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 III.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

LORD BYRON. SCOTCH SONGS.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

CHARLES KINGSLEY. THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

Miss C. FANSHAWE. THOMAS MOORE.

A. C. SWINBURNE. ROBERT BURNS.

Mrs. FELICIA HEMANS. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1886.

All these things here collected are not mine,

But divers grapes make but one kind of wine;

So I from many learned authors took

The various matters written in this book;

What’s not mine own shall not by me be fathered,

The most part I, in many years, have gathered.

John Taylor, the Water Poet.

“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.

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

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, in italics, wherever possible.

CONTENTS OF PARTS I. to XXXVI. PARODIES.

EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY.

NOTES AND CORRECTIONS.

[Page 19]. Courtney Melmoth was the assumed name of T. J. Pratt, who wrote “The Tears of Genius” lamenting the death of Oliver Goldsmith.

[Page 20], Line 3. For Cast read Caste.

[Page 71], Column 2, line 6. Read “Mr. William Cadenhead.”

[Page 80], Foot Note.—For “dear runs” read deer runs.

[Page 197]. The Enigma on the letter H. here ascribed to Lord Byron was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe.

[Page 208]. “The Un-True Story” was written by Mr. Walter Parke for Punch and Judy, in 1870. The fifth line should read:—

“Know ye the land of the dollar and dime?”

[Page 218.] Foot Note. Read, “Parody of a song in The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.”

[Page 229]. Don Juan Un-Read. This is a parody of Wordsworth’s Yarrow Unvisited.

A lady of bas bleu celebrity (the term is getting odious, particularly to our savantes) had two friends, whom she equally admired—an elegant poet, and his parodist. She had contrived to prevent their meeting as long as her stratagems lasted, till at length she apologised to the serious bard for inviting him when his mock umbra was to be present. Astonished, she perceived that both men of genius felt a mutual esteem for each other’s opposite talent; the ridiculed had perceived no malignity in the playfulness of the parody, and even seemed to consider it as a compliment, aware that parodists do not waste their talent on obscure productions; while the ridiculer himself was very sensible that he was the inferior poet. The lady-critic had imagined that PARODY must necessarily be malicious; and in some cases it is said those on whom the parody has been performed, have been of the same opinion.

Parody strongly resembles mimicry, a principle in human nature not so artificial as it appears. Man may well be defined a mimetic animal. The African boy who amused the whole kafle he journeyed with, by mimicking the gestures and the voice of the auctioneer who had sold him at the slave market a few days before, could have had no sense of scorn, of superiority, or of malignity; the boy experienced merely the pleasure of repeating attitudes and intonations which had so forcibly excited his interest. The numerous parodies of Hamlet’s soliloquy were never made in derision of that solemn monologue, no more than the travesties of Virgil by Scarron and Cotton; their authors were never so gaily mad as that. We have parodies on the Psalms by Luther; Dodsley parodied the book of Chronicles, and Franklin’s most beautiful story of Abraham is a parody on the Scripture-style; not one of these writers, however, proposed to ridicule their originals; some ingenuity in the application was all that they intended. The lady-critic alluded to had suffered by a panic, in imagining that a parody was necessarily a corrosive satire. Had she indeed proceeded one step further, and asserted that Parodies might be classed among the most malicious inventions in literature, in such parodies as Colman and Lloyd made on Gray’s odes, in their odes to “Oblivion and Obscurity,” her readings possibly might have supplied the materials of the present research.

Parodies were frequently practised by the ancients, and with them, like ourselves, consisted of a work grafted on another work, but which turned on a different subject by a slight change of the expressions. It might be a sport of fancy, the innocent child of mirth; or a satirical arrow drawn from the quiver of caustic criticism; or it was that malignant art which only studies to make the original of the parody, however beautiful, contemptible and ridiculous. Human nature thus enters into the composition of parodies, and their variable character originates in the purpose of their application.

