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.

“I have here only made a Nosegay of culled Flowers, and have brought little more of my own than the band which ties them.”

VOLUME IV.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

BALLADS, SONGS, and ODES.

T. HAYNES BAYLY.   ALFRED BUNN.   THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HENRY CAREY.   LEWIS CARROLL.   ELIZA COOK.

CHARLES DIBDIN.   THOMAS DIBDIN.

W. S. GILBERT.   ROBERT HERRICK.

CHARLES MACKAY.   HON. MRS. NORTON.

LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

SWINBURNE’S ODES.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. BARRY CORNWALL.

J. H. PAYNE.   R. B. SHERIDAN.   JAMES THOMSON.

IRISH SONGS.   SCOTCH SONGS.   WELSH SONGS.

MISCELLANEOUS OLD ENGLISH SONGS AND BALLADS.

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

1887.

CONTENTS

VOLUMES I., II., III., and IV. PARODIES.

Each Part may be purchased separately.

AN

INTRODUCTION

TO THE

Parodies of Popular Songs.

cting on the suggestion of numerous friends and subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my Collection to Parodies of Popular Songs and Ballads, which are probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly, Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Macaulay, Dante G. Rossetti, Robert Browning, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most amusing Parodies of the principal prose writers, Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R. James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical, and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language consisting of, or containing, Parodies and Imitations. A list of all the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with Authors’ names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the date and place of first performance, and much other information useful to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations. The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently interesting.

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not so frivolous as it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an interesting article which appeared in The Daily News (London), October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following paragraphs:—

“Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass of virtue if we are to denounce them as a ‘debasing of the moral currency.’ Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out of a parody of ‘Adam Bede.’ No legitimate fun can be got out of an honest parody of ‘Hamlet.’ Any fun that is got must be lugged in from without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general. But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ especially when the mannerisms of the actors are well hit off. To ridicule mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment. Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has not artistic qualities and a considerable share of success.”

“As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of ravens which follow Edgar Poe’s are the bird’s courtiers, not his enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not striking and original features. ‘Excelsior’ and the ‘Psalm of Life’ are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe’s parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any in the ‘Rejected Addresses.’ There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is not so certain. But authors are not so touchy as actors, as the ancients knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist in the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice.’ Greek parody probably reached its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a bard wishes to know his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself ‘Am I parodied, and how much?’ Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne’s ’Dolores’ is the parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them, dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr. William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.”

The classification of the Parodies of Songs presents some difficulties, but the following arrangement will be adopted as far as possible; Popular sentimental and amatory songs; National and Patriotic (English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch); Naval and Military; Sporting, Convivial, Social and Humorous Songs.

WALTER HAMILTON.

57, Gauden Road,
Clapham, London, S.W.
December, 1886.

——:o:——

SENT TO HEAVEN.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear.

*  *  *  *  *

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate;

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

This poem first appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, November, 1860, in 13 four-lined verses, over the initials A. A. P. (Adelaide Anne Proctor). It is now better known as The Message, and has been frequently parodied.

The Message.

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

For I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to the west,

To our pretty suburban villa,

At least five miles from here,

And my dear affectionate darling

Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her,

So tender, and loving, and sweet,

I longed for a seraph to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I gave it the clerk in the morning,

And the post was only next door,

But the stupid, forgetful fellow

Didn’t post it till half-past four.

I cried in my passionate longing,

“Has the earth no angel friend

Who will carry my love the message

My heart desires to send!”

The message at last was sent her,

And at midnight to Hyacinth Grove,

The telegraph boy brought my warning—

“Don’t keep dinner waiting, my love.”

Funny Folks. April 27, 1878.

The Message.

(Of the Future.)

