth, through thick and thin,
Would often with their rapid turn
Make the wheels creak and axle burn;
Yet give the haughty devil his due,
Though bold his quarterings, they were true:
Yes, let us not his skill disparage,
He never once o’erset the carriage,
Though oft he whirl’d it, one would think,
Just o’er the pitfall’s headlong brink;
While at each hair-breadth ’scape, his foes
Would cry, there, there, by G――d, it goes!
And as stiff Buck would ne’er submit
But on these terms to champ the bit,
Stout in return was full as sullen,
Nor the same harness would he pull in,
Unless by cautious Duke preceded,
Or by pacific Sawney headed:
The body-coachman, hence unable
To rule the refractory stable,
Was forc’d to leave the saucy brutes
To terminate their own disputes;
And when they deign’d to wear the traces,
Chuse their own partners and their places;
But, tir’d themselves with these distractions,
Resolv’d at last the several factions
(For in their anger all had wit)
Some terms of union to admit,
Which, that more firmly they might bind,
Drawn in this form by all were sign’d:

We the contracting steeds, (exprest
Here was the name of each prime beast,
As Di’mond, Sawney, Duke) however
Determined not to work together,
Yet by these presents are agreed
Together peaceably to feed:
On this account then (work or play)
Let each receive his ’custom’d pay;
Confirm we by concurring votes
To each his daily peck of oats:
Besides, omit we by no means
Proportion’d quantities of beans;
Nor yet warm mashes when we chuse ’em,
Nor Bracken’s balls when pleas’d to use ’em;
For as ’tis likely from full feeding,
At times, diseases may be breeding,
’Tis right for ev’ry horse that is sick,
Who finds the food should find the physic.

These previous articles now clos’d,
Here prudent Di’mond interpos’d,
Long fam’d for his contempt of pelf,
And views which center’d not in self,
“How chang’d at present!” (or no more
Wears he that mask which once he wore.)
Quoth he (wrapp’d round with many a clout
His greasy heels, the horses gout)
“Snug now ourselves and our dependants,
Shall we neglect our dear descendants?
Nay e’en from Scripture we should learn
For our own households due concern;
Lest we incur then, to our shame,
Of infidels th’ accursed name.
Provide we next (if such your will is)
For all your present colts and fillies;
No matter, tho’ for this supply
We drain our master’s coffers dry:
Stretch we the grant too, if ye please,
E’en to the future colts of these;
Then to their coltlings in entail,
’Till issue of such issue fail:
Well, bullies, are you all content?”
Each steed here snorted his assent;
And now adjusted their pretensions,
And thus secur’d their long-breath’d pensions,
Like porkers fattening in the sty,
On their fat sides at ease they lie;
Uplitter’d to their ears in straw,
Yet not a single beast will draw.

Dogs! to reduce you all to reason,
I wish, at least, for some short season,
That in your present master’s stead,
Too meek to tame so rough a breed,
Too mild to curb your factious spirit,
Too good to treat ye as ye merit,
Stern boisterous Cromwell from the dead,
Or bluff old Hal would lift his head,
That I might see you bound and skip
Beneath their disciplining whip;
That I might see your pamper’d hides
Flogg’d, ’till from out your furrow’d sides
Spun, in each part, the sizy blood,
Too rich from sloth and copious food;
That thus let out at all these sluices,
It may purge off its vicious juices;
While I should hear you, at each jerk,
Cry, “Lash no more, we’ll work, we’ll work.”

From _The Foundling Hospital for Wit_, Vol. IV. 1786.

――――

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
(_In Imitation of Dean Swift._)

Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop’s blessing.
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there’s need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank’d;
For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d;
A large Concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when Prince;
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in;
The Polyglott――three parts,――my text:
Howbeit,――likewise――now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint,――and Paul,
To sum the whole,――the close of all.

He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the Squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays――if he will;
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with churchwardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Swift.

ALEXANDER POPE.

In the works of Oliver Goldsmith two poetical imitations of Dean Swift appear, one is entitled “A new Simile in the Manner of Swift,” the other, and the more amusing, is given below.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

Logicians have but ill defin’d,
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione preditum_;
But for my soul I cannot credit ’em.
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortal’s pride;
And that brute beasts are far before ’em,
_Deus est anima brutorum_.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
No politics disturb the mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who’s in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;
Fraught with invective they ne’er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other’s throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master’s manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act,
Thus at the court both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

JAMES BROWN.

