POETICAL INGENUITIES
AND ECCENTRICITIES.
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THE NEW PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By W. H. Mallock.
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ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. Gilbert. First Series. Containing—The Wicked World, Pygmalion and Galatea, Charity, The Princess, The Palace of Truth, Trial by Jury.
ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. Gilbert. Second Series. Containing—Broken Hearts, Engaged, Sweethearts, Dan’l Druce, Gretchen, Tom Cobb, The Sorcerer, H.M.S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance.
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MELANCHOLY ANATOMISED: a Popular Abridgment of “Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.”
THE AGONY COLUMN OF “THE TIMES,” FROM 1800 TO 1870. Edited by Alice Clay.
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CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. By Henry J. Jennings.
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BALZAC’S COMÉDIE HUMAINE AND ITS AUTHOR. With Translations by H. H. Walker.
LEAVES FROM A NATURALIST’S NOTE-BOOK. By Andrew Wilson, F.R.S.E.
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Illustrated by J. G. Thomson.
⁂ Other Volumes are in preparation.
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W.
POETICAL INGENUITIES
AND
ECCENTRICITIES
SELECTED AND EDITED BY
WILLIAM T. DOBSON
AUTHOR OF “LITERARY FRIVOLITIES,” ETC.
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1882
[All rights reserved]
PREFACE.
The favourable reception of “Literary Frivolities” by the Press has led to the preparation of this work as a Sequel, in which the only sin so far charged against the “Frivolities”—that of omission—will be found fully atoned for.
Those curious in regard to the historical and literary accounts of several of the various phases of composition exemplified in this work, will find these fully enough noticed in “Literary Frivolities,” in which none of the examples were strictly original, and had been gathered from many outlying corners of the world of literature. In the present work, however, will be found a number of pieces which have not hitherto been “glorified in type,” and these have been furnished by various literary gentlemen, among whom may be named Professor E. H. Palmer and J. Appleton Morgan, LL.D., of New York. Assistance in “things both new and old” has also been given by Charles G. Leland, Esq. (Hans Breitmann), W. Bence Jones, Esq., J. F. Huntingdon, Esq. (Cambridge, U.S.); whilst particular thanks are due to Mr. Lewis Carroll for a kindly and courteous permission to quote from his works.
With regard to a few of the extracts, the difficulty of finding their authors has been a bar to requesting permission to use them; but in every case endeavour has been made to acknowledge the source whence they are derived.
CONTENTS.
| PAGE | |
| THE PARODY | [9] |
| CHAIN OR CONCATENATION VERSE | [53] |
| MACARONIC VERSE | [59] |
| LINGUISTIC VERSE | [115] |
| TECHNICAL VERSE | [146] |
| SINGLE-RHYMED VERSE | [169] |
| ANAGRAMS | [188] |
| THE ACROSTIC | [198] |
| ALLITERATIVE AND ALPHABETIC VERSE | [204] |
| NONSENSE VERSE | [214] |
| LIPOGRAMS | [220] |
| CENTONES OR MOSAICS | [224] |
| ECHO VERSES | [229] |
| WATCH-CASE VERSES | [232] |
| PROSE POEMS | [238] |
| MISCELLANEOUS | [245] |
| INDEX | [252] |
POETICAL INGENUITIES
AND
ECCENTRICITIES.
THE PARODY.
arody is the name generally given to a humorous or burlesque imitation of a serious poem or song, of which it so far preserves the style and words of the original as that the latter may be easily recognised; it also may be said to consist in the application of high-sounding poetry to familiar objects, should be confined within narrow limits, and only adapted to light and momentary occasions. Though by no means the highest kind of literary composition, and generally used to ridicule the poets, still many might think their reputation increased rather than diminished by the involuntary applause of imitators and parodists, and have no objection that their works afford the public double amusement—first in the original, and afterwards in the travesty, though the parodist may not always be intellectually up to the level of his prototype. Parodies are best, however, when short and striking—when they produce mirth by the happy imitation of some popular passage, or when they mix instruction with amusement, by showing up some latent absurdity or developing the disguises of bad taste.
The invention of this humoristic style of composition has been attributed to the Greeks, from whose language the name itself is derived (para, beside; ode, a song); the first to use it being supposed to be Hegemon of Thasos, who flourished during the Peloponnesian War; by others the credit of the invention is given to Hipponax, who in his picture of a glutton, parodies Homer’s description of the feats of Achilles in fighting with his hero in eating. This work begins as follows:
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“Sing, O celestial goddess, Eurymedon, foremost of gluttons, Whose stomach devours like Charybdis, eater unmatched among mortals.” |
The Battle of the Frogs and Mice (The “Batrachomyomachia”), also a happy specimen of the parody is said to be a travesty of Homer’s “Iliad,” and numerous examples will be found in the comedies of Aristophanes. Among the Romans this form of literary composition made its appearance at the period of the Decline, and all the power of Nero could not prevent Persius from parodying his verses. The French among modern nations have been much given to it, whilst in the English language there are many examples, one of the earliest being the parodying of Milton by John Philips, one of the most artificial poets of his age (1676-1708). He was an avowed imitator of Milton, and certainly evinced considerable talent in his peculiar line. Philips wrote in blank verse a poem on the victory of Blenheim, and another on Cider, the latter in imitation of the Georgics. His best work, however, is that from which there follows a quotation, a parody on “Paradise Lost,” considered by Steele to be the best burlesque poem extant.