There is in “the million” a natural taste for farce after tragedy, and they gladly relieve themselves by mitigating the solemn seriousness of the tragic drama; for they find, as one of them told us, that it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and if this taste be condemned by the higher order of intellectual persons, and a critic said he would prefer to have the farce played before the tragedy, the taste for parody would be still among them, for whatever tends to level a work of genius is usually very agreeable to a great number of contemporaries. In the history of PARODIES, some of the learned have noticed a supposititious circumstance, which it is not improbable happened, for it is a very natural one. When the rhapsodists, who strolled from town to town to chant different fragments of the poems of Homer, and had recited some, they were immediately followed by another set of strollers—buffoons who made the same audience merry by the burlesque turn which they gave to the solemn strains which had just so deeply engaged their attention. It is supposed that we have one of these travesties of the Iliad in one Sotades, who succeeded by only changing the measure of the verses without altering the words, which entirely disguised the Homeric character; fragments of which are scattered in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, which I leave to the curiosity of the learned Grecian.[1] Homer’s battle of the Frogs and Mice, a learned critic, the elder Heinsius, asserts, was not written by the poet, but is a parody on the poem. It is evidently as good humoured an one as any in the “Rejected Addresses.” And it was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing! Of these parodists of Homer we may regret the loss of one. Timon of Philius, whose parodies were termed Silli, from Silenus being their chief personage; he levelled them at the sophistical philosophers of his age: his invocation is grafted on the opening of the Iliad, to recount the evil doings of those babblers, whom he compares to those bags in which Æolus deposited all his winds; balloons inflated with empty ideas! We should like to have appropriated some of these silli, or parodies of Timon the Sillograph, which, however, seem to have been at times calumnious.[2] Shenstone’s “School Mistress,” and some few other ludicrous poems, derive much of their merit from parody.

This taste for parodies was very prevalent with the Grecians, and is a species of humour which perhaps has been too rarely practised by the moderns: Cervantes has some passages of this nature in his parodies of the old chivalric romances; Fielding in some parts of his Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, in his burlesque poetical descriptions; and Swift in his “Battle of Books,” and “Tale of a Tub,” but few writers have equalled the delicacy and felicity of Pope’s parodies in the “Rape of the Lock.” Such parodies give refinement to burlesque.

The ancients made a liberal use of it in their satirical comedy, and sometimes carried it on through an entire work, as in the Menippean satire, Seneca’s mock Eloge of Claudius, and Lucian in his Dialogues. There are parodies even in Plato, and an anecdotical one recorded of this philosopher shows them in their most simple state. Dissatisfied with his own poetical essays he threw them into the flames; that is, the sage resolved to sacrifice his verses to the god of fire; and in repeating that line in Homer where Thetis addresses Vulcan to implore his aid, the application became a parody, although it required no other change than the insertion of the philosopher’s name instead of the goddess’s:[3]

“Vulcan, arise! ’tis Plato claims thy aid!”

Boileau affords a happy instance of this simple parody. Corneille, in his Cid, makes one of his personages remark,

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,

Ils peuvent se tromper comme les autres hommes.”

A slight alteration became a fine parody in Boileau’s “Chapelain Décoiflé.”

“Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes,

Ils se trompent en vers comme les autres hommes.”

We find in Athenæus the name of the Inventor of a species of parody which more immediately engages our notice—DRAMATIC PARODIES. It appears this inventor was a satirist, so that the lady-critic, whose opinion we had the honour of noticing, would be warranted by appealing to its origin to determine the nature of the thing. A dramatic parody, which produced the greatest effect, was “the Gigantomachia.” as appears by the only circumstance known of it. Never laughed the Athenians so heartily as at its representation, for the fatal news of the deplorable state to which the affairs of the republic were reduced in Sicily arrived at its first representation—and the Athenians continued laughing to the end! as the modern Athenians, the volatile Parisians, might in their national concern of an OPERA COMIQUE. It was the business of the dramatic parody to turn the solemn tragedy, which the audience had just seen exhibited, into a farcical comedy; the same actors who had appeared in magnificent dresses, now returned on the stage in grotesque habiliments, with odd postures and gestures, while the story, though the same, was incongruous and ludicrous. The Cyclops of Euripides is probably the only remaining specimen; for this may be considered as a parody of the ninth book of the Odyssey—the adventures of Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, where Silenus and a chorus of satyrs are farcically introduced, to contrast with the grave narrative of Homer, of the shifts and escape of the cunning man “from the one-eyed ogre.” The jokes are too coarse for the French taste of Brumoy, who, in his translation, goes on with a critical growl and foolish apology for Euripides having written a farce; Brumoy, like Pistol, is forced to eat his onion, but with a worse grace, swallowing and execrating to the end.

In dramatic composition, Aristophanes is perpetually hooking in parodies of Euripides, whom of all poets he hated, as well as of Æschylus, Sophocles, and other tragic bards. Since that Grecian wit, at length, has found a translator saturated with his genius, and an interpreter as philosophical, the subject of Grecian parody will probably be reflected in a clearer light from his researches.

Dramatic parodies in modern literature were introduced by our vivacious neighbours, and may be said to constitute a class of literary satires peculiar to the French nation. What had occurred in Greece a similar gaiety of national genius unconsciously reproduced. The dramatic parodies in our own literature, as in “The Rehearsal,” “Tom Thumb,” and “The Critic,” however exquisite, are confined to particular passages, and are not grafted on a whole original; we have neither naturalised the dramatic parody into a species, nor dedicated to it the honours of a separate theatre.