(_“Baron” Brown, the Durham Poet._)

Hone’s _Every Day Book_, (Vol. II, p. 1218) contains a record of the career, and a portrait of this eccentric individual, who lived in Newcastle-on-Tyne during the first quarter of the present century, when he published a series of extraordinary writings which he considered Poems, and assumed the title of Poet-Laureate. Brown was known to be inordinately vain, and many letters were sent him purporting to come from the leading poets and authors of the day. All of these he believed to be genuine, and would show them to his friends, (who were frequently the real authors) with much pride. These letters, which were chiefly in verse, were produced by the law and medical students of Durham and Newcastle, and of the Catholic College of Ushaw. In 1821, Brown received a large parchment signed G.R. attested by Messrs. Canning and Peel, to which was suspended a large unmeaning seal, which he believed to be the great seal of Great Britain, conferring upon him the title of Baron Brown of Durham, in the County Palatine of Durham, in consequence of a translation of his works having been the means of converting the Mogul empire. From that moment he assumed the name and style of “Baron Brown,” and had a wooden box made for the preservation of his patent. Of the poems that were sent to him only the following fragments have been preserved:――

The first is an imitation of Wilson’s _Isle of Palms_.

Poetic dreams float round me now,
My spirit where art thou?
Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smile
In the groves of palm in an Indian isle;
Or dost thou hang over the lovely main
And list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain;
Or dost thou sail on sylphid wings
Through liquid fields of air,
Or, riding on the clouds afar,
Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening star
So beautiful and so fair.
Oh no! oh no! sweet spirit of mine
Thou art entering a holy strain divine
A strain which is so sweet,
Oh! one might think ’twas a fairy thing,
A thing of love and blessedness,
Singing in holy tenderness,
A lay of peaceful quietness,
Within a fairy street!
But _ah_! ’tis Brown. &c., &c.

The next was supposed to be written by Sir Walter Scott. (_Lady of the Lake._)

The heath-cock shrill his clarion blew
Among the heights of Benvenue,
And fast the sportive echo flew,
Adown Glenavin’s vale.
But louder, louder was the knell,
Of Brown’s Northumbrian penance-bell,[46]
The noise was heard on Norham fell,
And rung through Teviotdale.

There was also a respectable burlesque of _The Ancient Mariner_, commencing:――

“It is a lion’s trumpeter,
And he stoppeth one of three.”

It is a pity that only these few extracts were preserved by Mr. John Sykes in his “Local Records, or Historical Register of Remarkable Events,” 1824.

THE BISHOP’S WISH.
(_After Robert Bloomfield._)

Be mine a modest pension clear
Of just six thousand pounds a-year;
And to complete my humble lot,
Give Fulham Palace for my cot.
Let me enjoy a quiet life,
Away from controversial strife;
My daily meal should ne’er disturb
My tranquil mind! for meat or herb,
Or fish or fowl, I ne’er would look,
But leave it to my foreign cook.
My drink――I ask no better sort,
A bin of six-and-twenty port;
With now and then, to warm my veins,
Some Burgundy or brisk Champagnes.
Of cash I need no large amount,
But at the Bank a good account,
On which――(my tradesmen not to vex)――
To draw from time to time my cheques.
My simple wishes thus supplied,
I into privacy will glide;
My Bishop’s mitre I’ll resign,
And calm contentment shall be mine,
If they will only give me clear
For life――six thousand pounds a-year.

_Punch._ August 9, 1856.

――――

THE POT-BOY.

Let poets sing the high-flown praise
Of shepherds and of rural joys,
Whilst I direct my humbler lays
To town, its bustle and its noise.

The Pot-boy’s joys shall be my theme,
Nor shall a barren subject be,
When rising from some lightsome dream,
Whitechapel streets he treads with glee.

Bliss is not always join’d to wealth,
Nor dwells beneath the gilded roof;
For poverty is bliss with health,
Of that my Pot-boy stands a proof.

See him with steady footsteps here,
How straight he bears the brimful jug,
And sips with thirsty lips the beer,
Which high o’ertops the pewter mug.

When night resumes her gloomy sway,
The object of his fond desire;
How happy then he’ll sport and play,
Around the blazing kitchen fire.

Then to beguile away the time,
He tells the kitchen nymphs his tale;
His left hand bears some doggrel rhyme,
And in his right――a pot of ale.

And hard must be that kitchen fair,
Who could his am’rous tale neglect;
And often Moll or Jenny dare,
For him some stouter swain reject.

Then weary to his garret hies,
Or if perchance the beds be spare,
Upon the straw he’ll close his eyes,
And sleep with Dapple or the mare.

