PARODIES

OF THE WORKS OF

ENGLISH and AMERICAN AUTHORS,

COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY

WALTER HAMILTON,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.

“We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, Parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these Parodies.”

D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature.

VOLUME II.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

JOHN MILTON, JOHN DRYDEN, DR. WATTS,

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,

H. W. LONGFELLOW, THOMAS HOOD, BRET HARTE,

MATTHEW ARNOLD,

E. A. POE, WOLFE’S ODE, AND “MY MOTHER”

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1885.

“It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing!”

Isaac D’Israeli.

“La Parodie, fille ainée de la Satire, est aussi ancienne que la poésie méme. Il est de l’essence de la Parodie de substituer toujours un nouveau sujet & celui qu’on parodie; aux sujets sérieux, des sujets légers et badins, en employant autant que possible, les expressions de l’auteur parodié.”

Traité des Belles-Lettres sur la Poésie Française, par M. le Père de Montespin,

(Jesuite) Avignon, 1747.

BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C.

hen this Collection was originally projected it was intended to publish a few only of the best Parodies of each author. After the issue of the first few numbers, however, the sale rapidly increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the collection should be made as nearly complete as possible, but by the loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies, helped to make it so.

This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it would have been monotonous to have filled a whole number with parodies of one short poem, such as those on “To be or not to be,” “Excelsior,” “My Mother” or Wolfe’s Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several numbers: In the Index, which has been carefully prepared, references will be found, under the titles of the original Poems, to all the parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do so, full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been given; any omission to do this has been unintentional, and will be at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied.

By the completion of the second Volume of my collection, the works of the following Authors have been fully treated, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, Dr. Watts, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, H. W. Longfellow, Thomas Hood, Bret Harte, Matthew Arnold, E. A. Poe, Wolfe’s Ode on the Death of Sir John Moore, and Miss Ann Taylor’s poem “My Mother.” Certainly most of the best parodies on these Authors have been collected, yet as new ones are constantly appearing, a further collection of them will appear in a future part of Parodies, which will also contain any good old parodies that may hitherto have escaped notice.

In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible works, extracts only have been quoted, or references given; but it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, to give the parodies in full, as they are found to be useful for public entertainments, and recitations. When the older masters of our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing information will be given, and it is intended to conclude with a complete bibliographical account of Parody, with extracts and translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst arranging the first and second volumes, I have been gathering materials for those to come, which will illustrate the works of those old writers whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that is quaint and amusing will thus be collected, whilst many illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse, which are valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically arranged, annotated, and published in a cheap and accessible form.

In all Collections, such as this, there are some pieces which offend the taste, or run counter to the prejudice of some individual reader, but great care has been taken to exclude every parody of a vulgar or slangy description, although it need hardly be said that many such parodies exist.

Every effort has been made to avoid giving preference to the parodies of any Political party, and this could only be done by inserting the poems on their own merits. If any good Political Parody has been omitted, ignorance of its existence, not party motive, has been the cause.

I am much indebted to the following gentlemen either for permission to quote from their works, or for copies of parodies sent to me for publication:--Messrs. P. J. Anderson, of Aberdeen; A. H. Bates, of Birmingham; W. Butler; George Cotterell (Author of the “Banquet”); T. F. Dillon-Croker; F. B. Doveton; James Gordon, F.S.A., of Edinburgh; John H. Ingram; Walter Parke (author of “The Lays of the Saintly”); F. B. Perkins, of the Free Public Library, San Francisco; W. Smith, of Morley, near Leeds; Basil H. Soulsby, Corpus Christi, Oxford; Joseph Verey; John Whyte; J. W. Gleeson White; and A. R. Wright. The following ladies have also sent me some amusing parodies:--Miss E. Orton; Mrs. S. A. Wetmore of New York State; and Mrs. J. E. Whitby. My best thanks are also due to Mr. Walsh, and his courteous assistants in the Guildhall Library of the City of London, as well as to the gentlemen in the Library of the British Museum.

