 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
115
II. PART II.
SOME OLD READINGS OF OLD NURSERY RHYMES.
I
Ride-a-cock horseTo Kennington Cross;
Come and see Planché,
Who works like a horse,
Sucking his fingers,
And roasting his toes;
He would have you come
Wherever he goes.
II.
Halliwell-Halliwell,My pretty man,
Make me a book
As fast as you can;
Write it and print it,
And mark it with P.,
And send it by Parcels Delivery.
116
III.
Jamesay, Pamesay,Ride in a coachee, poachee,
And come and see Planché, can't ye?
IV.
I'll tell you a story,I hope it won't bore ye,
The Easter piece is begun.
I'll tell you another,
I'm quite in a pother,
And wish the piece was done.
V.
James met JillAt Middle Hill,
And very charming thought her;
James fell in love
His ears above,
And Jill came tumbling after.
Fly away, James,
Fly away, Jill,
From Middle Hill,
From Middle Hill.
VI.
Cuckoo—cherry-tree,Write a book and give it to me,
Let the book be great or small,
Any is better than none at all.
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VII.
See-saw, scan a down,When are you coming to London town?
If you don't come up, I must go down,
And show you the way to London town.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
Let me know if you're alive;
6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
When the deuce shall I see you again?
VIII.
A diller doller,You Cambridge scholar,
Why don't you come and call?
You used to come now and then,
And now you don't come at all.
IX.
Ding dong bell,Planché's at Stockwell.
What took him there?
His wife, you may swear.
When will he come back?
As soon as he can—good lack!
118
TO SYDNEY HALL, ESQ.
[_]
Mr. Planché having been requested by Mr. Hall to sit for his picture of the ceremony of the marriage of the Princess Louise to the Marquis of Lorne, lent his tabard, &c., to him; and on their not being returned as soon as he expected, wrote the following lines to him:—
I sent you all, I could no more,
Though poor the loan may be;
My tabard, chain, and three or four
Bad photographs of me.
Though poor the loan may be;
My tabard, chain, and three or four
Bad photographs of me.
You promised full three weeks ago
You'd soon return the lot;
I only ask you “Did you so?”
For here at least they're not.
You'd soon return the lot;
I only ask you “Did you so?”
For here at least they're not.
My chain! my collar of “Esses,”
Of silver every link;
My choler rises, I confesses,
When of its loss I think.
Of silver every link;
My choler rises, I confesses,
When of its loss I think.
119
My tabard! that so oft has been
The envy of beholders,
When our dear Queen's own arms they've seen
Folded around my shoulders!
The envy of beholders,
When our dear Queen's own arms they've seen
Folded around my shoulders!
I'm all for Lorne! I am, indeed,
And proud to have a corner
In your tableaux! so there's no need
To make me still for Lorner.
And proud to have a corner
In your tableaux! so there's no need
To make me still for Lorner.
Of Gowers and Campbells I have known
Four noble generations;
And to the former house I own
Some special obligations.
Four noble generations;
And to the former house I own
Some special obligations.
To you, to learn it may be news,
That but for its good “Graces”
No tabard had been mine to lose,
No collar eke of Essess!
That but for its good “Graces”
No tabard had been mine to lose,
No collar eke of Essess!
Such recollections only make
Me value them the more;
Return my coat, for goodness sake,
'Twas never turned before!
Me value them the more;
Return my coat, for goodness sake,
'Twas never turned before!
Pack up my tabard and my chain,
Leave half smoked your regalia,
And glad me with the sight again
Of my paraphernalia!
Leave half smoked your regalia,
And glad me with the sight again
Of my paraphernalia!
120
A CHRISTMAS GREETING.
Farewell to the Lilies and Roses,
Adieu to bright lakes and clear skies,
Prepare for red hands and blue noses,
Fogs, chilblains, sore throats, and old guys.
The sun, Sagitarius nearing,
Begins to look blowing and queer,
And winds howl in accents uncheering,
The last dying speech of the year.
Adieu to bright lakes and clear skies,
Prepare for red hands and blue noses,
Fogs, chilblains, sore throats, and old guys.
The sun, Sagitarius nearing,
Begins to look blowing and queer,
And winds howl in accents uncheering,
The last dying speech of the year.
The days they grow shorter and shorter,
The town's worse than ever for smoke,
Invention, necessity's daughter!
How long must we blacken and choke?
Contract with some wholesale perfumer,
To wash off the soot as it falls,
Or let a gigantic consumer
Be placed on the top of St. Paul's.
The town's worse than ever for smoke,
Invention, necessity's daughter!
How long must we blacken and choke?
Contract with some wholesale perfumer,
To wash off the soot as it falls,
Or let a gigantic consumer
Be placed on the top of St. Paul's.
Oh! strive by some channel to turn it,
Ere down our poor throttles it rolls;
Why can't the Gas Company burn it,
'Twould save them a fortune in coals.
Much longer we ne'er can endure it,
The smother each resident damns,
Unless something's done to cure it,
'Twill cure us like so many hams.
Ere down our poor throttles it rolls;
Why can't the Gas Company burn it,
'Twould save them a fortune in coals.
121
The smother each resident damns,
Unless something's done to cure it,
'Twill cure us like so many hams.
The Cit now from Thanet's fair island
Steams back to Bartholomew Lane;
The Peer posts it over the dry land,
To pace Brighton's new pier of chain.
The Lord Mayor, by mud and by water,
Displays his long draggletailed show;
And the judges to dinner besought are,
Too good judges are to say No.
Steams back to Bartholomew Lane;
The Peer posts it over the dry land,
To pace Brighton's new pier of chain.
The Lord Mayor, by mud and by water,
Displays his long draggletailed show;
And the judges to dinner besought are,
Too good judges are to say No.