These lines were written in August, 1808, by Connop Thirlwall, a
precocious youth of eleven years of age, on the occasion of
receiving the present of a copy of Bloomfield’s poem, “The Plough
Boy.” The little work from which “The Pot-boy” is extracted, is
entitled “_Primitiæ; or Essays and Poems_,” by Connop Thirlwall,
with a preface by his father, the Rev, Thomas Thirlwall, M.A., who
asserts that these Essays and Poems were entirely composed by his
son before he was eleven years of age, a statement which requires
considerable credulity from the reader.

JOHN KEATS.

BORN Oct. 29, 1796. | DIED Dec. 27, 1820.

Who kill’d John Keats?
“I” says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
“’Twas one of my feats.”

Who shot the arrow?
“The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey, or Barrow.”

LORD BYRON. July, 1821.

The following imitation of two Odes by John Keats is taken from _The Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor:――

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES.

I.

A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere:
And odours haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice:
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forego.

II.

Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them:
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.

III.

Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.

IV.

Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured
Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.

――――

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
Alone, and idly loitering?
The season’s o’er――at operas
No “stars” now sing.

Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
So moody! in the dumps so down?
Why linger here when all the world
Is “out of town?”

I see black care upon thy brow,
Tell me, are I.O.U.’s now due?
And in thy pouch, I fear thy purse
Is empty, too.

“I met a lady at a ball,
Full beautiful――a fairy bright;
Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!)
Struck by the sight――

“I gazed, and long’d to know her then:
So I entreated the M.C.
To introduce me――and he did!
Sad hour for me.

“We paced the mazy dance, and too,
We talked thro’ that sweet evening long,
And to her――it came to pass,
I breathed Love’s song.

“She promised me her lily hand,
She seemed particularly cool:
No warning voice then whispered low,
‘Thou art a fool!’

“Next day I found I lov’d her not,
And then she wept and sigh’d full sore,
Went to her lawyer, on the spot,
And talked it o’er.

“She brought an action, too, for breach
Of promise――’tis the fashion――zounds!
The jury brought in damages
Five thousand pounds!

“And this is why I sojourn here
Alone, and idly loitering,
Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’
No ‘stars’ now sing!”

_The Figaro._ September 15, 1875.

BEAUTY.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and oer’darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read.

JOHN KEATS.

――――

KEATS IMPROVED.

“In his opinion, a railway was in itself a beautiful object.”――_Mr. Labouchere in the Debate on the Ambleside Railway Bill._

A Locomotive is a joy for ever:
It’s loveliness enchants us; it shall never
Be blamed for noisiness, but still will keep
The country quiet for us, and our sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and easy breathing.
Therefore in every Railway Bill we’re wreathing,
An iron band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of the sentimental, who to mirth,
More manly natures, spite of foggy days,
Of all the unhealthy and smoke-darkened ways,
Made for our travelling: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty makes the whistle’s squall,
Sweet to our spirits. Such the bellman’s tune,
Roofs, old and rotten, leaking, a shady boon
For passengers; and such Excursion bills,
With the waste walls they cling to; and loud shrills,
With which the drivers nightly shindy make,
Sharp shunting shocks, the grinding of the brake,
The rich soot-sprinkling that befouls our homes;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes,
Art hath imagined for the Engine shed.
All lovely tales that ever we have read,
Of Attic temples on the river’s brink,
Before that roof at Cannon Street must shrink!

COVENTRY PATMORE.

The best known work of this poet “The Angel in the House,” published in 1855, was the subject of the following parody written by Shirley Brooks in 1860:

THE BABY IN THE HOUSE.

_By Poventry Catmore, author of the “Angel in the House,” etc._

_The Doctor._

“A finer than your newborn child,”
The Doctor said, “I never saw,”
And I, but half believing, smiled
To think he thought me jolly raw.
And then I viewed the crimson thing,
And listened to its doleful squeal,
And rather wished the nurse would bring
The pap-boat with its earliest meal.
My wife remarked, “I fear, a snub,”
The Doctor, “Madam, never fear,”
“’Tis hard, Ma’am, in so young a cub
To say.” Then Nurse, “A cub! a Dear!”

_The Glove._

“’Twere meet you tied the knocker up,”
The Doctor laughed, and said, “Good-bye.
And till you drown that yelping pup
Your lady will not close an eye.”
Then round I sauntered to the mews,
And Ponto heard his fate was near,――
Here few of coachmen will refuse
A crown to spend in beastly beer!
And then I bought a white kid glove,
Lucina’s last and favourite sign,
Wound it the knocker’s brass above,
And tied it with a piece of twine.

_The Advertisement._

“But, Love,” she said, in gentle voice,
(’Twas ever delicate and low,)
“The fact which makes our hearts rejoice
So many folks would like to know.
My Scottish cousins on the Clyde,
Your uncle at Northavering Gap,
The Adams’s at Morningside,
And Jane, who sent me up the cap.
So do.” The new commencing life
The _Times_ announced, “May 31,
At 16, Blackstone Place, the wife
Of Samuel Bobchick, of a son.”