This peculiar dramatic satire, a burlesque of an entire tragedy, the volatile genius of the Parisians accomplished. Whenever a new tragedy, which still continues the favourite species of drama with the French, attracted the notice of the town, shortly after up rose its parody at the Italian theatre. A French tragedy is most susceptible of this sort of ridicule, by applying its declamatory style, its exaggerated sentiments, and its romantic out-of-the-way nature to the commonplace incidents and persons of domestic life; out of the stuff of which they made their emperors, their heroes, and their princesses, they cut out a pompous country justice, a hectoring tailor, or an impudent mantua-maker; but it was not merely this travesty of great personages, nor the lofty effusions of one in a lowly station, which terminated the object of parody; it intended a better object, that of more obviously exposing the original for any absurdity in its scenes, or in its catastrophe, and dissecting faulty characters; in a word, critically weighing the nonsense of the poet. It sometimes became a refined instructor for the public, whose discernment is often blinded by party or prejudice. It was, too, a severe touch-stone for genius: Racine, some say, smiled, others say he did not, when he witnessed Harlequin, in the language of Titus to Berenice, declaiming on some ludicrous affair to Columbine; La Motte was very sore, and Voltaire and others shrunk away with a cry—from a parody! Voltaire was angry when he witnessed his Mariamne parodied by La mauvaise Mênage; or “Bad House-keeping:” the aged, jealous Herod was turned into an old cross country justice; Varus, bewitched by Mariamne, strutted a dragoon; and the whole establishment showed it was under very bad management. Fuzelier collected some of these parodies,[4] and not unskilfully defends their nature and their object against the protest of La Motte, whose tragedies had severely suffered from these burlesques. His celebrated domestic tragedy of Inez de Castro, the fable of which turns on a concealed and clandestine marriage, produced one of the happiest parodies in Agnes de Chaillot. In the parody the cause of the mysterious obstinacy of Pierrot the son, in persisting to refuse the hand of the daughter of his mother-in-law Madame la Baillive, is thus discovered by her to Monsieur le Baillif:—

“Mon mari, pour le coup j’ai découvert l’affaire,

Ne vous étonnez plus qu’à nos désirs contraire,

Pour ma fille, Pierrot, ne montre que mépris:

Voilà l’unique objet dont son cœur est épris.”

(Pointing to Agnes de Chaillot.

The Baillif exclaims,

“Ma servante?”

This single word was the most lively and fatal criticism of the tragic action of Inez de Castro, which, according to the conventional decorum and fastidious code of French criticism, grossly violated the majesty of Melpomene, by giving a motive and an object so totally undignified to the tragic tale. In the parody there was something ludicrous when the secret came out which explained poor Pierrot’s long concealed perplexities, in the maid-servant bringing forward a whole legitimate family of her own! La Motte was also galled by a projected parody of his “Machabees”—where the hasty marriage of the young Machabeus, and the sudden conversion of the amorous Antigone, who, for her first penitential act, persuades a youth to marry her, without first deigning to consult her respectable mother, would have produced an excellent scene for the parody. But La Motte prefixed an angry preface to his Inez de Castro; he inveighs against all parodies, which he asserts to be merely a French fashion (we have seen, however, that it was once Grecian), the offspring of a dangerous spirit of ridicule, and the malicious amusement of superficial minds.—“Were this true,” retorts Fuzelier, “we ought to detest parodies; but 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 dramatic writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common sense and truth? After all” he ingeniously adds, “it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES; for they are usually but the echoes of the pit, and we parodists have only to give a dramatic form to the opinions and observations we hear. Many tragedies,” Fuzelier, with admirable truth, observes, “disguise vices into virtues, and PARODIES unmask them.” We have had tragedies recently which very much required parodies to expose them, and to shame our inconsiderate audiences, who patronised these monsters of false passions. The rants and bombast of some of these might have produced, with little or no alteration of the inflated originals, “A Modern Rehearsal,” or a new “Tragedy for Warm Weather.”

Of PARODIES, we may safely approve of their legitimate use, and even indulge their agreeable maliciousness; while we must still dread that extraordinary facility to which the public, or rather human nature, are so prone, as sometimes to laugh at what, at another time, they would shed tears.

Tragedy is rendered comic or burlesque by altering the station and manners of the persons; and the reverse may occur, of raising what is comic and burlesque into tragedy. On so little depends the sublime or the ridiculous! Beattie says “In most human characters there are blemishes, moral, intellectual, or corporeal; by exaggerating which, to a certain degree, you may form a comic character; as by raising the virtues, abilities, or external advantages of individuals, you form epic or tragic characters;” a subject humourously touched upon by Lloyd, in the prologue to “The Jealous Wife.”

“Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,

Grow too familiar in the comic scene;

Tinge but the language with heroic chime,

’Tis passion, pathos, character sublime.

What big round words had swell’d the pompous scene,

A king the husband, and the wife a queen!”

——:o:——

This apology for Parody, extracted from “The Curiosities of Literature,” was written by the late Mr. Isaac D’Israeli more than fifty years ago. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli was a Jewish gentleman of great literary attainments, and of a most amiable character. He was the father of the late Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli died in 1848.

Dr. Oliver Goldsmith,

Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728,

Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April 4, 1774.

efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he, himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known “Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in which the following lines occur:—

“Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse,

D’un homme sent la trahison,

Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse,

Peut-elle trouver une guérison?

Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir.

La seule revanche pour son tort

Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir,

Hélas! trop tard,—est la mort.”[5]

These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:—

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom—is to die.

A Paraphrase.

“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,”

And finds out too late that false man can “betray,”

She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,”

And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,

Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,

There is but one method” which he can discover

That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”

He’s wrong—the wan and withering cheek;

The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;

The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak

The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone

That whispering mocks the pitying ear;

Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown

As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one’s heart enough

If made of penetrable stuff.

From The Black Mousquetaire (The Ingoldsby Legends.)

A Song For the Million.

When Harry Brougham turns a Tory,

Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray,

What can revive his tarnish’d glory?

What his desertion best repay?

The only robe his shame to cover,

To hide the brand upon his back,

And best reward this faithless lover—

That Peel can give him is—the sack.

Punch February, 1844.

“When Lovely Woman.”

When lovely woman wants a favour,

And finds, too late, that man won’t bend,

What earthly circumstance can save her

From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,

The last experiment to try,

Whether a husband or a lover,

If he have feeling, is—to cry!

From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854.

A Song.

When lovely woman, prone to folly,

Finds that e’en Rowland’s oils betray;

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can turn gray hairs away?

The only art gray hairs to cover,

To hide their tint from every eye,

To win fresh praises from her lover,

And make him offer—is to dye.

Punch, April, 1854.

A Remedy.

When lovely woman stoops to poli-

Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay,

What charm can wean her from her folly,

And put her in the proper way?

The only plan we can discover,

Is the one we now propose;

That she should obtain a lover,

Marry him, and mend his hose.

Diogenes, 1853.

Canzonet on Crinoline.

By a Wretch.

When lovely woman, hooped in folly,

Grows more expansive every day,

And makes her husband melancholy

To think what bills he’ll have to pay.

When in the width of fashion swelling,

With air-balloons her skirts may vie,

The truth—(what hinders Punch from telling?)—

Is that she looks a perfect Guy!

Punch, February 21, 1857.

“Another Way.”

When lovely woman, Lump of Folly,

Would show the world her vainest trait;

Would treat herself as child her dolly,

And warn each man of sense away.

The surest method she’ll discover

To prompt a wink from every eye,

Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,

And spoil a scalp-skin—is to dye,

Shirley Brooks. 1866.

A Silly Manager.

When Managers have stooped to folly,

And find vulgarity won’t pay,

And audiences won’t be jolly,

But boldly rise and hiss the play:

In order their misdeeds to cover,

Some clap-trap for the gods they try

Before the farce is halfway over,

And insult add to injury.

Fun, November 24, 1866.

Goldsmith Improved.

When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6]

And finds, too late, her teeth decay,

What penitence can cure her follies,

What chloroform her pain allay?

If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied;

If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt.

So she must get her mouth refitted,

Or, what is better—keep it shut!

The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.

Beautiful for Ever.

When lovely woman, still a maiden,

Finds her locks are turning grey,

What art can keep their hue from fading?

What balm can intercept delay?

The only art her age to cover,

To hide the change from every eye,

To quell repentance in her lover,

And soothe his bosom is—to dye.

Kottabos. Dublin, W. McGee, 1872.

Fashion.

When lovely woman stoops to fashion

And finds it like man’s fancy change,

What can reclaim the truant passion,

And capture it no more to range?

The only way to curb love’s passion.

And charm her fickle lover’s eye,

To bring the colour to her chignon—

As the old joke says is—to dye.

The Hornet.

Stanzas on Woman—by o. g.

When lovely woman takes to rinking,

And finds how hard the asphalte’s got,

What charm can save her heart from sinking,

What art can heal the injured spot?

The only plan she can pursue,

To save herself another fall,

In fact the only thing to do,

In future’s not to rink at all.