The columns of each morning paper
With coroners' inquests are filled,
On some who in air chose to caper,
And some who their craniums have drilled
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint, for “ennui.”
Oh, when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for felo de se?
With coroners' inquests are filled,
On some who in air chose to caper,
And some who their craniums have drilled
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint, for “ennui.”
Oh, when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for felo de se?
But lo! through the dark cloud of evils
A ray is beginning to peer,
Which startles the host of blue devils,
As though 'twere Ithuriel's spear.
The pulses again freely play, for
Though faster may fall the snow flakes,
Merry Christmas is coming, and hey for
Waits, turkeys, mince pies, and Twelfth cakes!
A ray is beginning to peer,
Which startles the host of blue devils,
As though 'twere Ithuriel's spear.
122
Though faster may fall the snow flakes,
Merry Christmas is coming, and hey for
Waits, turkeys, mince pies, and Twelfth cakes!
A fig for each cynical railer!
We'll keep it up early and late;
I shall have a long bill from my tailor,
But, curse him, the rascal must wait!
Come, what shall it be, pretty lasses,
Hot cockles, pope Joan, blindman's buff?
It matters not how the time passes,
So you do but make racket enough!
We'll keep it up early and late;
I shall have a long bill from my tailor,
But, curse him, the rascal must wait!
Come, what shall it be, pretty lasses,
Hot cockles, pope Joan, blindman's buff?
It matters not how the time passes,
So you do but make racket enough!
Though fashion such sports has exploded,
Its firman ne'er think upon now,
But bring, with its pretty pearls loaded,
The misletoe's mystical bough;
Oh! why should we forfeit such blisses,
To follow the taste of a few;
Though some people may not like kisses,
I honestly own that I do.
Its firman ne'er think upon now,
But bring, with its pretty pearls loaded,
The misletoe's mystical bough;
Oh! why should we forfeit such blisses,
To follow the taste of a few;
Though some people may not like kisses,
I honestly own that I do.
Round a good wassail bowl of rich fluids,
Would quench e'en a Tantalus' thirst;
Libations let's pour to the Druids,
Who gathered the misletoe first!
And next, to the sweet girls who've bless'd it,
Wherever the pretty rogues be,
Who though they must seem to detest it,
Would live and die under the tree.
Would quench e'en a Tantalus' thirst;
Libations let's pour to the Druids,
Who gathered the misletoe first!
123
Wherever the pretty rogues be,
Who though they must seem to detest it,
Would live and die under the tree.
And surely it won't be deemed treason,
Here met as we are round the hearth,
Of one who ne'er stands upon season,
To add to our comfort or mirth!
To wish him and his every blessing
Man knows in this unstable sphere,
And all the good friends I'm addressing,
An old-fashioned happy New Year!
Here met as we are round the hearth,
Of one who ne'er stands upon season,
To add to our comfort or mirth!
To wish him and his every blessing
Man knows in this unstable sphere,
And all the good friends I'm addressing,
An old-fashioned happy New Year!
124
“THE MAGPIE” TO “THE MAID.”
The magpie begs to tell the maid,
She's set his heart a-throbbing,
For in the picture he's afraid
He sees a little robin(g).
She's set his heart a-throbbing,
For in the picture he's afraid
He sees a little robin(g).
And oh! if so, mistake he can't
The floral indication;
It certainly must be some “plant”
For this old thief's temptation.
The floral indication;
It certainly must be some “plant”
For this old thief's temptation.
Annette! Annette! Annette! For shame!
Have you no human feeling?
Would you of this old bird make game,
Or catch him once more stealing?
Have you no human feeling?
Would you of this old bird make game,
Or catch him once more stealing?
You know his pilfering of old
Into much trouble brought you;
And now a little heart of gold
You show him! really, ought you?
Into much trouble brought you;
And now a little heart of gold
You show him! really, ought you?
125
Cruel! you know that at my age
I cannot quit my perch,
To steal that heart, and from my cage
Fly with it to the church!
I cannot quit my perch,
To steal that heart, and from my cage
Fly with it to the church!
“I would I were a bird,” my love,
More fit to go a-wooing;
I'd seek you like “the travelled dove,”
And try my luck at cooing.
More fit to go a-wooing;
I'd seek you like “the travelled dove,”
And try my luck at cooing.
But as it is, 'tis much too bad
To tempt me such a “swag” by;
You're only driving raven mad
A poor old chattering magpie!
To tempt me such a “swag” by;
You're only driving raven mad
A poor old chattering magpie!
I'm always dull on Christmas day,
It lets a flood of ills in,
For that's the time those birds of prey
Bring all their horrid bills in!
It lets a flood of ills in,
For that's the time those birds of prey
Bring all their horrid bills in!
So pardon if the rhymes I write
Seem rather void of reason;
I cannot take a higher flight,
But in my colours—black and white—
Wish you, with all my heart and might,
The compliments of the season!
Seem rather void of reason;
I cannot take a higher flight,
But in my colours—black and white—
Wish you, with all my heart and might,
The compliments of the season!
Bird Cage Walk, St. James's,
December, 25th, 1867.
126
POLLY CONNOR
Pretty girl was Polly Connor,
When first I met her years ago;
I was awful “spoons” upon her,
She was nuts on me, I know.
One whole year we were so jolly!
Hours like minutes seemed to fly;
For no end of fun was Polly,
And a lively sort was I.
When first I met her years ago;
I was awful “spoons” upon her,
She was nuts on me, I know.
One whole year we were so jolly!
Hours like minutes seemed to fly;
For no end of fun was Polly,
And a lively sort was I.
What began it I've forgotten,
But a short time after that
She and I seemed not to cotton,
And lived at last like dog and cat.
