POETICAL INGENUITIES
AND ECCENTRICITIES.

Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per volume.

THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY.

THE NEW REPUBLIC. By W. H. Mallock.

THE NEW PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By W. H. Mallock.

THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON. By E. Lynn Linton.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. By Walter Thornbury.

PUNIANA. By the Hon. Hugh Rowley.

MORE PUNIANA. By the Hon. Hugh Rowley.

THOREAU: HIS LIFE AND AIMS. By H. A. Page.

BY STREAM AND SEA. By William Senior.

JEUX D’ESPRIT. Collected and Edited by Henry S. Leigh.

GASTRONOMY AS A FINE ART. By Brillat-Savarin.

THE MUSES OF MAYFAIR. Edited by H. Cholmondeley Pennel.

PUCK ON PEGASUS. By H. Cholmondeley Pennel.

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.

CAROLS OF COCKAYNE. By Henry S. Leigh.

LITERARY FRIVOLITIES, FANCIES, FOLLIES, AND FROLICS. By W. T. Dobson.

PENCIL AND PALETTE. By Robert Kempt.

THE BOOK OF CLERICAL ANECDOTES. By Jacob Larwood.

THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES DICKENS.

THE CUPBOARD PAPERS. By Fin-Bec.

QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. Davenport Adams.

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.

PASTIMES AND PLAYERS. By Robert MacGregor.

CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. By Henry J. Jennings.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF HANDWRITING. By Don Felix de Salamanca.

LATTER-DAY LYRICS. Edited by W. Davenport Adams.

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:

“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.

“‘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.

“’Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter’s Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start;
To see red Phœbus through the gallery-pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane;
While gradual parties fill our widen’d pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.
At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,
Distant or near, they settle where they please;
But when the multitude contracts the span,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can.
Now the full benches to late-comers doom
No room for standing, miscalled standing-room.
Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
And bawling ‘Pit full!’ gives the check he takes;
Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,
Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.
See to their desks Apollo’s sons repair—
Swift rides the rosin o’er the horse’s hair!
In unison their various tones to tune,
Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon;
In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,
Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,
Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp;
Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,
Attunes to order the chaotic din.
Now all seems hushed; but no, one fiddle will
Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still.
Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan
Reproves with frowns the dilatory man:
Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,
Nods a new signal, and away they go.
Perchance, while pit and gallery cry ‘Hats off!’
And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,
Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love
Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above;
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,
Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
It settles, curling, on a fiddler’s curl,
Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes,
And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.
Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?
Who’s that calls ‘Silence!’ with such leathern lungs!
He who, in quest of quiet, ‘Silence!’ hoots,
Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.
What various swains our motley walls contain!—
Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery-cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,
With pence twice five—they want but twopence more;
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.
Critics we boast who ne’er their malice balk,
But talk their minds—we wish they’d mind their talk;
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live—
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,
That for old clothes they’d even axe St. Mary;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.
Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow
Where scowling fortune seem’d to threaten woe.
John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs’s shoes;
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
Up as a corn-cutter—a safe employ;
In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby’s head;
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down.
Pat was the urchin’s name—a red-haired youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.
Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullens whispered, ‘Take my handkerchief.’
‘Thank you,’ cries Pat; ‘but one won’t make a line.’
‘Take mine,’ cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, ‘Take mine.’
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris’ bow down darts the painted clue,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last ’kerchief to the beaver’s band—
Upsoars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained;
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat!”

From the same work is taken this parody on a beautiful passage in Southey’s “Kehama:”

“Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower Hill to Piccadilly snored!
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Indra drew the essence of repose.
See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury!
The tops of houses, blue with lead,
Bend beneath the landlord’s tread;
Master and ’prentice, serving-man and lord,
Nailor and tailor,
Grazier and brazier,
Through streets and alleys poured,
All, all abroad to gaze,
And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,
Mounted on roof and chimney;
The mighty roast, the mighty stew
To see,
As if the dismal view
Were but to them a mighty jubilee.”

The brothers Smith reproduced Byron in the familiar “Childe Harold” stanza, both in style and thought:

“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:

“The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By women were plucked, and she still wears the prize,
To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.
There, too, is the lash which, all statutes controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil who, while her eye’s rolling,
Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair.”

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.

“As Chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flashed upon her eyes:
So London’s sons in nightcap woke,
In bedgown woke her dames,
For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
‘The playhouse is in flames.’
And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends
To every window pane:
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport
A bright ensanguined drain;
Meux’s new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill’s chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall,
The ticket porters’ house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson’s hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across the Thames’s gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrowed lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red Sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;
It seemed that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes;
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next in crimson dyed,
His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulders gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.
The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
······
E’en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo ‘Heads below!’
Nor notice give at all:
The firemen, terrified, are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o’er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When lo! amid the wreck upreared
Gradual a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew
’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
‘A Muggins to the rescue, ho!’
And poured the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He tottered, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman’s soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!
’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight, o’erwhelmed him quite;
He sunk to rise no more.
Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
‘Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps;
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps;
Why are you in such doleful dumps?
A fireman, and afraid of bumps!
What are they feared on? fools,—’od rot ’em!’
Were the last words of Higginbottom!”...

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).

“For one long term, or e’er her trial came,
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand,
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
She whipped two female prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come
When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed.”

The following felicitous parody on Wolfe’s “Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore” is taken from Thomas Hood:

“Not a laugh was heard, nor a joyous note,
As our friend to the bridal we hurried;
Not a wit discharged his farewell joke,
As the bachelor went to be married.
We married him quickly to save his fright,
Our heads from the sad sight turning;
And we sighed as we stood by the lamp’s dim light,
To think him not more discerning.
To think that a bachelor free and bright,
And shy of the sex as we found him,
Should there at the altar, at dead of night,
Be caught in the snares that bound him.
Few and short were the words we said,
Though of cake and wine partaking;
We escorted him home from the scene of dread,
While his knees were awfully shaking.

Slowly and sadly we marched adown
From the top to the lowermost story;
And we have never heard from nor seen the poor man
Whom we left alone in his glory.”