WALTER HAMILTON.

64, Bromfelde Road, Clapham, London, S.W.

December, 1885.

CONTENTS OF PARTS I. to XXIV. PARODIES.

EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.

NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

The Parody of “The Village Blacksmith,” on [page 9], signed Sphinx, was written by Mr. W. Sappe, of Forest Hill.

Foot Note, page 112.—Mr. Artemus Ward is here credited with the advice “Never to prophecy unless you know,” an Aberdeen correspondent points out that Mr. R. Lowell was the real author, the phrase occurs in “The Biglow Papers:”—

My gran’ther’s rule was safer’n’t is to crow,

Don’t never prophesy—onless ye know.

[Page 232]. Milton’s Epitaph on W. Shakespeare, the fourth line should read:—

“Under a star y-pointing pyramid.”

[Page 24.] Read Charles Baudelure, not Beaudelaire.

[Page 219]. Wine, a Poem. The Copy of this old poem in the Editor’s possession, was published anonymously in 1702. It has been ascribed to John Gay, who was born in 1688, the poem is certainly a remarkable production for a youth of twenty-one.

INDEX.

The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named wherever possible.

Bret Harte.

Dickens in Camp.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader

Was youngest of them all,—

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,

Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes—o’ertaken

As by some spell divine—

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:

And he who wrought that spell?—

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly

And laurel wreaths intwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—

This spray of Western pine!

Bret Harte.

July, 1870.

Parodies in Print.

Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting,

The writer’s spirits low;

The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting

But melodies of woe.

The older authors, with rude humour, painted

The glowing fun of health

Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted

In sterner race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from the past’s great treasure

Of hundred volumes drew,

A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure

And bid it flow anew;

And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster,

Than ever one could tell,

All mimicking some mighty poet Master,

In many a sprightly “Sell.”

Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,—that the reader

Should leave the weeklies all,

Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader,

And let Police News pall;

While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,

Listening to bygone play,

As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”

(As Browning p’raps would say).

See Tennyson, in mighty verse—o’ertaken,

Mimicked in tripping line—

When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken

Like gush in penny-a-line.

To find in rush of their poetic fire,

A comic theme told well,

While stately verse, and song, and culture higher,

Are used some joke to tell.

Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story

Tell in the rhyme that thrills

Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory

Of sun o’er ancient hills.

If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly

Should ape a bard sublime,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—

To jest is not a crime.

J. W. G. W.

November, 1884.

That Hebrew Ben D——
House of Lords, January, 1878.

Which I wish to remark—

And my language is plain—

That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,

Which the same I would like to explain.

I have mentioned his name,

And I shall not deny,

In regard to the same

He is wary and sly;

And his smile it is mocking and ice-like

And there isn’t no green in his eye.

Now, some rumours had spread,

Which Ben D—— could not burke,

And every one said

He’d been at his old work.

(It was strange, you must know, how he doated

Upon the “Unspeakable Turk.”)

It was Gran-Vil who rose,

And quite soft was his style;

But you must not suppose

That he hasn’t no guile;

Yet D—— played it that day upon Gran Vil

In a way that made most of them smile.

Which some questions he’d brought,

And Ben rose—as ’twas planned—

To reply. What was sought

He did well understand;

But he smiled, as he stood at the table,

With a smile that was artfully bland.

How he trifled with sense,

You would scarcely believe;

And with cunning intense,

Fancy statements did weave:

Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen,

And the same, with intent to deceive.

Yes, the tricks that were play’d

By that Hebrew, Ben D——,

And the points that he made

Were quite shocking to me;

Till at last he sat down amid laughter,

And chuckling himself, I could see.

Then up sprang Ar-Gyle,

With his hair flowing free,

And he gave a wild snort,

And said, “Shall this be?

We are humbugged by Asian myst’ries,

And he went for that Hebrew, Ben D——.

Which the war-dance he had

Was exciting to watch,

Though I feared, lest too mad,

His job he might botch,

For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;—

You see he’s so pepp’ry and Scotch.