Polly took to Fred a fancy,
Used to meet him on the sly,
And upon his sister Nancy
Rather sweet, I own, was I.
But a short time after that
She and I seemed not to cotton,
And lived at last like dog and cat.
Polly took to Fred a fancy,
Used to meet him on the sly,
And upon his sister Nancy
Rather sweet, I own, was I.
So we parted, and with many
Girls I flirted, dark and fair—
Often thinking, were there any
Who with Polly could compare?
One night, rather melancholy,
Thought Cremorne the thing to try;
Who should I meet there but Polly?
She seemed quite as pleased as I.
Girls I flirted, dark and fair—
Often thinking, were there any
Who with Polly could compare?
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Thought Cremorne the thing to try;
Who should I meet there but Polly?
She seemed quite as pleased as I.
Rushing back came each old feeling,
Lovers once again were we;
But the fact there's no concealing,
Time had changed both her and me.
We agreed to love was folly,
So shook hands, and said Good-bye!
Polly was no longer Polly,
And I myself no longer I.
Lovers once again were we;
But the fact there's no concealing,
Time had changed both her and me.
We agreed to love was folly,
So shook hands, and said Good-bye!
Polly was no longer Polly,
And I myself no longer I.
128
A WORD IN SEASON.
Och! Mrs. Belson, ma'am!
You're raly too provoking,
You bother one so—
Nobody can know
If it's arnest you're in or joking.
Sure you're not a believer
In that big deceiver,
That thundering owld thief, Plato,
Who'd have sworn on a crook
If it had suited his book,
That a pig was like a potato!
You're raly too provoking,
You bother one so—
Nobody can know
If it's arnest you're in or joking.
Sure you're not a believer
In that big deceiver,
That thundering owld thief, Plato,
Who'd have sworn on a crook
If it had suited his book,
That a pig was like a potato!
Och! Mrs. Belson, ma'am!
It's only an evening to be wid you;
And it's aisy enough
To see the stuff
That you're taking will never agree wid you.
Ye's getting thin,
And go dreaming in
A way no purliteness can gloss over,
And a sin and a shame
'Tis to do that same—
For a haythen ould philosopher!
It's only an evening to be wid you;
And it's aisy enough
To see the stuff
That you're taking will never agree wid you.
Ye's getting thin,
And go dreaming in
A way no purliteness can gloss over,
And a sin and a shame
'Tis to do that same—
For a haythen ould philosopher!
129
You've heard, Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
So sweet were his orations,
That the humming bees
Came and fell on their knees
To suck in his conversations.
The mealy-mouthed thief!
It's my belief,
And I'll back it with any money,
He murdered whole hives
With his “catch 'em alives,”
Which the poor devils took for honey.
So sweet were his orations,
That the humming bees
Came and fell on their knees
To suck in his conversations.
The mealy-mouthed thief!
It's my belief,
And I'll back it with any money,
He murdered whole hives
With his “catch 'em alives,”
Which the poor devils took for honey.
Sure, Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
You're not to be hummed as the bees were,
The innocent varmin,
To think of their swarmin'
Round flowers of speech such as these were.
Such blarney to swallow
Beats Banaghar hollow;
To your heart surely something must nigher lie,
Hearts are not made of stone!
Don't I know by my own?
So come out of that entirely!
You're not to be hummed as the bees were,
The innocent varmin,
To think of their swarmin'
Round flowers of speech such as these were.
Such blarney to swallow
Beats Banaghar hollow;
To your heart surely something must nigher lie,
Hearts are not made of stone!
Don't I know by my own?
So come out of that entirely!
Dear Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
It's a mighty deal too bad of you,
Wid your eyes like onyx
To talk of platonics,
When there's scores of boys would be glad of you.
If a purty young chap
Should fall into your lap,
For the sake of human nature,
Mind you don't say him “nay” to
But pitch over Plato,
And love like a dacent creature.
It's a mighty deal too bad of you,
Wid your eyes like onyx
To talk of platonics,
When there's scores of boys would be glad of you.
130
Should fall into your lap,
For the sake of human nature,
Mind you don't say him “nay” to
But pitch over Plato,
And love like a dacent creature.
131
A SONG
FOR THE END OF THE SEASON.
Sir John has this moment gone by
In the brougham that was to be mine,
But, my dear, I'm not going to cry,
Though I know where he's going to dine.
I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball
With that girl to his arm clinging fast,
But it won't, love, disturb me at all,
I've recovered my spirits at last!
In the brougham that was to be mine,
But, my dear, I'm not going to cry,
Though I know where he's going to dine.
I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball
With that girl to his arm clinging fast,
But it won't, love, disturb me at all,
I've recovered my spirits at last!
I was horribly low a whole week,
For I could not go out anywhere
Without hearing, “You know they don't speak;”
Or, “I'm told it's all broken off there.”
But the Earl whispered something last night,
I shan't say exactly what past,
But of this, dear, be satisfied quite,
I've recovered my spirits at last!
For I could not go out anywhere
Without hearing, “You know they don't speak;”
Or, “I'm told it's all broken off there.”
But the Earl whispered something last night,
I shan't say exactly what past,
But of this, dear, be satisfied quite,
I've recovered my spirits at last!
132
UNSUPPORTED SUPPORTERS.
The Lion and the Unicorn,
Who deigned till very lately
The Heralds' College to adorn
On pillars tall and stately,
Who deigned till very lately
The Heralds' College to adorn
On pillars tall and stately,
Unceremoniously one day
Were hoisted from their stations,
And on the pavement left to stay,
Pending the alterations.
Were hoisted from their stations,
And on the pavement left to stay,
Pending the alterations.
The Lion sadly wanted or,
The Unicorn lacked argent,
Clearly they'd ne'er been thus before
“Depicted in the margent.”