The Splendid Shilling.
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“‘Sing, heavenly muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,’ A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper’s Magpie, or Town-hall[1] repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phillis, he each circling glass Wishes her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, Wretched repast! my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter chimney, or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O’er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th’ Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclep’d Brechinia, or where Vaga’s stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flows nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With looks demur, and silent pace, a dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel ascends: With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate; With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear: a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A catchpoll, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont), To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets him free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o’er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable; nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue: The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides She towering flies to her expected spoils: Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.”... |
Perhaps the best English examples of the true parody—the above being more of an imitation—are to be found in the “Rejected Addresses” of the brothers James and Horace Smith. This work owed its origin to the reopening of Drury Lane Theatre in 1812, after its destruction by fire. The managers, in the true spirit of tradesmen, issued an advertisement calling for Addresses, one of which should be spoken on the opening night. Forty-three were sent in for competition. Overwhelmed by the amount of talent thus placed at their disposal, the managers summarily rejected the whole, and placed themselves under the care of Lord Byron, whose composition, after all, was thought by some to be, if not unworthy, at least ill-suited for the occasion. Mr. Ward, the secretary of the Theatre, having casually started the idea of publishing a series of “Rejected Addresses,” composed by the most popular authors of the day, the brothers Smith eagerly adopted the suggestion, and in six weeks the volume was published, and received by the public with enthusiastic delight. They were principally humorous imitations of eminent authors, and Lord Jeffrey said of them in the Edinburgh Review: “I take them indeed to be the very best imitations (and often of difficult originals) that ever were made; and, considering their great extent and variety, to indicate a talent to which I do not know where to look for a parallel. Some few of them descend to the level of parodies; but by far the greater part are of a much higher description.” The one which follows is in imitation of Crabbe, and was written by James Smith, and Jeffrey thought it “the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author.” Crabbe himself said regarding it, that it “was admirably done.”
The Theatre.
From the same work is taken this parody on a beautiful passage in Southey’s “Kehama:”
The brothers Smith reproduced Byron in the familiar “Childe Harold” stanza, both in style and thought:
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“For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March? And what is Brutus but a croaking owl? And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch, Orlando’s helmet in Augustin’s cowl. Shakespeare, how true thine adage, ‘fair is foul!’ To him whose soul is with fruition fraught, The song of Braham is an Irish howl, Thinking is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything, and everything is nought.” |
Moore, also, was imitated in the same way, as in these verses:
From the parody on Sir Walter Scott, it is difficult to select, being all good; calling from Scott himself the remark, “I must have done this myself, though I forget on what occasion.”
A Tale of Drury Lane.
BY W. S.
Canning and Frere, the two chief writers in the “Anti-Jacobin,” had great merit as writers of parody. There is hardly a better one to be found than the following on Southey’s verses regarding Henry Martin the Regicide, the fun of which is readily apparent even to those who do not know the original:
Inscription
(For the door of the cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg,
the Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her execution).
The following felicitous parody on Wolfe’s “Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore” is taken from Thomas Hood:
Mr. Barham has also left us a parody on the same lines:
In the examples which follow, the selection has been made on the principle of giving only those of which the prototypes are well known and will be easily recognised, and here is another of Hood’s, written on a popular ballad:
Here is another upon an old favourite song:
The Bandit’s Fate.
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“He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone— I saw him but at half-price, but methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow. A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met, he wore; His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again. I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now— As he buttoned up his pocket, with a condescending bow. And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair: He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He cannot liquidate his ‘chalk,’ or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.” |
Goldsmith’s “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” has been thus parodied by Shirley Brooks:
Examples like these are numerous, and may be found in the “Bon Gaultier Ballads” of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun; “The Ingoldsby Legends” of Barham; and the works of Lewis Carroll.
One of the “Bon Gaultier” travesties was on Macaulay, and was called “The Laureate’s Journey;” of which these two verses are part:
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“‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ Thus, thus the cry began, And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured in with eldritch din. Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. ‘Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I swear, I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!’” |
It is necessary, however, to confine our quotations within reasonable limits, and a few from the modern writers must suffice. The next is by Henry S. Leigh, one of the best living writers of burlesque verse.
Only Seven.[2]
(A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.)