Still, the scene that ensued

Was uncommonly grand,

For the floor it was strewed,

Like the leaves on the strand,

With the facts that Ben D—— had been hiding,

The facts “He did well understand.”

For his head, which is long,

Contained facts by the score;

Which, with effort so strong,

Ar-Gyle out of it tore;

Till Ben D——, if he has any feelings,

Must have, morally, felt very sore.

Which expressions is strong,

Yet but feebly imply

What I think of the wrong—

Not to call it a lie—

As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil,

Which he can’t go for it to deny.

Which is why I remark—

And my language is plain—

That for ways that are dark,

And tricks that are vain,

The Hebrew Ben D—— is peculiar,

Which the same I am bold to maintain.

Truth, January 31, 1878.

The Aged Stranger.
(An Incident of the War).

“I was with Grant—” the stranger said,

Said the farmer, “Say no more,

But rest thee here at my cottage porch,

For thy feet are weary and sore.”

“I was with Grant—” the stranger said;

Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,—

I prithee sit at my frugal board.

And eat of my humble store.

“How fares my boy,—my soldier boy,

Of the Old Ninth Army Corps?

I warrant he bore him gallantly

In the smoke and the battle’s roar!”

“I know him not,” said the aged man,

“And, as I remarked before,

I was with Grant—” “Nay, nay, I know,”

Said the farmer, “Say no more;

“He fell in battle,—I see alas!

Thou’dst smooth these tidings o’er,—

Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be,

Though it rend my bosom’s core.

“How fell he,—with his face to the foe,

Upholding the flag he bore?

O, say not that my boy disgraced

The uniform that he wore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the aged man,

“And should have remarked, before,

That I was with Grant,—in Illinois,—

Some three years before the war.”

Then the farmer spake him never a word,

But beat with his fist full sore

That aged man, who had worked for Grant

Some three years before the war.

Bret Harte.

The following parody appeared in Jon Duan, one of Beeton’s Christmas Annuals. The original poem refers to General Ulysses S. Grant, President of the United States; the parody is in allusion to Mr. Albert Grant, M.P., who presented Leicester Square to the public in July, 1874, and whose name was then prominently before the public in connection with numerous financial schemes:—

“I was with Grant.”

“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;

Said McDougal, “Say no more,

But come you in—I have much to ask—

And please to shut the door.”

“I was with Grant——” the stranger said;

Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,—

You have seen him sit at the Emma Board?

Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.

“What said my Albert—my Baron brave,

Of the great financing corps?

I warrant he bore him scurvily

’Midst the interruption’s roar!”

“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then;

“But, as I remarked before,

I was with Grant——” “Nay, nay, I know,”

Said McDougal; “but tell me more.”

“He’s presented another square!—I see,

You’d smooth the tidings o’er—

Or started, perchance, more Water-works

On the Mediterranean shore?

“Or made the Credit Foncier pay,

Or floated a mine with ore?

Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away

From his home in Kensington Gore!”

“I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,

“And should have remarked before,

That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean—

In the great American war.”

Then McDougal spake him never a word,

But beat, with his fist, full sore

The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,

In the great American war.

Jon Duan, 1874.

Plain Language from Truthful Robert.
(With Apologies to Bret Harte’s “Truthful James.”)

Do I sleep? Do I dream?

(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)

Are things what they seem?

Or is visions about?

Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?

Which expressions is strong;

Yet I beg to declare

That the constable throng

Have a grievance to air

While they’re forced to meet murderous cracksmen
upon terms which are far, far from fair.

Charley Peaces abound

In the subbubs to-day;

And they’re apt, when they’re found,

To go blazing away

At a constable all unpertected, which the same
has the worst of the fray.

Can you tap a cove’s head

If you’re progress is checked

By the neat bit o’ lead

That a Colt does eject?

And when bullets is lodged in your stummick, can you
tootle with proper effect?

That you can’t, I submit,

And the truth must be faced

That the Force will get hit,

And the town be disgraced,

Till each Bobby with Billy—that’s Sikes, sir—on a
more equal footing is placed.