The Unicorn lacked argent,
Clearly they'd ne'er been thus before
“Depicted in the margent.”
It therefore seemed of the offence
A serious aggravation,
That folks with arms of less pretence
Obtained full compensation,
A serious aggravation,
That folks with arms of less pretence
Obtained full compensation,
133
While they, supporters of the crown
For centuries unaided,
Who had graced standards of renown,
Were to vile flags degraded.
For centuries unaided,
Who had graced standards of renown,
Were to vile flags degraded.
The Unicorn, in language strong,
The Lion laid the blame on:
“Without a growl to bear this wrong
A blot will be your fame on.
The Lion laid the blame on:
“Without a growl to bear this wrong
A blot will be your fame on.
“If of us quadrupeds you were
The king, or e'en the regent,
You would be rampant, not beg there
Like a tame poodle—sejant!
The king, or e'en the regent,
You would be rampant, not beg there
Like a tame poodle—sejant!
“As dexter 'tis your right to make
Them equal justice minister;
If I should up the matter take,
They'd call the motive sinister.
Them equal justice minister;
If I should up the matter take,
They'd call the motive sinister.
“The British lion you! my brain
Whirls round, it so provokes me!
For half-a-crown I'd break my chain,
My collar almost chokes me!
Whirls round, it so provokes me!
For half-a-crown I'd break my chain,
My collar almost chokes me!
“‘Dieu et mon droit’ no longer may
You boast as your proud motto;
‘Adieu, mon droit,’ you'd better say,
And join Parkins & Gotto.”
You boast as your proud motto;
‘Adieu, mon droit,’ you'd better say,
And join Parkins & Gotto.”
134
So saying, like a vicious colt,
To cut the matter shorter,
He made a sort of demi-volt
And rumped his co-supporter.
To cut the matter shorter,
He made a sort of demi-volt
And rumped his co-supporter.
The Lion winced at the last sneer,
But only gave a whistle,
And said, “My ancient friend, I fear
You've trod upon your thistle.
But only gave a whistle,
And said, “My ancient friend, I fear
You've trod upon your thistle.
“The motto you to England brought—
Excuse me, comrade, if I sigh
To find you set it now at nought—
Was ‘BEATI PACIFICI.’
Excuse me, comrade, if I sigh
To find you set it now at nought—
Was ‘BEATI PACIFICI.’
“Prithee, don't let the Heralds see
Us thus ‘addorsed,’ good brother,
Where we in every sense should be
‘Respecting one another.’
Us thus ‘addorsed,’ good brother,
Where we in every sense should be
‘Respecting one another.’
“In youth, I'm willing to admit,
More ‘combatant’ was I, sir;
But then I'd much more pluck than wit—
I'm older now and wiser.
More ‘combatant’ was I, sir;
But then I'd much more pluck than wit—
I'm older now and wiser.
“I can complacently repose
Beneath my well-won laurels,
And mean no more to poke my nose
In everybody's quarrels.
Beneath my well-won laurels,
And mean no more to poke my nose
In everybody's quarrels.
135
“Nor does it suit my present views
To roar for every trifle;
I've got—and can, if need be, use—
But won't strain my new rifle.
To roar for every trifle;
I've got—and can, if need be, use—
But won't strain my new rifle.
“You seem to have forgotten quite
The world's in constant movement;
And neither King's nor Lion's might
Can long repel improvement.
The world's in constant movement;
And neither King's nor Lion's might
Can long repel improvement.
“London of a new street had need,
And Heralds by profession
Were bound to lead, and not impede,
A grand public procession.
And Heralds by profession
Were bound to lead, and not impede,
A grand public procession.
“The posts we held were on the go,
And fallen soon had seen us;
We had nothing to support, you know—
Not one poor coat between us.
And fallen soon had seen us;
We had nothing to support, you know—
Not one poor coat between us.
“But reinstalled in the new court,
And gay with paint and gilding,
We shall our dignity support,
With that of the whole building.
And gay with paint and gilding,
We shall our dignity support,
With that of the whole building.
“Facing a street so broad and fine—
When to our seats we've vaulted—
My crown will cut a greater shine,
Your horn will be exalted.
When to our seats we've vaulted—
My crown will cut a greater shine,
Your horn will be exalted.
136
“So blazon not a long dull roll
Of bickerings and bereavements;
Display the power of self-control—
The greatest of atchievements.”
Of bickerings and bereavements;
Display the power of self-control—
The greatest of atchievements.”
'Twas all in vain; the Unicorn
Was deaf to explanation,
And, with a toss up of his horn,
Declined more conversation.
Was deaf to explanation,
And, with a toss up of his horn,
Declined more conversation.
One of the many firms professing to find arms—and who are most successful in doing so—for those who have none.
137
A LITERARY SQUABBLE.
The Alphabet rejoiced to hearThat Monckton Milnes was made a Peer;
For in this present world of letters
But few, if any, are his betters:
So an address by acclamation,
They voted of congratulation,
And H, O, U, G, T, and N,
Were chosen the address to pen;
Possessing each an interest vital
In the new Peer's baronial title.
'Twas done in language terse and telling,
Perfect in grammar and in spelling:
But when 'twas read aloud, oh, mercy!
There sprang up such a controversy
About the true pronunciation,
Of said baronical appellation.
The vowels O and U averred
They were entitled to be heard;
The consonants denied their claim,
Insisting that they mute became.
Johnson and Walker were applied to,
Sheridan, Bailey, Webster, tried too;
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A word that left the case in doubt.
O, looking round upon them all,
Cried, “If it be correct to call
T, H, R, O, U, G, H, ‘throo,’
H, O, U, G, H, must be ‘Hoo,’
Therefore, there can be no dispute on
The question—we should say ‘Lord Hooton,.’”
