ti 
 
 ,• J 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
PN 6110.P3M37 
 
 On parod' 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027338015 
 
ON PARODY 
 
 A. S. MARTIN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1896 
 
Copyright, i8g6, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT & CO. 
 
 THE MBRSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, W. J. 
 
TO MY FRIEND, 
 
 3EIIW00& IbenBttcft, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 This little work was first suggested by the diffi- 
 culty of finding any aid to the study of Parody in 
 prosecuting my own researches. This has led me 
 to throw together some of the results of my studies 
 in the form of a short historical and critical sketch. 
 I am well aware of its deficiencies ; there is 
 scarcely a point glanced at that might not be largely 
 extended with illustrations. There' is ample room 
 for a separate volume on each period in English 
 literature, and prose parody I have barely men- 
 tioned ; but, addressing the general reader rather 
 than the scholar, I have contented myself with a 
 modest effort which I hope may be neither weari- 
 some nor entirely valueless. Errors will creep in, 
 and I shall welcome corrections and suggestions. 
 The examples are selected to suit all tastes, and 
 should the critic find old friends missing from my 
 collection, I may yet hope to introduce him to new 
 and pleasant acquaintances. 
 
 Phcebe Gary's A Psalm of Marriage and Keren 
 Happuch, Cimabuella and Ode to a Jar of Pickles, 
 from " Diversions of the Echo Club," are included 
 in this collection by kind permission of Messrs. 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Co., and the owners of the 
 copyrights. 
 
ON PARODY. 
 
 Parody, the first-born of Satire, is of hoary 
 antiquity. We find it among the Greeks side 
 by side with Homer's Rhapsodies, where it 
 appears as the result of the natural and inevi- 
 table step from the sublime to the ridiculous. 
 The Rhapsodists, reciting the Iliad or Odyssey, 
 would occasionally find a flagging interest or 
 attention on the part of the audience, where- 
 upon they would interpolate verses of similar 
 sound and meter, containing local hits and 
 allusions of a diverting nature. This they 
 called Parody (beside-song). Those who attrib- 
 ute to Homer the authorship of the " Battle 
 of the Mice and Frogs" credit the first great 
 poet with being his own parodist. Whether 
 he wrote it or not we have evidence that 
 this form of composition was cultivated with 
 great enthusiasm soon after his time. 
 
2 On "Parody. 
 
 In the schools, Diogenes, Plato, Socrates, 
 and other teachers often altered a Homeric 
 verse to apply it to the need of the moment. 
 The next step was the rise of poets who owed 
 their fame entirely to parody. Euboeus of 
 Paros, contemporary with Philip of Macedon, 
 was one of the chief of these : he wrote four 
 books of parodies. Boetus was another popu- 
 lar parodist ; his works being a rich mine of 
 Attic salt. Matron also parodied some thou- 
 sands of Homer's verses, applying them to 
 food and the culinary art. Some authorities 
 state that Hipponax, circ. 430 B. c, invented 
 this kind of poetry. Others attribute it to 
 Hegemon of Thasos, who is said to have 
 gained the prize with this novel species of 
 verse in the Athenian public games with his 
 Gigantomachia. Tradition says that such was 
 the mad gayety that took possession of the 
 audience when he recited this " Combat of the 
 Giants " that, although news had just been 
 brought to the theater of a great reverse to 
 the Athenian arms in Sicily, the public 
 demanded to hear the poem to the end. 
 CEnonas of Italy gained great popularity by 
 
Greek and l^man. 3 
 
 his parodies of the Citharoedes. The plays of 
 Aristophanes are thickly set with passages 
 transplanted from Euripides and others, 
 mocking the masters in every possible way. 
 Lucien of Samosate is also full of paro- 
 dies of Homer, Hesiod, ^schylus, Sopho- 
 cles, and Euripides. The taste for parody 
 took strong hold on the Greeks. We find 
 examples even in Plato and other philoso- 
 phers. The Romans, prone to imitate others, 
 amused themselves with parody after the ex- 
 ample of the Greeks. Cicero enumerates sev- 
 eral kinds of parody. Virgil amused himself 
 with parodying the " Phaselus " of Catullus, 
 and, in turn, his " Bucolics " received similar 
 attention from his contemporaries. The 
 writers of the Augustan age, besides teasing 
 each other, did not fail to parody the works of 
 their Greek predecessors. Moser (Ulm, 1819) 
 gives exa'mples from Aristophanes, Plutarch, 
 and Lucian, and establishes the distinction 
 between parody and its allied forms, one of 
 which, now seldom used, is Palinodie. This 
 latter, known in French as chant h. rebours, 
 consists properly in two opposing views of a 
 
4 On 'Parody. 
 
 subject. It is said to have been first used by 
 Stesichorus, who lost his sight as a punishment 
 for writing satirical verses against Helena, and 
 recovered it on composing a fresh piece of 
 verse in denial of the first. In English litera- 
 ture, good examples of the Palinode are 
 scarce. Perhaps the best was written by Ed- 
 mund Bolton, an attendant of Villiers, Duke 
 of Buckingham. It is as follows : 
 
 As withereth the primrose by the river, 
 
 As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains, 
 
 As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever. 
 