Are these shootings a dream?

(I’m sarcastic, no doubt.)

Are things what they seem?

Or is visions about?

Is our wonderful whistle a failure, and are rattle
and truncheon played out?

Funny Folks, August 2, 1884.

Scribners’ Monthly for May, 1881, contained a humorous collection of imitations of various authors, entitled “Home, Sweet Home, with Variations.” It commences by giving a couple of verses from the original poem by John Howard Payne; next comes a variation such as might have been written by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Walt Whitman, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Alexander Pope are also supposed each to contribute a new setting of the old song, the imitation of Walt Whitman is exquisitely humorous; but that which principally concerns us here is the third imitation, which is entitled:—

Home, Sweet Home

as Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt—

Brown, o’ San Juan,

Stranger, I’m Brown.

Come up this mornin’ from ’Frisco—

Ben a-saltin’ my specie-stacks down.

Ben a-knockin’ around,

Fer a man from San Juan,

Putty considable frequent—

Jes’ catch onter that streak o’ the dawn!

Right thar lies my home—

Right thar in the red—

I could slop over, stranger, in po’try

Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there aint no kinder gin-palace,

Nor no variety-show lays over a man’s own ranche.

Maybe it hain’t no style, but the Queen in the Tower o’ London

Aint got naathin’ I’d swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, ’n’ the kids, ’n’ the rest o’ my live-stock;

Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there’s a griddle-cake br’ilin’

Fer the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavens

Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don’t take no satisfaction.

Gimme my ranch, ’n’ them friendly old Shanghai chickens—

I brung the original pair f’m the States in eighteen-’n’-fifty—

Gimme them, and the feelin’ of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man—

But this landscape a kind

Er flickers—I ’low ’twuz the po’try—

I thought thet my eyes bed gone blind.

*  *  *  *  *

Take that pop from my belt!

Hi, thar—gimme yer han’—

Or I’ll kill myself—Lizzie! she’s left me—

Gone off with a purtier man!

Thar, I’ll quit—the ole gal

An’ the kids! run away!

I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard—

The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway.

To “Auld Willie.”
(After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”)

So again you’ve been at it, old fellow,

The old game of four years ago;

You’ve given the Tories a drubbing;

You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go.

By Jove! and you were down upon them,

Denouncing, and all that, you know;

But what about Egypt, old fellow,

And those vows of yours four years ago?

Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow,

To think it is four years ago,

And scarcely a measure effected,

Attempted, and all that, you know!

You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour;

But for all your palaver, I trow,

Matters are about much of a muchness

To-day, they were four years ago!

Avonicus.

The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884.

(Parody Competition).

Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of The Shotover Papers for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.”

Thomas Hood.

(Continued from Part 12 )

The Night “Comp.”

With fingers weary and worn,

Eyelids heavy and red,

A “comp.” stood at his frame all night,

Picking up “stamps” for bread.

Full-point, comma, and rule,

Colon, and quad, and space,

“Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line,

Dozing awhile at his “case.”

“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.”

“Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that;

Matter all solid, never a “break;”

Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”

Moon peeping in through the pane;

Gas, with its dull yellow glare;

Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,”

And the Editor’s foot on the stair.

One o’clock! two o’clock chimed!

“Proofs,” coming up again, “read;”

Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here;

Trudge away homeward to bed.

Anonymous.

The Song of the Dirt.
(Covent Garden Market, August, 1884)

With boots all dirty and worn,

And trousers heavy with mud,

A Londoner trudged on a market day

With a footfall’s dreary thud—

Splash, splash, splash!

While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”

Splash, splash, splash!

From morn to even-time,

Splash, splash, splash!

Through garbage, filth and grime.

Stenches strong in the street,

Streets with stenches strong,

As over the flags I gingerly creep,

I wonder to whom they belong.

Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the man far away in the rear,

But I’m forced to hold my nose,

For I must with such odours near.

Oh! but for one short hour

An appetite good to feel!