U “brought,” “bought,” “fought,” and “sought,” to show
He should be doubled and not O,
For sure if “ought,” was “awt,” then “nought” on
Earth could the title be but “Hawton.”
H, on the other hand, said he
In “cough,” and “trough,” stood next to G,
And like an F was thus looked soft on,
Which made him think it should be “Hofton.”
But G corrected H, and drew
Attention other cases to,
“Tough,” “rough,” and “chough,” more than “enough”
To prove O, U, G, H, spelt “uff,,”
And growled out in a sort of gruff tone,
They must pronounce the title “Huffton,”
N said emphatically “No!”
There is D, O, U, G, H, “doh,”
And though (look there again!) that stuff
At sea, for fun, they nicknamed “duff,”
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The question, “Should it not be Hoton?”
Besides in French, 'twould have such force,
A lord was of “Haut ton” of course.
Higher and higher contention rose,
From words they almost came to blows,
Till T, as yet who hadn't spoke,
And dearly loved a little joke,
Put in his word and said, “Look there!
‘Plough’ in this row must have its share.”
At this atrocious pun each page
Of Johnson whiter turned with rage;
Bailey looked desperately cut up,
And Sheridan completely shut up;
Webster, who is no idle talker,
Made a sign indicating “Walker!”
While Walker, who had been used badly,
Just shook his dirty dog's-ears sadly.
But as we find in prose or rhyme
A joke made happily in time,
However poor, will often tend
The hottest argument to end,
And smother anger in a laugh,
So T succeeded with his chaff
(Containing as it did some wheat)
In calming this fierce verbal heat.
Authorities were all conflicting,
And T there was no contradicting;
140
Even “enough” was called “enow;”
And no one who preferred “enough”
Would dream of saying “Speed the Pluff!”
So they considered it more wise
With T to make a compromise,
And leave no loop to hang a doubt on
By giving three cheers for “Lord Hough{How}ton!”
141
JOHN BROWN'S ANSWER
I've listened to your song, and, unless I'm very wrong,
There is much in it of what we now call “bosh,” Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to do's, another thing,
And I fear your philosophy won't wash, Tom Smith.
Of course that's not your name, but 'twill answer all the same
For the person I'm presumed to argue with, Tom Smith;
And offended you can't be, as you've done the same by me,
For I'm no more John Brown than you're Tom Smith, Tom Smith.
There is much in it of what we now call “bosh,” Tom Smith.
It is easy so to sing, but to do's, another thing,
And I fear your philosophy won't wash, Tom Smith.
Of course that's not your name, but 'twill answer all the same
For the person I'm presumed to argue with, Tom Smith;
And offended you can't be, as you've done the same by me,
For I'm no more John Brown than you're Tom Smith, Tom Smith.
What you love and what you hate, you're at liberty to state;
I've nothing upon earth with that to do, Tom Smith;
“De gustibus non est,” I've no doubt you know the rest,
And besides, I've much the same dislikes as you, Tom Smith.
It's on matters of finance, in which there's no romance,
I would break with you a lance, if you please, Tom Smith.
I'm myself a family man, and I don't believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese, Tom Smith.
I've nothing upon earth with that to do, Tom Smith;
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And besides, I've much the same dislikes as you, Tom Smith.
It's on matters of finance, in which there's no romance,
I would break with you a lance, if you please, Tom Smith.
I'm myself a family man, and I don't believe you can
Contrive to live with yours on bread and cheese, Tom Smith.
You've “a hundred pounds a year;” well, let's say it's even clear
Of Income Tax: that's not two pounds a week, Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke, Tom Smith.
Per contra you've a wife, as dear to you as life—
I hope she is, I'm sure, for both your sakes, Tom Smith—
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear
If anything that little income shakes, Tom Smith.
Of Income Tax: that's not two pounds a week, Tom Smith.
But the cottage is “your own,” so the rent must in be thrown,
Which I grant will help your income out to eke, Tom Smith.
Per contra you've a wife, as dear to you as life—
I hope she is, I'm sure, for both your sakes, Tom Smith—
But the more you hold her dear, the more must be your fear
If anything that little income shakes, Tom Smith.
Of children you've a troop, an interesting group,
But to tell how many form it you forget, Tom Smith;
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small,
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot, Tom Smith.
Of their clothes you may be spare—but they cannot go quite bare;
And on whooping-cough and measles you must count, Tom Smith;
And if only one be ill, I'm afraid the doctor's bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount, Tom Smith.
But to tell how many form it you forget, Tom Smith;
Say five or six in all, which for “a troop” is small,
Of bread and butter they must eat a lot, Tom Smith.
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And on whooping-cough and measles you must count, Tom Smith;
And if only one be ill, I'm afraid the doctor's bill
Might at Christmas prove a serious amount, Tom Smith.
'Tis philosophy, no doubt, trifles not to fret about,
And “Sufficient for the day” is a fine text, Tom Smith;
But at the garden gate, do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what's in the cupboard for the next, Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil, 'twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store, Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting 'neath your shady sycamore, Tom Smith.
And “Sufficient for the day” is a fine text, Tom Smith;
But at the garden gate, do you never scratch your pate,
When you think what's in the cupboard for the next, Tom Smith?
The pot you know must boil, 'twould be better sure to toil,
And add by honest labour to your store, Tom Smith,
Than moon away your time in philosophic rhyme,
Or sitting 'neath your shady sycamore, Tom Smith.
You bid me, as I pass, come and drain with you a glass,
But it cannot be of wine or beer or grog, Tom Smith;
'Tis more like “Adam's ale,” I'm afraid, than “Bass's pale,”
And to drink—I water shun, like a mad dog, Tom Smith.