 As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains. 
 
 So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers, 
 
 The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow ; 
 
 Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life 
 
 gathers). 
 Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy. 
 The withered primrose by the morning river. 
 The faded summer sun from weeping fountains. 
 The light-blown bubble, vanished for ever, 
 The molten snow upon the naked mountains, 
 Are emblems that the treasures we uplay, 
 Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away. 
 
 For, as the snow, whose lawn did overspread 
 Th' ambitious hills, which, giant-like, did threat 
 To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head, 
 
'Palinodie. 5 
 
 Naked and bare doth have their craggy seat. 
 
 When, as the bubble, which did empty fly 
 
 The dalliance of the undiscerned wind. 
 
 On whose calm, rolling waves it did rely. 
 
 Hath shipwreck made where it did dalliance find, 
 
 And when the sunshine, which dissolved the snow, 
 
 Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary. 
 
 And made the rathe and timely primrose grow, 
 
 Swarth clouds withdrawn (which no long time do 
 
 tarry), 
 Oh, what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so 
 As shine by fountains bubbles, flowers, or snow ? 
 
 Much of Lucian's humor lies in his parodies. 
 He often mimics the style and phraseology of 
 Demosthenes in particular, and we should, 
 doubtless, better appreciate the humor of the 
 ancients if we were better acquainted with the 
 author to whose works they made frequent 
 and sly allusions. 
 
 During the Dark Ages parody languished 
 in common with the other branches of litera- 
 ture, but the clergy soon began to imitate the 
 ancients in parodying religious subjects. One 
 of the earliest specimens of this is given by E. 
 du M6ril. It caricatures the marriage at Cana 
 in Galilee. First among the guests comes 
 
6 On Tarody. 
 
 Adam, then Eve, seated upon a heap of leaves, 
 next Cain on a plow, Abel on a milk can, 
 Noah on an ark, and Abraham under a tree. 
 Job complains on having to sit upon a heap of 
 ashes ; Moses has a seat of rocks, Tobias a 
 bed, Benjamin a sack, Jesus a well, etc. During 
 the feast David plays the harp, Miriam the 
 drum, and Herodias dances. It becomes an 
 orgy, for Noah gets drunk, and Lot also takes 
 too much. Holophernes snores, and Peter 
 keeps watch with the cock. This is a work 
 of the third century, when art was at its very 
 lowest ebb. 
 
 Parody, being a plant of parasitical growth, 
 we can only expect to find it flourishing as 
 works become well-known in a community. 
 During the first centuries of the Christian era, 
 therefore, before the formation of a national 
 literature in any European country, we find 
 but little parody even of the Classical writers. 
 The twelfth century was prolific in satirical 
 writers, but it was not till the thirteenth that a 
 species of parody became popular under the 
 name of Fratrasies. Next to these the Chris- 
 tian prayers, the Old and New Testaments, 
 
Clerical Irreverence. 7 
 
 the Offices and church ceremonies by irreve- 
 rent monks come to be parodied in the lan- 
 guage of Mother Church herself. In the four- 
 teenth century, we find Latin manuscripts with 
 faceticB, in which the words consecrated to the 
 Offices and rites of the liturgy are faithfully 
 parodied. Thus Harleian MS. 913, has a 
 " Mass of Drinkers," the church of Sens in the 
 last century possessed a MS. of the " Mass of 
 Fools," Ducange gives us the " Office of the 
 Ass, after the Ritual of Rheims," and in Eng- 
 land and Germany, for full three centuries 
 before the Reformation, we find the " Evan- 
 giles " parodied very freely as a means of pro- 
 testing against the exactions of the Pontifical 
 Chancellerie. 
 
 Political parody thus commenced its long 
 reign. From now onward it availed itself 
 largely of that class of literature with which 
 the common people were most familiar — that 
 which they might hear every day in church. 
 Mysteries and miracle plays — themselves the 
 very means by which the clergy strove to 
 popularize Biblical lore among a rude and 
 ignorant populace — partook largely of the 
 
8 On 'Parody. 
 
 nature of parody. The methods of the modern 
 Salvation Army to win popular hearing have 
 been repeated in all ages. The mediaeval 
 clergy were quick to see and seize the advan- 
 tage afforded by that species of musical parody 
 which fits devotional words to popular secular 
 tunes. St. Aldhelm, the first Abbot of Malmes- 
 bury, in the seventh century, composed trivial 
 songs and, stationing himself on the bridge 
 like a professional minstrel, he sang them 
 to the people in order to engage their atten- 
 tion, and then gradually intermixed others 
 of more serious tendency. Secular music was 
 always in advance of sacred, and so secular 
 tunes were frequently appropriated as hymns. 
 Under William the Conqueror, we learn of 
 Thomas, Archbishop of York, that whenever 
 he heard any song sung by gleemen, he im- 
 mediately wrote a religious parody on the 
 words to be sung to the same tune. At 
 Ossory also there still exists a manuscript 
 known as the Red Book, containing many 
 Latin hymns written to popular tunes, between 
 the years 1318 and 1360, by the English bishop 
 of that see. The original names are given, 
 