I formerly used my dinner to want,

But a walk now costs a meal.

With boots all dirty and worn,

And trousers heavy with mud,

A Londoner trudged on a market-day

With a footfall’s dreary thud.

Splash, splash, splash!

While garbage may spatter and spirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—

Would that its cry could reach the rich—

He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”

Punch, August 23, 1884.

I Remember, I Remember.

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was wed,

And the little room from which that night

My smiling bride was led;

She didn’t come a wink too soon,

Nor make too long a stay;

But now I often wish her folks

Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember,

Her dresses, red and white,

Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—

They cost an awful sight!

The “corner lot” on which I built,

And where my brother met

At first my wife, one washing-day,—

That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to court,

And thought that all of married life

Was just such pleasant sport:—

My spirit flew in feathers then,

No care was on my brow;

I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—

I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember,

My dear one’s smile and sigh;

I used to think her tender heart

Was close against the sky;

It was a childish ignorance,

But now it soothes me not

To know I’m farther off from Heaven

Than when she wasn’t got!

Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey,

Boston, United States, 1854.

The first number of Truth, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood, the Editor of Fun, and son of the author of the original “I Remember.”

I remember, I remember,

The house—’twas Clunn’s Hotel,

The friends who knocked me up at eight,

I recollect as well;

They never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

For liquor flowed from when they came

Till when they went away.

I remember, remember,

The “brandies”—large and small—

The Chablis and the Veuve Clicquot,

The sodas split by all;

The caraffe at my bedside set,

With cognac well filled up—

And what a time it took to mix

The primal champagne cup.

(Here five verses are omitted).

I remember, I remember,—

Last and fresh this memory comes,—

They brought hot pickle sandwiches,

Which filled my bed with crumbs;

It was a heated taste I own;

But brandy’s apt to cloy,

Unless you pick your palate up

With devilled eggs and soy.

Thomas Hood.

What it May Come to.

I remember, I remember,

The House where I was bred;

The Woolsack, whence the Chancellor

That annual Message read.

He never came till after four,

And rarely stayed till five;

For, if their dinners were delayed,

Could Senators survive?

I remember, I remember,

The Marquises and Earls,

The peerless rows of Peeresses,

Those flowers decked in pearls.

The cross-bench, where the Princes sat;

And where the Prelates shone

In piety and lawn arrayed—

The Bishops now are gone!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to spout,

And thought the papers must be mad

To leave my speeches out.

My eloquence was practised then,

That now is left to rust;

And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced

Before my boyish thrust!

I remember, I remember,

The Commons trooping in;

I used to think that in a fight

The Peers must always win.

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ’tis little joy

To know I’m kicked out of the House

I sat in when a boy!

Punch, September 6, 1884.

An imitation of Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram was published in Truth, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go into service:—

’Tis in the prime of summer-time,

A sunny morn in May,

And scores of merry maidens cease

A moment from their play;

For from their Happy Wanstead Home,

A girl is going that day.

*  *  *  *  *

A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original, appeared in Truth, July 19, 1877. This was entitled The Blue-coat Boy’s Ghost, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder boys.

“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in Truth, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s Song of the Shirt, in fourteen verses.

“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody of Hood’s Lost Child, appeared in Punch, February 16, 1867.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

(Continued from Part 12)

n page 101, Part VII., of Parodies there is a poem called The Settler’s version of Excelsior. It was taken from a MS. copy, lent by a friend. The following is probably more correct. It is an American attempt to translate Excelsior into plain English:—

Higher.

The shadows of night were a-commin’ down swift,

And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,

As thro’ a village a youth did go,

A carryin’ a flag with this motto,—

Higher!

O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,

His nose a Roman, complexion fair,

O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,

And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache,

Higher!

He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper

A number of families sittin’ at supper,

But he eyed the slippery rocks very keen,

And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—

Higher!

“Take care, you there!” said an old woman; “stop!

It’s blowin’ gales up there on top—

You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”

But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,

Higher!

“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night.

Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.

On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,

But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,

Higher!