The Idylls of the Rink, 1876.

Stanzas on Woman.

By a modern Goldsmith.

When lovely woman reads Le Follet,

And tries her best to men betray;

She makes herself a pretty dolly,

But fritters all her soul away.

When she grows old, and charms decay,

And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye;

When skin is wrinkled—hair is grey—

Her only chance is then—to dye!

The Figaro, January 1, 1873.

Stanzas on Man.

By Dr. Silversmith.

When foolish man consents to marry,

And finds, too late, his wife a shrew,

When she her point in all must carry,

’Tis hard to say what’s best to do!

In hopes the breeches to recover,

To hide his shame from every eye.

To be as free as when her lover

His only method is—to fly.

A Bit of Goldsmith’s Work New Gilt.

When lovely woman once so jolly,

Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey,

How make her case less melancholy,

How hide Time’s step that none can stay?

The only way his track to cover,

To mask her age from every eye,

And if she have a spoon for lover

To keep him still “spoons,” is—to dye!

On a Breach of Promise.

When lovely woman finds that breaches

Of promise are her suitor’s wear,

What is it the black record bleaches,

And comforts the deserted fair?

To punish the unfaithful lover,

Where only he’ll his falsehood rue,

Substantial damages recover—

Pursue him not, but his purse sue!

Venus Imitatrix.

[Another Ladies Club is starting at the
West-end.—See Society Journals.]

(Sung by a Clubbess).

When lovely woman’s melancholy

Because her husband stays away

From home, pursuing some mad folly,

(“’Tis business, love,” they always say).

The only plan to teach him manners,

And cure the midnight latchkey hub,

Is, dears, to march beneath our banners—

So, ladies, come and join our club.

Stanzas on Woman.

When lovely woman longs to marry,

And snatch a victim from the beaux,

What charms the soft design will carry?

What art will make the men propose?

The only art her schemes to cover,

To give her wishes sure success,

To gain, to fix a captive lover,

And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS.

On Mr. Odger.

(Formerly Candidate for Southwark.)

When stupid Odger stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,

What thought can make him once more jolly?

What hope can drive his spite away?

The only thought his rage to smother

Is one we’ll hope will turn out true;

’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another;

As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.”

Judy.

Fashion.

When foolish woman stoops to fashion,

And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay,

But turns her grey, and brings a rash on

Her nose no powder charms away;

What best the horrid tints can cover?

What hide the truth from every eye,

Defying e’en keen sighted lover?

’Tis to Enamel and to Dye.

Grins and Groans, 1882.

Mint Sauce for Lamb.

(After Goldsmith.)

When man, less faithful than the colley,

Deserts his love and goes astray,

What art can make the maiden jolly?

What charm can drive her grief away?

The way her grief to overcome is,

Instead of lying down to die,

To claim three thou for breach of promise,

And show her swain the reason why.

Judy, August 24, 1881.

Woman’s Rights.

[Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought not to debar her making some proposal.]

When lovely woman’s melancholy,

And finds she’s in a love-sick way,

Must she be bound by custom’s folly,

And never more her love betray?

No! Helen must her heart discover

To Modus; but if all in vain,

And he should scorn to be her lover,

Her sole resource is—try again.

Fun, March 25, 1885.

The Omnibus.

(By an Old Bachelor.)

If lovely woman seeks to enter

The crowded ’bus in which you ride,

Have you the heart to discontent her.

Or would you rather go outside?

I’m brute enough, I dare to state,

Although it may the lady vex,

To keep my seat, and let her wait—

I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex.

Gossip, May 16, 1885.

When lovely woman pines in folly

Because her hair is turning gray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can drive her grief away?

The only art her woe to cover,

To hide her age from every eye,

To come the gum-game o’er her lover

And to make her happy—is to dye!

Detroit Free Press, August, 1885.

The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination of the trial, Foli v. Bradshaw, that being an action for assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:—

“When lovely woman stoops to Foli,

And lets her son with cudgels play,

An action soon brings melancholy,

And damages one has to pay.”

The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given together, followed by the French original:—

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

Good people all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran

Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To ev’ry Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew’d the rogues they ly’d;

The man recover’d of the bite,

The dog it was that dy’d.

An Elegy.

On the Glory of her Sex,

Mrs. Mary Blaize.

Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word—

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,

And always found her kind;

She freely lent to all the poor—

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning,

And never followed wicked ways—

Unless when she was sinning.

At church in silk and satin new,

With hoop of monstrous size;

She never slumbered in her pew—

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;

The King himself has followed her—

When she has walk’d before.