Mr. Barham has also left us a parody on the same lines:

“Not a sou had he got,—not a guinea, or note,
And he looked most confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigged the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him,
And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshall cloak around him.
‘The Doctor is as drunk as the d—l,’ we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow,
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head
Would confoundedly ache on the morrow.
We bore him home and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and daughter
To give him next morning a couple of red
Herrings with soda-water.
Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone,
And his lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
’Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him.
We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done,
When beneath the window calling
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman ‘one o’clock’ bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down
From his room on the uppermost story,
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.”

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:

“We met—’twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—
I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;
He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unaltered,
I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs faltered.
I wore my brand new boots—and unrivalled their brightness,
They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!
I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low—but ’twas no use to fear him,
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept, as he deserved—to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried—but I shall ne’er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay—heart and feet ache together,
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!”

Here is another upon an old favourite song:

The Bandit’s Fate.

“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:

“When lovely woman, lump of folly,
Would show the world her vainest trait,—
Would treat herself as child her dolly,
And warn each man of sense away,—
The surest method she’ll discover
To prompt a wink in every eye,
Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,
And spoil a scalp-skin, is—to dye!”

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:

“‘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.)

“I marvelled why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I asked her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
‘I’ve got a pain inside.
I thought it would have sent me mad,
Last night about eleven.’
Said I, ‘What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?’
She answered, ‘Only seven!’
‘And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid,’ quoth I.
‘Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie.’
‘If that’s the case,’ I stammered out,
‘Of course you’ve had eleven.’
The maiden answered with a pout,
‘I ain’t had more nor seven!’
I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, ‘I’m bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling tarradiddles.
Now if you don’t reform,’ said I,
‘You’ll never go to heaven!’
But all in vain; each time I try,
The little idiot makes reply,
‘I ain’t had more nor seven!’
POSTSCRIPT.
To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I’d better call my song,
‘Lines from Ache-inside.’”

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.”

“If life were never bitter,
And love were always sweet,
Then who would care to borrow
A moral from to-morrow?
If Thames would always glitter,
And joy would ne’er retreat,
If life were never bitter,
And love were always sweet.

If care were not the waiter,
Behind a fellow’s chair,
When easy-going sinners
Sit down to Richmond dinners,
And life’s swift stream goes straighter—
By Jove, it would be rare,
If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow’s chair.
If wit were always radiant,
And wine were always iced,
And bores were kicked out straightway
Through a convenient gateway:
Then down the year’s long gradient
’Twere sad to be enticed,
If wit were always radiant;
And wine were always iced.”

The next instance, by the same author, is another good imitation of Mr. Swinburne’s style. It is a recipe for

Salad.

“Oh, cool in the summer is salad,
And warm in the winter is love;
And a poet shall sing you a ballad
Delicious thereon and thereof.
A singer am I, if no sinner,
My muse has a marvellous wing,
And I willingly worship at dinner
The sirens of spring.

Take endive—like love it is bitter,
Take beet—for like love it is red;
Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter
And cress from the rivulet’s bed;
Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady
Whose beauty has maddened this bard;
And olives, from groves that are shady,
And eggs—boil ’em hard.”

The “Shootover Papers,” by members of the Oxford University, contains this parody, written upon the “Procuratores,” a kind of university police:

“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:

“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.

“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:

“But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, ‘Sadly this bar I mistrust,—
I fear that this bar does not trust.
Oh, hasten—oh, let us not linger—
Oh, fly—let us fly—ere we must!’
In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom,—
By some words that were warning of doom.
And I said, ‘What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?’
She sobbed as she answered, ‘All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room.’”

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:

“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.

“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:

“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:

“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:

Ye Carpette Knyghte.

“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:

“‘Will you walk a little faster?’ said a whiting to a snail,
‘There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?
‘You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us with the lobsters out to sea!’
But the snail replied, ‘Too far, too far!’ and gave a look askance,
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance,
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
‘What matters it how far we go?’ his scaly friend replied;
‘There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The farther off from England the nearer is to France—
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?’”

Mr. Carroll’s adaptation of “You are old, Father William,” is one of the best of its class, and here are two verses:

“‘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:

“Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all—
Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Balmorals dancing and glancing entrancing all,—
Feats of activity—
Nymphs on declivity—
Sweethearts in ecstasies—
Mothers in vextasies—
Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on,
True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on,
Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on,
Any fine afternoon
About July or June—
That’s just how the Daughters
Come down at Dunoon!”

“Twas ever thus,” the well-known lines of Moore, has also been travestied by Mr. H. C. Pennell:

“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—

“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”:

“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!”

Cremation.

“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”:

“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:

“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:”

“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:

“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:

“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—

“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:

“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.

That Thirty-four.

“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:

“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.

“Wing the course of time with music,
Music of the grand old days—
Days when hearts were brave and noble,
Noble in their simple ways.
Ways, however rough, yet earnest,
Earnest to promote the truth—
Truth that teaches us a lesson,
Lesson worthy age and youth.
Youth and age alike may listen—
Listen, meditate, improve—
Improve in happiness and glory,
Glory that shall Heavenward move.
Move, as music moves, in pathos,
Pathos sweet, and power sublime,
Sublime to raise the spirit drooping,
Drooping with the toils of time.
Time reveals, amid its grandeur,
Grandeur purer, prouder still—
Still revealing dreams of beauty,
Beauty that inspires the will—
Will a constant sighing sorrow,
Sorrow full of tears restore,
Restore but for a moment, pleasure?
Pleasure dead can live no more.
No more, then, languish for the buried,
Buried calmly let it be.
Be the star of promise Heaven,
Heaven has sweeter joys for thee.
For thee perchance, though dark the seeming,
Seeming dark, may yet prove bright,
Bright through mortal cares, shall softly,
Softly dissipate the night.
Night shall not endure for ever,—
Ever! no, the laws of Earth,
Earth inconstant, shall forbid it—
Bid it change from gloom to mirth.
Mirth and grief, are light and shadow—
Shadows light to us are dear.
Dear the scene becomes by contrast—
Contrast there, in beauty here.
Here, through sun and tempest many,
Many shall thy being pass—
Pass without a sigh of sorrow,
Sorrow wins not by alas!
Alas! we pardon in a maiden,
Maiden when her heart is young,
Young and timid, but in manhood,
Manhood should be sterner strung,
Strung as though his nerves were iron,
Iron tempered well to bend—
Bend, mayhap, but yielding never,
Never, when despair would rend—
Rend the pillars from the temple,
Temple in the human breast,
Breast that lonely grief has chosen,
Chosen for her place of rest—
Rest unto thy spirit, only,
Only torment will she bring.
Bring, oh man! the lyre of gladness,
Gladness frights the harpy’s wing!”