Mr. Swinburne’s alliterative style lays him particularly open to the skilful parodist, and he has been well imitated by Mr. Mortimer Collins, who, perhaps, is as well known as novelist as poet. The following example is entitled
“If.”
The next instance, by the same author, is another good imitation of Mr. Swinburne’s style. It is a recipe for
Salad.
The “Shootover Papers,” by members of the Oxford University, contains this parody, written upon the “Procuratores,” a kind of university police:
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“Oh, vestment of velvet and virtue, Oh, venomous victors of vice, Who hurt men who never hurt you, Oh, calm, cold, crueller than ice. Why wilfully wage you this war, is All pity purged out of your breast? Oh, purse-prigging procuratores, Oh, pitiless pest! We had smote and made redder than roses, With juice not of fruit nor of bud, The truculent townspeople’s noses, And bathed brutal butchers in blood; And we all aglow in our glories, Heard you not in the deafening din; And ye came, oh ye procuratores, And ran us all in!” |
In the same book a certain school of poets has been hit at in the following lines:
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“Mingled, aye, with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe. Ay! for ever and for ever, While the love-lorn censers sweep; While the jasper winds dissever, Amber-like, the crystal deep; Shall the soul’s delicious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Reach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss.” |
The “Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, contains many parodies, principally upon American poets, and gives this admirable rendering of Edgar A. Poe’s style:
The Promissory Note.
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“In the lonesome latter years, (Fatal years!) To the dropping of my tears Danced the mad and mystic spheres In a rounded, reeling rune, ’Neath the moon, To the dripping and the dropping of my tears. Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, (Ulalume!) In a dim Titanic tomb, For my gaunt and gloomy soul Ponders o’er the penal scroll, O’er the parchment (not a rhyme), Out of place,—out of time,— I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, (Oh, the fifty!) And the days have passed, the three, Over me! And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me! ’Twas the random runes I wrote At the bottom of the note (Wrote and freely Gave to Greeley), In the middle of the night, In the mellow, moonless night, When the stars were out of sight, When my pulses like a knell, (Israfel!) Danced with dim and dying fays O’er the ruins of my days, O’er the dimeless, timeless days, When the fifty, drawn at thirty, Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise! Fiends controlled it, (Let him hold it!) Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen; Now the days of grace are o’er, (Ah, Lenore!) I am but as other men: What is time, time, time, To my rare and runic rhyme, To my random, reeling rhyme, By the sands along the shore, Where the tempest whispers, ‘Pay him!’ and I answer, ‘Nevermore!’”[3] |
Bret Harte also has given a good imitation of Poe’s style in “The Willows,” from which there follows an extract:
Mr. Calverley is perhaps one of the best of the later parodists, and he hits off Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, Coventry Patmore, and others most inimitably. We give a couple of verses from one, a parody of his upon a well-known lyric of Tennyson’s, and few we think after perusing it would be able to read “The Brook” without its murmur being associated with the wandering tinker:
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“I loiter down by thorp and town; For any job I’m willing; Take here and there a dusty brown And here and there a shilling. ······· Thus on he prattled, like a babbling brook, Then I; ‘The sun has slept behind the hill, And my Aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.’ So in all love we parted: I to the Hall, They to the village. It was noised next noon That chickens had been missed at Syllabub Farm.” |
Mr. Tennyson’s “Home they brought her warrior dead,” has likewise been differently travestied by various writers. One of these by Mr. Sawyer is given here:
The Recognition.
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“Home they brought her sailor son, Grown a man across the sea, Tall and broad and black of beard, And hoarse of voice as man may be. Hand to shake and mouth to kiss, Both he offered ere he spoke; But she said, ‘What man is this Comes to play a sorry joke?’ Then they praised him—call’d him ‘smart,’ ‘Tightest lad that ever stept;’ But her son she did not know, And she neither smiled nor wept. Rose, a nurse of ninety years, Set a pigeon-pie in sight; She saw him eat—‘’Tis he! ’tis he!’— She knew him—by his appetite!” |
“The May-Queen” has also suffered in some verses called “The Biter Bit,” of which these are the last four lines:
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“You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you’d do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother—and, mother, draw it mild!” |
Mr. Calverley has imitated well also the old ballad style, as in this one, of which we give the opening verses:
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“It was a railway passenger, And he leapt out jauntilie. ‘Now up and bear, thou proud portèr, My two chattels to me. ······ ‘And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare: And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the terminus, Euston Square.’ ‘Now,—so to thee the Saints alway, Good gentlemen, give luck,— As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabmen wights have struck: And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantlie they do suck.’”... |
The following imitation of the old ballad form is by Mr. Lewis Carroll, who has written many capital versions of different poems:
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“I have a horse—a ryghte good horse— Ne doe I envie those Who scoure ye plaine in headie course, Tyll soddaine on theyre nose They lyghte wyth unexpected force— It ys—a horse of clothes. I have a saddel—‘Say’st thou soe? Wyth styrruppes, knyghte, to boote?’ I sayde not that—I answere ‘Noe’— Yt lacketh such, I woot— Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe! Parte of ye fleecie brute. I have a bytte—a right good bytte— As schall be seen in time. Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte— Yts use ys more sublyme. Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme.” |
In “Alice in Wonderland,”[4] by the same gentleman, there is this new version of an old nursery ditty:
Mr. Carroll’s adaptation of “You are old, Father William,” is one of the best of its class, and here are two verses:
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“‘You are old, Father William,’ the young man said, ‘And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?’ ‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son, ‘I feared it might injure the brain; But now I am perfectly sure I have none— Why, I do it again and again!’ ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray, how do you manage to do it?’ ‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life.’”[5] |
Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell in “Puck on Pegasus” gives some good examples, such as that on the “Hiawatha” of Longfellow, the “Song of In-the-Water,” and also that on Southey’s “How the Waters come down at Lodore,” the parody being called “How the Daughters come down at Dunoon,” of which these are the concluding lines:
“Twas ever thus,” the well-known lines of Moore, has also been travestied by Mr. H. C. Pennell:
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“Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck’s My most exciting hopes are dashed; I never wore my spotless ducks But madly—wildly—they were splashed! I never roved by Cynthia’s beam, To gaze upon the starry sky; But some old stiff-backed beetle came, And charged into my pensive eye: And oh! I never did the swell In Regent Street, amongst the beaus, But smuts the most prodigious fell, And always settled on my nose!” |
Moore’s lines have evidently been tempting to the parodists, for Mr. Calverley and Mr. H. S. Leigh have also written versions: Mr. Leigh’s begins thus—
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“I never reared a young gazelle (Because, you see, I never tried), But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My sick and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle.” |
Shakespeare’s soliloquy in Hamlet has been frequently selected as a subject for parody; the first we give being the work of Mr. F. C. Burnand in “Happy Thoughts”:
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“To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question! Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble, Or to take up arms of any sea, some trouble To fish, and then home send ’em. To fly—to whip— To moor and tie my boat up by the end To any wooden post, or natural rock We may be near to, on a Preservation Devoutly to be fished. To fly—to whip— To whip! perchance two bream;—and there’s the chub!” |
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“To Urn, or not to Urn? That is the question: Whether ’tis better in our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire against a sea of zealots, And, by consuming, end them? To Urn—to keep— No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion, and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to—’tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn—to keep— To keep! Perchance to lose—ay, there’s the rub! For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use; For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman’s prize—a proud man’s obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle, and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death— That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns—weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of?” |
The next, on the same subject, is from an American source, where it is introduced by the remark:
“I suppose they’ll be wanting us to change our language as well as our habits. Our years will have to be dated A.C., in the year of cremation; and ‘from creation to cremation’ will serve instead of ‘from the cradle to the grave.’ We may expect also some lovely elegies in the future—something in the following style perhaps, for, of course, when gravediggers are succeeded by pyre-lighters, the grave laments of yore will be replaced by lighter melodies”:
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“Above your mantel, in the new screen’s shade, Where smokes the coal in one dull, smouldering heap, Each in his patent urn for ever laid, The baked residue of our fathers sleep. The wheezy call of muffins in the morn, The milkman tottering from his rushy sled, The help’s shrill clarion, or the fishman’s horn, No more shall rouse them from their lofty bed. For them no more the blazing fire-grate burns, Or busy housewife fries her savoury soles, Though children run to clasp their sires’ red urns, And roll them in a family game of bowls. Perhaps in this deserted pot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod paternal may have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living liar.” |
The well-known lady traveller, Mrs. Burton, in one of her volumes gives the following amusing verses:
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“What is the black man saying, Brother, the whole day long? Methinks I hear him praying Ever the self-same song— Sa’b meri bakshish do! Brother, they are not praying, They are not doing so; The only thing they’re saying Is sa’b meri bakshish do. (Gi’e me a ’alfpenny do.)” |
To give specimens of all the kinds of parody were impossible, and we can only refer to the prose parodies of Thackeray’s “Novels by Eminent Hands,” and Bret Harte’s “Condensed Novels.”[6] Renderings of popular ballads in this way are common enough in our comic periodicals, as Punch, Fun, &c. Indeed, one appeared in Punch a number of years ago, called “Ozokerit,” a travesty of Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” which has been considered one of the finest ever written. They are to be found, too, in many of those Burlesques and Extravaganzas which are put upon the stage now, and these the late Mr. Planchè had a delightful faculty of writing, the happiness and ring of which have rarely been equalled. Take, for instance, one verse of a parody in “Jason” on a well-known air in the “Waterman:”
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“Now farewell my trim-built Argo, Greece and Fleece and all, farewell, Never more as supercargo Shall poor Jason cut a swell.” |
And here is the opening verse of another song by the same author:
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“When other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You’ve heard from many a swell; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You’d give the world to see A friend whose love you know will wash, Oh, then, remember me!” |
Another very popular song has been parodied in this way by Mr. Carroll:
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“Beautiful soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a big tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!” |
American papers put in circulation many little verses, such as this—
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“The melancholy days have come, The saddest of the year; Too warm, alas! for whiskey punch, Too cold for lager beer.” |
And this, in reference to the Centennial Exhibition:
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“Breathes there a Yank, so mean, so small, Who never says, ‘Wall, now, by Gaul, I reckon since old Adam’s fall There’s never growed on this ’ere ball A nation so all-fired tall As we centennial Yankees.” |
A number of periodicals nowadays make parody and other out-of-the-way styles of literary composition a feature in their issues by way of competition for prizes, and one of these is given here. The author signs himself “Hermon,” and the poem was selected by the editor of “Truth” (November 25, 1880) for a prize in a competition of parodies upon “Excelsior.” It is called “That Thirty-four!” having reference, it is perhaps hardly necessary to state, to the American puzzle of that name which has proved so perplexing an affair to some people.