I had a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best,

But I had some letters to finish,

And it couldn’t go out with the rest—

With the rest to the first post-office,

Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to call back the porter,

He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her:

Some friends I intended to treat,

And I longed for a hansom to bear it,

But there wasn’t a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide)

In the pocket which lay on my breast,

But when I went out for my luncheon

I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper,

And he twirl’d it o’er and o’er,

But his fingers were faint and weary

And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing,

“Have I got no bosom friend

Who will kindly deliver the message,

That I am so anxious to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

And I wondered all cats weren’t dead,

But I found ’twas the wind that was passing

Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings

Like a fiddle-bow over the strings,

And I thought I would send my message,

By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound it resembled my speech,

Farther than I could travel,

Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message

Had been telephoned down to my wife,

And my mind was no longer uneasy

For I knew she’d expect us at five.

Funny Folks. October 19, 1878.

I had a message to give her,

But she too early had fled;

I thought of it since we parted,

And she had gone home to bed

To rest in the highest attic,

Far up near the starry sky:

And she never could hear me calling—

Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her

(A line which I here repeat),

But I thought it would not be proper

To shout it from out the street;

So I tried to attract attention

By flinging aloft a stone,

But I only broke a window,

And left her—in haste—alone.

I gave it to “milk” next morning,

And I watched if she took it in.

But ’twas somebody else who did it

(I’d to stand the “milk” some gin).

And I cried in my passionate longing,

“Oh! is there no other way

I can get to my love the message,

And say what I have to say?”

Then I heard a sweet voice singing

Up high in the morning air;

She was cleaning the first-floor windows,

And I beckoned her down the stair.

And she came to the front door quickly—

For her mistress was not yet up—

And she said I must come that ev’ning

(For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast

(I had coffee and salted fish),

And went to my work as happy

As lover who’s got his wish;

For I knew I should give my message—

And I felt it was not too late—

I should meet her that night at supper,

So I was content to wait.

Fun. October 17, 1883.

——:o:——

“OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?”

[According to England, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt,

Sweet William wot chops treeses down?

How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote

And said he’d soon down with the Crown.

Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt,

Or a hactor hobscure and halone,

He have positive shown in a letter so gay

That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt?

His tongue it would never keep still;

And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack

To the click of the Radical mill.

Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt

And I looks for their meaning around;

For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince

That he’s artful and werry profound!

Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With its master, the Brummagem screw?

And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?—

A howling Republican crew!

I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt,

For that letter have made me feel dry:

And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben,

YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!!

England, January 24, 1885.

——:o:——

THE LOST CHORD.

The Lost Ball.

(A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne
Proctor. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Batting one day at the Oval,

I was scoring and quite at ease,

And I “placed” the bowling neatly,

Piling up twos and threes.

I know not whom we were playing

Or what was my total then,

But I struck one ball of Morley’s

Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.”

It fled in the golden sunlight

Like the devil away from psalms,

And swiftly, though long-leg fielded,

It slipped like an eel through his palms.

It quieted chaff and chatter

Like loves overcoming dears,

And raised a harmonious echo

Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen,

Simple as perfect geese,

And rolled away in the distance

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought and still seek vainly

Of the lost ball a sign,

That came from the shoulder of Morley

And travelled away from mine.

It may be some man from the gas-works

Will find it on his domain;

It may be that only next season

I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

The Lost Cord.

(Words by an Organ-grinder.
Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Andante Moderato.

Seated one day on the organ

Was my monkey, but ill at ease,

For his fingers wandered idly,

Searching for—what you please.

I know not what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming, quite,

But I dropped his cord and, quickly,

With a bound he was out of sight!

With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight,

With some clothes on his outstretched arm;

And the way that he sought to wear them

Had a touch of infinite charm.

While riot and shrieks of sorrow

Above, from a plundered wife,

Recalled the harmonious echo

Of my discordant life.

The things perplexed the monkey,

He spoilt them piece by piece:—

Animato.

I trembled away in my silence,

In fear of the dread police!

Agitato.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one last cord, and pine

For him, for the soul of my organ—

That vanished ape of mine!

Grandioso.

It may be my truant monkey

Will come with that cord again;

It may be he only decamps

When he hears the organ-men

(Repeat.)

Judy, March 3, 1880.

The Lost Voice.