_The Godfathers._

“Of course your father must be one,”
Jemima said, in thoughtful tones;
“But what’s the use of needy Gunn,
And I detest that miser Jones.”
I hinted Brown. “Well, Brown would do,
But then his wife’s a horrid Guy.”
De Blobbins? “Herds with such a crew.”
Well love, whom have you in your eye?
“Dear Mr. Burbot.” Yes, he’d stand,
And as you say, he’s seventy-three,
Rich, childless, hates that red-nosed band
Of nephews――Burbot let it be.

_The Godmother._

“We ought to ask your sister Kate,”
“Indeed, I shan’t,” Jemima cried,
“She’s given herself such airs of late,
I’m out of patience with her pride.
Proud that her squinting husband (Sam,
You know I hate that little sneak)
Has got a post at Amsterdam,
Where luckily he goes next week.
No, never ask of kin and kith.
We’ll have that wife of George Bethune’s,
Her husband is a silver-smith,
And she’ll be sure to give some spoons.”

_The Christening._

“I sign him,” said the Curate, Howe,
O’er Samuel Burbot George Bethune,
Then baby kicked up such a row,
As terrified that Reverend coon.
The breakfast was a stunning spread,
As e’er confectioner sent in,
And playfully my darling said,
“Sam costs papa no end of tin.”
We laughed, made speeches, drank for joy:
Champagne hath stereoscopic charms;
For when Nurse brought our little boy,
I saw two Babies in her arms.

――――

THE SPOONS.
By _Coventry Flatmore_.

’Tis six o’clock: at Jones’s house,
That stands in Russell Square,
And in his dining room there sit
The guests, while on a chair
That’s placed at top sits Jones himself;
Near him a loving pair.

His daughter Bertha and her swain
Young Chintip, who’s a clerk
In the War-Office, and who’s got
Good interest: Reader, mark
How snowy-white his shirt front is;
Not like his hair――that’s dark.

How happy looks the festive board!
The dishes too invite
Those present to begin; these do
As bid, with all their might;
Meanwhile the wine smiles and the cloth
Looks comfortably bright.

* * * * *

And so the Tailor goes to Jones
And says “I know that he
In six weeks’ time your loving childs’
Liege lord forsooth will be
And therefore p’rhaps you’ll pay the bill
Its all the same to me.”

“Such may have been the case,” says Jones.
“But now since he has spent
So much, he ne’er shall have my child;
I only willed consent
When all who did not dance stood still,
And Gent knew less of Gent.

“And as for your request, I pray
You list, sir: no one cares
To pay another person’s debts
Who gives himself such airs,
And so depart _instanter_, if
You’d not be kicked downstairs.”

* * * * *

When Chintip learned that Bertha was
Another’s bride, he swore
He should do some rash action in
His grief, that he no more
Could call her his――nor else her wealth,
Which last perplexed him sore.

For creditors now dunned alway
Each day without respite;
And he could ne’er meet their demands,
For he was cleared out-quite;
And they refused to be put off
Which on their part was right.

And so unto a Coffee-house
He went to take some tea;
And looking in the next box p’rhaps,
Saw spoons in number three
Therein his pocket with hands red
With guilt perhaps put he.

And when the white tied waiter came,
He talked about the skies
In low and silent tones perhaps,
That drown’d all the cries
Bawled in the street; the waiter though
Said “Sir I keep my eyes

Full-orbed about me and I saw
You take them spoons and so
You’ll perhaps be kind enough unto
The station house to go.”

* * * * *

And on the day on which his fate
In Newgate-list appears,
The lovely Bertha takes the _Times_
And reads “for seven years――”
Her rosy shoulders weep with grief,
Her tongue speaks only tears――

It was a very violent cold
That made her sight grow dim,
And o’er her shady eyes p’rhaps cast
A disagreeable film――
For Chintip figured as “Smith”
And so ’twas not for him.

From _The Puppet Showman’s Album_. Illustrated by Gavarni. No date.

MISS JEAN INGELOW.

THE APPLE-WOMAN’S SONG.

The marten flew to the finch’s nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
The arrow it sped to thy brown mate’s breast;
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day!

“Liest thou low, love! low in the broom?
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.”
She beateth her wings, and away, away.

“Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told,
(Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,)
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!”

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay.
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.

This little ballad, which is taken from _Mopsa the Fairy_, by Jean Ingelow (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869) is supposed to have been the original which C. S. Calverley had in his mind when he composed the amusing parody commencing:――

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

This ballad has already been alluded to, and some imitations of it given on p. 71 of this volume.

