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.

VOLUME VI.

CONTAINING PARODIES OF

A. C. Swinburne.   G. R. Sims.   Robert Browning.

F. Locker-Lampson.   Austin Dobson.   Dante G. Rossetti.

OSCAR WILDE.   J. DRYDEN.   A. POPE.   MARTIN F. TUPPER.

Ballades, Rondeaus, Villanelles, Triolets.

NURSERY RHYMES AND CHILDREN’S SONGS.

PARODIES AND POEMS IN PRAISE OF TOBACCO.

PROSE PARODIES.

SLANG, FLASH, AND CANT SONGS.

RELIGIOUS AND POLITICAL PARODIES.

Bibliography of Parody, and Dramatic Burlesques

Some things are very good, pick out the best,

Good wits compiled them, and I wrote the rest;

If thou dost buy it, it will quit the cost,

Read it, and all thy labour is not lost.

John Taylor, the Water Poet.

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

1889.

PREFACE.

t is now a little more than six years since this publication was commenced, and the completion of the Sixth Volume enables me to say that nearly every Parody of literary merit, or importance, has been mentioned in its pages, whilst some thousands of the best have been given in full.

To form such a collection required not only an intimate knowledge of English Poetical Literature, but involved the reference to many very rare and scarce books, English, American, and Colonial.

I beg to offer my sincere thanks to the Authors who kindly permitted their copyright poems to be inserted in this volume, particularly to F. Locker-Lampson, Esq., and G. R. Sims, Esq., as well as to the following gentlemen, for copies of Parodies and other information they have afforded—Messrs. Cuthbert Bede, G. H. Brierley, of Cardiff; F. W. Crawford, T. F. Dillon Croker, Frank Howell, J. H. Ingram, Walter Parke, F. B. Perkins, of San Francisco; C. H. Stephenson, C. H. Waring, and Gleeson White.

In nearly every case the permission of the authors has been obtained for the re-publication of their Parodies; in the few instances where this was not done, it was owing to the impossibility of finding the author’s address.

During the progress of the work, some further Parodies appeared of Authors already dealt with, it is proposed to include these in a supplementary volume, which will be published at some future date.

It is believed that the ample Bibliographical information relating to Parodies and Burlesques contained in this volume will be specially useful to Librarians, Managers of Penny Readings, and Professors of Elocution.

Editors of Provincial Papers who offer prizes for Literary compositions should be on their guard against unscrupulous persons who copy Parodies from this Collection, and send them in as original compositions.

In much of the compilation, and especially those portions requiring the exercise of taste, and in the somewhat dreary process of proof reading, I have been greatly assisted by my wife, whose cheerful co-operation in all my labours adds just the zest which renders Life worth living.

Whilst bidding my subscribers Farewell, I wish to add that the subject of Parodies will continue to engage my attention, and that I shall always be grateful for any information, or examples, that may be sent to me, addressed to the care of Messrs. Reeves and Turner.

WALTER HAMILTON.

Christmas, 1889.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

r. Swinburne, son of Admiral Charles Henry Swinburne, and grandson of Sir John Edward Swinburne, sixth baronet, was born in 1838, and educated first at Eton, and afterwards at Oxford.

Despite his ancient pedigree, his aristocratic connections, and his university education, the early writings of Mr. A. C. Swinburne, both in prose and verse, were coloured by Radical opinions of the most advanced description. Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth and Southey commenced thus, with results which should have taught him how unwise it is for a poet, who wishes to be widely read, to descend into the heated atmosphere of political strife.

The Undergraduate Papers, published by Mr. Mansell, Oxford, 1857-8, contained some of Mr. Swinburne’s earliest poems, these were followed by “Atalanta in Calydon,” “Chastelard,” and “Poems and Ballads.”

It will be readily understood that only a few brief extracts can be given from Mr. Swinburne’s poems, sufficient merely to strike the key notes of the Parodies.

THE CREATION OF MAN.

Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man

Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;

Pleasure, with pain for leaven!

Summer, with flowers that fell;

Remembrance fallen from heaven,

And madness risen from hell;

Strength without hands to smite:

Love that endures for a breath;

Night, the shadow of light,

And life the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand

Fire, and the falling of tears,

And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years:

And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the labouring earth;

And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth;

And wrought with weeping and laughter,

And fashioned with loathing and love.

With life before and after,

And death beneath and above,

For a day and a night and a morrow,

That his strength might endure for a span

With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

For the winds of the north and the south

They gathered as into strife;

They breathed upon his mouth,

They filled his body with life;

Eyesight and speech they wrought

For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labour and thought,

A time to serve and to sin;

They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight,

And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.