But now her wealth, and finery fled,

Her hangers on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead—

Her last disorder, mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she lived a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day!

Goldsmith.

The following Chanson du Fameux la Galisse, taken from Ménagiana, 1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing poems:—

“LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.”

Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir

L’air du fameux la Galisse,

Il pourra vous rejouir,

Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse.

La Gallisse eut peu de bien,

Pour soutenir sa naissance;

Mais il ne manqua de rien,

Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance.

Bien instruit dès le berçeau,

Jamais, tant il fut honnête,

Il ne mettoit son chapeau

Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête.

Il étoit affable et doux,

De l’humeur de feu son père,

Et n’entroit guère en courroux,

Si ce n’est dans la colere.

Il buvoit tous les matins

Un doight tiré de la tonne,

Et mangeant chez les voisins,

Il s’y trouvoit en personne.

Il vouloit dans ses repas

Des mets exquis et fort tendres,

Et faisoit son Mardi gras,

Toujours la veille des Cendres.

Ses valets étoient soigneux

De le servir d’andouillettes,

Et n’oublioient pas les œufs

Surtout dans les omelettes.

De l’inventeur du raisin

Il révéroit la mémoire,

Et pour bien gouter le vin,

Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire.

Il disoit que le nouveau

Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce,

Et moins il y mettoit d’eau

Plus il y trouvoit de force.

Il consultoit rarement

Hippocrate et sa doctrine,

Et se purgeoit seulement,

Quand il prenoit médecine.

Au piquet par tout payis,

Il jouoit suivant sa pante,

Et comptoit quatre vingt dix,

Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante.

Il savoit les autres jeux

Qu’on joue à l’Académie,

Et n’etoit pas malheureux

Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie.

On s’étonne sans raison

D’une chose très commune;

C’est qu’il vendit sa maison,

Il faloit qu’il en eut une.

Il aimoit à prendre l’air,

Quand la saison étoit bonne,

Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver,

Pour vendanger en automne.

Il épousa, ce dit on,

Une vertueuse Dame;

S’il avoit vêcu garçon,

Il n’auroit point eu de femme.

Il en fut toujours cheri,

Elle n’étoit point jalouse;

Si tot qu’il fut son mari,

Elle devint son épouse.

Il passa près de huit ans

Avec elle, fort à l’aise,

En eut jusqu’à huit enfans,

C’étoit la moitié de seize.

On dit que dans ses amours,

Il fut caressé des belles,

Que le suivirent toujours,

Tant qu’il marcha devant elles.

D’un air galant et badin,

Il courtisoit sa Caliste,

Sans jamais être chagrin

Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste.

Il brilloit comme un Soleil,

Sa Chevelure étoit blonde:

Il n’eut pas eu son pareil,

S’il eût été seul au monde.

Il eût des talens divers,

Meme on assure une chose,

Quand il écrivoit en vers,

Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose.

En matiére de rébus

Il n’avoit pas son semblable:

S’il eût fait des impromtus,

Il en eût été capable.

Il savoit un triolet

Bien mieux que sa patenôtre:

Quand il chantoit un couplet,

Il n’en chantoit pas un autre.

Il expliqua doctement

La Physique et la Morale.

Et soutint qu’une jument

Etoit toujours une cavale.

Par un discours sérieux

Il prouva que la berluë,

Et les autres maux des yeux

Sont contraires à la vûe.

Chacun alors applaudit

A sa science inouïe,

Tout homme qui l’entendit,

N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe.

Il prétendit en un mois

Lire toute l’Ecriture,

Et l’auroit lue une fois,

S’il en eût fait la lecture.

Par son esprit, et son air

Il s’aquit le don de plaire:

Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair

S’il avoit voulu le faire.

Mieux que tout autre il savoit

A la Cour jouer son role,

Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit

Ne disoit une parole.

Il choisissoit prudemment

De deux choses la meilleure,

Et répétoit fréquemment,

Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure.

Il fut à la verité

Un danseur assez vulgaire;

Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté

S’il avoit voulu se taire.

Il eut la goute à Paris

Long tems cloué sur sa couche

En y jettant les hauts cris,

Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche.

Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs

Il vivoit libre et tranquille,

On auroit perdu son temps

De le chercher à la ville.

On raconte, que jamais

Il ne pouvoit se résoudre

A charger ses pistolets

Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre.

Un jour il fut assiné

Devant son Juge ordinaire.

S’il eût été condamné

Il eut perdu son affaire.

On ne le vit jamais las,

Ni sujet à la paresse,

Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas,

On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse.

Il voyageoit volontiers,

Courant partout le Royaume

Quand il étoit à Poitiers

Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme.