It will be found in _Fly Leaves_, by C. S. Calverley (London: George Bell & Sons, 1878), in which there is another burlesque imitation of Miss Jean Ingelow’s poetry, entitled――

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter),
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro’ God’s own heather we wonn’d together,
I and my Willie (O love my love):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing
(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And O the sundazzle on bark and bight!

Thro’ the rare red heather we danced together,
(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was glorious weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours;――

By rises that flushed with their purple favours,
Thro’ becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen,
We walked and waded, we two young shavers;
Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:――

Songbirds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky――
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the millstream washes,
Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst His heather)
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt――(it was perfectly charming weather)――
Our fingers at fate and her goddess-glooms.

And Willie ’gan sing (oh, his notes were fluty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing’d sea)――
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry.”

Bowers of flowers encounter’d showers
In William’s carol――(O love my Willie!)
When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow
I quite forgot what――say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,”
I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden――
A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

* * * * *

O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,
And carted, or carried on “wafts” away,
Nor ever again trotted out――ah me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be.

Admirers of Miss Ingelow’s fiction may be interested in knowing the history of those funny little bits of verse with which she enlivened the later chapters of “Fated to be Free.” There can be no doubt that they were intended as a delicate kind of retaliation to Mr. Calverley. As he, who was a cunning master of every kind of metre, had thought fit to directly parody Miss Ingelow’s most popular pieces, by exposing and exaggerating all her worst faults, it was only natural that she should seek to be revenged in kind. But it is clear that the lady cannot cope with Calverley in parody. Her verses read more like deliberate nonsense, and lack the faculty of imitation of style in which he excelled. The following satirical lines, from “Fated to be Free” illustrate this point, “Crayshaw” having been substituted for “Calverley,” doubtless for the sake of the rhyme:――

That maiden’s nose, that puppy’s eyes,
Which I this happy day saw,
They’ve touched the manliest chords that rise
I’ the breast of Clifford Crayshaw.

* * * * *

All day she worked, no lover lent
His aid; and yet with glee
At dusk she sought her home, content,
That beauteous Bumble Bee.

A cell it was, nor more nor less,
But oh! all’s one to me,
Whether you write it with an S,
Dear girl, or with a C.

* * * * *

Then doth Tuck-man smile, “Them there
(Ho and Hi and futile Hum)
Jellies three-and-sixpence air,
Use of spoons an equal sum.”

Trees are rich. Sweet task, ’tis o’er,
“Tuck-man, you’re a brick,” they cry.
Wildly then, shake hands, all four
(Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).

――――

THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS.

Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean.
Gulls that circle and winds that blow;
Baskets and boats and men in motion,
Sailing and scattering to and fro.

Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning
With crimson sprinkles the broad gray flood;
And down the beach the blush of the morning,
Shines reflected from moisture and mud.

Broad from the yard the sails hang limpy,
Lightly the steersman whistles a lay;
Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy,
Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!

Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty,
Coffee is certain, and beer galore:
Coats are corduroy, and minds are thrifty,
Won’t we go it on sea and shore?

See, behind, how the hills are freckled
With low white huts, where the lasses bide!
See, before, how the sea is speckled
With sloops and schooners that wait the tide!

Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister,
Tyne-side boys may shout “Give way!”
Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster,
Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!

Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle,
Such are the sea-fruits lasses love:
Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle,
And the shutterless cottages gleam above!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

――――

In a volume of poems by Miss Jean Ingelow, published in 1880, there was a long one entitled _The Letter L_, which gave rise to the following parody, printed in “The Daily News” of December 4, 1885.

THE LETTER L.
_By a Despairing Tory._

Oh, letter L, Miss Ingelow
Once wrote a poem all about you,
And what she meant I do not know,
I know I never thought to doubt you!
But now I fairly tell you this――
I wish I’d never learnt to spell,
You come between me and my bliss,
Oh, hated, hated letter L!

As daily to the Club I go,
My heart with honest ardour burns,
I hope for Gladstone’s overthrow,
Expect Conservative returns;
But where I long to see a C,
Of Tory victory to tell,
I only meet the face of _thee_,
Oh hated, hateful letter L!

The Labour and the Crofter vote,
I do not greatly dread them now,
Rather the influence I note
Of that once sacred beast, the Cow.
I mark a lot of N’s and P’s
That brand the people of Parnell;
I’m quite prepared to swallow _these_,
But not, oh _not_ the letter L!

This was at the time of the general election, when the returns were daily being scanned with great interest, and the C’s and L’s and P’s were eagerly counted up by all politicians.

HORACE.