“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!

Dodge rollin’ stones, if any you see!”

Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed,

And the singular voice replied overhead,

Higher!

About quarter-past six the next afternoon,

A man accidentally goin’ up soon

Heard spoken above him as often as twice,

The very same word in a very weak voice,

Higher!

And not far, I believe, from quarter off seven—

He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—

Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,

Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—

Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,

The lamp of his life being decidedly out,

On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!

And there was no more use for him to be sayin’

Higher!

Diogenes!

The carriages were filling fast,

When o’er a railway platform pass’d

A youth who bore, with tread precise,

A paper with this bold device,

Diogenes!

His arm a parcel held beneath;

He drew a number from its sheath,

And shouted, with well-practised lung,

Accents that through the station rung,

Diogenes!

In happy hours he saw the light,—

The Cynic’s lantern glowing bright;

Resolved to make its lustre known,

His lips soon gave the welcome tone,

Diogenes!

“One hither pass,” an old man said,

(Life’s tempests snow’d his aged head;)

He oped his mouth with laughter wide,

While still the clamorous vendor cried,

Diogenes!

“Oh stay!” a maiden cried; the rest

Around her were as much impress’d;

Each looking forth with eager eye,

Urging the vendor to supply!

Diogenes!

Beware! the train moves from the branch;

The sheets fly like an avalanche!

The boy’s blue eyes with pleasure shine,

While voices shout far up the line,

Diogenes!

Far on the way, with breaks down hard,

Two trains each other rush toward;

And midst the wreck so fearful there,

Voices are heard still loud and clear,

Diogenes!

A traveller on a rugged mound

Was in a hundred pieces found;

His hand still grasping like a vice

That paper with its bold device,

Diogenes!

There, as he cold and lifeless lay,

Smiles seem’d around his lips to play!

Still in the air his accents are,

And echo through each passing car,

Diogenes!

From Diogenes, February 4, 1854.

Diogenes was a comic paper, somewhat resembling Punch in its general features. It contained many good parodies, principally in reference to the Crimean War.

A pesky night was coming down,

As a young man pass’d through a rustic town;

And in his hand he clutch’d a flag,

And this is what was on the rag—

Upards!

As he pass’d by three windows he chanced to see

Three several families taking tea;

He smelt the cakes, but never swerved,

But as he drop’t a tear, observed—

Upards!

A nice girl holler’d “Stay, oh stay!

And I will marry you right away;”

While tears all down his cheeks did flow,

“Its no use, young woman, I’m bound to go—

Upards!"

Said a cute old cove, “Young man, take care,

There’s a rotten old pine-tree fix’d up there;

Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,”

The young man only wink’d and said—

Upards!

Next morning at the break of day,

A Shaker chanced to pass that way,

And thought he heard the voice of a coon,

A-singing to a service toon—

Upards!

His dog then sniff’d and smelt about,

And soon discover’d what, without doubt,

Was the young man’s body all cover’d with snow,

What carried the flag with the rum motto—

Upards!

All cover’d in snow the young man lay,

In a sort of uncomfortable kind of way;

And though as dead as any nail,

A voice was heard borne on the gale—

Upards!

A. Z.

The Tonbridgian, April 1873.

M. Duruof.

The shades of night were falling fast,

As from the table d’hôte there pass’d

A pair who cried that they would rise,

Obedient to the people’s cries,

Excelsior!

Their hearts were brave—with reckless breath,

They swore they both could face the Death!

And, answering to the mob’s fell clang,

Foolhardy were the boasts that rang,

Excelsior!

In Calais’ streets they saw the light

Of homes and gas-lamps gleaming bright,

Yet from their lips escaped no groan,

As onward flew the mad balloon,

Excelsior!

“Try not the air,” their friends had said,

“Dark storms are raging overhead;

The seas are tossing far beneath,

And you will meet with certain death,

Excelsior!”

“Come, let us go!” his wife had cried;

“We will not stay, for all beside

Will chaff us, if we do, and jeer;”

He answer’d, “You are right, my dear,

Excelsior!”