[Ministers and (Minstrels. 9 
 
 such as " Sweetest of all, sing," " How should 
 I with that old man," " Do, do, nightingale, 
 sing full merry," " Good day, my leman dear," 
 etc. These were all stage songs (carmina 
 theatralid), and the good bishop substituted 
 hymns to the airs in order that the throats of his 
 clergy might not be defiled by singing profane 
 words. In the Vatican library there are eighty 
 volumes of masses constructed upon popular 
 tunes by composers of various countries. The 
 Scotch also have their " Compendious Book of 
 Godly and Spiritual Songs, turned out of pro- 
 fane Ballads " and these are chiefly parodies of 
 English songs, such as " John, come kiss me 
 now," and sung to English tunes. That ver- 
 sion of the Psalms produced by Sternhold and 
 Hopkins had a similar origin. The psalms 
 were written in the meter and to the tunes of 
 the loose and lascivious songs so popular 
 among the courtiers of Henry VHL, and 
 Clement Marot in France did the same thing 
 for the Ladies of the Court, writing psalms for 
 each lady separately to well-known current 
 songs. Thus we see that though irreverent 
 ecclesiastics drew upon themselves the cen- 
 
lo On Tarody. 
 
 sure of the Church by parodying sacred things, 
 still, the war, by the same means of parody, 
 was carried well into the enemies' country. 
 
 That the evil attained large proportions is 
 evident. E. du M6ril quotes several religious 
 parodies, among others a Bacchanalian parody, 
 of the 95th Psalm, in German and Latin, from 
 a MS. of the fifteenth century. As early as 
 the thirteenth century the Council of Treves 
 forbade clerks and students to parody certain 
 parts of the Mass, especially the Sanctus and 
 Agnus Dei. In the fourteenth centuiy we 
 find the following " Hymn to the Virgin ": 
 
 Ave, color vini clari, 
 Ave sapor sine pari, 
 Tua nos inebriari 
 
 Digneris potentia. 
 
 Ave, felix creatura 
 Quam produxit vitis pura ; 
 Omnis mensa sit secura 
 In tua presentii. 
 
 Felix venter quam intrabis, 
 Felix lingua quam rigabis, 
 Felix OS quod tu lavabis 
 Et beata labia! 
 
OAedixval Levity. n 
 
 There are three versions of this extant, writ- 
 ten at three different periods in as many coun- 
 tries, showing the wide-spread popularity of 
 these parodies. 
 
 As late as the sixteenth century we find this 
 strange, double, alternating current of parody, 
 pious ecclesiastics turning profane and licen- 
 tious songs of the day, and of the Latin poets, 
 into devotional psalms and hymns, and the 
 converse of this, when " lewd fellows of the 
 baser sort " turned to their own vile uses the 
 sacred phrases of divine worship. Thus we 
 find parodies of Pater and Ave, satirical Noels 
 and burlesque Masses. There are the " Usurers' 
 Paternoster " and the Paternosters " of Wine " 
 and " of Love." The Credo also meets with 
 the same treatment. 
 
 On the other hand pious parodies of Virgil, 
 Ovid, and Catullus are plentiful. Horace is 
 frequently parodied, sometimes by devout 
 ascetics, sometimes by jovial roysterers. As 
 late as 1653 C. Sarbiewski turned the " Ode to 
 Diana " into a " Hymn to the Virgin." Li- 
 centious and devotional parodies of " Ad 
 Lesbiam " are found side by side. 
 
12 On Tarody. 
 
 Similarly when sour-spirited Reform, under 
 John Knox and the Lords of the Congregation, 
 blighted the merriment of Scotland, the " unco 
 guid " adopted and adapted all the loose tunes 
 for devotional purposes. Wedderburne, " the 
 Clement Marot of Scotland," wrote " Godly 
 Songs and Ballads " (1555-89). Here we find 
 Venus veiled and Cupid in a cassock. Among 
 others we recognize the somewhat too free love 
 song, " Go from the window, love, go ! " This 
 is the way Wedderburne purified it : 
 
 " Quho is at my windo, quho, quho ? Goe from 
 
 my windo, goe, goe ! 
 Quha callis there, so lyke ane strangere ? 
 Goe from my windo, goe, goe ! " 
 
 " Lord ! I am heir ane wratchit mortal, that for 
 
 thy mercie dois crie and call ; 
 Unto the, my Lord celestiall, sie quho is at thy 
 
 windo, quho ! " 
 
 " How dar thow for mercie crie, sa lang in sinne as 
 
 thow dois lye ; 
 Mercie to have thow art not worthie ; goe from 
 
 my windo, go ! " 
 
 "My gylt, gude Lord, I will refuse, and the 
 
 wicked life that I did use ; 
 Traistand thy mercie sail be my excuse ; 
 S& quho is at thy windo, quho ! "* 
 
 * Eighteen more stanzas. 
 