Messrs. George Bell & Sons have recently published an interesting collection entitled, “_Horace’s Odes_, Englished and Imitated” selected and arranged by Charles W. G. Cooper. This contains several burlesque imitations of Horace’s Odes, but not the following, which are certainly also worthy of preservation.

_“Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.”_

Buttons, you booby, I wish you would learn;
I don’t want the big lamp, nor yet the épergne
When I sit down to dine by myself.
I’ll have no made-dishes in future; tell cook
She may keep her receipts shut up close in her book,
Her stock in tureen, and her game on her hook,
And her Bang-Mary bright on her shelf.

And you lay the table-cloth neatly and straight
(You’re a stupid young owl, and you won’t learn to wait,
You’re always too slow, or too fast);
I’ll just have two chops, underdone, if you please,
Some stout in the pewter, a tin of stewed cheese,
Then some port, wherein flutter the wings of the bees,
Will make up my modest repast.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1859.

Mr. Shirley Brooks wrote many other humorous translations of Horace, which will be found in his _Wit and Humour_. London, Bradbury & Co. 1883.

――――

ON THE COMMENCEMENT OF TERM.
(_See Horace. Book 1. Ode IV._)

Vacation’s o’er,――in every street
We soon shall many a Cantab meet;
For hither numbers daily hie,
Or by the Tele,[47] or the Fly.[47]
Once more the halls, so desert late,
With smoking cheer, our senses greet;
Freshmen and Sophs with one intent
Haste to the scene of merriment.
O’er _Alma Mater’s_ sacred head,
Who widely late her banner spread,
Fell solitude,――to jocund song,
Now yields her reign usurp’d too long:
While Bacchus, rosy god of wine! }
And Venus, with her joys divine, }
Dispute the Empire with the Nine.}
But would you reach the heights of fame,
And glory from Apollo’s claim;
Now, now, the Chaplet ’gin to weave,
Now, vows to favouring heaven give.
For Death, whose unrelenting hand,
No mortal prowess can withstand,
Strikes surely, with impartial dart,
Masters’ and under-graduates’ heart
And the short space that here we tarry,
At least “_in statu pupillari_,”
Forbids our growing hopes to germ
Alas! beyond the appointed term.
Nay, even now our time is o’er,
And January threatening lower,[48]
And warn us quickly to resign
The jovial monarchy of wine;
To freshmen yield the boasted claim,
As from the boards we take our name.

From _Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_ by a Brace of Cantabs. London, 1824.

――――

NOVEMBER 1858.

_Derby._ While Peel’s old ministry could twine
Thy lot political with mine;
Ere yet on corn were disagreed,
As colleagues we were blest indeed.

_Gladdy._ Whilst thou didst feel no rival flame,
Nor Gladdy next to Dizzy came,
O then thy Gladdy’s echoing name
Excelled its since Homeric fame.

_Derby._ My heart from Peelite loves outworn
By Dizzy’s corkscrew curls is drawn;
My forfeit life I’ll freely give.
So Diz――my better life――may live.

_Gladdy._ My bosom burns to yield possession,
Of all my charms to Bright next session;
I’ll face two several deaths with joy,
So fate but spare my broad-brimm’d boy.

_Derby._ What if our ancient love awoke
And bound us with its golden yoke;
If Diz were sent some Indian venture,
And Gladdy his old place re-enter?

_Gladdy._ Bright as the Morning Star is B.,
Thou rougher than the Adrian Sea,
And fickle as light bark; yet I
With thee would live――with thee would die.

ANONYMOUS.

Thackeray also wrote some humourous versions of Horace, which are familiar to everyone. In 1862 a small volume entitled _Railway Horace_, by G. Chichester Oxenden, was published by Upham and Beet, London; the translations were not destitute of merit, but are now rather out of date.

――――:o:――――

JOHN GAY.

THE BEGGAR’S OPERA.

_Macheath’s Song._

How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!
But while ye thus teaze me together,
To neither a word will I say
But _toll de roll_, etc.

――――

How happy could I be with ether,
Were mesmeric charmers away;
But whilst they perplex me together,
I’ll cut, and no longer will stay.
Sing Robinson, Thomson, and Cooper,
Tol lol de rol, lol de rol lay,
There’s nothing like ether and stupor
For making an hospital gay.

From _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I.

In the same volume there was another parody, dealing with a similar topic, entitled――

A LAY OF GUTHRIE.
AIR――“_Maiden, I will ne’er deceive thee._”

Patient, I will ne’er deceive thee,
Never pain thee, never grieve thee:
Take this tube, inhale it so,
Out carbonic acid blow.
From your lips the mouthpiece move,
Only when you senseless prove.
Patient I’ll before we part,
Amputate without a smart.
Patient, I will ne’er deceive thee, &c.