Seated at Church in the winter

I was frozen in every limb,

And the village choir shrieked wildly

Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing

But while I was watching them

Our Curate began his sermon

With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”

It frightened the female portion

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,

Both maidens and matrons heard it

With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,

Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,

Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate’s life.

It linked all perplex’d diseases

Into one precious frame;

They trembled with rage if a sceptic

Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,

Stuffed him with food and wine,

They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him

With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates

Will preach in that church to them,

Will there be every time, Good Heavens!

Such fuss for a slight—Ahem!

A. H. S.

The Correct Chord.

Seated for years at the organ,

Just trying the stops and keys,

And wondering how the pedals

Might be got to work with ease:

By ear, with my notes in my pocket,

Performing—as few men can,

I struck such a chord that the organ

Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.”

It flooded the daily papers,

Like the name of a comic song,

And I felt several inches taller

As I quietly bowled along.

I think that it nettled Northcote,

Polite as he can be in strife,

Though it seemed a sensible echo

From the din of my public life.

But it brought down chaff by the cartload,

That possibly may increase;—

For till Churchill’s in with his Party,

I never shall know any peace.

But I take the whole thing calmly,

For the cord has a swell that’s fine;

And I’m glad the popular organ

Has a touch that answers mine.

And whether I stick to the Commons,—

And I certainly will if I can,—

Or go to the Peers,—no matter,

I shall still hear “that Grand, Old Man!”

Punch. March 10, 1883.

The Lost Drink.

Seated one day at a café,

I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx,

And my tongue went babbling idly

Over the names of drinks.

I knew not what I was saying,

Nor what I had uttered then;

But the garçon brought me a mixture

Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour was crimson foncé

Like the tip of a toper’s nose,

And it tickled my fever’d palate

With a touch of infinite “goes.”

It trickled down my gullet

Like oil down a red-hot pipe;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From some supernal swipe.

It linked vin rouge and choice liqueur

Into one perfect drop,

And guggled away down my gullet

As if it were loth to stop.

I have sought—but I seek it vainly—

That one lost drink divine,

Which was mixed by that garçon du café

With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance garçon

May bring me that drink again;

It may be that some day in Paris

I may utter its name. But then

I never could find that café,

And lost to mortal ken

Is that supernal boisson

Like a gift of the gods to men!

Judy. October 27, 1886.

IN THE GLOAMING.

A Parody of Lady Arthur Hill’s Song.

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

When your ways are mean and low,

And the sons of Alma Mater

Loudly come and softly go;

When you prowl around my college,

With your Bull-dogs in a row,

Will you watch for me and catch me

As you did one term ago?

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,

Think not bitterly of me!

Tho’ I tripped you up instanter,

Left you prostrate, and was free.

For my diggings were quite handy,

Five bob more could never be;

It was best to floor you thus, sir,

Worst for you, but best for me!

A. Haskett Smith.

University College, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming;”
or,
The Wailings of a Disappointed Novice.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

Don’t I curse the thoughts of thee!

Crowding ever like grim phantoms,

Haunting me unceasingly.

Oh! my heart is sad with longing,

What I dreamed will never be:

It were best to “chuck you up,” dear,

Best for you and best for me.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

When thy light burns dim and low,

And the vision of a bobby,

Sets my ruby all aglow!

When with pain my limbs are aching,

As I “hook it” awful slow,

Withering condemnations hearty

Of thy maker often flow.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

I will mount thee not in vain;

Take thee to a near relation,

“Pop thee up the spout” for gain!

Thus I’ll rid me of thy torments,

Instrument of make insane!

I have learned by sad experience,

Cycling ain’t an easy game.

“Ab Initio.”

Icycles. 1880.

More Gloamingly.

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Now our credit’s very low,

And the tax-collectors calling,

Often come and unpaid go;

Now the landlord’s asking quaintly

For the rent you know we owe,

Will you let me have some money,

As you did—once—long ago?

In the gloaming, O my darling,

Think not bitterly on me,

If we bolt away in silence,

Bilk our duns, and thus be free!