'Papal Sensitiveness. 13 
 
 In 1 5 17, Pope Leo X. fulminated a bull 
 against " that work of perverse writers who 
 have lost all fear of God and of man." 
 This famous work, " Litterae obscurorum vi- 
 rorum," was a parody of such apparent good 
 faith and verisimilitude that at first even the 
 clergy themselves thought the letters to be 
 genuine and written for their instruction. 
 These letters laid bare the abuses of the 
 Church and satirized the ignorance of the 
 clergy, holding up to ridicule their shams 
 and shallow pretenses. Their Latin was said 
 to be on a level with the lecturer's into whose 
 room a dog strayed during the proceedings, 
 and who commanded, " Verte canem ex " 
 (turn the dog out). Though heavy reading 
 now, this work was one of the chief parodies 
 that helped in the great struggle for the eman- 
 cipation of human reason, so long held captive 
 by Clericalism and Scholasticism. 
 
 In a state of society that could be at once 
 devout and irreverent, we may expect to find 
 that no popular craze nor fashionable cult 
 escaped ridicule. The troubadours and min- 
 strels with their ballads and romances early 
 
14 On Tarody. 
 
 supplied food for satire. Popular weariness of 
 chivalry and long-winded romances grew dur- 
 ing the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and 
 at last produced pure literary parody. The 
 prevailing features of the romance are happily 
 exaggerated. In one of these, for instance, a 
 band of robbers stab a knight-errant with their 
 swords and daggers, but fail to hurt him ; then 
 they bind him to a forest tree and leave him ; 
 the wild animals take no interest in him, hostile 
 or otherwise ; he frees himself, and, crossing a 
 deep river by a narrow plank, he falls in ; four 
 miles down the stream he is caught in the net 
 of a fisherman, who dies of fright at his extra- 
 ordinary catch. Then a great tempest bursts, 
 bringing down from the sky a hideous monster, 
 which ill-advisedly swallows the imperishable 
 knight. A savage bull comes along and gores 
 the side of the monster, letting the hero es- 
 cape through the rent. At this point the 
 narrator of the story refuses to continue for 
 fear of being taken for a liar. 
 
 Marvelous adventures were one feature of 
 the old romance, and tedious description of 
 unimportant detail was another. Chaucer 
 
<tAbuse of the 1{omance. 15 
 
 affords a fine parody of the latter in his " Rime 
 of Sir Thopas." The " hoste " finally has to 
 stop him, exclaiming : " Min eres aken of thy 
 drafty speche," and well they might, after two 
 hundred lines of padding round the most 
 shadowy skeleton of action. Pure literary 
 parody in English, having thus got such a 
 promising start, it is disappointing to find it 
 languish so soon, but no great poets arose 
 during the next century, and then came the 
 religious wars, when satire became too mor- 
 dant for the more good-natured form of parody 
 to flourish. Gestes and Fabliaux were merci- 
 lessly mocked, and Rabelais was parody incar- 
 nate. Before the sixteenth century parodies 
 in verse are very scarce, both in France and 
 England, and little or no attention was given 
 to the subject as an art. 
 
 In the sixteenth century the Scaligers wrote 
 books on the subject, but the first important 
 work was produced by Henry Stephens in 
 1573 and 1575. He discusses the subject, and 
 gives one hundred and fifty pages of parodies 
 of Virgil, Horace, Ovid, etc. In his second 
 work he gives Greek parodies of Matron, 
 
1 6 On Tarody. 
 
 Hegemon, Hipponax, and others, and adds 
 Latin parodies of Julius Caesar Scaliger and 
 his son, Joseph Scaliger. 
 
 To return to that class of parody that was 
 at once religious and profane, we find it greatly 
 multiplied during the religious wars on the 
 Continent and the Reformation and Puritan 
 Revolution in England. Parodies of Holy 
 Writ have, strange to say, during this period, 
 and even as late as the beginning of the 
 present century, nearly always been political 
 in character, and not necessarily ridiculing 
 the language or doctrines of the liturgy and 
 sacred books. Luther himself did not hesitate 
 to say in the language of the first psalm : 
 " Blessed is the man that hath not walked in 
 the way of the Sacramentarians, nor sat in the 
 seat of the Zwinglians, nor followed the 
 counsel of the Zurichers." The Roundheads, 
 such as " Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-their- 
 nobles-in-links-of-iron Carew," whose very 
 names were parodies, naturally saw no impro- 
 priety in a colloquial familiarity with the Scrip- 
 tures, and the graceless Cavaliers were not 
 likely to be more squeamish in the matter of 
 
I^eligtous 'Parody. 17 
 
 reverence. We consequently find publications 
 whose names and titles breathe forth parody, 
 such as " New Testament of Our Lords and 
 Saviours of the House of Commons and the 
 Supreme Council," " The genealogy of the 
 Parliament from the year 1640 to this present, 
 1648, The book of the generation of John 
 Pym, the son of Judas, the son of Beelzebub," 
 etc., " Old England's Te Deum," by Sir 
 Charles Hanbury Williams. In " The Rumps," 
 1639, we find a " litany," of which the follow- 
 ing will give some idea : 
 
 From Rumps that do rule against custom and laws, 
 From a fardle of fancies styled a good old cause. 
 From wives that have nails, and wives that have 
 claws. 
 