The following two pieces are similar in style to some of our seventeenth-century poets:

Ad Mortem.

“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.

“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:

“My spirit longs for Thee
Within my troubled breast,
Though I unworthy be
Of so Divine a Guest.
Of so Divine a Guest
Unworthy though I be,
Yet has my heart no rest,
Unless it come from Thee.
Unless it come from Thee,
In vain I look around;
In all that I can see
No rest is to be found.
No rest is to be found.
But in Thy blessèd love;
Oh, let my wish be crowned
And send it from above.”

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:

“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.

“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:

“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:

“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”:

“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:

“Amo, amas,
I love a lass,
As cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslip’s grace
Is her nominative case,
And she’s of the feminine gender.

Chorus.
Rorum, corum, sunt di-vorum,
Harum, scarum, divo;
Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hatband,
Hic, hoc, horum genitivo.
Can I decline a nymph so divine?
Her voice like a flute is dulcis;
Her oculus bright, her manus white
And soft, when I tacto her pulse is.
Chorus.
O how bella, my puella
I’ll kiss in secula seculorum;
If I’ve luck, sir, she’s my uxor,
O dies benedictorum.”
Chorus.

Of the many specimens written by the witty and versatile Dr. Maginn we select this one

The Second Epode of Horace.

“Blest man, who far from busy hum,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Whistles his team afield with glee
Solutus omni fenore;
He lives in peace, from battles free,
Neq’ horret irratúm mare;
And shuns the forum, and the gay
Potentiorum limina,
Therefore to vines of purple gloss
Atlas maritat populos.
Or pruning off the boughs unfit
Feliciores inserit;
Or, in a distant vale at ease
Prospectat errantes greges;
Or honey into jars conveys
Aut tondet infirmas oves.
When his head decked with apples sweet
Auctumnus agris extulit,
At plucking pears he’s quite au fait
Certant, et uvam purpuræ.
Some for Priapus, for thee some
Sylvare, tutor finium!
Beneath an oak ’tis sweet to be
Mod’ in tenaci gramine:
The streamlet winds in flowing maze
Queruntur in silvis aves;
The fount in dulcet murmur plays
Somnos quod invitet leves.
But when winter comes, (and that
Imbres nivesque comparat,)
With dogs he forces oft to pass
Apros in obstantes plagas;
Or spreads his nets so thick and close
Turdis edacibus dolos;
Or hares, or cranes, from far away
Jucunda captat præmia:
The wooer, love’s unhappy stir,
Hæc inter obliviscitur,
His wife can manage without loss
Domum et parvos liberos;
(Suppose her Sabine, or the dry
Pernicis uxor Appali,)
Who piles the sacred hearthstone high
Lassi sub adventúm viri,
And from his ewes, penned lest they stray,
Distenta siccet ubera;
And this year’s wine disposed to get
Dapes inemtas apparet.
Oysters to me no joys supply,
Magisve rhombus, aut scari,
(If when the east winds boisterous be
Hiems ad hoc vertat mare;)
Your Turkey pout is not to us,
Non attagen Ionicus,
So sweet as what we pick at home
Oliva ramis arborum!
Or sorrel, which the meads supply,
Malvæ salubres corpori—
Or lamb, slain at a festal show
Vel hædus ereptus lupo.
Feasting, ’tis sweet the creature’s dumb,
Videre prop’rantes domum,
Or oxen with the ploughshare go,
Collo trahentes languido;
And all the slaves stretched out at ease,
Circum renidentes Lares!
Alphius the usurer, babbled thus,
Jam jam futurus rusticus,
Called in his cast on th’ Ides—but he
Quærit Kalendis ponere!”

There is a little bit by Barham (“Ingoldsby Legends”) which is worthy of insertion:

“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.

“Vivit a rex in Persia land,
A potens rex was he;
Suum imperium did extend
O’er terra and o’er sea.
Rex Midas habuit multum gold,
Tamen he wanted plus;
‘Non satis est,’ his constant cry—
Ergo introit fuss.
Silenus was inebrius,—
Id est, was slightly tight,
As he went vagus through the urbs,
It was a tristis sight.

Rex Midas equitavit past
On suum dromedary,
Vidit Silenus on his spree,
Sic lætus et sic merry.
His costume was a wreath of leaves,
And those were multum battered;
Urchins had stoned him, and the ground
Cum lachrymis was scattered.
Rex Midas picked hunc senem up,
And put him on his pony,
Et bore him ad castellum grand
Quod cost him multum money.
Dedit Silenum mollem care:
Cum Bacchus found his ubi
Promisit Midas quod he asked.
Rex Midas fuit—booby.
For aurum was his gaudium,
Rogavit he the favour
Ut quid he touched might turn to gold;
Ab this he’d nunquam never.
Carpsit arose to try the charm,
Et in eodem minute
It mutat into flavum gold,
Ridet as spectat in it.
His filia rushed to meet her sire,
He osculavit kindly;
She lente stiffened into gold—
Vidit he’d acted blindly.
Spectavit on her golden form,
And in his brachia caught her:
‘Heu me! sed tamen breakfast waits,
My daughter, oh! my daughter!’
Venit ad suum dining-hall,
Et coffeam gustavit,
Liquatum gold his fauces burned,—
Loud he vociferavit:
‘Triste erat amittere
My solam filiam true,
Pejus to lose my pabulam.
Eheu! Eheu!! Eheu!!!’
Big lachrymæ bedewed his cheeks—
‘O potens Bacchus lazy,
Prende ab me the power you gave,
Futurum, ut I’ll praise thee.’
Benignus Bacchus audiens groans,
Misertus est our hero;
Dixit ut the Pactolian waves
Ab hoc would cleanse him—vero.
Infelix rex was felix then,
Et cum hilarious grin,
Ruit unto the river’s bank,
Et fortis plunged in.