His speech is a burning fire;

With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death;

He weaves, and is clothed with derision;

Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.

*  *  *  *  *

A. C. Swinburne.

American Parody.

Before the beginning of years,

There went to the making of man

Nine tailors with their shears,

A coupe and a tiger and span,

Umbrellas and neckties and canes,

An ulster, a coat, and all that—

But the crowning glory remains,

His last best gift was his hat.

And the mad hatters took in hand

Skins of the beaver, and felt,

And straw from the isthmus land,

And silk and black bear’s pelt:

And wrought with prophetic passion,

Designed on the newest plan,

They made in the height of fashion

The hat for the wearing of man.

A Poet’s Valentine.

Before the beginning of post

There came to the making of love

Rhyme and of follies a host;

Ducks with a dart and a dove;

Flow’rs with initials beneath,

Cupid conceal’d in a cell,

Lovers alone on a heath.

A Parson pulling a bell.

Follies all fetched afar,

Mirth for a maid and a man,

Jokes that jingle and jar,

And lines refusing to scan.

And still with the change of things

The annual craze comes back

With knocks and riotous rings

From the post piled up with a pack.

Still letters of love and laughter,

And verse in various time,

With roars that reach to the rafter,

And sheets of scurrilous rhyme.

Of old we counted our money

And played but a note for a kiss,

But now we send hampers of honey

And boxes of boisterous bliss.

Fun. February 15, 1868.

Shilling Dreadfuls.

“A nervous and well red-wigged gentleman, Mr. Allburnon-Charles Swingbun, ran excitedly to our rescue, and rhapsodically chaunted the following chorus from his ‘Atlas in Paddington’:

“Now in the railway years

There come to the making of books

Crime with its gift of fears,

Dream with mesmeric looks,

Nihilist Czar-abhorrence,

Acres of ‘snowy sward,’

Ouida, bottled in Florence,

And Broughton in Oxenforde;

Length, to deserve twelve pence;

Plot, to atone for pith;

Not a shadow of sense,

And boys the shadows of Smith.

And the tourist takes in hand

Paper with creasy back,

And a type he can understand,

As he sways with his rolling rack,

And froth and drift of the French,

And mirth that is meet to sell,

And bodies of things that drench

The diversions of Max O’Rell.

They are wrought with weeping for laughter,

And in fashion for chap and cove,

With Life before and after,

And Truth beneath and above.

For a day, for a night, for a nuisance

That the novice may fling his flukes,

And the publisher reap his usance—

The ‘Shillingsworth’ plague of books.”

Christmas Number of The World. 1885.

A chorus in “Atalanta in Calydon” commences:—

“For winter’s rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins;

The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins.”

This passage was thus parodied by Mr. Austin Dobson:—

“For Mayfair’s balls and ballets are over,

And all the ‘Season’ of drums and dins;

The maids dividing lover and lover,

The wight that loses, the knight that wins;

And last month’s life is a leaf that’s rotten,

And flasks are filled and game bags gotten,

And from green underwood and cover

Pheasant on Pheasant his flight begins.”

——:o:——

The peculiar metre in which “Dolores” and the Dedication of the “Poems and Ballads” Volume are written, although it invites parody, is difficult to imitate successfully. The ending line of each stanza abruptly cut short is a trick in composition which few but Mr. Swinburne himself have thoroughly mastered.

The following stanzas from the Dedication will enable readers to perceive how closely they have been parodied by Mr. Pollock.

The sea gives her shells to the shingle,

The earth gives her streams to the sea;

They are many, but my gift is single,

My verses, the first-fruits of me.

Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf,

Cast forth without fruit upon air;

Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf

Blown loose from the hair.

*  *  *  *  *

Though the world of your hands be more gracious

And lovelier in lordship of things,

Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious

Warm heaven of her imminent wings;

Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,

For the love of old loves and lost times,

And receive in your palace of painting

This revel of rhymes.

*  *  *  *  *

Though the many lights dwindle to one light,

There is help if the heaven has one;

Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight,

And the earth dispossessed of the sun,

They have moonlight and sleep for repayment

When refreshed as a bride, and set free,

With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,

Night sinks on the sea.

“Dedication to J. S.”

This parody, dedicated to the notorious “John Stiles,” of the old law-books, was written by Mr. Pollock, and originally appeared in The Pall Mall Gazette. It has since been included in a small volume (published by Macmillan & Co., London, 1875) entitled “Leading Cases done into English,” by an apprentice of Lincoln’s Inn.