“Beware the Tempest’s awful blast!

’Twill sweep you out to sea at last!”

This was the Frenchman’s last good-night.

Cried some one, now far out of sight,

“Excelsior!”

Next morn some sailors out at sea

With nets were toiling wearily;

When loud resounded through the air

A cry that made them wondering stare,

Excelsior!

Two travellers at the dismal sound,

Half-buried in the waves were found,

Grasping with eager clutch the ropes,

On which depended all their hopes,

Excelsior!

There ’mid the tossing billows’ spray,

Wretched and shivering they lay;

The freed balloon then, with its car,

Shot upward like a rising star,

Excelsior!

The Tonbridgian, September, 1874.

The Excelsior Climbing Boy.

(Poëma partìm Canino-Latinum, post
Longum— seu potiùs, meritò dicatur,—
Excelsiorem Socium).

Some few, whose days are closing fast,

Remember, in their time long past,

How youth, in toil of little price,

Might yet have borne, for their device,

Excelsior!

These youngsters, in that distant time,

Swept chimneys, which they had to climb,

They could have cried as they clomb higher,

Like one who skywards did aspire,

Excelsior!

Our “Climbing Boys,” as they were called,

Howe’er they “Sweep!” and “Soot O!” bawled,

As they ascended up the flue

Were not instructed to halloo

Excelsior!

By reek and close air overcome,

The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,

And stifled soon, unless got out—

Of course he then no more could shout

Excelsior!

His knees were worn by rough ascent

Bare to the very ligament;

Flayed were his fingers and his toes;

Because he grazed them as he rose,

Excelsior!

When, jammed in, on his upward way

He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,

His master, in the grate below,

Would light a fire, to make him go

Excelsior!

These horrors having been at last

Dragged into day, an Act was passed

Declaring it, henceforth, a crime

To make a child a chimney climb

Excelsior!

Still certain Bumbles, it appears,

Against the law, these many years,

Have had their Town Hall’s chimneys swept

By means of little boys who crept

Excelsior!

May a new law, more strictly framed,

All parties hit at whom ’tis aimed,

Concerned in making children sweep

Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep

Excelsior!

Long brush, worked deftly by machine,

All chimneys must, ye Bumbles, clean,

Law must on cruel masters fall,

Who take to driving urchins small

Excelsior!

Punch, June 26, 1875.

Excelsior.

The swampy state of Illinois

Contained a greenish sort of boy,

Who read with idiotic joy—

Excelsior!

He tarried not to eat or drink,

But got a flag of lightish pink,

And traced on it, in violet ink—

Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,

Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,

Has not been placed upon record—

Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,

In German text, yet he was fain,

With greater clearness to explain—

Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight,

And hollered out with, all his might,

(As to a person out of sight)—

Excelsior!

And everybody thought the lad

Within an ace of being mad,

Who cried in accents stern and sad—

Excelsior!

“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried:

The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,

And then appropriately replied—

Excelsior!

The evening sun is in the sky,

But still the creature mounts on high,

And shouts (nor gives a reason why)—

Excelsior!

But ere he gains the topmost crag

His feeble legs begin to lag;

Unsteadily he holds the flag—

Excelsior!

*  *  *  *  *

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!

He puts him in an empty sack,

And brings him home upon his back—

Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store,

They toss him in and lock the door,

Which only makes him bawl the more—

Excelsior!

Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By Eric.

(John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).

The Dowager-Duchess at the Drawing Room.

(“A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Low-cut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur.”—Weekly Paper, February, 1880).

The Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,

And duly presented the Honourable Alice;

And now we will show in what sort of condition

Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.

The shades of night were falling fast,

As up a Mayfair street there passed

A carriage with this strange device

As crest:—A rampant cockatrice

And enfant or.

Within was seen an agèd dame,

Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;

Her face was white as Death’s own hue,

Her Roman nose was red; with blue

Her lips spread o’er.

The fair young maiden by her side,

By briskly rubbing, bravely tried

Her grandma’s blood to make reflow—

It seem’d a hopeless object, though,

She labour’d for!