Il se plaisoit en bateau,

Et soit en paix, soit en guerre,

Il alloit toujours par eau

A moins qu’il n’alla par terre.

Une fois s’étant fourré

Dans un profond marécage,

Il y seroit demeuré,

S’il n’eut pu trouver passage.

Il fuioit asses l’excês,

Mais dans les cas d’importance,

Quand il se mettoit en frais,

Il se mettoit en dépense.

Dans un superbe tournoi

Pret a fournir sa carrière,

Il parut devant le Roi,

Il n’etoit donc pas derrière.

Monté sur un cheval noir,

Les Dames le reconnurent,

Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir,

A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent.

Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux,

Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre

Il ne renversa que ceux

Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre.

C’etoit un homme de cœur

Insatiable de gloire;

Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur

Il remportoit la victoire.

Les places qu’il attaquoit

A peine osoient se défendre,

Et jamais il ne manquoit

Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre.

Un devin pour deux testons

Lui dit d’une voix hardie,

Qu’il mourroit de là les monts,

S’il mourrait en Lombardie.

Il y mourut ce Heros,

Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute;

Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos,

Aussitot il ne vit goute.

Il fut par un triste sort,

Blessé d’une main cruelle:

On croit, puisqu’il en est mort,

Que la plaie etoit mortelle.

Regretté de ses soldats,

Il mourut digne d’envie

Et le jour de son trépas

Fut le dernier de sa vie.

J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits

Qui contiennent son histoire,

Qu’il iroit en Paradis

S’il etoit en Purgatoire.

Some verses of this song were translated, and published in The Mirror, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original.

The Happy Man.

La Gallisse now I wish to touch,

Droll air! if I can strike it,

I’m sure the song will please you much;

That is, if you should like it.

La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,

Not used to any dainty,

When he was born—but could not want,

As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,

He always was well-bred,

And never used a hat to wear,

But when ’twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,

Just of his father’s fashion;

And never quarrels broil’d his blood,

Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent,

He kept with care each high day,

And Holy Thursday always spent,

The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,

I just presume to think it;

For ere its flavour he could tell,

He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,

Though food would make him gross;

And never any physic took,

But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain

The ladies so adore;

For many followed in his train,

Whene’er he walk’d before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair

In golden ringlets shone;

And no one could with him compare,

If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,

But every one allows,

That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse

No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,

The learned all declare;

And it was his decision wise,

No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,

Amuse, and much delight.

He prov’d that dimness of the eyes

Was hurtful to the sight.

They lik’d him much—so it appears,

Most plainly—who preferred him;

And those did never want their ears,

Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, ’tis true,

And then he must be wrong;

But none had found it out, he knew,

If he had held his tongue.

Whene’er a tender tear he shed,

T’was certain that he wept;

And he would lay awake in bed,

Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew

His very high renown;

Yet no opponents he o’er-threw,

But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head—

What hero e’re fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead,

They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,

It closed his every strife;

For that sad day that sealed his death,

Deprived him of his life.

——:o:——

Ménage introduces Le Chanson de la Galisse without any other explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson” written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice. And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in his Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice; careless of attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only recollections of heroic and military virtue.

Concerning this Chanson de la Palice there was a long article in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, as far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted:—

“Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable details concerning the habits and character of this great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:—

‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear

The song of La Palice;

It surely will delight you all,

Provided that it please,’

Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy.

‘La Palice but little wealth

To his renown could bring;

And when abundance was his lot,

He lacked no single thing.’

Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais.

‘He was versed in all the games

Played at the academy;

And never was unfortunate

When he won the victory.’

Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen.

‘To do and dare in his career,

He readily inclined;

And when he stood before the king,

He was not, sure, behind.

Fate dealt to him a cruel blow.

And stretched him on the ground;

And ’tis believed that since he died,

It was a mortal wound.

His death was sore and terrible,

Upon a stone his head;

He would have died more easily

Upon a feather bed.’

Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth,

‘Deplored and envied by his braves,

He shut his eyes to strife;

And we are told his day of death

Was the last of his life.’

——:o:——

The Right and Marvellous History of

John Smith.

John Smith he was a guardsman bold,

A stouter never fought;

He would have been a grenadier,

But he was one foot short.

But to a man of John Smith’s mind

The love of power had charms;

So when his captain ordered him,

John Smith order’d his arms.

An active, bustling blade was he,

At drill and eke at mess,

Who never thought to stand at ease

When Captains called out “dress,”

Attentive always to the word,

It never was his wont

To turn his eyes or right or left—

When Captains cried “eyes front!”

Though he was ever thought correct,

Once, during an assault,

He ne’er advanced a single foot—

’Cause he was told to halt.