When waters are rent with commotion

Of storms, or with sunlight made whole,

The river still pours to the ocean

The stream of its effluent soul;

You, too, from all lips of all living

Of worship disthroned and discrowned,

Shall know by these gifts of my giving

That faith is yet found.

By the sight of my song-flight of cases

That bears on wings woven of rhyme

Names set for a sign in high places

By sentence of men of old time;

From all counties they meet and they mingle,

Dead suitors whom Westminster saw;

There are many, but your name is single,

The flower of pure law.

When bounty of grantors was gracious

To enfeoff you in fee and in tail,

The bounds of your land were made spacious

With lordship from Sale unto Dale;

Trusts had you, and services loyal,

Lips sovereign for ending of strife,

And the names of the world’s names most royal

For light of your life.

Ah desire that was urgent to Romeward,

And feet that were swifter than fate’s,

And the noise of the speed of them homeward

For mutation and fall of estates!

Ah the days when your riding to Dover

Was prayed for and precious as gold,

The journeys, the deeds that are over,

The praise of them told.

But the days of your reign are departed,

And our fathers that fed on your looks

Have begotten a folk feeble-hearted,

That seek not your name in their books;

And against you is risen a new foeman,

To storm with strange engines your home,

We wax pale at the name of him Roman,

His coming from Rome.

*  *  *  *  *

Yet I pour you this drink of my verses,

Of learning made lovely with lays,

Song bitter and sweet that rehearses

The deeds of your eminent days;

Yea, in these evil days from their reading

Some profit a student shall draw,

Though some points are of obsolete pleading,

And some are not law.

Though the Courts that were manifold dwindle

To divers Divisions of one,

And no fire from your face may rekindle

The light of old learning undone;

We have suitors and briefs for our payment,

While so long as a Court shall hold pleas,

We talk moonshine, with wigs for our raiment,

Not sinking the fees.

This “J. S.” was a mythical person introduced for the purposes of illustration, and constantly met with in old law books and reports. His devotion to Rome is shown by his desperate attempts to get there in three days: “If J. S. shall go to Rome in three days,” was then a standing example of an impossible condition, which modern science has robbed of most of its point.

——:o:——

THE BALLAD OF BURDENS.

This poem will be found on page 144 of Mr. Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads (first series). It is one of his best known ballads, and in 1879 it was chosen by the editor of The World as the model on which to found parodies describing the wet and gloomy summer of that year.

The successful poems in the competition were printed in The World, July 16, 1879. The first prize was won by a well known London Architect, the second by a Dublin gentleman who has since published several amusing Volumes of light poems.

First Prize.

A burden of foul weathers. Dim daylight

And summer slain in some sad sloppy way,

And pitiless downpour that comes by night,

And watery gleam that has no heart by day,

And change from gray to black, from black to gray,

And weariness that doth at each repine;

Grief in all work, and pleasure in no play—

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of vain blossoms. This is sore

A burden of false hope in fruit-bearing:

Upon thy strawberry-bed, behold, threescore—

Threescore dead blooms for one that’s ripening;

And if that one to fulness thou dost bring,

Thy shuddering lips the scanty feast decline,

For ’tis a pallid and insipid thing—

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of set phrases. Thou shalt hear

The same drear murmurs breathed from every side:

‘Something is wrong with the Gulf Stream, I fear.’

‘Through cycle wet the decade now doth glide.’

‘The sun is “spot”-less, and ashamed would hide.’

Dull ign’rance with long words did aye combine!

And thou shalt half believe and half deride

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of lost leisure. Thou shalt grieve

By rain-vexed stream, drenched moor, or seashore dead;

And say at night, ‘Would I had had no leave!’

And say at dawn, ‘Would that my leave were sped!’

The water of affliction and the bread

For food and for attire shall then be thine,

Goloshed beneath, umbrellaed overhead,

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of cold hearthstones. Thou shalt see

Pale willow shreds and gold above the green;

And as the willow so thy face shall be,

And no more as the thing before-time seen.

And thou shalt say of sunshine, ‘It hath been,’

And, chilling, watch the chilly light decline;

And shivering-fits shall take thy breath between

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of sad sayings. In that day

Thou shalt tell all thy summers o’er, and tell

Thy joys and thy delights in each, and say

How one was calm and one was changeable,

And sweet were all to hear and sweet to smell;

But now of passing hours scarce one doth shine

Of twenty. In the rest deep gloom doth dwell.

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of mixed seasons. Snow in spring,

Thaw, and then frost, with each its miseries;

No summer, though the days be shortening;

No autumn-promise from the fields and trees;

With sad face turned towards Christmas, that foresees

Huge bills for fuel, (and yet for fires doth pine;)

Rheumatics, pleurisy, and lung-disease,

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of umbrellas. In thy sight

Dawn’s gray or vesper’s red may promise much,

Yet shalt thou never venture day nor night

Without that ‘little shadow’ in thy clutch.

Horn of rhinoceros and ebon crutch

Shall unmolested in their stand recline;

Thy trusty Penang shall forget thy touch,

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

The burden of sham gladness. In desire

(The substance lost) for shadows of delight,

Though underfoot the trodden lawn be mire,

Tea, tennis, and Terpsichore invite.

Go, then! and let thy face with smiles be dight,

To hollow joy’s ordeal thyself resign

Till dreary daylight yield to drearier night,

Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

L’ENVOY.

Brave hearts, and ye whom hope yet quickeneth,

Hope on; next summer may perchance be fine.

The life grows short, and soon will come the death

Anni Salutis eighteen seventy-nine.

Ziegelstein. (Goymour Cuthbert.)

Second Prize.

The burden of strange seasons. Rain all night,

Blown-rain and wind co-mingling all the day;

Perchance we say the morrow will be bright;

But lo, the morrow is as yesterday:

With sullen skies and sunsets cold and gray,

With lights reverse, the heavy hours retire;

And so the strange sad season slips away—

I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire.

The burden of rheumatics. This is sore

Damp, and east wind maketh it past bearing;

When thy life’s span has stretched to threescore,

No rest hast thou at dawn or evening.

The shivering in thy bones, the shivering

In all thy marrows through this season dire,

Makes summer seem a shameful wretched thing—

For God’s love put fresh coals upon the fire.

The burden of dead apples. Lo, their doom,

Decay and blight upon the tender trees,

All fruit made fruitless, blossom bloomless bloom

An eastern wind of many miseries.

Naught has survived save pale-green gooseberries,

The food in fools, of fools, who such desire.

God wot, no lack have we of fooleries—

I prithee put fresh coals upon the fire.

The burden of bad harvests. For the gods,

Who change the springing corn from green to red,

Have scourged us for our sins with many rods,

And left our grain and oil ungarnerèd.

The market-men heap ashes on their head,

And cry aloud and rend their best attire;

The gods are just, prayers are unanswerèd—

I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire.

The burden of lost peaches. Ah, my sweet,

This year I seek them in the sunny South,

To press them to thy sharp white tooth to eat,

To kiss thy amorous hair and curled-up mouth.

Lust and desire are dust and deadly drouth,

For lust is dust and deadly drouth desire,

And time creeps over all with wingèd feet—

For love’s sake put fresh coals upon the fire.

The burden of dull colours. Thou shalt see

Strange harmonies in brown and olive-green,

In curious costumes fashioned cunningly,

And all unlike the things in summer seen;

And thou shalt say of summer, it hath been.

Or if unconsciously thou wouldst inquire

What these my mournful music-measures mean,

I bid thee heap fresh coals upon the fire.

L’ENVOY.

Tourists and ye whom Cook accomp’nies,

Heed well before from him ye tickets hire—

This season is a mist of miseries;

So once more heap fresh coals upon the fire.

Floreant-Lauri (J. M. Lowry).

This parody was afterwards included in A Book of Jousts, edited by James M. Lowry. London, Field and Tuer.

Ballade of Cricket.

The burden of long fielding: when the clay

Clings to thy shoon, in sudden shower’s down-pour,

And running still thou stumblest; or the ray

Of fervent suns doth bite and burn thee sore,

And blind thee, till, forgetful of thy lore,

Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a skyer,

And lose a match the gods cannot restore—

This is the end of every man’s desire!

The burden of loose bowling: when the stay

Of all thy team is collared—swift or slower—

When bowlers break not in the wonted way

And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore;

When length-balls shoot no more, ah! never more,

And all deliveries lose their wonted fire,

When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—

This is the end of every man’s desire!

The burden of free hitting; slog away,

Here shalt thou make a five, and there a four.

And then thy heart unto thy heart shall say

That thou art in for an exceeding score;

Yea, the loud Ring, applauding thee shall roar.

And thou to rival Hornby shalt aspire,

And lo! the Umpire gives thee “leg before.”

This is the end of every man’s desire!

ENVOY.

Alas, yet rather on youth’s hither shore

Would I be some poor player, on scant hire,

Ahan King among the old, who play no more.