If “a guinea you've to spend,” I advise you as your friend
To put it in the Savings Bank forthwith, Tom Smith;
You will want it before long and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth, Tom Smith.
But it cannot be of wine or beer or grog, Tom Smith;
'Tis more like “Adam's ale,” I'm afraid, than “Bass's pale,”
And to drink—I water shun, like a mad dog, Tom Smith.
144
To put it in the Savings Bank forthwith, Tom Smith;
You will want it before long and sing another song,
Unless, as I suspect, you are a myth, Tom Smith.
145
MADAME VESTRIS'S ANSWER TO THE ALPHABET.
Dear friends! although no more a dunce
Than many of my betters,
I'm puzzled to reply at once
To four-and-twenty letters.
Than many of my betters,
I'm puzzled to reply at once
To four-and-twenty letters.
Perhaps you'll think that may not be
So hard a thing to do,
For what is difficult to me
Is A B C to you.
So hard a thing to do,
For what is difficult to me
Is A B C to you.
However, pray dismiss your fears,
Nor fancy you have lost me,
Though many, many bitter tears
Your first acquaintance cost me.
Nor fancy you have lost me,
Though many, many bitter tears
Your first acquaintance cost me.
Believe me, till existence ends,
Whatever ills beset you,
My oldest literary friends,
I never can forget you.
Whatever ills beset you,
My oldest literary friends,
I never can forget you.
146
INTRODUCTION TO “MIRTH.”
“Mirth: a new humorous magazine!” Preserve us!
Another can the public really need?
It is enough to make Minerva nervous,
They seem so fast each other to succeed;
Follow, perhaps, would be the better reading,
For some, 'tis said, succeed without succeeding.
Another can the public really need?
It is enough to make Minerva nervous,
They seem so fast each other to succeed;
Follow, perhaps, would be the better reading,
For some, 'tis said, succeed without succeeding.
Well! that's the publisher's affair, not mine;
From standing in his shoes, kind stars protect us.
The editor declares the prospect fine,—
The prospect's always fine in the Prospectus!
With a strong staff, his fun at all he'll poke,
But what I have to do I find no joke.
From standing in his shoes, kind stars protect us.
The editor declares the prospect fine,—
The prospect's always fine in the Prospectus!
With a strong staff, his fun at all he'll poke,
But what I have to do I find no joke.
He has asked me to write an Ode to Mirth,
For love—at least he hasn't mentioned money.
Now, if there be a wet blanket on earth,
It's asking a poor fellow to be funny.
The wag! he knew an ode from me requesting
Would prove his own capacity for jesting.
For love—at least he hasn't mentioned money.
Now, if there be a wet blanket on earth,
It's asking a poor fellow to be funny.
The wag! he knew an ode from me requesting
Would prove his own capacity for jesting.
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I don't refuse, I never could say No;
So, snatching up a pen in desperation,
I turn to Milton, who wrote, long ago,
“An Ode to Mirth,” which had some reputation.
It's safe to pilfer from a grand old poet,
For nowadays not one in ten would know it.
So, snatching up a pen in desperation,
I turn to Milton, who wrote, long ago,
“An Ode to Mirth,” which had some reputation.
It's safe to pilfer from a grand old poet,
For nowadays not one in ten would know it.
I'm sure I recollect a line or two
I might adapt, or as quotations give.
Yes! here is “Mirth, admit me of thy crew,”
And “Mirth, with,” no, “By thee I mean to live.”
Poh! stuff! my Muse is not at all Miltonic;
It's more akin to the (J.) Byronic.
I might adapt, or as quotations give.
Yes! here is “Mirth, admit me of thy crew,”
And “Mirth, with,” no, “By thee I mean to live.”
Poh! stuff! my Muse is not at all Miltonic;
It's more akin to the (J.) Byronic.
“An Ode,” an odious fancy of the editor's;
“Or other composition,” ugly word,
Suggestive most unpleasantly of creditors.
But stay! a thought to me has just occurred;
`Stead of an “Ode to Mirth,” suppose I should
Invoke Mirth's great, good genius, Thomas Hood.
“Or other composition,” ugly word,
Suggestive most unpleasantly of creditors.
But stay! a thought to me has just occurred;
`Stead of an “Ode to Mirth,” suppose I should
Invoke Mirth's great, good genius, Thomas Hood.
Matchless Past-Master of our craft! oh let
Me strive to pay to thee a tribute fit!
In thy imperishable coronet,
Beside the flashing diamonds of thy wit,
Shine pearls as pure as ever Pity shed
Over the poor, the suffering, and the dead.
Me strive to pay to thee a tribute fit!
In thy imperishable coronet,
Beside the flashing diamonds of thy wit,
Shine pearls as pure as ever Pity shed
Over the poor, the suffering, and the dead.
148
Best humourist! beneath thy wildest fun
The kindliest current flows of human feeling,
While splitting sides with some outrageous pun,
Into our hearts insidiously stealing;
By tropes which seem intended but to tickle us,
Extracting the sublime from the ridiculous.
The kindliest current flows of human feeling,
While splitting sides with some outrageous pun,
Into our hearts insidiously stealing;
By tropes which seem intended but to tickle us,
Extracting the sublime from the ridiculous.
Let thy pure spirit point and guide the pen
Of each contributor to England's “Mirth!”
May they be wise as well as merry men,
And show of real wit the sterling worth,
In verse or prose, didactic or dramatic—
Never a bore how'er e-pig-rammatic.
Of each contributor to England's “Mirth!”
May they be wise as well as merry men,
And show of real wit the sterling worth,
In verse or prose, didactic or dramatic—
Never a bore how'er e-pig-rammatic.
I said but now I never could refuse,
And yet I feel I daily am declining,
And soon to “Mirth” shall pay my last adieus,
To younger, brighter bards the harp resigning.