“Oh joy!” this maiden cried, when she

Observed they’d stopped at forty-three;

“We are at home, dear Grandma, come!

Do speak to me!” The Dame was dumb—

E’en as before.

And when she would have left her seat,

She all but tumbled in the street;

Her state, in fact, the house alarms,

When, leaning on the flunkey’s arms,

She gains her door.

“Be quick and heat my grandma’s bed!”

The Honourable Miss Alice said:

“Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp’d

Without delay be in it clapp’d,

And bottles hot!

“Beware no window open be,

And blankets bring at once to me!”

Thus was the maiden’s forethought shown—

Her Grandma scarce had strength to groan:

“Hot ginger, dear!”

And ere of minutes ten had fled,

The chilled old Duchess was in bed;

Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,

She promised shortly to come round

To health once more.

Then in the firelight, thin and gray,

And cold, but not so cold, she lay,

Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,

A voice came, somewhat hoarse ’twas true,

And somewhat sore.

*  *  *  *  *

Truth, February 26, 1880.

After Longfellow.
(A Long Way).

The western sun was sinking fast,

As through the quiet street there passed

A tinker with a blackened eye,

Who ever and anon did cry—

“’Brellas to mend.”

His brow was dark with smoke and soot,

His raiment, rags from head to foot;

And like a penny trumpet rung

The beery accents of his tongue—

“’Brellas to mend.”

He lingered at the corner “pub,”

He drew his last coin from his fob;

He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,

And only answered to their chaff—

“’Brellas to mend.”

“Go not again,” the landlord said,

“Wild blows the tempest overhead,

Your rags will lash you unto death.”

Our friend replied with bated breath—

“’Brellas to mend.”

“Oh, stay,” the daughter said, “and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast;

Why should’st thou from our presence fly?”

This was the tinker’s sad reply—

“’Brellas to mend.”

“Beware the stern blue-coated man—

Beware the falling chimney-can;”

Such was the landlord’s parting word,

And this was the reply they heard—

“’Brellas to mend.”

In Duke Street, at the break of day,

Within a court the tinker lay;

In falling he his leg had broke,

When gently raised, these words he spoke—

“’Brellas to mend.”

He died; his body calmly rests;

His ghost the lonely streets infests;

And often at the midnight hour

A voice cries, with sepulchral power—

“’Brellas to mend.”

Teddy May and other Poems,
by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.

Voices of Our Nights.
(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).

I heard the feline footsteps in the night

Pad through the Court and Hall!

I saw the sable wretch in the moon’s light

Climb Mrs. Coxe’s Wall!

I felt her (that I did! I’m sure I’m right!)

Step o’er me just above;

With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,

As of a cat in love.

I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,

The caterwauling chimes,

That fill each attic chamber in the night,

Where some starved poet rhymes.

My night-capped head in the cool midnight air

Sought vainly some repose;

The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,

From the new cistern rose.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

Descend, you green-eyed fright!

I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,

The cat-infested night!

Punch, May 4, 1861.

Picked Up at the Stall Entrance to the Novelty Theatre.

I know a maiden fair to see—

K. V.! K. V.! (Cave!)

She dances most bewitchingly—

K. V.! K. V.!

Her twinkling feet, her ankles neat,

Her pirouettes, her glances sweet,

Will make your heart more quickly beat—

K. V.! K. V.!

When you are seeing “Lalla Rookh”—

K. V.! K. V.!

O keep your eyes upon the book—

K. V.! K. V.!

Or Kate’s fair face, and facile grace

Will “mash” you in a moment’s space;

Then yours will be a hopeless case—

K. V.! K. V.!

Truth, May 22, 1884.

(Referring to Miss Kate Vaughan’s performance of the part of Lalla Rookh, in Mr. Horace Lennard’s burlesque extravaganza of Moore’s poem).

Picked up at the stage entrance to the
Novelty Theatre:—

I know a masher dark to see,

J. D., J. D.