“The Beggar’s Opera,” written by Mr. John Gay, was first produced at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in 1728, and was so successful that it made “Gay rich and Rich (the lessee) gay.” This encouraged Gay to write a sequel to it, entitled “Polly,” which was produced in 1729, but met with far less approbation.

An anonymous play was produced in 1773, called “The Bow Street Opera,” on the plan of “The Beggar’s Opera,” in which the most celebrated songs were parodied.

John Gay was the author of the well-known song _Black-eyed Susan_, “All in the Downs the fleet was moor’d,” of which an excellent Latin translation will be found in the Poetical Works of Vincent Bourne.

Dr. ERASMUS DARWIN.

1731-1802.

The fame of this once popular poet has been so utterly eclipsed by the philosophical and scientific writings of his grandson, that there is some danger that the author of “The Loves of the Plants” and “The Botanic Garden” may soon be quite forgotten. Fifty years ago the Death of Eliza at the Battle of Minden, taken from “The Loves of the Plants” was a favourite recitation, and was included in every book of Elegant Extracts.

This detached passage is quoted below, together with a modern parody upon it:――

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown’d height,
O’er Minden’s plains spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And view’d his banner, or believed she view’d.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread,
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led;
And one fair girl amid the loud alarm
Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm:
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love’s warm eddies circle round her heart.
――Near and more near the intrepid beauty press’d,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest,
Heard the exulting shout――“They run!――they run!”
“He’s safe!” she cried, “he’s safe! the battle’s won!”

――A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides,)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck;
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
――“Ah me!” she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kiss’d her dear babes, regardless of the wound:
“Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn,
Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love’s return!”――
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far,
The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war;――
“Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age!
On me, on me,” she cried, “exhaust your rage!”
Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caress’d,
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stain’d vest.

From tent to tent, the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes:
Eliza’s name along the camp he calls,
Eliza echoes through the canvas walls;
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O’er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o’er the plain,――and in the tangled wood,――
Lo! dead Eliza――weltering in her blood!
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds,
“Speak low,” he cries, and gives his little hand,
“Mamma’s asleep upon the dew-cold sand;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake――
Why do you weep! Mamma will soon awake.”
――“She’ll wake no more!” the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturn’d his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, and sigh’d;
Stretch’d on the ground, awhile entranced he lay,
And press’d warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart;
“Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “my first rash vow forgive!
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live.”
Round his chill babes he wrapp’d his crimson vest,
And clasp’d them sobbing, to his aching breast.

From _The Loves of the Plants_, by Dr. Erasmus Darwin.

ELIZA.

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown’d height
O’er Chobham’s plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with proud eye, amid the noisy strife,
Her own John Jenkins, private in the Life
Guards Blue. This day a holyday she’d got,
Telling her Missus (whether true or not,
Who knows?) her grandmother in danger lay
Of death, and might she go out for the day?
From hill to hill the Guards the foe pursued;
She viewed her Jenkins, or believed she viewed;
And in full uniform what female heart
Could look on Jenkins, and not feel Love’s dart?
Near and more near th’ exulting Housemaid press’d.
’Twas Jenkins! What emotions fill’d her breast!
She caught his eye,――then heard a shout, “They run!”
“Now, then,” she cried, “he’ll come――the fight is done!”
One Sergeant Jones approaches now her side,
(Some demon pow’r it is his steps doth guide.)
He smoothes the locks her graceful head that deck,――
Kisses her,――puts his arm about her neck,
And whispers softly in her ear a vow,
Swearing that he will love her then as now.
“Heigho!” she sighs,――then in half-smother’d tones
Consents, and so,――goes off with Sergeant Jones.

* * * * *

From tent to tent the impatient Jenkins flies;――
“Where is Eliza?” he despairing cries.
Eliza’s name through all the camp he calls,――
“Eliza!” echoes through the canvas walls.
Swift gains he the canteen. What horror’s here,
Eliza with the Sergeant drinking beer!
“Eliza false!” the hopeless Jenkins cried,
Upturn’d his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, and sigh’d.
“Have you, then, for a Sergeant, false one, scorn’d
The ‘private’ station I so well adorn’d?
I’ll be revenged.” The false Eliza smiles,――
“There’s not an area to be seen for miles.”
Hopeless, despairing, Jenkins dropp’d one tear;
And then upsprung, and wildly call’d for beer.

* * * * *

That night a whisper through the encampment went,
Jenkins was carried, drunk, unto his tent.

_Diogenes_, 1853.

――――

But one of the most humorous parodies in the language, which was also founded upon Darwin’s poem, appeared in _The Anti-Jacobin_, it was entitled

THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES.