I'm over eighty. Thus associated,
I fear, dear friends, by you I'm overrated.
And yet I feel I daily am declining,
And soon to “Mirth” shall pay my last adieus,
To younger, brighter bards the harp resigning.
I'm over eighty. Thus associated,
I fear, dear friends, by you I'm overrated.
149
SELF-EVIDENT.
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!
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!
When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft's at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who beside;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.
And Captain Craft's at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who beside;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.
150
NOTES OF AN OLD MOCKING-BIRD.
I took a flight the other night
When thought to be asleep;
At what was going on in town
I wished to have a peep.
Upon an opera-house I perched,
And found that, strange to say,
“The Music of the Future”
Was all the rage to-day.
I listened most attentively,
And fear, upon my word,
In the music of the future
No music will be heard.
'Tis possible I may be wrong,
Though critics tell me soon
There'll be no singing in a song,
No melody in tune.
But birds will warble in the trees,
Nor for the critics care;
And in the murmur of the breeze
We yet may find some air.
I looked into the Vaudeville,
Where mirth the town enjoys,
And found that they were acting still
“Our” everlasting “Boys;”
They've run a thousand nights, and may
A thousand more, and then
They'll change the title of the play,
And call it “Our Old Men.”
But pray mistake me not, and think
I hold “Our Boys” in scorn,
Or would in James's bosom plant
A less agreeable Thorne.
When piece and actors are so good,
As in this case they're rated,
I don't see why they ever should
Be superannuated.
When thought to be asleep;
At what was going on in town
I wished to have a peep.
Upon an opera-house I perched,
And found that, strange to say,
“The Music of the Future”
Was all the rage to-day.
I listened most attentively,
And fear, upon my word,
In the music of the future
No music will be heard.
'Tis possible I may be wrong,
Though critics tell me soon
There'll be no singing in a song,
No melody in tune.
But birds will warble in the trees,
Nor for the critics care;
And in the murmur of the breeze
We yet may find some air.
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Where mirth the town enjoys,
And found that they were acting still
“Our” everlasting “Boys;”
They've run a thousand nights, and may
A thousand more, and then
They'll change the title of the play,
And call it “Our Old Men.”
But pray mistake me not, and think
I hold “Our Boys” in scorn,
Or would in James's bosom plant
A less agreeable Thorne.
When piece and actors are so good,
As in this case they're rated,
I don't see why they ever should
Be superannuated.
Another theatre I sought,
Where I had understood
The stalls were filled with fashion
And the fun was “Awful good.”
So in I went, and certainly
A brilliant house I saw full,
And frankly own the sort of fun
I witnessed there was “awful;”
Buffoonery devoid of all
That makes an art of folly,
Music that was “most music-hall,”
To hear, “most melancholy.”
Such was the comment on it made
By an accomplished joker,
Who grieved with me such stuff should be
Of laughter the provoker;
Still more that clever men for pay
Should condescend to write so;
When swells drawled out, “That's not half bad!”
We thought, “No, for it's quite so.”
Where I had understood
The stalls were filled with fashion
And the fun was “Awful good.”
So in I went, and certainly
A brilliant house I saw full,
And frankly own the sort of fun
I witnessed there was “awful;”
Buffoonery devoid of all
That makes an art of folly,
Music that was “most music-hall,”
To hear, “most melancholy.”
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By an accomplished joker,
Who grieved with me such stuff should be
Of laughter the provoker;
Still more that clever men for pay
Should condescend to write so;
When swells drawled out, “That's not half bad!”
We thought, “No, for it's quite so.”
Out through the crowd, into the air,
Gladly enough I scuffled,
My temper and my plumage torn,
Considerably ruffled.
'Twas rather late elsewhere to go,
But passing some gay broughams,
I heard from one a lady say,
“Drive to the Argyll Rooms.”
The Argyll Rooms!—I'd heard of them,
And thought that in I'd drop
For half an hour. Though an old bird,
I'm still game for a hop.
The brougham I followed, but before
We reached the rooms, the clock
Struck twelve, and out the company
Had been compelled to flock.
I spotted some one whom I should ne'er
Have thither gone to seek.
I name no persons: but amongst
The rest I spied—a Beak.
His worship had gone there, of course,
Only the place to view;
And felt that he was justified
The license to renew.
Homeward I therefore took my way,
By no means loth to pop
My head beneath my wing, and sleep
On one leg like a top.
But if you think a bird's-eye view
Of men and things worth taking,
I'll try another note or two
The next time I go raking.
Gladly enough I scuffled,
My temper and my plumage torn,
Considerably ruffled.
'Twas rather late elsewhere to go,
But passing some gay broughams,
I heard from one a lady say,
“Drive to the Argyll Rooms.”
The Argyll Rooms!—I'd heard of them,
And thought that in I'd drop
For half an hour. Though an old bird,
I'm still game for a hop.
The brougham I followed, but before
We reached the rooms, the clock
Struck twelve, and out the company
Had been compelled to flock.
I spotted some one whom I should ne'er
Have thither gone to seek.
I name no persons: but amongst
The rest I spied—a Beak.
153
Only the place to view;
And felt that he was justified
The license to renew.
Homeward I therefore took my way,
By no means loth to pop
My head beneath my wing, and sleep
On one leg like a top.
But if you think a bird's-eye view
Of men and things worth taking,
I'll try another note or two
The next time I go raking.
154
THE STORY OF ARIADNE.
A NEW PER-VERSION.
Three or four thousand years ago, as may be roughly reckoned;
King Minos ruled the isle of Crete, of that great name the second.
Minos the first, for wisdom famed, his grandfather, you know,
Was dead, and Lord Chief Justice in—well, in the courts below.