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“Chill August’s storms were piping loud, When through a gaping London crowd, There passed a youth, who still was heard To mutter the perplexing word, ‘That Thirty-four!’ His eyes were wild; his brow above Was crumpled like an old kid-glove; And like some hoarse crow’s grating note That word still quivered in his throat, ‘That Thirty-four!’ ‘Oh, give it up!’ his comrades said; ‘It only muddles your poor head; It is not worth your finding out.’ He answered with a wailing shout, ‘That Thirty-four!’ ‘Art not content,’ the maiden said, ‘To solve the “Fifteen”-one instead?’ He paused—his tearful eyes he dried— Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed, ‘That Thirty-four!’ At midnight, on their high resort, The cats were startled at their sport To hear, beneath one roof, a tone Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan, ‘That Thirty-four!’” |
CHAIN VERSE.
his ingenious style of versification, where the last word or phrase in each line is taken for the beginning of the next, is sometimes also called “Concatenation” verse. The invention of this mode of composition is claimed by M. Lasphrise, a French poet, who wrote the following:
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“Falloit-il que le ciel me rendit amoreux, Amoreux, jouissant d’une beauté craintive, Craintive à recevoir la douceur excessive, Excessive au plaisir que rend l’amant heureux? Heureux si nous avions quelques paisibles lieux, Lieux où plus surement l’ami fidèle arrive, Arrive sans soupçon de quelque ami attentive, Attentive à vouloir nous surprendre tous deux.” |
The poem which follows is from a manuscript furnished by an American gentleman, who states that he has never seen it in print, and knows not the author’s name. The “rhythm somewhat resembles the ticking of a clock,” from whence the poem derives its name of
The Musical Clock.
The following two pieces are similar in style to some of our seventeenth-century poets:
Ad Mortem.
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“The longer life, the more offence; The more offence, the greater pain; The greater pain, the less defence; The less defence, the greater gain— Wherefore, come death, and let me die! The shorter life, less care I find, Less care I take, the sooner over; The sooner o’er, the merrier mind; The merrier mind, the better lover— Wherefore, come death, and let me die! Come, gentle death, the ebb of care; The ebb of care, the flood of life; The flood of life, I’m sooner there; I’m sooner there—the end of strife— The end of strife, that thing wish I— Wherefore, come death, and let me die!” |
Truth.
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“Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble, Noble in the walks of time, Time that leads to an eternal An eternal life sublime; Life sublime in moral beauty, Beauty that shall ever be; Ever be to lure thee onward, Onward to the fountain free— Free to every earnest seeker, Seeker for the Fount of Youth— Youth exultant in its beauty, Beauty of the living truth.” |
The following hymn appears in the Irish Church Hymnal, and is by Mr. J. Byrom:
Dr., as he was commonly called, Byrom, seems to have been an amiable and excellent man, and his friends after his death in September 1763 collected and published all the verses of his they could lay hands on, in 2 vols. 12mo, at Manchester in 1773. A more complete edition was issued in 1814. Many of Byrom’s poems evince talent, but a great part are only calculated for private perusal: his “Diary” and “Remains” were published by the Chetham Society (1854-57). Byrom was the inventor of a successful system of shorthand. He was a decided Jacobite, and his mode of defending his sentiments on this point are still remembered and quoted:
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“God bless the King! I mean the Faith’s defender; God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender! But who Pretender is, or who the King, God bless us all—that’s quite another thing!” |
MACARONIC VERSE.
acaronic verse is properly a system of Latin inflections joined to words of a modern vernacular, such as English, French, German, &c.; some writers, however, choose to disregard the strictness of this definition, and consider everything macaronic which is written with the aid of more than one language or dialect. Dr. Geddes (born 1737; died 1802), considered one of the greatest of English macaronic writers, says: “It is the characteristic of a Macaronic poem to be written in Latin hexameters; but so as to admit occasionally vernacular words, either in their native form, or with a Latin inflection—other licenses, too, are allowed in the measure of the lines, contrary to the strict rules of prosody.” Broad enough reservations these, of which Dr. Geddes in his own works was not slow in availing himself, and as will be seen in the specimens given, his example has been well followed, for the strict rule that an English macaronic should consist of the vernacular made classical with Latin terminations has been as much honoured in the breach as in the observance. Another characteristic in macaronics is that these poems recognise no law in orthography, etymology, syntax, or prosody. The examples which here follow are confined exclusively to those which have their basis, so to speak, in the English language, and, with the exception of a few of the earlier ones, the majority of the selections in this volume have their origin in our own times.
“The earliest collection of English Christmas carols supposed to have been published,” says Hone’s “Every Day Book,” “is only known from the last leaf of a volume printed by Wynkyn Worde in 1521. There are two carols upon it: ‘A Carol of Huntynge’ is reprinted in the last edition of Juliana Berners’ ‘Boke of St. Alban’s;’ the other, ‘A carol of bringing in the Bore’s Head,’ is in Dibdin’s edition of ‘Ames,’ with a copy of the carol as it is now sung in Queen’s College, Oxford, every Christmas Day.” Dr. Bliss of Oxford printed a few copies of this for private circulation, together with Anthony Wood’s version of it. The version subjoined is from a collection imprinted at London, “in the Poultry, by Richard Kele, dwelling at the long shop vnder Saynt Myldrede’s Chyrche,” about 1546:
A Carol Bringing in the Bore’s Head.
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“Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The bore’s heed in hande bring I, With garlands gay and rosemary, I pray you all synge merelye Qui estis in convivio. The bore’s heed I understande Is the thefte service in this lande, Take wherever it be fande, Servite cum cantico. Be gladde lordes both more and lasse, For this hath ordeyned our stewarde, To cheere you all this Christmasse, The bore’s heed with mustarde. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino.” |
Another version of the last verse is:
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“Our steward hath provided this In honour of the King of Bliss: Which on this clay to be served is, In Regimensi Atrio. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino.” |
Skelton, who was the poet-laureate about the end of the fifteenth century, has in his “Boke of Colin Clout,” and also in that of “Philip Sparrow,” much macaronic verse, as in “Colin Clout,” when he is speaking of the priests of those days, he says:
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“Of suche vagabundus Speaking totus mundus, How some syng let abundus, At euerye ale stake With welcome hake and make, By the bread that God brake, I am sory for your sake. I speake not of the god wife But of their apostles lyfe, Cum ipsis vel illis Qui manent in villis Est uxor vel ancilla, Welcome Jacke and Gilla, My prety Petronylla, An you wil be stilla You shall haue your willa, Of such pater noster pekes All the world speakes,” &c. |
In Harsnett’s “Detection” are some curious lines, being a curse for “the miller’s eeles that were stolne”:
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“All you that stolne the miller’s eeles, Laudate dominum de cœlis, And all they that have consented thereto, Benedicamus domino.” |
In “Literary Frivolities” there was a notice of and quotation from Ruggles’ jeu d’esprit of “Ignoramus,” and here follows a short scene from this play, containing a humorous burlesque of the old Norman Law-Latin, in which the elder brethren of the legal profession used to plead, and in which the old Reporters come down to the Bar of to-day—if, indeed, that venerable absurdity can be caricatured. It would be rather difficult to burlesque a system that provided for a writ de pipâ vini carriandâ—that is, “for negligently carrying a pipe of wine!”
IGNORAMUS.
Actus I.—Scena III.
Argumentum.
Ignoramus, clericis suis vocatis Dulman & Pecus, amorem suum erga Rosabellam narrat, irredetque Musæum quasi hominem academicum.
Intrant Ignoramus, Dulman, Pecus, Musæus.
Igno. Phi, phi: tanta pressa, tantum croudum, ut fui pene trusus ad mortem. Habebo actionem de intrusione contra omnes et singulos. Aha Mounsieurs, voulez voz intruder par joint tenant? il est playne case, il est point droite de le bien seance. O valde caleor: O chaud, chaud, chaud: precor Deum non meltavi meum pingue. Phi, phi. In nomine Dei, ubi sunt clerici mei jam? Dulman, Dulman.
Dul. Hìc, Magister Ignoramus, vous avez Dulman.
Igno. Meltor, Dulman, meltor. Rubba me cum towallio, rubba. Ubi est Pecus?
Pec. Hìc, Sir.
Igno. Fac ventum, Pecus. Ita, sic, sic. Ubi est Fledwit?
Dul. Non est inventus.