The nefas power was washed away;
Sed even at this hour
Pactolus’ sands are tinged with gold,
Testes of Bacchus’ power.
A tristis sed a sapiens vir
Rex Midas fuit then;
Et gratus to good Bacchus said,
‘Non feram sic again.’
Hæc fable docet, plain to see,
Quamquam the notion’s old,
Hoc verum est, ut girls and grub
Much melior sunt than gold.”

The following well-known lines are from the “Comic Latin Grammar,” a remarkably clever and curious work, full of quaint illustrations:

“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 best tree, if ye take intent,
Inter ligna fructifera,
Is the vine tree by good argument,
Dulcia ferens pondera.

Saint Luke saith in his Gospel,
Arbor fructu noscitur,
The vine beareth wine as I you tell,
Hinc aliis præponitur.
The first that planted the vineyard
Manet in cœlio gaudio,
His name was Noe, as I am learned
Genesis testimonio.
God gave unto him knowledge and wit,
A quo procedunt omnia,
First of the grape wine for to get
Propter magna mysteria.
The first miracle that Jesus did,
Erat in vino rubeo,
In Cana of Galilee it betide
Testante Evangelio.
He changed water into wine
Aquæ rubescunt hydriæ,
And bade give it to Archetcline,
Ut gustet tunc primarie.
Like as the rose exceedeth all flowers,
Inter cuncta florigera,
So doth wine all other liquors,
Dans multa salutifera.
David, the prophet, saith that wine
Lætificat cor hominis,
It maketh men merry if it be fine,
Est ergo digni nominis.
It nourisheth age if it be good,
Facit ut esset juvenis,
It gendereth in us gentle blood,
Nam venas purgat sanguinis.
By all these causes, ye should think
Quæ sunt rationabiles,
That good wine should be the best of drink,
Inter potus potabiles.
Wine drinkers all, with great honour,
Semper laudate Dominum,
The which sendeth the good liquor
Propter salutem hominum.
Plenty to all that love good wine
Donet Deus larguis,
And bring them some when they go hence,
Ubi non sitient amplius.”
Richard Hilles (1535).

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:

The Sea-Serpent.

“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.”

The Death of the Sea-Serpent.

BY PUBLIUS JONATHAN VIRGILIUS JEFFERSON SMITH.

“Arma virumque cano, qui first in Monongahela
Tarnally squampushed the sarpent, mittens horrentia tella,
Musa, look sharp with your banjo! I guess to relate this event, I
Shall need all the aid you can give; so nunc aspirate canenti.
Mighty slick were the vessels progressing, jactata per æquora ventis,
But the brow of the skipper was sad, cum solicitudine mentis;
For whales had been scarce in those parts, and the skipper, so long as he’d known her,
Ne’er had gathered less oil in a cruise to gladden the heart of her owner.
‘Darn the whales,’ cried the skipper at length, with a telescope forte videbo
Aut pisces, aut terras. While speaking, just two or three points on the lee bow,
He saw coming toward them as fast as though to a combat ’twould tempt ’em,
A monstrum horrendum informe (qui lumen was shortly ademptum),
On the taffrail up jumps in a hurry, dux fortis, and seizing a trumpet,
Blows a blast that would waken the dead, mare turbat et æra rumpit—
‘Tumble up, all you lubbers,’ he cries, ‘tumble up, for careering before us
Is the real old sea-sarpent himself, cristis maculisque decorus.’
‘Consarn it,’ cried one of the sailors, ‘if e’er we provoke him he’ll kill us,
He’ll certainly chaw up hos morsu, et longis, implexibus illos.’
Loud laughs the bold skipper, and quick premit alto corde dolorem;
(If he does feel like running, he knows it won’t do to betray it before ’em.)
‘O socii,’ inquit. ‘I’m sartin you’re not the fellers to funk, or
Shrink from the durem certamen, whose fathers fit bravely at Bunker;
You, who have waged with the bears, and the buffalo, prœlia dura,
Down to the freshets and licks of our own free enlightened Missourer;
You, who could whip your own weight, catulis sævis sine telo,
Get your eyes skinned in a twinkling, et ponite tela phæsello!’
Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus æger,
Marshals his cute little band, now panting their foe to beleaguer.
Swiftly they lower the boats, and swiftly each man at the oar is,
Excipe Britanni timidi duo, virque coloris.
(Blackskin, you know, never feels how sweet ’tis pro patri mori;
Ovid had him in view when he said ‘Nimium ne crede colori.’)
Now swiftly they pull towards the monster, who seeing the cutter and gig nigh,
Glares at them with terrible eyes, suffectis sanguine et igni,
And, never conceiving their chief will so quickly deal him a floorer,
Opens wide to receive them at once, his linguis vibrantibis ora;
But just as he’s licking his lips, and gladly preparing to taste ’em,
Straight into his eyeball the skipper stridentem conjicit hastam.
Straight as he feels in his eyeball the lance, growing mightily sulky,
At ’em he comes in a rage, ora minax, lingua trusulca.
‘Starn all,’ cry the sailors at once, for they think he has certainly caught ’em,
Præsentemque viris intentant omnia mortem.
But the bold skipper exclaims, ‘O terque quaterque beati!
Now with a will dare viam, when I want you, be only parati;
This hoss feels like raising his hair, and in spite of his scaly old cortex,
Full soon you shall see that his corpse rapidus vorat æquore vortex.’
Hoc ait, and choosing a lance, ‘With this one I think I shall hit it,’
He cries, and straight into his mouth, ad intima viscera millit,
Screeches the creature in pain, and writhes till the sea is commotum,
As if all its waves had been lashed in a tempest per Eurum et Notum.
Interea terrible shindy Neptunus sensit, et alto
Prospiciens sadly around, wiped his eye with the cuff of his paletôt;
And, mad at his favourite’s fate, of oaths uttered one or two thousand,
Such as ‘Corpo di Bacco! Mehercle! Sacre! Mille Tonnerres! Potztausend!’
But the skipper, who thought it was time to this terrible fight dare finem,
With a scalping knife jumps on the neck of the snake secat et dextrâ crinem,
And, hurling the scalp in the air, half mad with delight to possess it,
Shouts, ‘Darn it—I’ve fixed up his flint, for in ventos vita recessit!’”
Punch.

St. George et His Dragon.

“Hæc fabulam’s one of those stories,
Which the Italians say, ‘ought to be true,’
Sed which modern wiseacres have scattered
Among les Illusions Perdus!
St. George eques errans erat
Qui vibrat a seven-foot sword,
Und er würde eher be all up a tree,
Than be caught a-breaking his word.
Assuetus au matin to ride out
Pour chercher quelquechose for to lick,
Cap à pie en harness—and to see him
Whack a rusticus pauvre was chic.
Perequitat thousands of peasants,
Et mantled in armour complete—
Cædat the whole huddle confestim
Et could make them ausgespielt.
Si ce n’est que, sans doute, they were willing,
To get up and solemnly swear
That the very last Fraulein he’d seen was
La plus belle dans tout la terre.

Ein Morgen he saw à le trottoir
Puella formosissima très
Implicans amplexus Draconæ,
So she couldn’t get out of his way.
The dragon—donc voilà le tableau!
Had eyes sanguine suffectis
Alæ comme les lutins in ‘Paradise Lost,’
Et was, on the whole, insuavis.
For Beauté miserable was there ever
Eques who would not do and die?
St. George his hastam projecit
Right into the dragon—his eye!
Il coupe sa tête mit sein Schwert gut—
Ses ailes, il coupe mit sein couteau
Il coupe sa queu mit his hache des arms,
Et la demoiselle let go.
In genua procumbit the ladye,
Et dixit, ‘You’ve saved my life—
Pour toute ma vie I’m your’n,’ said she,
‘I’m your regular little wife.’
‘M’ami,’ says he, ‘I does these jobs
In jocum—get up from your knees,
Would you offer outright to requite a knight?
Mon garçon, he takes the fees!’”
J. A. M.

The Polka.

“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.

“Sunt quidam jolly dogs, Saturday qui nocte frequentant,
Antiqui Stephanon, qui stat prope mœnia Drury,
Where they called for saccos cum prog distendere bellies,
Indulgere jocis, nec non Baccho atque tobacco;
In mundo tales non fellows ante fuere
Magnanionam heroum celebrabe carmine laudeo,
Posthæ illustres ut vivant omne per ævum,
Altior en Stephano locus est, snug, cosy recessus,
Hic quarters fixere suos, conclave tenet hic,
Hic dapibus cumulata, hic mahogany mensa,
Pascuntur varies, roast beef cum pudding of Yorkshire,
Interdum, sometimes epulis quis nomen agrestes
Boiled leg of mutton and trimmings imposuere
Hic double X haurit, Barclay and Perkins ille.
Sic erimus drunki, Deel care! aras dat mendicinum
Nec desuit mixtis que sese polibus implent.
Quus ‘offnoff’ omnes consuescunt dicere waiters.
Postquam, exempta fames grubbo mappaque remota.
Pro cyathio clarmet, qui goes sermone vocantur.
Vulgari, of whiskey, rum, gin and brandy, sed ut sunt;
Cœlicolumqui punch (‘erroribus absque’) liquore
Gaudent; et panci vino quod prœbet Opporto,
Quod certi black-strap dicunt nicknomine Graii,
Haustibus his pipe, communis et adjiciuntur,
Shag, Reditus, Cubæ, Silvæ, Cheroots et Havanæ,
‘Festina viri,’ bawls one, ‘nunc ludito verbis,’
Alter ‘Fœmineum sexum’ propinquat et ‘Hurrah!’
Respondet pot house concessu plausibus omni.
Nunc similes, veteri versantur winky lepores
Omnibus exiguus nec. Jingoteste tumultus,
Exoritur quoniam summâ, nituntur opum vi
Rivales ἃλλοι top sawyers’ ἑμμεναι ἀλλὥ,
Est genus injenui lusûs quod nomine Burking.
Notem est, vel Burko, qui claudere cuncta solebat
Ora olim, eloquio, pugili vel forsitan isto
Deaf un, vel Burko pueros qui Burxit ad illud,
Plausibus aut fictis joculatorem excipiendo,
Aut bothering aliquid referentem, constat amicum.
Hoc parvo excutitur multus conamine risus.
Nomina magnorum referebam nunc pauca viorum,
Marcus et Henricus Punchi duo lumina magna
(Whacks his Aristoteleam, Sophoclem, Brown wollopeth ille)
In clubbum adveniunt, Juvenalis et advenit acer
Qui veluti Paddywhack for love conlundit amicos;
Ingentesque animos non parvo in corpore versans
Tullius; et Matutini qui Sidus Heraldi est
Georgius; Albertus Magnus; vesterque poeta.
Præsidet his Nestor qui tempore vixit in annæ,
Credetur et vidisse Jophet, non youngster at ullos.
In chaff, audaci certamine, vinceret illum,
Ille jocus mollit dictis, et pectora mulcet,
Ni faciat tumblers, et goes, et pocula pewter,
Quippe Aliorum alii jactarent forsan in aures.”
Punch.

Little Red Riding Hood.

“You ask me to tell you the story
Of the terrible atra wood,
Of the Lupi diri, μικρο παἱ,
Καὶ parvula Red Riding Hood.

Patruus trux, he gave her
A deux larrons pravi;
Et dear little robins came and
Cut up cum the folii.
And then he scandit Beanstalk,
And giant cædit tall
Et virgo grandis marri-ed
Et Rem is prodegit all!
For, semble, une felis was left him—
(Seulement, calamitas!)
Il emit chat zwei ocreæ
Et was Marquis de Carrabas!
Και ηεν de lady et Ursus
(You’ve heard this much, at least),
Et fœmina on l’appèle Beauté,
And the Beast they called A Beast!
Obdormivit, et amittit
Ses moutons and couldn’t find ’em,
So she never did nothing whatever at all,
Et voila! cum caudis behind ’em!
Comme des toutes les demoiselles charmantes
Illæ the only lass
Who could yank her foot nitide
Dans le pantoufle de glass!
Et straw she nevit in auribus,
Et finally—child did win
De expiscere Arcanum name
Nami erat Rumplestiltzskin!
Τρὶκε ὄικαδε μίκρο παι:
Ciel! c’est time you should!
Ad lectum to dream of the story
Of little Red Riding Hood!”
J. A. M.

“Ich bin Dein.”

“In tempus old a hero lived,
Qui loved puellas deux;
He ne pouvait pas quite to say
Which one amabat mieux.
Dit-il lui-meme, un beau matin,
‘Non possum both avoir,
Sed si address Amanda Ann,
Then Kate and I have war.
‘Amanda habet argent coin,
Sed Kate has aureas curls:
Et both sunt very ἀγαθὰ,
Et quite formosa girls.
Enfin, the youthful anthropos,
Φίλοῦν the duo maids,
Resolved proponere ad Kate
Devant cet evening’s shades.
Procedens then to Kate’s domo,
Il trouve Amanda there;
Και quite forgot his good resolves,
Both sunt so goodly fair.
Sed, smiling on the new tapis,
Between puellas twain,
Cœpit to tell his flame to Kate
Dans un poetique strain.
Mais, glancing ever and anon
At fair Amanda’s eyes,
Illæ non possunt dicere,
Pro which he meant his sighs.
Each virgo heard the demi vow
With cheeks as rouge as wine,
And offering each a milk-white hand,
Both whispered, ‘Ich bin dein!’”

Contenti Abeamus.

“Come, jocund friends, a bottle bring,
And push around the jorum;
We’ll talk and laugh, and quaff and sing,
Nunc suavium amorum.
While we are in a merry mood,
Come, sit down ad bibendum;
And if dull care should dare intrude,
We’ll to the devil send him.
A moping elf I can’t endure
While I have ready rhino;
And all life’s pleasures centre still
In venere ac vino.

Be merry then, my friends, I pray,
And pass your time in joco,
For it is pleasant, as they say,
Desipere in loco.
He that loves not a young lass,
Is sure an arrant stultus,
And he that will not take a glass
Deserves to be sepultus.
Pleasure, music, love and wine,
Res valde sunt jocundæ,
And pretty maidens look divine,
Provided ut sunt mundæ.
I hate a snarling, surly fool,
Qui latrat sicut canis,
Who mopes and ever eats by rule,
Drinks water and eats panis.
Give me the man that’s always free,
Qui finit molli more,
The cares of life, whate’er they be,
Whose motto still is ‘Spero.’
Death will turn us soon from hence,
Nigerrimas ad sedes;
And all our lands and all our pence
Ditabunt tunc heredes.
Why should we then forbear to sport?
Dum vivamus, vivamus,
And when the Fates shall cut us down,
Contenti abeamus.”

De Leguleio.

“Jurisconsultus juvenis solus,
Sat scanning his tenuem docket—
Volo, quoth he, some bonus Æolus
Inspiret fees to my pocket.
He seized in manua sinistra ejus
A tome of Noy, or Fortescue;
Here’s a case, said he, terrible tedious—
Fortuna veni to my rescue!
Lex scripta’s nought but legal diluvium,
Defluxum streams of past ages,
And lawyers sit like ducks in a pluvium,
Under Law’s reigning adages.
Lex non scripta’s good for consciences tender,
Persequi the light internal;
Sed homines sæpius homage render
Ad lucem that burns infernal.
Effodi the said diluvium over,
As do all legal beginners,
Et crede vivere hence in clover,
That’s sown by quarrelsome sinners.
Some think the law esse hum scarabeum,
And lawyers a useless evil,
And Statute claim of tuum and meum
Is but a device of the devil;

Sed pravi homines sunt so thick that,
Without restrictio legis,
Esset crime plusquam one could shake stick at,
By order diaboli regis.
Et good men, rari gurgite vasto,
Are digni the law’s assistance,
Defendere se, et aid them so as to
Keep nefas et vim at a distance.
The lawyer’s his client’s rights’ defender,
And bound laborare astute,
Videre that quæquæ res agenda
Dignitate et virtute.
Sed ecce! a case exactly ad punctum—
Id scribam, ante forget it,
Negotium illud nunc perfunctum,
Feliciter, I have met it.
He thrust out dextræ digitos manus,
His pennam ad ink ille dedit;
Et scripsit,—but any homo sanus
Would be nonsuit ere he could read it.”
A. B. Ely.

Chanson without Music.

BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD AND LIVING LANGUAGES.

“You bid me sing—can I forget
The classic odes of days gone by—
How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette
Exclaimed, ‘Anacreon γερὼν ἔι?’
‘Regardez donc,’ those ladies said—
‘You’re getting bald and wrinkled too:
When Summer’s roses are all shed,
Love’s nullum ite, voyez vous!’
In vain ce brave Anacreon’s cry,
‘Of love alone my banjo sings’
(Ἔρῶτα μουνον). ‘Etiam si,—
Eh bien?’ replied those saucy things—
‘Go find a maid whose hair is grey,
And strike your lyre—we shan’t complain;
But parce nobis, s’il vous plait,—
Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!’
Ah, jeune Lisette! ah, belle Fifine!
Anacreon’s lesson all must learn:
Ὃ καιρός Ὀξὺς; Spring is green,
But acer Hiems waits his turn!
I hear you whispering from the dust,
‘Tiens, mon cher, c’est toujours so,—
The brightest blade grows dim with rust,
The fairest meadow white with snow!’
You do not mean it? Not encore?
Another string of play-day rhymes?
You’ve heard me—nonne est?—before,
Multoties,—more than twenty times;
Non possum—vraiment—pas du tout,
I cannot, I am loath to shirk;
But who will listen if I do,
My memory makes such shocking work?

Γιγνώσκω. Scio. Yes, I’m told
Some ancients like my rusty lay,
As Grandpa Noah loved the old
Red-sandstone march of Jubal’s day.
I used to carol like the birds,
But time my wits have quite unfixed,
Et quoad verba—for my words—
Ciel!—Eheu!—Whe-ew! how they’re mixed!
Mehercle! Ζεὺ. Diable! how
My thoughts were dressed when I was young.
But tempus fugit—see them now
Half clad in rags of every tongue!
Ο Φιλόι, fratres, chers amis!
I dare not court the youthful muse,
For fear her sharp response should be—
‘Papa Anacreon, please excuse!’
Adieu! I’ve trod my annual track
How long!—let others count the miles—
And peddled out my rhyming pack
To friends who always paid in smiles;
So laissez moi! some youthful wit
No doubt has wares he wants to show,
And I am asking ‘let me sit’
Dum ille clamat “Δὸς ποῦ στῶ.”
Dr. Holmes, Atlantic Monthly, Nov. 1867.

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.

“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.

“Geist und sinn mich beutzen über
Vous zu dire das ich sie liebé?
Das herz que vous so lightly spurn
To you und sie allein will turn
Unbarmherzig—pourquoir scorn
Mon cœur with love and anguish torn;
Croyez vous das my despair
Votre bonheur can swell or faire?
Schönheit kann nicht cruel sein
Mefris ist kein macht divine,
Then, oh then, it can’t be thine.
Glaube das mine love is true,
Changeless, deep wie Himmel’s blue—
Que l’amour that now I swear,
Zue dir ewigkeit I’ll bear
Glaube das de gentle rays,
Born and nourished in thy gaze,
Sur mon cœur will ever dwell
Comme à l’instant when they fell—
Mechante! that you know full well.”

Very Felis-itous.

“Felis sedit by a hole,
Intente she, cum omni soul,
Predere rats.
Mice cucurrerunt trans the floor,
In numero duo tres or more,
Obliti cats.
Felis saw them oculis,
‘I’ll have them,’ inquit she, ‘I guess,
Dum ludunt.’
Tunc illa crepit toward the group,
‘Habeam,’ dixit, ‘good rat soup—
Pingues sunt.’

Mice continued all ludere,
Intenti they in ludum vere,
Gaudeuter.
Tunc rushed the felis into them,
Et tore them omnes limb from limb,
Violenter.
MORAL.
Mures omnes, nunc be shy,
Et aurem præbe mihi—
Benigne:
Sic hoc satis—“verbum sat,”
Avoid a whopping Thomas cat
Studiose.”
Green Kendrick.

Ce Meme Vieux Coon.

“Ce meme vieux coon n’est pas quite mort,
Il n’est pas seulement napping:
Je pense, myself, unless j’ai tort
Cette chose est yet to happen.
En dix huit forty-four, je sais,
Vous’ll hear des curious noises;
He’ll whet ces dents against some Clay,
Et scare des Loco—Bois-es!
You know que quand il est awake,
Et quand il scratch ces clawses,
Les Locos dans leurs souliers shake,
Et, sheepish, hang leurs jaws-es.

Ce meme vieux coon, je ne sais pas why,
Le mischief’s come across him,
Il fait believe he’s going to die,
Quand seulement playing possum.
Mais wait till nous le want encore,
Nous’ll stir him with une pole;
He’ll bite as mauvais as before
Nous pulled him de son hole!”
Relic of Henry Clay Campaign of 1844.

Malum Opus.

“Prope ripam fluvii solus
A senex silently sat;
Super capitem ecce his wig,
Et wig super, ecce his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
Dum elderly gentleman sat;
Et a capite took up quite torve
Et in rivum projecit his hat.
Tunc soft maledixit the old man,
Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat,
Et cum scipio poked in the water,
Conatus servare his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
The moment it saw him at that;
Et whisked his novum scratch wig
In flumen, along with his hat.

Ab imo pectore damnavit
In cœruleus eye dolor sat;
Tunc despairingly threw in his cane
Nare cum his wig and his hat.
L’ENVOI.
Contra bonos mores, don’t swear,
It est wicked, you know (verbum sat),
Si this tale habet no other moral,
Mehercle! you’re gratus to that!”
J. A. M.

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.)

“Terry, leave us, sumus weary:
Jam nos tædet te videre,
Si vis nos with joy implere,
Terry in hac terra tarry,
Diem nary.
For thy domum long’st thou nonne?
Habes wife et filios bonny?
Socios Afros magis ton-y?
Haste thee, Terry, mili-terry,
Pedem ferre.
Forte Thaddeus may desire thee,
Sumner, et id. om., admire thee,
Nuisance nobis, not to ire thee,
We can spare thee, magne Terry,
Freely, very.
Hear the Prex’s proclamation,
Nos fideles to the nation,
Gone est nunc thy place and station
Terry-sier momen-terry
Sine query.
Yes, thy doom est scriptum—‘Mene,’
Longer ne nos naso tene,
Thou hast dogged us, diu bene,
Loose us, terrible bull terry-er,
We’ll be merrier.
But the dulces Afros, vale,
Pompey, Scipio et Sally,
Seek some back New Haven alley,
Terry, quit this territory
Con amore.
Sed verbum titi, abituro,
Pay thy rent-bills, et conjuro,
Tecum take thy precious bureau
Terry, Turner, blue-coat hom’nes
Abhinc omnes!”
Horace Milton.

Lydia Green.

“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.

“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.”

“‘Eh! dancez-vous?’ dixit Mein Herr.
‘Oui, oui!’ the charming maid replied:
Vidit ille at once the snare,
Looked downas quick, et etiam sighed.
Das Mädchen knew each bona art
Stat ludicrans superba sweet;
Simplex homo perdit his heart
Declares eros ad ejus feet.
‘Mein Liebchen,’ here exclaims de Herr,
‘Lux of mein life, ein rayum shed,
Dein oscula let amor share,
Si non, alas! meum be dead.’
Ludit das girlus gaily then,
Cum scorna much upon her lip:
Quid stultuses sunt all you men,
Funus to give you omnes slip.
Mein Herr uprose cum dignas now,
Et melius et wiser man,
Der nubis paina on his brow,
To his dark domus cito ran.
Nunc omnes you qui eager hear
Meas tell of cette falsa maid,
Of fascinatus girl beware
Lest votre folly sic be paid.”

To a Friend at Parting.

“I often wished I had a friend,
Dem ich mich anvertraun Könnt,
A friend in whom I could confide,
Der mit mir theilte Freud und Leid;
Had I the riches of Girard—
Ich theilte mit ihm Haus und Heerd:
For what is gold? ’Tis but a passing metal,
Der Henker hol’ für mich den ganzen Bettel.
Could I purchase the world to live in it alone,
Ich gäb’, däfur nich eine noble Bohn’;
I thought one time in you I’d find that friend,
Und glaubte schon mein Sehnen hät ein End;
Alas! your friendship lasted but in sight,
Doch meine grenzet an die Ewigkeit.”

Ad Professorem Linguæ Germanicæ.

“Oh why now sprechen Sie Deutsch?
What pleasure say can Sie haben?
You cannot imagine how much
You bother unfortunate Knaben.
Liebster Freund! give bessere work,
Nicht so hard, ein kurtzerer lesson,
Oh then we will nicht try to shirk
Und unser will geben Sie blessin’.
Oh, ask us nicht now to decline
‘Meines Bruders grössere Häuser;’
‘Die Fasser’ of ‘alt rother Wein’
Can give us no possible joy, sir.
Der Müller may tragen ein Rock
Eat schwartz Brod und dem Käsè,
Die Gans may be hängen on hoch,
But what can it matter to me, sir?
Return zu Ihr own native tongue,
Leave Dutch und Sauer Kraut to the Dutchmen;
And seek not to teach to the young
The Sprache belonging to such men.

Und now ’tis my solemn belief
That if you nicht grant this petition,
Sie must schreiben mein Vater ein Brief,
To say that ich hab’ ein Condition.’”
Yale Courant.

Pome of a Possum.

“The nox was lit by lux of Luna,
And ’twas nox most opportuna
To catch a possum or a coona;
For nix was scattered o’er this mundus,
A shallow nix, et non profundus.
On sic a nox with canis unus,
Two boys went out to hunt for coonus.
Unis canis, duo puer,
Nunquam braver, nunquam truer,
Quam hoc trio unquam fuit,
If there was I never knew it.
The corpus of this bonus canis,
Was full as long as octo span is,
But brevior legs had canis never
Quam had hic dog; et bonus clever
Some used to say, in stultum jocum,
Quod a field was too small locum
For sic a dog to make a turnus
Circum self from stem to sternus.
This bonus dog had one bad habit,
Amabat much to tree a rabbit—
Amabat plus to chase a rattus,
Amabat bene tree a cattus.
But on this nixy moonlight night,
This old canis did just right.
Nunquam treed a starving rattus,
Nunquam chased a starving cattus,
But cucurrit on, intentus
On the track and on the scentus,
Till he treed a possum strongum,
In a hollow trunkum longum;
Loud he barked, in horrid bellum,
Seemed on terra venit pellum;
Quickly ran the duo puer,
Mors of possum to secure;
Quum venerit, one began
To chop away like quisque man;
Soon the axe went through the truncum,
Soon he hit it all kerchunkum;
Combat deepens; on ye braves!
Canis, pueri et staves;
As his powers non longuis tarry,
Possum potest non pugnare,
On the nix his corpus lieth,
Down to Hades spirit flieth,
Joyful pueri, canis bonus,
Think him dead as any stonus.
Now they seek their pater’s domo,
Feeling proud as any homo,
Knowing, certe, they will blossom
Into heroes, when with possum
They arrive, narrabunt story,
Plenus blood et plenior glory.
Pompey, David, Samson, Cæsar,
Cyrus, Blackhawk, Shalmaneser!
Tell me where est now the gloria,
Where the honours of Victoria?
Quum ad domum narrent story,
Plenus sanguine, tragic, gory.
Pater praiseth, likewise mater,
Wonders greatly younger frater.
Possum leave they on the mundus,
Go themselves to sleep profundus,
Somniunt possums slain in battle,
Strong as ursæ, large as cattle.
When nox gives way to lux of morning—
Albam terram much adorning,—
Up they jump to see the varmen,
Of the which this is the carmen.
Lo! possum est resurrectum!
Ecce pueri dejectum.
Ne relinquit track behind him,
Et the pueri never find him.
Cruel possum! bestia vilest,
How the pueros thou beguilest;
Pueri think non plus of Cæsar,
Go ad Orcum, Shalmaneser,
Take your laurels, cum the honour,
Since ista possum is a goner!”

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.)

“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.”

“Lady! formosissima tu!
Cæruleis oculis have you,
Ditto nose!
Et vous n’avez pas une faute—
And that you are going to vote,
Goodness knows!
And the roseus on your cheek,
And your Algebra and Greek,
Are parfait!
And your jactus oculi
Knows each star that shines in the
Milky Way!
You have pouting, piquant lips,
Sans doute vous pouvez an eclipse
Calculate!
Ne cærulum colorantur,
I should have in you, instanter,
Met my fate!
Si, by some arrangement dual,
I at once were Kant and Whewell;
It would pay—
Procus noti then to come
To so sweet an Artium
Magistra!
Or, Jewel of Consistency,
Si possem clear-starch, cookere,
Votre learning
Might the legēs proscribĕre—
Do the pro patria mori,
I, the churning!”

Here are a few juvenile specimens, the first being a little-known old nursery ballad:

The Four Brothers.