For their hearts are crushed with longing,—

Paid their bills can never be;

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

It is best to leave them thus, love,

Best for you and best for me!

Judy. March 2, 1881.

An Oxford Shooting Expedition

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

When the birds are flying low,

And the hares and wily bunnies

Swiftly come and swiftly go:

When the beaters cry, “Mark over!”

And a cock comes skimming low,

Will you blaze away, and pot me,

As you did once long ago?

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,

Think not bitterly of me,

Though I shammed that you had killed me,

And you rushed up pale to see.

For I taught you then a lesson

Which will ne’er forgotten be,

It was best to teach it roughly,

Best for all your friends and me!

A Haskett Smith, Oxford.

“In the Gloaming.”

(Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio,
South Kensington.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

When the thought of painting longer

Fills us with an untold woe;

How we think of tea, and love it,

While the shadows deeper grow!

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

We think tenderly of tea,

Till our hearts are crushed with longing

Round our steaming cups to be.

(It is only green in mem’ry,

And at times—’twixt you and me—

A malignant grocer sends us

An inferior bohea.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

Will the tea be weak? we wonder

(What has been, again may be);

But perhaps ’tis best for us, dears—

Best for you and best for me.

Helen Marion Burnside.

The Girls’ Own Paper. February 23, 1884.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs,

’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

*  *  *  *  *

Eliza Cook

My Old Arm Chair.

I loathe it, I loathe it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?

It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight

Into the dreams that I dream by night.

When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,

Where age and washing have blurred the tints,

No earthly passion can well compare

With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

I loved with a love of the noblest kind;—

Sensitive, delicate, most refined.

But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow,

And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now.

I cannot forget, though I might forgive;

My wrongs will follow me whilst I live.

But this is the memory worst to bear;—

She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

I owned a creditor—(frightful man!)

Who bored me as creditors only can.

He vaguely talked of a small amount

Which took the shape of an old account,

Twice in the week, I remember well,

He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.

If he found me without any cash to spare,

He called me names from that old arm-chair.

Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls,

Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls,

Visit that seat, and around it swarm

In every possible shape and form.

My life is a torture, a perfect curse—

My home is a dungeon, or something worse.

I shall never be happy or freed from care

Until I get rid of that old arm-chair.

From A Town Garland, by Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto & Windus, London, 1878.)

On the New Arm Chair.

(Presented to Mr. Gladstone.)

The Pleased Premier Sings:—

I love it, I love it; will Worms, now, dare

To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair?

I shall treasure it long, ’tis a genuine prize,

Of cosy make, of convenient size.

’Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links,

By memories pleasant of “forty winks.”

Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care

Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair.

I have sat in the Commons this many a day,

Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey:

Oh, the hours I have lounged, and—with trouble—smiled

Whilst Churchill cheeked or the Pats ran wild;

Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead,

And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed.

By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there

And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!

But Harcourt’s waiting, and I must go;

He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know.

Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side,

My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide.

Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek,

I should very much like to talk on for a week.

Now myself from your presence I really must tear,

But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair.

Punch. August 27, 1881.

Scene.—The House of Commons. The Ex-Speaker is discovered gazing sadly at the seat he has lately vacated. At length, satisfying himself that he is alone, he relieves his soul in song as follows;—

“I loved it, I loved it; and who would dare

To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair?

When they chose me first to its seat to rise,

I looked on it then as a precious prize,

And my heart with joy and with pride was big

When I put on my new full-bottomed wig.

I was under a spell as I first sat there,

And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair!

“And all at first happened well for me,

And my life was calm as calm could be;

The ‘Ayes’ were gentle, the ‘Noes’ were kind,

And rarely to sitting late inclined;

Whilst night after night ’twas my happy fate

To retire for my ‘chop’ at half-past eight;

To retire and return, unvexed by care,

To sit—aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair!

“But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped,

My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled:

For there came o’er the scene a parlous change,

As the new M.P.’s brought their manners strange;

Till one night, alas! was ‘Obstruction’ born,

And I knew what it was to sit till morn;

Ah! I learned what a Speaker’s strength could bear,

As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair.