Igno. Ponite nunc chlamydes vestras super me, ne capiam frigus. Sic, sic. Ainsi, bien faict. Inter omnes pœnas meas, valde lætor, et gaudeo nunc, quod feci bonum aggreamentum, inter Anglos nostros: aggreamentum, quasi aggregatio mentium. Super inde cras hoysabimus vela, et retornabimus iterum erga Londinum: tempus est, nam huc venimus Octabis Hillarii, et nunc fere est Quindena Pasche.
Dul. Juro, magister, titillasti punctum legis hodie.
Igno. Ha, ha, he! Puto titillabam. Si le nom del granteur, ou granté soit rased, ou interlined en faict pol, le faict est grandement suspicious.
Dul. Et nient obstant, si faict pol, &c., &c. Oh illud etiam in Covin.
Igno. Ha, ha, he!
Pec. At id, de un faict pendu en le smoak, nunquam audivi titillatum melius.
Igno. Ha, ha, he! Quid tu dicis, Musæe?
Mus. Equidem ego parum intellexi.
Igno. Tu es gallicrista, vocatus a coxcomb; nunquam faciam te Legistam.
Dul. Nunquam, nunquam; nam ille fuit Universitans.
Igno. Sunt magni idiotæ, et clerici nihilorum, isti Universitantes: miror quomodo spendisti tuum tempus inter eos.
Mus. Ut plurimum versatus sum in Logicâ.
Igno. Logica? Quæ villa, quod burgum est Logica?
Mus. Est una artium liberalium.
Igno. Liberalium? Sic putabam. In nomine Dei, stude artes parcas et lucrosas: non est mundus pro artibus liberalibus jam.
Mus. Deditus etiam fui amori Philosophiæ.
Igno. Amori? Quid! Es pro bagaschiis et strumpetis? Si custodis malam regulam, non es pro me, sursum reddam te in manus parentum iterum.
Mus. Dii faxint.
Igno. Quota est clocka nunc?
Dul. Est inter octo et nina.
Igno. Inter octo et nina? Ite igitur ad mansorium nostrum cum baggis et rotulis.—Quid id est? videam hoc instrumentum; mane petit, dum calceo spectacula super nasum. O ho, ho, scio jam. Hæc indentura, facta, &c., inter Rogerum Rattledoke de Caxton in comitatu Brecknocke, &c. O ho, Richard Fen, John Den. O ho, Proud Buzzard, plaintiff, adversus Peakegoose, defendant. O ho, vide hic est defalta literæ; emenda, emenda; nam in nostra lege una comma evertit totum Placitum. Ite jam, copiato tu hoc, tu hoc ingrossa, tu Universitans trussato sumptoriam pro jorneâ.
[Exeunt Clerici.
Ignoramus solus.
Hi, ho! Rosabella, hi ho! Ego nunc eo ad Veneris curiam letam, tentam hic apud Torcol: Vicecomes ejus Cupido nunquam cessavit, donec invenit me in balivâ suâ: Primum cum amabam Rosabellam nisi parvum, misit parvum Cape, tum magnum Cape, et post, alias Capias et pluries Capias, & Capias infinitas; & sic misit tot Capias, ut tandem capavit me ut legatum ex omni sensu et ratione meâ. Ita sum sicut musca sine caput; buzzo & turno circumcirca, et nescio quid facio. Cum scribo instrumentum, si femina nominatur, scribo Rosabellam; pro Corpus cum causâ, corpus cum caudâ; pro Noverint universi, Amaverint universi; pro habere ad rectum, habere ad lectum; et sic vasto totum instrumentum. Hei, ho! ho, hei, ho!
The following song by O’Keefe, is a mixture of English, Latin, and nonsense:
Of the many specimens written by the witty and versatile Dr. Maginn we select this one
The Second Epode of Horace.
There is a little bit by Barham (“Ingoldsby Legends”) which is worthy of insertion:
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“What Horace says is Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume! Postume! Years glide away and are lost to me—lost to me! Now when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing, I murmured, ‘O mihi pretæritos!’” |
The following bright carmen Macaronicum appeared in an American periodical in 1873:
Rex Midas.
The following well-known lines are from the “Comic Latin Grammar,” a remarkably clever and curious work, full of quaint illustrations:
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“Patres conscripti—took a boat and went to Philippi. Trumpeter unus erat qui coatum scarlet habebat, Stormum surgebat, et boatum overset—ebat, Omnes drownerunt, quia swimaway non potuerunt, Excipe John Periwig tied up to the tail of a dead pig.” |
A Treatise on Wine.