_A Mathematical and Philosophical Poem,
Inscribed to Dr. Darwin._

Stay your rude steps, or e’er your feet invade
The Muses’ haunts, ye sons of War and Trade!
Nor you, ye legion fiends of Church and Law,
Pollute these pages with unhallow’d paw!
Debas’d, corrupted, grovelling, and confined,
No _Definitions_ touch your senseless mind;
To you no _Postulates_ prefer their claim,
No ardent _Axioms_ your dull souls inflame;
For you, no _Tangents_ touch, no _Angles_ meet,
No _Circles_ join in osculation sweet!
For me, ye _Cissoids_, round my temples bend
Your wandering curves; ye _Conchoids_ extend;
Let playful _Pendules_ quick vibration feel,
While silent _Cyclois_ rests upon her wheel;
Let _Hydrostatics_, simpering as they go,
Lead the light Naiads on fantastic toe;
Let shrill _Acoustics_ tune the tiny lyre;
With _Euclid_ sage fair _Algebra_ conspire;
The obedient pulley strong _Mechanics_ ply,
And wanton _Optics_ roll the melting eye!

But chief, thou Nurse of the Didactic Muse,
Divine _Nonsensia_, all thy soul infuse;
The charms of _Secants_ and of _Tangents_ tell,
How Loves and Graces in an _Angle_ dwell;
How slow progressive _Points_ protract the Line,
As pendant spiders spin the filmy twine;
How lengthened _Lines_, impetuous sweeping round,
Spread the wide _Plane_, and mark its circling bound;
How _Planes_, their substance, with their motion grown,
Form the huge _Cube_, the _Cylinder_, the _Cone_.

* * * * *

This parody has two drawbacks, in the first place it is much too long to be inserted here in full, in the second place, much of its humour depends on an acquaintance with the original poem, which comparatively few modern readers have. It will be found complete in _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_.

There were several other parodies of Darwin’s _Loves of the Plants_, such as _The Loves of the Colours_, and _The Loves of the Lowlier Plants_, both of which were published about 1824.

――――:o:――――

NATURAL SELECTION.
_A Skit on the Darwinian Theory._

I have found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the cave men are
Laid, Skull femur and pelvis are there,
And spears that of silex they made.

But he ne’er could be true, she averred,
Who would dig up an ancestor’s grave;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such filial regard for the Cave.

My shelves they are furnished with stones,
All sorted and labelled with care,
And a splendid collection of bones,
Each one of them ancient and rare.

One would think she might like to retire
To my study――she calls it a “hole,”
Not a fossil I heard her admire,
But I begged it, or borrowed,――or stole.

But there comes an idea-less lad,
With a strut, and a stare, and a smirk;
And I watch, scientific though sad,
The Law of Selection at work.

Of Science he hasn’t a trace,
_He_ seeks not the How or the Why.
But he sings with an amateur’s grace,
And dances much better than I.

And we know the more modified males
By dance and by song win their wives,
’Tis a law that in “Aves” prevails
And that even in “Homo” survives.

Shall I rage as they twirl in the valse?
Shall I sneer as they carol and coo?
Oh, no! for since Chloe is false
I’m certain that Darwin is true.

From _The Modern Apostle_, by C. C. W. Naden.

――――

TO MY BELOVED.

Miss, I’m a Pensive Protoplasm,
Born in some pre-historic chasm.
I, and my humble fellow-men
Are hydrogen, and oxygen,
And nitrogen and carbon too,
And so is Jane, and so are you.
In stagnant water swarm our brothers
And sisters, but we’ve many others,
Among them animalculæ,
And lizard’s eggs――and so, you see,
My darling Vesta, show no pride,
Nor turn coquettish head aside,
Our pedigrees, as thus made out,
Are no great things to boast about.
The only comfort seems to be
In this――philosophers agree
That how a Protoplasm’s made
Is mystery outside their trade.
And we are parts, so say the sages,
Of life come down from Long Past Ages.
So let us haste in Hymen’s bands
To join our protoplastic hands,
And spend our gay organic life
As happy man and happy wife.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1869.

――――

PARODY EPITAPH ON DARWIN.

What needs my Darwin for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?
He, to our wonder and astonishment,
Was hid beneath a grander monument,
And in such pomp doth here sepulchrèd lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die!

From _Travels_, by “Umbra.” 1865.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

In the second volume of this collection (p. 236) will be found several parodies of Matthew Arnold’s _Sonnet to George Cruikshank_, and _The Forsaken Merman_, which had been printed some years before. Yet a writer in the _Saturday Review_, in a notice of Arnold’s poems, made the following confession of his ignorance:――