But still he was not coward called,

Why,—we can soon detect;

His foes all fell dead at his feet,—

When his shots took effect.

But tired of knapsack and of gun

And firing in platoons,

The infantry he quitted when—

He entered the dragoons.

His saddle now became his home,

His horse and he seemed one;

And he was ne’er known to dismount,—

Unless he first got on.

How brave and bold a man he was,

From one small fact is clear;

Whole regiments fled before him when,—

He followed in their rear.

He was a steady soldier then.

And sober too, of course,

And ne’er into a tap-room went,—

Mounted upon his horse.

In fact his conduct was so good,

His Captains all confess

He never got into a scrape,—

Though always in a mess.

Though as to what fights he’d been in

Men differed,—none denied

That the last battle he e’er fought

Was that in which he died.

The soldiers there who saw him fall,

Exclaimed, as with one breath,

“Unless his wound’s a mortal one,

It will not cause his death.”

Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s

Nought but the truth did tell;

But this none ever stopped to read,

Who had not learn’d to spell.

“Stop, passenger, and weep;—one tear

To him you can’t refuse,

Who stood—high in his regiment,

And five feet in his shoes.”

The Comic Magazine, 1834.

A History.

There was a man, so legends say,

And he—how strange to tell!—

Was born upon the very day,

Whereon his birthday fell.

He was a baby first. And then

He was his parents’ joy;

But was a man soon after, when

He ceased to be a boy.

And when he got to middle life,

To marry was his whim;

The self-same day he took a wife,

Some woman wedded him.

None saw him to the other side

Of Styx by Charon ferried;

But ’tis conjectured that he died

Because he has been buried.

Tom Hood, the younger.

The Century Magazine for November, 1883, contained an Elegy on Mrs. Grimes, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize.

——:o:——

Description of an Author’s Bed-Chamber.

Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign.

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;

A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray,

That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay;

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:

The Royal game of goose was there in view,

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;

The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,

And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face:

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d,

And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;

A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay

A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

Oliver Goldsmith.

Beauties of the Great Masters.

The Street Artist.

Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way,

Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay;

Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain,

Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane;

There on a wintry morning, clad in rags,

The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags—

A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks,

Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks;

And o’er the pavement—green, and blue, and red—

In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread;

Maxims of charity were there in view,

And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew,

Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice),

And great Napoleon showed his well-known face—

The morn was cold—he takes with down-cast eye

The offerings of the pitying passers-by—

How changed the scene, when, to his home returned,

He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned—

With steaks and beer his vigour is restored,

And crack companions grace his festive board—

He dons a coat—his rags he throws away—

A swell by night—a beggar all the day.

The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.

The Doomed Village.

A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.

“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,”

Could thy true Poet visit earth again,

How would his patriot spirit grieve to see

A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee!

The decent church abandoned to the owl,

The ruined parsonage, the roofless school,

The village of its preacher’s voice bereft,

The little flock without a shepherd left,

Without “the man to all the country dear,”

Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer;

“Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

Still in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.”

Will then the State suppress the godly man,

And bid him buy his dwelling if he can,

That hospitable roof and open door

Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor,

Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid

Which pious ages gifts to God had made,

Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost,

His faith unaided and his altar lost,

To quit for distant lands his long-loved home,

Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome?

Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust

That Royal womanhood will still be just?

Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown,

And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?

The man of State who wants a heart to feel

Wants that which most concerns the public weal;

No nice distinction will he stoop to make

Between the power to seize, and right to take.

“The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we

Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.”

False allegations then a pretext yield;

And Ahab takes possession of the field.

Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind;

No law can fix him, and no treaty bind;

He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal,

And bids him trust in voluntary zeal,

Go beg the bread that has been all his own,

Along a road untravelled and unknown,

Ardent alike to pare a Church away,

And lay a tax for charities to pay.

Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan?

Whither are Equity and Pity flown?

Are all the virtues melted down in one,

Of neutral colour much resembling none?

A large, loose, Liberality of mind,

True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind.

Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known,

And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne;

Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right,

And Policy disdained to side with spite,

Not hounding on the envious pack which pant

To tear away the bone they do not want,

Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up,

As if they all still mantled in the cup,

And loved by antiquated tales to shew,

How Britain always has been Erin’s foe;

Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief,

And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.

Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired,

By many hearts revered, by all admired;

In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone;

Will Erin cease to claim them for her own?

Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name,

Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame?

Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot,

With the blest book he gave the Irish cot?

Will it grate harshly on her altered ear,

Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear?

Will she no longer boast that God had given

“To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?”

Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been,

The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen?

Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart?

Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart,

The signs and records of an alien band,