The two which follow are identical in theme, and show that the wags and wits of about thirty years ago were busy poking their fun at what was then their latest sensation, much as they do now. They both treat of the Sea-serpent; the first being from an American source:
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“Sed tempus necessit, and this was all over, Cum illi successit another gay rover, Nam cum navigaret, in his own cutter Portentum apparet, which made them all flutter. Est horridus anguis which they behold; Haud dubio sanguis within them ran cold; Trigenta pedes his head was upraised Et corporis sedes in secret was placed. Sic serpens manebat, so says the same joker, Et sese ferebat as stiff as a poker; Tergum fricabat against the old lighthouse; Et sese liberabat of scaly detritus. Tunc plumbo percussit, thinking he hath him, At serpens exsiluit full thirty fathom; Exsiluit mare with pain and affright, Conatus abnare as fast as he might. Neque illi secuti—no, nothing so rash, Terrore sunt multi, he’d make such a splash, Sed nunc adierunt, the place to inspect, Et squamus viderunt, the which they collect. Quicunque non credat aut doubtfully rails Ad locum accedat, they’ll show him the scales, Quas, sola trophæa, they brought to the shore,— Et causa est ea they couldn’t get more.” |
BY PUBLIUS JONATHAN VIRGILIUS JEFFERSON SMITH.
St. George et His Dragon.
The Polka.
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“Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debit ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe. One, two, three Come hop with me— Whirligig, twirligig, rapidee. Polkam, jungere, Virgo vis? Will you join in the polka, miss? Liberius, most willingly, Sic agemus, then let us try. Nunc vide, Skip with me. Whirlabout, roundabout, celere. Tum læva cito tum dextra, First to the left, then t’other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, she looks at you. Das palmam, Change hands, ma’am, Celere, run away, just in sham.” —Gilbert Abbot A’Becket. |
Clubbis Noster.
Little Red Riding Hood.
“Ich bin Dein.”
Contenti Abeamus.
De Leguleio.
Chanson without Music.
BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD AND LIVING LANGUAGES.
During the late American Civil War, Slidell and Mason, two of the Confederate Commissioners, were taken by an admiral of the U.S. navy from a British ship, and this came near causing an issue between the two countries. Seward was the American premier at the time. This is that affair done up in a macaronic:
Slidell and Mason.
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“Slidell, qui est Rerum cantor Publicarum, atque Lincoln. Vir excelsior, mitigantur— A delightful thing to think on! Blatant plebs Americanum, Quite impossible to bridle, Nihil refert, navis cana Bring back Mason atque Slidell. Scribat nunc amœne Russell; Lætus lapis claudit fiscum, Nunc finiter all this bustle— Slidell—Mason—Pax vobiscum!” |
A Valentine.
Very Felis-itous.
Ce Meme Vieux Coon.
Malum Opus.
Carmen ad Terry.
(WRITTEN WHILE GENERAL TERRY, U.S.A., WITH HIS BLACK SOLDIERS, WAS IN COMMAND
AT RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, AFTER ITS EVACUATION BY THE CONFEDERATE TROOPS.)
Lydia Green.
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“In Republican Jersey, There nunquam was seen Puella pulchrior, Ac Lydia Green; Fascinans quam bellis Vel lilium, et id., Et Jacobus Brown Was ‘ladles’[7] on Lyd. Ad Jacobum Brown Semel Lydia, loquitur: ‘Si fidem violaris, I’d lay down and die, sir.’ ‘Si my Lydia dear I should ever forget’— Tum respondit: ‘I hope To be roasted and ate.’ Sed, though Jacob had sworn Pro aris et focis, He went off and left Lydia Deserta, lachrymosis. In lachrymis solvis She sobbed and she sighed; And at last, corde fracta, Turned over and died. Tunc Jacobus Brown, Se expedire pains That gnawed his chords cordis, Went out on the plains, And quum he got there. Ὄι Βάρβαροι met him, Accenderunt ignem Et roasted et ate him.” —J. A. M. |
Am Rhein.
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“Oh the Rhine, the Rhine, the Rhine— Comme c’est beau! wie schön, che bello! He who quaffs thy Lust and Wein, Morbleu! is a lucky fellow. How I love thy rushing streams, Groves and ash and birch and hazel, From Schaffhausen’s rainbow beams Jusqu’à l’echo d’Oberwesel! Oh, que j’aime thy Brüchen, when The crammed Dampfschiff gaily passes! Love the bronzed pipes of thy men, And the bronzed cheeks of thy lasses! Oh! que j’aime the ‘oui,’ the ‘bah!’ From the motley crowd that flow, With the universal ‘ja,’ And the Allgemeine ‘so!’” |
“Serve-um-Right.”
To a Friend at Parting.
Ad Professorem Linguæ Germanicæ.
Pome of a Possum.
The following “Society Verses” of Mortimer Collins are given here by way of introducing an imitation of them in macaronic verse:
Ad Chloen, M.A.
(FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION.)
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“Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your nose; And your brow is like the snow; And the various things you know Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognises in the sky Every star. You have pouting, piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by an arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, The same day I, as wooer, perhaps may come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.” |
To the Fair “Come-Outer.”
Here are a few juvenile specimens, the first being a little-known old nursery ballad:
The Four Brothers.