This is the end of every man’s desire.

A. L.

St. James’s Gazette. June 27, 1881.

Ballade of Cricket.

(To T. W. Lang.)

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!

Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,”

And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say,

That thou art in for an uncommon score.

Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,

And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire,

When low, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”—

“This is the end of every man’s desire!”

The burden of much bowling, when the stay

Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower,

When “bailers” break not in their wonted way,

And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore.

When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,

When all deliveries lose their former fire,

When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—

“This is the end of every man’s desire!”

The burden of long fielding, when the clay

Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour,

And running still thou stumblest, or the ray

Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,

And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,

Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer”

And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—

“This is the end of every man’s desire!”

Envoy.

Alas, yet liefer on youth’s hither shore

Would I be some poor Player on scant hire

Than king among the old who play no more,—

“This is the end of every man’s desire!”

Andrew Lang.

This second Ballade of Cricket was included in a collection of “Ballades and Rondeaus” edited by Mr. Gleeson White, and published by Walter Scott, London, 1887.

A Ballad of Burdens.

The burden of Old Women. They delight

In bulky bundles, always in the way;

In ’busses close they wedge you tight at night,

In railway trains they jam you up by day.

Plump dames with pulpy cheeks and locks of grey,

In weariness they waddle, puff, perspire.

To banish them for ever one would say,

This must be every busy man’s desire.

*  *  *  *  *

The burden of Sad Colours. Thou shalt see

Gold tarnished, ghostly grey, and livid green,

And lank and languorous thy face must be

To harmonise with the lugubrious scene.

And thou shalt say of scarlet, “It have been,”

And sighing of old tints and tones shalt tire.

To bring back brightness and to banish spleen,

This must be every cheerful man’s desire.

The burden of Smart Sayings. In this day

All wish as cynic wits to bear the bell.

Men mock at honour, justice, love, and say

The end of life “good stories” is to tell.

The cad’s coarse jest, the cackle of the swell

Are much alike, things that the most admire.

To patter slang and tell side-splitters well,

This is the end of every fool’s desire.

The burden of Bad Seasons. Rain in Spring,

Chill rain and wind among the budding trees,

A Summer of grey storm-clouds gathering,

Damp Autumn one dull mist of miseries,

With showers that soak, and blasts that bite and freeze;

A drenching Winter with north-easters dire.

To make an end of seasons such as these,

This must be every suffering man’s desire.

The burden of Strange Crazes. Woman’s right

To throng the polls, and join the spouting bands;

Theosophy and astral bodies, sleight

Of cunning jugglers from far foreign lands;

Buddhistic bosh which no one understands,

A thousand fads that ’gainst good sense conspire.

To gag the crotcheteers and tie their hands,

This must be every sober man’s desire.

L’Envoy.

Donkeys, and ye whom frenzy quickeneth,

Heed well this rhyme. Life’s many burdens tire.

To lighten them a little, ere our death,

This must be every kindly man’s desire.

Punch. August 7, 1886.

——:o:——

Parodies of
DOLORES.

Pain and Travel.

Perpetual swaying of steamers,

Oh, terrible tumble of tides—

More dear than the drowsing of dreamers,

Who ramble by rustic road-sides!

Oh, lips that are pale with the anguish,

Let me see you again and again;

They are yours when so seasick they languish,

Our Lady of Pain!

I gloat on the grins and the groaning,

The torments that torture—not kill:

And music to me is the moaning

Of travellers terribly ill.

A rapture I cannot unravel,

Their throes set a-thrill in my brain:

These—these are my pleasures of travel,

Our Lady of Pain!

And on landing I lose not the longing,

That mingles my manhood with mud:

For the merry mosquitos come thronging,

With lips that laugh blithely in blood:

And fleas, with their kisses that burn me,

Bite till cruel red mouths show the stain—

Into poesy passionate turn me,

Our Lady of Pain!

And the donkeys Egyptian and spiteful

Shall share in the shame of my hymns,

For the jolting that brands the delightful

Dark bruises on delicate limbs.

And the Alps shall be ranked with the asses

For the fracture, the frostbite, the sprain,

And the mangling of flesh in crevasses,

Our Lady of Pain!

And if—leaving me, though, unshattered—

An accident fell should betide,

And the train that I ride in is scattered

In ruin on every side—

Dislocations and discolourations,

And gush of bright gore, not in vain

Shall awake in me languid sensations,

Our Lady of Pain!