King Minos ruled the isle of Crete, of that great name the second.
Minos the first, for wisdom famed, his grandfather, you know,
Was dead, and Lord Chief Justice in—well, in the courts below.
The second Minos wasn't quite as wise as was the first,
But there is no dispute about his being much the worst;
And on such terms he forced the poor Athenians to treat,
The major part full often wished that he was Minus Crete.
But there is no dispute about his being much the worst;
And on such terms he forced the poor Athenians to treat,
The major part full often wished that he was Minus Crete.
In his garden was a labyrinth, according to report,
Much more intricate than the one you'll find at Hampton Court;
Of its construction Dædalus has always had the credit,
And dead, alas! were speedily all who essayed to thread it.
Much more intricate than the one you'll find at Hampton Court;
155
And dead, alas! were speedily all who essayed to thread it.
For a most fearful monster was therein incarcerated,
Who to his Cretan majesty was distantly related.
If we may trust the poets, he was called the Minotaur,
And, half a bull and half a man, was quite an awful bore:
Who to his Cretan majesty was distantly related.
If we may trust the poets, he was called the Minotaur,
And, half a bull and half a man, was quite an awful bore:
At least to the Athenians, for cruel Minos drove'em
To pay a yearly tribute to this “semi virumque bovem;”
Seven fine young men, seven sweet young maids—with rage it used to fire 'em—
Consigned per annum to the jaws of this “semi bovemque virum.”
To pay a yearly tribute to this “semi virumque bovem;”
Seven fine young men, seven sweet young maids—with rage it used to fire 'em—
Consigned per annum to the jaws of this “semi bovemque virum.”
But as it chanced, amongst the batch of bachelors one year,
A youth of royal parentage came out a volunteer—
Prince Theseus, who swore by all the Gods Olympian
That he would be an eaten-boy or slay that oxen-man.
A youth of royal parentage came out a volunteer—
Prince Theseus, who swore by all the Gods Olympian
That he would be an eaten-boy or slay that oxen-man.
Now Minos had a daughter, young, beautiful, romantic,
Who for this handsome foreigner conceived a passion frantic;
At the first sight of him she felt she couldn't live without him,
Because, excepting his good looks, she nothing knew about him.
Who for this handsome foreigner conceived a passion frantic;
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Because, excepting his good looks, she nothing knew about him.
She instantly decided from the monster-man to save him—
A wondrous clue to guide him through the labyrinth she gave him;
And in return he pledged to her his royal word of honour
He'd marry her and settle all he had on earth upon her.
A wondrous clue to guide him through the labyrinth she gave him;
And in return he pledged to her his royal word of honour
He'd marry her and settle all he had on earth upon her.
This portion of our ox-tale we propose quite short to cut;
Suffice it the young fellow cracked the ox-man's occiput,
Then by the clue escaping through its thousand winding ways,
Left no one in the labyrinth, but all folks in a-maze.
Suffice it the young fellow cracked the ox-man's occiput,
Then by the clue escaping through its thousand winding ways,
Left no one in the labyrinth, but all folks in a-maze.
The happy pair to Naxos sped to pass their honeymoon,
But when it came to forking-out, the bridegroom ceased to spoon;
And early one fine morning, I'm quite ashamed to say,
He left poor Ariadne with the tavern-bill to pay.
But when it came to forking-out, the bridegroom ceased to spoon;
And early one fine morning, I'm quite ashamed to say,
He left poor Ariadne with the tavern-bill to pay.
157
Remember this was in an age when such affairs were common;
No one in any rank of life now so deserts a woman.
Even the monstrous Minotaur—deny it those who can—
Was less a brute than Theseus, and more a gentleman.
No one in any rank of life now so deserts a woman.
Even the monstrous Minotaur—deny it those who can—
Was less a brute than Theseus, and more a gentleman.
She beat her breast, she tore her hair, which she'd a right to do,
For it was all her own, except, perhaps, a lock or two;
And would have died (herself, not hair), if Bacchus, half-seas o'er,
Hadn't stopped to bait his tigers at that very tavern door.
For it was all her own, except, perhaps, a lock or two;
And would have died (herself, not hair), if Bacchus, half-seas o'er,
Hadn't stopped to bait his tigers at that very tavern door.
“Fair one!” he hiccupped, “though 'tis but the first time that you've seen us,
Of course you know the saying, `Sine Bacchus friget Venus.'
Come, dry your eyes; I whining hate, though god of wine I am;
And I'll drown your real pain, my dear, in bumpers of my cham.”
Of course you know the saying, `Sine Bacchus friget Venus.'
Come, dry your eyes; I whining hate, though god of wine I am;
And I'll drown your real pain, my dear, in bumpers of my cham.”
The jokes were old! but still they told, as old jokes often do,
Especially on those who're but accustomed to the new.
She dried her eyes, accepted his too tempting invitation,
And took, as many since have done, to drink for consolation.
Especially on those who're but accustomed to the new.
158
And took, as many since have done, to drink for consolation.
What finally became of her is not so very clear;
Some say she hanged herself when in a maudlin state of beer;
Others, that she reformed, became a model of sobriety,
And actually founded the first Temperance Society.
Some say she hanged herself when in a maudlin state of beer;
Others, that she reformed, became a model of sobriety,
And actually founded the first Temperance Society.
Whatever may be the fact, which thus remains in mystery,
Young ladies all, take warning from this most veracious history;
By handsome foreign strangers if you wouldn't be decoyed, it
Is plain you shouldn't fall in love, unless you can't avoid it.
Young ladies all, take warning from this most veracious history;
By handsome foreign strangers if you wouldn't be decoyed, it
Is plain you shouldn't fall in love, unless you can't avoid it.
THE END.
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |