 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
167
PARODIES, ETC.
169
THE TOWN OF NICE.
(MAY, 1874.)
The town of Nice! the town of Nice!
Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung,
And never gave me any peace,
The whole year round when I was young!
Eternal winter chills it yet,
It's always cold, and mostly wet.
Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung,
And never gave me any peace,
The whole year round when I was young!
Eternal winter chills it yet,
It's always cold, and mostly wet.
Lord Brougham sate on the rocky brow,
Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis',
But wouldn't like to sit there now,
Unless 'twere warmer than it is;
I went to Cannes the other day,
But found it much too damp to stay.
Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis',
But wouldn't like to sit there now,
Unless 'twere warmer than it is;
I went to Cannes the other day,
But found it much too damp to stay.
The mountains look on Monaco,
And Monaco looks on the sea;
And, playing there some hours ago,
I meant to win enormously;
But, tho' my need of coin was bad,
I lost the little that I had.
And Monaco looks on the sea;
And, playing there some hours ago,
I meant to win enormously;
170
I lost the little that I had.
Ye have the southern charges yet?
Where is the southern climate gone?
Of two such blessings, why forget
The cheaper and the seemlier one?
My weekly bill my wrath inspires;
Think ye I meant to pay for fires?
Where is the southern climate gone?
Of two such blessings, why forget
The cheaper and the seemlier one?
My weekly bill my wrath inspires;
Think ye I meant to pay for fires?
Why should I stay? No worse art thou,
My country! on thy genial shore
The local east-winds whistle now,
The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny south, the weather
Beats all you know of put together.
My country! on thy genial shore
The local east-winds whistle now,
The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny south, the weather
Beats all you know of put together.
I cannot eat—I cannot sleep—
The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky:
I get dyspepsia when I dine—
Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!
The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky:
I get dyspepsia when I dine—
Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!
171
MATILDA.
Shall I fret and fume and swear,
Because Matilda dyes her hair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
That hers so very rosy are?
Though her raven locks to-day
Turn as yellow as the hay,
If she be but true to me,
What care I how blonde she be!
Because Matilda dyes her hair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
That hers so very rosy are?
Though her raven locks to-day
Turn as yellow as the hay,
If she be but true to me,
What care I how blonde she be!
Shall a woman's weakness move
Me such weakness to reprove?
Or her little failings known
Make me careless of my own?
Though her bills be longer than
Bill of duck or pelican,
If they be not paid by me,
What care I how long they be?
Me such weakness to reprove?
Or her little failings known
Make me careless of my own?
Though her bills be longer than
Bill of duck or pelican,
If they be not paid by me,
What care I how long they be?
If her youth be left behind,
Shall I play the fool and mind?
She must be, the women say,
Forty-five if she's a day—
But I swear she looks no more,
At the most, than forty-four:
If she's young enough for me,
What care I how old she be?
Shall I play the fool and mind?
She must be, the women say,
Forty-five if she's a day—
172
At the most, than forty-four:
If she's young enough for me,
What care I how old she be?
Be she painted, fast, or old—
Be she flirt, or rake, or scold—
She has cash enough to make
Me submissive for her sake:
If she lose her money, though,
I can scorn and let her go;
If in poverty she be,
She may go to Bath for me!
Be she flirt, or rake, or scold—
She has cash enough to make
Me submissive for her sake:
If she lose her money, though,
I can scorn and let her go;
If in poverty she be,
She may go to Bath for me!
173
ANGOT-MANIE.
On Pyrenean mountains,
On Margate's shrimpy sands,
Where Rhine's melodious fountains
Roll down their German bands;
By many a rushing river,
By Neva, Thames, and Seine,
Will none mine ears deliver
From that eternal strain?
“Très jolie—
Peu polie:”
Nothing else where'er I go!
Oh, the bore of it!
Please, no more of it!
Save me from the Dame Angot!
On Margate's shrimpy sands,
Where Rhine's melodious fountains
Roll down their German bands;
By many a rushing river,
By Neva, Thames, and Seine,
Will none mine ears deliver
From that eternal strain?
“Très jolie—
Peu polie:”
Nothing else where'er I go!
Oh, the bore of it!
Please, no more of it!
Save me from the Dame Angot!
Men will not sing the old songs;
Their name is never heard;
For months they haven't sold songs,
But that familiar word:
John, Thomas, Jane, and Mary,
Maid, matron, man, and boy,
The minstrel from the prairie,
The grinder from Savoy,
Shout that ditty in
Every city, in
Every street and every show;
Put a stopper u-
Pon that opera!
And destroy the Dame Angot!
Their name is never heard;
For months they haven't sold songs,
But that familiar word:
174
Maid, matron, man, and boy,
The minstrel from the prairie,
The grinder from Savoy,
Shout that ditty in
Every city, in
Every street and every show;
Put a stopper u-
Pon that opera!
And destroy the Dame Angot!
'Frisco, whose portals golden
Let in the golden west,
And all the cities olden,
And all the modernest:
New York, Old York, and Cadiz,
Coomassie, Brixton, Bray,
Ring with the market ladies'
Refrain all night and day!
Oh, ye deities!
In each key it is;
Flute, and organ, and also
Pianoforte tune
Up that naughty tune—
Save us from the dame Angot!
Let in the golden west,
And all the cities olden,
And all the modernest:
New York, Old York, and Cadiz,
Coomassie, Brixton, Bray,
Ring with the market ladies'
Refrain all night and day!
Oh, ye deities!
In each key it is;
Flute, and organ, and also
Pianoforte tune
Up that naughty tune—
Save us from the dame Angot!
Paris, 1874.
175
THE CRUISE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.
[_]
“The struggle between the labourers in Kent and the farmers who locked them out has ended in the men's departure for New Zealand. The men, it will be remembered, struck against a reduction of wages, and were then locked out till they should abandon the Union. The farmers believed that, under the pressure of the hard times, they would yield; but the younger men determined to emigrate, and introduce into the colony the cultivation of Kentish hops. The Government of New Zealand, which prefers this class of emigrants to all others, readily agreed to assist them, and on Wednesday six hundred emigrants, most of them young men, the pick of the country-side, started from Maidstone for the Antipodes. . . The men, according to the Daily News, all plead the absence of any prospect of “getting on.”— Spectator, Feb. 1, 1879.
Half a life, half a life,
Half a life plundered;
As for the wage of death
Strove the six hundred.
“Seaward,” at last they said,
“Seaward our lines are laid!”
Out of the land of death
Sailed the six hundred.
Half a life plundered;
As for the wage of death
Strove the six hundred.
“Seaward,” at last they said,
“Seaward our lines are laid!”
Out of the land of death
Sailed the six hundred.
176
“Doubt here and dull dismay,
Yonder the dawn of day;
England has blundered,
Ours not her mission high,
Ours not to ask her why,
Ours but to toil and die.”
Out of the land of death
Sailed the six hundred.
Yonder the dawn of day;
England has blundered,
Ours not her mission high,
Ours not to ask her why,
Ours but to toil and die.”
Out of the land of death
Sailed the six hundred.
Home-ties in heart of them,
Home-ties in love of them,
Home-ties among them
Severed and sundered.
“Boots not our pain to tell,
Life for a doit we sell:”
So with a long farewell
Sailed the six hundred.
Home-ties in love of them,
Home-ties among them
Severed and sundered.
“Boots not our pain to tell,
Life for a doit we sell:”
So with a long farewell
Sailed the six hundred.
Bent every knee in prayer,
Rose every sigh in air:
“If there be plenty there,
Long have we wondered.”
Dream-bound their misery spoke,
And with a start they woke;
So the hard spell they broke—
Broke the six hundred.
Rose every sigh in air:
“If there be plenty there,
Long have we wondered.”
Dream-bound their misery spoke,
And with a start they woke;
So the hard spell they broke—
Broke the six hundred.
“Have we no birthright dear?
Have we but masters here?
Ever in failing fear
Trodden and plundered.
Soldiers may die and bleed,
Slain for the devil's creed—
Ours to be free indeed!”
Cried the six hundred.
Have we but masters here?
177
Trodden and plundered.
Soldiers may die and bleed,
Slain for the devil's creed—
Ours to be free indeed!”
Cried the six hundred.
Mourn, then, our banished sons;
Man, then, our newest guns,
Speed these our gallant ones
From the land sundered;
Honour their hopeful heart,
Honour as they depart;
God bless the seaward start
Of the six hundred!
Man, then, our newest guns,
Speed these our gallant ones
From the land sundered;
Honour their hopeful heart,
Honour as they depart;
God bless the seaward start
Of the six hundred!
178
AD AQUÆ POTORES.
A miracle of love divineChanged all the water into wine:
Save me from miracles of men,
Who want to change it back again.
| The White Pilgrim and Other Poems | |