Thus I roam through the universe vasty,

O’er mountain, vale, meadow, and wood;

And I venerate all that is nasty,

And gird against all that is good;

In the mire my delight is to linger,

Although I to the heights might attain:

Aut you don’t catch me scratching my finger,

Our Lady of Pain!

Fun. October 12, 1867.

My Lady Champagne.

Wayward, soft, luscious, and tender,

Lightsome, and spotless from stain,

Graceful of figure and slender,

Decked with a golden crown’s splendour—

Our Lady Champagne.

Brilliantly sparkling and creaming,

Haughty and lovely and vain,

Gay ’midst the froth lightly beaming,

Swift o’er the crystal edge streaming—

Our Lady Champagne.

Bubbling and seething and springing,

Solace and soother of pain,

Joys of an outer world bringing,

Sweets to the air gaily flinging—

Our Lady Champagne.

Proud in the depth of deep scorning,

Haughty and grand with disdain,

Rosy as soft clouds at dawning,

Fresh as the breeze of the morning—

Our Lady Champagne.

Kisses seductive in greeting,

Falling like soft summer rain,

Rapturous bliss of lips meeting,

Sighing a woe at retreating—

Our Lady Champagne.

Frothy, light, bubbly and beady,

Life to the overworked brain;

Beer for the humble and needy,

Wine for the wealthy and greedy—

Our Lady Champagne!

Judy. May 26, 1880.

The Southern Cross.

A Frustration.

Four stars on Night’s brow, or Night’s bosom,

Whichever the reader prefers;

Or Night without either may do some,

Each one to his taste or to hers.

Four stars—to continue inditing,

So long as I feel in the vein—

Hullo! what the deuce is that biting?

Mosquitos again!

Oh glories not gilded but golden,

Oh daughters of Night unexcelled,

By the sons of the North unbeholden,

By our sons (if we have them) beheld;

Oh jewels the midnight enriching,

Oh four which are double of twain!

Oh mystical—bother the itching!

Mosquitos again!

You alone I can anchor my eye on,

Of you and you only I’ll write,

And I now look awry on Orion,

That once was my chiefest delight.

Ye exalt me high over the petty

Conditions of pleasure and pain,

Oh Heaven! Here are these maladetti

Mosquitos again!

The poet should ever be placid.

Oh vex not his soul or his skin!

Shall I stink them with carbolic acid?

It is done and afresh I begin.

Lucid orbs!—that last sting very sore is;

I am fain to leave off, I am fain;

It has given me uncommon dolores—

The Latin for pain.

Not quite what the shape of a cross is—

A little lop-sided, I own—

Confound your infernal proboscis,

Inserted well nigh to the bone!

Queen-lights of the heights of high heaven,

Ensconced in the crystal inane—

Oh me, here are seventy times seven

Mosquitos again.

Oh horns of a mighty trapezium!

Quadrilatoral area, hail!

Oh bright is the light of magnesium!—

Oh hang them all, female and male!

At the end of an hour of their stinging,

What shall rest of me then, what remain?

I shall die as the swan dieth, singing,

Mosquitos again!

Shock keen as the stroke of the leven!

They sting, and I change as a flash

From the peace and the poppies of heaven

To the flame and the firewood of—dash!

Oh Cross of the South, I forgot you!

These demons have addled my brain.

Once more I look upward———Od rot you!

You’re at it again.

There! stick in your pitiless brad-awl,

And do your malevolent worst!

Dine on me and when you have had all,

Let others go in for a burst!

Oh silent and pure constellation,

Can you pardon my fretful refrain?

Forgive, oh forgive my vexation—

They’re at it again!

Oh imps that provoke to mad laughter,

Winged fiends that are fed from my brow,

Bite hard! let your neighbours come after,

And sting where you stung me just now!

Red brands on it smitten and bitten,

Round blotches I rub at in vain!

Oh Crux! whatsoever I’ve written,

I’ve written in pain.

Ye chrysolite crystalline creatures,

Wan watchers the fairest afield,

Stars, and garters, are these my own features

In the merciless mirror revealed?

They are mine, even mine and none other,

And my hands how they slacken and strain!

Oh my sister, my spouse, and my mother!

I’m going insane!

From Miscellaneous Poems, by J. Brunton Stephens.

Brandy and Soda.

Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly;

My tongue feels a mouthful and more;

My senses are sluggish and sickly;

To live and to breathe is a bore.

My head weighs a ton and a quarter,

By pains and by pangs ever split,

Which manifold washings with water

Relieve not a bit.

My longings of thirst are unlawful,

And vain to console or control,

The aroma of coffee is awful,

Repulsive the sight of the roll.

I take my matutinal journal,

And strive my dull wits to engage,

But cannot endure the infernal

Sharp crack of its page.

What bad luck my soul had bedevilled,

What demon of spleen and of spite,

That I rashly went forth, and I revelled

In riotous living last night?

Had the fumes of the goblet no odour

That well might repulse or restrain?

O insidious brandy and soda,

Our Lady of Pain.

Thou art golden of gleam as the summer

That smiled o’er a tropical sod,

O daughter of Bacchus, the bummer,

A foamer, a volatile tod!

But thy froth is a serpent that hisses,

And thy gold as a balefire doth shine,

And the lovers who rise from thy kisses

Can’t walk a straight line.

I recall, with a flush and a flutter,

That orgie whose end is unknown;

Did they bear me to bed on a shutter,

Or did I reel home all alone?

Was I frequent in screams and in screeches?

Did I swear with a forcéd affright?

Did I perpetrate numerous speeches?

Did I get in a fight?

Of the secrets I treasure and prize most

Did I empty my bacchanal breast?

Did I button-hole men I despise most,

And frown upon those I like best?

Did I play the low farmer and flunkey

With people I always ignore?

Did I caricole round like a monkey?

Did I sit on the floor?

O longing no research may satiate—

No aim to exhume what is hid!

For falsehood were vain to expatiate

On deeds more depraved than I did;

And though friendly faith I would flout not

On this it were rash to rely,

Since the friends who beheld me, I doubt not,

Were drunker than I.

Thou hast lured me to passionate pastime,

Dread goddess, whose smile is a snare!

Yet I swear thou hast tempted me the last time—

I swear it; I mean what I swear!

And thy beaker shall always forebode a

Disgust ’twere not wise to disdain,

O luxurious brandy-and-soda;

Our Lady of Pain.

Hugh Howard. 1882.

Dolores.

[Miss Dolores Lleonart-y-Casanovas, M.D., has just, at the age of 19, taken her doctor’s degree at Barcelona. July, 1886.]

With dark eyes that flash like a jewel,

And red lips that flame like a flower

Capricious, coquettish and cruel,

When flirting in boudoir or bower;

So shine Spanish girls in old stories.

But thou’rt of a different strain,

Oh learned and lucky Dolores,

Our M.D. of Spain.

Thy studies commencing, sweet virgin,

At College when scarce more than seven,

Now past mistress scalpel and purge in

A full-blown Physician! Great Heaven!

Sangrados no more to our sorrow

Our veins shall deplete; the control

Of our hearts goes to girls, whence we borrow

Much hope—on the whole.

It startles us, though, the reflection

That you are not twenty to-day,

Yet our tongues may invite your inspection,

Our pulses your touch may assay.

Thou, a girlish she-Galen, arisest:

In faith thou may’st fairly feel vain,

O young among women yet wisest,

Our M.D. of Spain!

Will you “fee” in the fearless old fashion,

And dose like a horse-drenching Vet.?

Ah! it is not alone the Caucasian

Who’s nearly played out, I regret.

However, unless luck desert you,

Barcelona its fame may regain.

Let us hope Hahnemann mayn’t convert you,

Our M.D. of Spain.

(Five verses omitted.)

Punch. July 31, 1886.

Octopus.[1]

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,

Whence camest to dazzle our eyes?

With thy bosom bespangled and branded

With the hues of the seas and the skies;

Is thy home European or Asian,

Oh mystical monster marine?

Part molluscous and partly crustacean,

Betwixt and between.

Wast thou born to the sound of sea trumpets?

Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess

Of the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets,

Of the seaweed—thy mustard and cress?

Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,

Remote from reproof or restraint?

Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,

Sinburnian or Saint?

Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper

That creeps in a desolate place,

To enrol and envelop the sleeper

In a silent and stealthy embrace;

Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,

Our juices to drain and to drink,

Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus,

Indelible ink!

Oh breast, that ’twere rapture to writhe on!

Oh arms ’twere delicious to feel

Clinging close with the crush of the Python,

When she maketh her murderous meal;

In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden,

Let our empty existence escape;

Give us death that is glorious and golden,

Crushed all out of shape!

Ah thy red lips, lascivious and luscious,

With death in their amorous kiss!

Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us,

With bitings of agonised bliss!

We are sick with the poison of pleasure,

Dispense us the potion of pain;

Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure,

And bite us again!

The Light Green. Cambridge, 1872.

Procuratores.

O vestment of velvet and virtue,

O venomous victors of vice,

Who hurt men who never have hurt you,

Oh, calm, cruel, colder than ice;

Why wilfully wage ye this war? Is

Pure pity purged out of your breast?

O purse-prigging Procuratores,

O pitiless pest!

Do you dream of what was and no more is,

When fresher and freer than air?

Does it pain you, proud Procuratores,

These badges of bondage to bear?

In your youth were you greener than grass is,

And fearful of infinite fines,

Or casual, careless of classes,

Frequenters of wines?

Was it woe for a woman who jilted,

Or dread of your debts or a dun?

Or was it your nose was tip-tilted,

Or a frivolous fancy for fun?

Did duty, dark despot, decide you,

That fame to the dogs must be hurled

Or was it a whim, woe betide you,

To worry the world?

Five shillings ye fine the frail freshmen,

Five shillings, which cads call a crown,

Men caught in your merciless mesh, men

Who care not for cap or for gown.

When ye go grandly garbed in your glories,

With your coarse, callous crew of canines,

O pitiless Procuratores,

Inflictors of fines.

We have smote and made redder than roses,

With juice not of fruit nor of bud,

The truculent town’s-people’s noses,

And bathed brutal butchers in blood;

And we, all aglow with our glories,

Heard you not in the deafening din,

And ye came, O ye Procuratores,

And ran us all in.

I write not as one with no knowledge,

Unaware of your weird, wily ways,

For you’ve often inquired my college,

And fined me on subsequent days.

Oft stopped, I have stuffed you with stories,

When wandering wildly from wines;

Pawned property, Procuratores,

To find you your fines.

E. B. Iwan-Müller.

This parody originally appeared, anonymously, in “The Shotover Papers, or, Echoes from Oxford.” 1874.

A Song.

Oh, vanished benevolent Bobby!

Ah, beautiful wearisome beats,

Where rascals range, ready to rob ye,

In dim and disconsolate streets!

When I meet with a murderous nature,

And welcome thy bludgeon would be,

Two dirty hens tearing a ’tatur

Are all that I see.

In cosy recesses of kitchens,

Secure from the shrieking of slums;

Where cook’s so uncommon bewitching,

And the infinite tea kettle hums.

Yet art thou misled and mistaken,

Though served with celestial cheer,

Though feasted on liver and bacon,

And beauty and beer.

Oh, leisurely, helmeted Bobby!

Hast never with jealousy shook;

Lest Mercury, Jeames in the lobby,

Should chisel thee out of thy cook?

Ah, mark thou what mischief is hatching,

By love who doth nothing by halves;

What chance hast thou, Bobby, of matching

Those marvellous calves!

Oh, there are more perilous places

Than horrible hovering seas!

Come! Radiant the area space is

With the beams of the emerald cheese.

Thou art bold and thy uniform nobby,

But subtle are Syrens, and sweet!

Oh, fiery, melodious Bobby,

Come back to thy beat!

The Figaro. October 11, 1876.

Foam and Fangs.

O, Nymph with the nicest of noses;

And finest and fairest of forms;

Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses

That sway and that surge in the storms;

O, buoyant and blooming Bacchante,

Of fairer than feminine face,

Rush, raging as demon of Dante—

To this, my embrace!

The foam, and the fangs, and the flowers,

The raving and ravenous rage,

Of a poet as pinion’d in powers,

As condor confined in a cage!

My heart in a haystack I’ve hidden,

As loving and longing I lie,

Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden—

I gaze and I die!

I’ve wander’d the wild waste of slaughter,

I’ve sniff’d up the sepulchre’s scent,

I’ve doated on devilry’s daughter,

And murmur’d much more than I meant;

I’ve paused at Penelope’s portal,

So strange are the sights that I’ve seen,

And mighty’s the mind of the mortal,

Who knows what I mean!

From Patter Poems, by Walter Parke,

London, Vizetelly & Co., 1885.

——:o:——

A MATCH.

One of the cleverest parodies on Swinburne was written by the late Mr. Tom Hood, the younger, on the above named poem, and first appeared in Fun, whence it has frequently been copied without proper acknowledgment.

The parody will be better appreciated after reading a few stanzas of the original which, as will be observed, is written in a difficult and very uncommon metre:

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf,

Our lives would grow together

In sad or singing weather,

Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief;

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune,

With double sound and single

Delight our lips would mingle,

With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon;

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

*  *  *  *  *

If you were April’s lady,

And I were lord in May,

We’d throw with leaves for hours

And draw for days with flowers,

Till day like night were shady,