“’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it now

With quivering lips and with throbbing brow;

For there full oft have I sat in vain,

Till the day has peeped through the window pane;

’Twas there I was badgered; ’twas there I heard

My solemn rulings declared absurd—

But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear

My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair.”

As the above is being softly sung, the Speaker Elect, attracted by the sound, returns to the House, and remains an unobserved listener till the conclusion of the song, when, remarking Mr. Peel’s presence, the Ex-Speaker thus addresses him:—

“Ah, ’tis well, my new successor,

Aye, ’tis meet you thus have found me

Lingering here in semi-darkness,

And addressing mournful lyrics

To the furniture about me.”

Truth. February 28, 1884.

The Old Arm-Chair.

[“A German Professor has discovered that all the woodwork about our houses has power to absorb ‘noxious juices’ while still growing in its native forest, and that when a tree becomes part of the domestic furniture, and is cut up into chairs and tables and bookshelves, it immediately begins to pour its ‘noxious juices’ out into the air of the room.”—Daily Paper.]

I dread it, I dread it! and who shall dare

To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair?

I’ve treasured it long as an antique prize,

But Science has suddenly opened my eyes;

So now I say to my startled heart

That ’twere better the chair and I should part.

Would you know my reason?—a mother sat there,

And became the prey of that old arm-chair.

In childhood’s hour I lingered near

That treacherous seat without a fear,

And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew

As she worked at her knitting the morning through,

For German savants had yet to produce

Their ghastly theory of “noxious juice,”

And my parent guessed at no cause for scare

In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair.

The doctor watched her many a day,

While she took her physic and pined away;

And it failed to strike him that p’raps her cure

Might be found in a smash of furniture.

Time passed on, and I heard with glee

That mater intended to try the sea;

But though she recovered in Brighton air,

I never suspected the old arm-chair.

I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now

With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow,

’Twas there she sickened and almost died—

Of chair—as professors sage decide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek;

But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear

To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair.

Funny Folks. May 29, 1886.

The Dentist’s Chair.

I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare

To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair?

I hated it first in my early youth,

When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth.

And many and keen are the pangs through my soul,

And the terror I feel is beyond control;

I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair,

As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair.

It has held me many and many a day,

When I fain would have been in the fields at play

And I hated the dentist when first I sat

In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.”

Years roll on and are quickly fled,

And my teeth became shattered within my head:

But I know how much the heart can bear,

When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair.

Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now,

With affright in my soul and care on my brow;

’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled;

’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed.

Say it is folly, and call me weak,

While the raging nerves puff out my cheek,

But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair,

And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair.

A. L. D.

Modern Society. April 17, 1886.

——:o:——

Song of November.

(Another parody of Eliza Cook,)

That gridiron by the mantel-piece,

Its look gives every nerve a thrill;

That thing of home begrimed with grease,

Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill.

November—month to childhood dear,

Old month of Civic feasts and sights,

To see that gridiron so near,

Fills my sad heart with home delights.

November—I remember well

The day when I to market hied,

In search of one with sprats to sell—

Sprats in which childhood might confide.

I bought them, and the savoury fish

On yonder gridiron then were broiled

Experience is a bitter dish,

I had it then—the sprats were spoiled!

Punch’s Almanac, 1846.

——:o:——

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

As several of the following parodies are rather out of date extracts only are given.

Punch to the Woods and Forests.

Lincoln, spare that tree,

Touch not a single bough,

Though in the way to be,

Oh, stand up for it now.

Still, let its shade expand,

Where, round the social pot,

The Hansom cabmen stand—

Oh, Lincoln, harm it not!

*  *  *  *  *

Thy sire, great Clumber’s King,

Thou’st certain to offend—

His son do such a thing!—

The world draws to an end

Old Laws, old Dukes, old Trees,

Delay, decay, dry-rot:

Let Peel do as he please,

But, Lincoln, harm them not!

Punch. 1846.

[While Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle, was First Commissioner of Woods and Forests, a proposal was made to cut down some of the old trees in the West-end of London, which were said to be in the way.]

The Hyde Park Corner Clock.

Gasman, light that clock,

The time I cannot see;

It can’t be more than twelve,

And yet it looks like three!

Its hands are all confused,

Its numbers none can trace:

Say, is that humble clock

Ashamed to show its face!

It can’t be very late:

True, I’ve been out to sup:

But, ho! what says the clock?

Come, Gasman, light it up.

Say, can the mist be caused

By fumes of generous wine?

Is it three-quarters past eleven,

Or is it only nine!

Is it half after twelve,

Or six, or eight, or two?

That dismal rushlight kept inside

No good on earth can do.

When I go home to bed

I’m quite afraid to knock,

If I’ve no notion of the hour—

So, Gasman light that clock.

Punch. 1846.

The “Tree of Liberty.”

Frenchman, spare that tree,

Its roots lie very low;

You’d better let it be—

Elsewhere ’twill never grow

*  *  *  *  *

Vitality, to-day,

Within it there may be,

It perishes when moved away—

So, Frenchman, spare that tree.

Punch. 1848.

An Impassioned Appeal to the Premier.

(By a very Common Councilman).

Gladstone, spare that Tree!

(Of course I means the Corporation.)

Touch not a single bough;

(That is, neither the Court of Aldermen or the Court of Common Council.)

In youth it sheltered me,

When I was bound a Prentice.)

And I’ll protect it now.

(Now that I’m a full-blown Common Councilman.)

’Twas my forefather’s hand

(A jolly long time ago, when the Saxons and Danes was here.)

That placed it near this spot;

(At the bottom of King Street, Cheapside.)

Then, Gladstone, let it stand,

(Till it’s blowed down as well as blowed up.)

Thy Ax should harm it not.

(Ax of Parlement, of course.)

Oft, when a careless child,

(Summut about 17,)

Beneath its shades I heard,

(Guildhall, of course,)

The woodnotes sweet and wild,

(But rather expensive,)

Of many a foreign bird.

(From the Italian Opera.)

My Mother kissed me there,

(In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom.)

My Father pressed my hand

(With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:)

I ask then, with a tear,

(Of course, that’s all my eye,)

To let the old Oak stand!

(Too obvious to require explanation.)

I’ve crossed the foaming wave;

(Dover to Calais—oh, Steward!)

I’ve braved the cannon-shot!

(Figuratively, at the Tower;)

While I’ve a hand to save,

(That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,)

Thy Ax shall harm it not!

(Ax of Parlement, as before.)

Punch. February 11, 1882.

“Spencer, Spare that Tree!”

[“It is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems to enjoy and thrive upon it. It is sad to think that we have Vandals paid by the public to do such irreparable, wanton mischief.”—Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting down of the old South Kensington plane tree.]

Spencer, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

For years you’ve let it be:—

Why set upon it now?

I know not whose the hand

That placed it on that spot;

But, Spencer, let it stand,

Or else you’ll get it hot!

The old familiar plane

That decks this end of town:—

Why, those are scarcely sane

Who want to cut it down.

South Kensington secures

Its end with many a joke;

But if you must have yours,—

O Spencer, spare this stroke!

When, in my childhood’s joy,

T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed;

Charles Matthews still a boy,

Grew young beneath its shade.

And later, it was here,

Ere Brompton saw its close,—

Forgive this foolish tear,

The dear old boilers rose!

So, if you’ve work in view,

Cut down—I’ll not repine—

A salary or two,

But not this tree of mine!

And though in wild dismay

Your underlings complain,—

O Spencer, cut away,

But don’t cut down my plane!

Punch. July 23, 1881.

“Childers, Spare that Coin.”

[The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine shillings in gold.]

Childers, spare that coin,

Historically grand,

Thou wouldst its tenth purloin,

But, prithee, stay thy hand.

It aye has held for me

A pure ten-shilling joy.

So, Childers, let it be,

Nor mix it with alloy.

That old familiar piece,

Whose glory and renown

Would straightway sink and cease,

If thou shouldst chip it down!

Childers, forbear this stroke,

’Gainst which we all protest;

Oh, say that when you spoke,

You only spoke in jest.

Oft, when a careless lad,

The golden chink I heard,

For I an uncle had

Who tipped me “like a bird.”

On sweetstuff, apt to smear

One’s clothes, the coin was spent;

I ask thee with a tear,

Oh, drop thy ten per cent.

My heartstrings round thee cling

Close as thy rim, old friend—

Remain a handy thing

To borrow or to lend.

Old piece, still circulate,

And, Childers, of thy grace,

Think well and hesitate,

Ere thou our coin debase.

Funny Folks. May 10, 1884.

——:o:——

THE IVY GREEN.

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o’er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made,

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,

To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously hugs and crawleth round

The rich mould of dead men’s graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,

Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,

Is the Ivy’s food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Charles Dickens.

This song first appeared in Chapter VI. of The Pickwick Papers, which were originally published in monthly parts, commencing in April, 1836. Ten years later Dickens started The Daily News, the first number of which was published in London on January 21, 1846. For many years the paper had but a struggling existence. Although Dickens only edited it for a few months, it was well known that he was interested in its success, so that the author of the following poem, whilst sneering at The Daily News, had a motive in choosing Dickens’s poem as the model for his parody.

The Daily News.

Oh! a dreary print is The Daily News,

And its life is a wonder to all.

It puts in advertisements others refuse,

But sooner or later must fall.

Its leaders are heavy, confused its page,

And dismal its general tone.

In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage

Is, when it is offered, shown.

Sent for nothing to all who choose,

A losing game is The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News began with a bang,

And was going to shut up The Times.

And twaddled that murderers never should hang,

And printed “large sympathy” rhymes.

But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed:

And still did “The People” refuse,

To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed,

In the sheets of The Daily News.

What large sums they have learnt to lose,

Who first embarked in The Daily News.

Oh! The Daily News never publishes “wants”

Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks.

Nor many announcements of ships or of sales,

But only the Whitefriars books;

Which pretty well shows what everyone knows,

By no one it ever is seen,

And soon shall we, when it ceases to be,

Forget that it ever has been.

Let it abuse or praise if it choose,

There’s nobody minds The Daily News.

The Man in the Moon. Vol. III. 1848.

Green Pea Soup.

Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green,

I for it often call;

And up it comes in a smart tureen,

When I dine in my banquet hall.

When a leg of mutton at home is boiled,

The liquor I always keep,

And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d)

A peck of peas I steep.

When boil’d till tender they have been,

I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock,

I rub with all my power;

And having returned them to the stock,

I stew them for more than an hour;

Then of younger peas I take some more,

The mixture to improve,

Thrown in a little time before,

The soup from the fire I move,

Then seldom a better soup is seen,

Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career,

How many my dishes have been!

But the one that digestion never need fear,

Is the simple old soup Pea Green.

The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,

And the turtle lose its charm;

But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,

And does not the slightest harm.

Smoking hot in a smart tureen,

A rare old soup is the true Pea Green!

Punch. 1852.

“Official Routine.”

(A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office.)

Oh, a dainty growth is Official Routine,

That crawleth o’er systems old:

With red-tape tendrils clasping keen,

And choking where they fold!

What stores have rotted, what ships decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim!

How he fettereth hand, and blindeth head,

So terrible and so trim!

For knaves and fools a sheltering screen,

Oh a glorious growth is Official Routine.

He worketh his way, with men and things,

Alike by land and sea;

And the weaker his root, the tighter he clings

By the vis inertiæ.

You may see him trailing along the ground,

O’er an army’s new-made graves;

Or barring their way that stand around

To save wrecked stores from waves.

At Balaklava all serene—

A flourishing growth is Official Routine!

Let men and ministers have their day,

And be as they had not been,

Official routine still holdeth sway,