 Good Jove deliver us ! 
 
 Dr. Boys, in a sermon at Paul's Cross, 
 thought it no harm to pray : 
 
 " Our Pope, who art in Rome, cursed be thy name," 
 etc. 
 
 Edmund Burke on one occasion, moreover, 
 dismissed Parliament with the words : 
 
 "I hereby commit their body to the grave, ashes 
 to ashes, dust to dust, in the certain hope and 
 
i8 On Varody. 
 
 expectation of the glorious resurrection, which by 
 its good deeds it shall surely see." 
 
 The first serious objection to this kind of 
 parody seems to have occurred about 1817, 
 in consequence of William Hone's having sav- 
 agely attacked the government of the Prince 
 Regent by means of parodies of the Athana- 
 sian Creed and Litany, and other portions of 
 the liturgy, but his erudition in the subject 
 carried him triumphantly through three trials 
 by his proven plea of past usage. He con- 
 ducted his own defense, and cited a vast array 
 of parodies of this nature. 
 
 In iZiy Blackwood's Magazine was started. 
 In this appeared the " Chaldsean Manuscript," 
 which contained an account of the founding of 
 the journal, in the form of a Biblical parody. 
 Public sensitiveness prevented its continuance, 
 though it has been enjoyed by many people 
 whose attitude toward religion is not one of 
 irreverence. Scott, for one, particularly ad- 
 mired the passage which describes Blackwood 
 taking snuff : 
 
 33. And when the man whose name was as 
 ebony, and whose number * was the number of a 
 * Blackwood lived at 17 Prince Street. 
 
Scriptural Trofanation. 19 
 
 maiden, when the days of the years of her virginity 
 have expired, heard this saying, he turned about ; 
 
 34. And he took from under his girdle a gem of 
 curious workmanship of silver, made by the hand 
 of a cunning artificer, and overlaid within with pure 
 gold ; and he took from thence something in colour 
 like unto the dust of the earth, or the ashes that 
 remain of a furnace, and he snuffed it up like the 
 east wind and returned the gem again into its 
 place. 
 
 Public sentiment appears still to be against 
 satire cast into this mold, though it may be- 
 come particularly effective in the hands of one 
 who wants to prick the windy inflation of the 
 latest craze of fashion, ethics, art, science, or 
 literature. Dr. Norman MacLeod suggested 
 revising the first chapter of Genesis as 
 follows : 
 
 1. The earth was without form and void. 
 
 2. A meteor fell upon the earth. 
 
 3. The result was fish, flesh, and fowl. 
 
 4. From these proceeded the British Association. 
 
 5. And the British Association pronounced it 
 tolerably good. 
 
 A jury composed of the twelve apostles could 
 scarcely condemn that. 
 
26 On "Parody. 
 
 The last of these Scriptural parodies of any 
 importance was the " New Gospel of Peace 
 according to St. Benjamin," by R. G. White. 
 It chronicled the events of the American Civil 
 War in a very able manner, and described the 
 contemporary political intrigues in most amus- 
 ing style. Though now almost forgotten, the 
 book had an enormous sale at the time it came 
 out, and is still eminently readable. The fol- 
 lowing extract is from the description of the 
 capture of Jefferson Davis : 
 
 8. Now, as Jeph the Repudiator fled southward, 
 uttering boastings and proclamations, messengers 
 overtook him, saying that Robbutleeh had been dis- 
 comfited, and had laid down his arms, and given 
 himself up captive, and that the other Phiretah 
 captains would do likewise. And when Jeph heard 
 this he stopped his boastings and his proclamations 
 and fled on the faster. But the horsemen of Un- 
 culpsalm followed hard after. 
 
 9. And there were with Jeph certain soldiers of 
 the Phiretahs, which kept guard over him night 
 and day ; and his wife also was with him. And 
 when they rested by the way they went not into 
 villages and houses, but pitched their tents in the 
 fields. 
 
 10. And before many days the horsemen of Un- 
 
fbe [l^ew Gospel of "Peace. 21 
 
 culpsalm came up with them, and the soldiers fled 
 before them and left Jeph and his wife and their 
 servants in their tents. 
 
 11. And Jeph's wife said unto him, Jeph, the 
 lankies be upon thee. Flee now for thy life, and 
 take to the woods and the mountains ; else they 
 will take thee and hang thee, even as the lankie 
 boys have sung, saying, 
 
 12. We will hang Jeph the Repudiator upon a 
 tree ; 
 
 13. Upon an apple-tree shall Jeph be hanged ; 
 
 14. Yea upon a tree that beareth bitter apples 
 shall he be lifted up. 
 
 15. And Jeph answered and said, How can I 
 flee, seeing that the lankies have surrounded us on 
 every side, and that they know me, and that I am 
 not swift of foot to flee before them ; and moreover 
 that they will seize upon every man that cometh 
 out from our tents and carry him away captive or 
 mayhap put him to death instantly ? 
 
 16. And his wife said. Hearken unto me. Be- 
 hold, here are my garments : put them on straight- 
 way, and put this bonnet upon thy head, and go 
 out of the tent boldly, and I will go with thee and 
 say thou art my mother. 
 
 17. Then Jeph answered and said, I may not 
 put on thy garments ; for although it is written 
 that a woman may wear the garments of her hus- 
 band, even the garment which is unmentionable, and 
 all men know that she often doeth it, it is not 
 
22 On 'Parody. 
 
 written that the husband may wear the garments 
 
 of the wife. 
 
 — The New Gospel of Peace according to 
 
 St. Benjamin, Book iv. Chapter 7. 
 
 Before leaving this part of the subject we 
 must notice a species of parody akin to it 
 which deals with the metrical versions of the 
 Psalms, and chuckles over the pious puerilities 
 of Dr. Watts and his followers. The scientist 
 who explains everything by natural laws, and 
 deposes Jehovah in favor of a First Cause, 
 fares hardly also by this kind of parody. Thus 
 J. Davis sings : 
 
 The Sun, yon glorious orb of day. 
 Ninety-four million miles away, 
 Will keep revolving in its orbit 
 Till heat and motion reabsorb it. 
 
 And again : 
 
 Oh, deem him not without a hope. 
 Whose eye can scan the spectroscope 
 
 And view its many lines ; 
 Not anything can make him fear 
 That, when a right line doth appear, 
 
 'Tis a wrong metal shines. 
 
 His life glides peacefully away 
 
 Who knows that any solar ray 
 
 Admitted through a crack, 
 
Faith and Science. 23 
 
 Or, through a prism made to fall 
 Upon a white screen, or a wall, 
 Will be reflected back. 
 
 We will conclude our survey of religious 
 parody with 
 
 THE AGNOSTIC CREED. 
 
 I believe in the chaotic nebula, self-existent evolver 
 of heaven and earth, and in the differentiation of its 
 original homogeneous mass, its first begotten pro- 
 duct, which was self- formed into separate worlds; 
 divided into land and water, self-organized into 
 plants and animals, reproduced in like species, 
 further developed into higher orders, and finally 
 refined, rationalised, and perfected in man. He de- 
 scended from the monkey, ascended to the philoso- 
 pher, and sitteth down in the rights and customs of 
 civilisation, under the laws of a developing society. 
 From thence he shall come again, by the disin- 
 tegration of the culminated heterogeneousness, back 
 to the original horaogeneousness of chaos. I believe 
 in the wholly impersonal absolute, the wholly un- 
 catholic church, the disunion of the saints, the sur- 
 vival of the fittest, the persistence of force, the dis- 
 persion of the body, and in death everlasting. 
 
 Turning now to the " spacious times of great 
 Elizabeth," we find a sudden outburst of parody 
 equal in vigor to the new literary impulses. 
 
24 On "Parody. 
 
 Many there are who 'stead of harmless fun, 
 Can only see perdition in a pun, 
 And who imagine that they can descry 
 Contempt for genius in a parody. 
 
 But not so the wits who gathered at the or- 
 dinaries, or those who met to get mellow with 
 sack or muscadine at the Mermaid. Every 
 new lyric and ballad, every peculiarity of 
 style, was seized on to make harmless or 
 bitter mirth. The affectations and extrava- 
 gant alliterations of Lyly and Spenser could 
 no more hope to escape the ordeal than could 
 Marlowe's invitation, or Witlier's defiance, to 
 love. The woes of the poor overworked son- 
 net attracted equal attention with the cruel 
 abuse of the eclogue, or the over-penciling of 
 the eye-brow ballad. The dramatists, too, 
 were arch offenders. Perhaps, in an age when 
 audiences formed the only literary reviewers, 
 the stage was selected as a medium of puri- 
 fication, by parody, of the eccentricities of 
 the latest poetaster, for isolated verses echoing 
 well known poems occur in play after play. 
 For example : Clement Robinson in 1584 pub- 
 lished "A handful of pleasant delights," in 
 
The 'Dramatists. 25 
 
 which occurs "A sorrowful sonnet made by 
 M. George Mannington." This sonnet we find 
 parodied by that idle apprentice, Quicksilver, 
 in " Eastward Hoe," the joint production of 
 Marston, Chapman, and Ben Jonson. In this 
 same play we also find a parody of the " Ditty 
 of Samson," an affecting street ballad begin- 
 ning: 
 
 When Samson was a tall young man 
 His power and strength increased than, 
 And in the host and tribe of Dan, 
 The Lord did bless him still. 
 It chanced so upon a day. 
 As he was walking on his way, 
 He saw a maiden fresh and gay. 
 
 In Timnah. 
 
 We have no room for any more of the origi- 
 nal, and those who want to see the not very 
 interesting parody may refer to the play. The 
 point is that " Old Ben" indulged his taste for 
 parody at every opportunity, as will appear 
 later, and his brother playwrights afford hun- 
 dreds of similar instances. In " Cornucopia," 
 161 2, a lover in danger of drowning parodies 
 " Fortune, My Foe," the " hanging tune," popu- 
 lar before 1595. Shakespeare in "Love's 
 
26 On "Parody. 
 
 Labor's Lost " parodies the prevailing euphu- 
 ism. Holof ernes says : 
 
 I will something affect the letter ; for it argues 
 
 facility. 
 The preyful princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty 
 
 pleasing pricket. 
 
 Again, in the "Pyramus and Thisbe," of 
 '• Midsummer Night's Dream," Prologue says : 
 
 Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 
 He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast. 
 
 In " As You Like It," also, we are clearly 
 shown the prevalence of contemporary parody. 
 Amiens sings his song, " Under the greenwood 
 tree," and Jaques follows with : 
 
 If it do come to pass 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease 
 A stubborn will to please, 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; 
 Here shall he see 
 Gross fools as he, 
 An if he will come to me. 
 
 Later in the play, moreover, Touchstone 
 
 somewhat coarsely mocks Orlando's verses : 
 
 From the east to western Ind 
 No jewel is like Rosalind, etc. 
 
Eli:{abethan Imitation. 27 
 
 In those days it was common for a rival poet 
 to cap a " complaint," or an invitation, with an 
 answer, or imitation, in the same meter. In 
 "England's Helicon," 1614, we find Marlowe's 
 " Come live with me and be my love," followed 
 by Raleigh's reply : " If all the world and love 
 were young," and following this is an imitation, 
 " Come live with me and be my deere," signed 
 Ignoto, found also in " Davidson's Rapsodie," 
 This song of " The Passionate Shephard," was 
 a favorite model for parody ; to modern taste, 
 however, generally of too gross or too dull a 
 nature to bear quotation. To take another ex- 
 ample : In 1617 appeared " Fidelia," containing 
 Wither's " Shall I, wasting in despair?" Ben 
 Jonson and Raleigh each made characteristic 
 use of this song. To show the differences of 
 treatment we will place the three together : 
 
 O, Mftber. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair. 
 
 Die, because a woman's fair ? 
 
 Or my cheeks make pale with care, 
 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 
 Be she fairer than the day. 
 
 Or the fiowery fields in May ! 
 
28 On Tarody. 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Should my foolish heart be pined, 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 Or a well-disposed nature 
 Joined with a comely feature ? 
 Be she kind or meeker than 
 Turtle-dove or pelican ! 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues make 
 Me to perish for her sake ? 
 Or her merits' value known 
 Make me quite forget mine own ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may merit name of best ! 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how good she be ? 
 
 'Cause her fortunes seem too high. 
 Should I play the fool and die ? 
 He that bears a noble mind, 
 If not outward help he find, 
 Think what, with them, would he do ; 
 That, without them, dares to woo ! 
 And unless that mind I see, 
 What care I how great she be ? 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair ! 
 
"Ben fonson. 29 
 
 If she love me (this believe !) 
 
 I will die ere she shall grieve ! 
 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 
 I can scorn, and let her go ! 
 For if she be not for me. 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I, wasting in 
 despair? " 
 
 Shall I, mine affections slack, 
 'Cause I see a woman's black ? 
 Or myself, with care cast down, 
 'Cause I see a woman brown ? 
 Be she blacker than the night. 
 Or the blackest jet in sight ! 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how black she be ? 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be burst, 
 'Cause I see a woman's curst ? 
 Or a thwarting hoggish nature 
 Joined in as bad a feature ? 
 Be she curst or fiercer than 
 Brutish beast, or savage man ! 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how curst she be ? 
 
 Shall a woman's vices make 
 Me her vices quite forsake ? 
 
30 On Tarody. 
 
 Or her faults to me made known, 
 Make me think that I have none ? 
 Be she of the most accurst, 
 And deserve the name of worst ! 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how bad she be ? 
 'Cause her fortunes seem too low, 
 Shall I therefore let her go ? 
 He that bears an humble mind 
 And with riches can be kind. 
 Think how kind a heart he'd have, 
 If he were some servile slave ! 
 And if that same mind I see, 
 What care I how poor she be ? 
 Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, 
 I will ne'er the more be slack ! 
 If she hate me (then believe !) 
 She shall die ere I will grieve ! 
 If she like me when I woo 
 I can like and love her too ! 
 If that she be fit for me ! 
 What care I what others be ? '*' 
 
 Sir M. IRaleiQb. 
 
 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell 
 On a rock, or in a cell. 
 Calling home the smallest part 
 That is missing of my heart, 
 
 * Appeared in "A Description of Love," 2d ed., 1620. 
 
lialeigh. 31 
 
 To bestow it where I may 
 
 Meet a rival every day ? 
 If she undervalue me, 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Were her tresses angel-gold, 
 If a stranger may be bold 
 Unrebukfed, unafraid, 
 To convert them to a braid, 
 And, with little more ado. 
 Work them into bracelets too ; 
 
 If the mine be grown so free, 
 
 What care I how rich it be ! 
 
 Were her hand as rich a prize 
 
 As her hairs, or precious eyes. 
 
 If she lay them out to stake 
 
 Kisses for good manners' sake. 
 
 And let every lover skip 
 
 From her hand unto her lip ; 
 If she seem not chaste to me. 
 What care I how chaste she be ? 
 
 No ; she must be perfect snow, 
 
 In effect as well as show ; 
 
 Warming but as snowballs do, 
 
 Not, like fire, by burning too ; 
 
 But when she by change hath got 
 
 To her heart a second lot, 
 
 Then, if others share with me. 
 Farewell her, whate'er she be ! 
 
32 On Tarody. 
 
 Raleigh's version is a good example of a 
 large class of poems peculiar to his age, when 
 this kind of serious travesty was very popular. 
 Imitations, paraphrases, glosses, whatever name 
 we give them, we yet cannot class them as 
 true parodies. Anthony Munday published 
 four in 1582 ; and Father Southwell's " Sinners' 
 Complaint," founded on Dyer's " Hallo, my 
 Fancy! Whither Wilt Thou Go?" is well 
 known. Fulke Gr6ville wrote another version 
 of the same poem. Sometimes a poet would 
 take a light song and dignify it, or give it a 
 serious or sacred character, or purify it, as Burns 
 did afterward with "John Anderson, my Jo," 
 and other too lively lilts. One of John Donne's 
 songs begins : 
 
 Soul's joy, now I am gone 
 
 And you alone, 
 
 (Which cannot be 
 
 Since I must leave myself with thee, 
 
 And carry thee with me) 
 
 Yet when unto our eyes 
 
 Absence denies 
 
 Each other's sight, 
 
 And makes to us a constant night, 
 
 When others change to light ; 
 
T'ainting the Lily. 33 
 
 O give no way to grief, 
 
 But let belief 
 
 Of mutual love 
 
 This wonder to the vulgar prove 
 
 Our bodies, not we, move. 
 
 Now let us see what curious use the gentle 
 George Herbert makes of this. 
 
 Soul's joy, when thou art gone, 
 And I alone. 
 
 Which cannot be. 
 
 Because thou dost abide with me, 
 And I depend on thee ; 
 Yet when thou dost suppress 
 
 The cheerfulness 
 
 Of thy abode 
 And in my powers not stir abroad, 
 But leave me to my load. 
 
 Herbert was himself parodied by a brother 
 divine, Christopher Hervey, whose work " The 
 Synagogue " was plainly inspired by " The 
 Temple." The poem is called 
 
 CONFUSION. 
 
 O how my mind 
 Is gravell'd ! 
 
 Not a thought 
 
34 On Tarody. 
 
 That I can find 
 But's ravel'd 
 
 All to nought. 
 Short ends of threads 
 And narrow shreds 
 Of lists, 
 Knot-snarl'd ruffs, 
 
 Loose broken tufts 
 Of twists, 
 Are my torn meditations' ragged clothing ; 
 Which, wound and woven, shape a suit for 
 
 nothing ; 
 One while I think and then I am in pain 
 To think how to unthink that thought again. 
 
 Here we recognize an unmistakable tone of 
 mockery ; an approach to the parody militant, 
 which is carried much further by another 
 pillar of the Church, Bishop Corbet (1582- 
 1635), in deriding the quaint moral poems of 
 Master Francis Quarles. As the latter is little 
 read now we give the passage selected : 
 
 Like to the damask rose you see. 
 Or like the blossom on the tree. 
 Or like the dainty flowers of May, 
 Or like the morning of the day. 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade ; 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 
 Even such is man whose thread is spun, 
 
iMoral Emblems. 35 
 
 Drawn out and cut and so is done. 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 The flower fades, the morning wasteth, 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies. 
 The gourd consumes, the man he dies. 
 
 To this the bishop replies: 
 
 Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, 
 
 Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, 
 
 Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, 
 
 Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat ; 
 
 E'en such is he who never was begotten 
 
 Until his children were both dead and rotten. 
 
 Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, 
 Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage. 
 Or like the four square circle of a ring. 
 Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding ; 
 E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt. 
 Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out. 
 
 Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose. 
 
 Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, 
 
 Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box 
 
 Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks ; * 
 
 E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh 
 
 To see these lines writ for his epitaph. 
 
 Fifty years later a street ballad returns to 
 the charge as follows : 
 
 * Bowdlerized. 
 
36 On Tarody. 
 
 PRETTY COMPARISONS, WITTILY GROUNDED. 
 WHICH BY SCORNFUL MAIDENS MAY BEST 
 BE EXPOUNDED. 
 
 Like to a dove-cote never haunted, 
 
 Or a petition never granted, 
 
 Or like broad-cloth without a tailor. 
 
 Or like a jayle without a jaylor, 
 
 Or like a lanthorne without a light, 
 
 Or wedding-day without a night : 
 
 Just such as those may she be said, 
 
 That time doth lose and dyes a maid. 
 
 The dove-cote haunted yields much profit ; 
 
 The petition granted good comes of it ; 
 
 The taylor puts broad-cloth in shape ; 
 
 The jaylor lets no prisoner 'scape ; 
 
 The candle light is the lanthornes treasure ; 
 
 The wedding-night crowns all the pleasure : 
 
 So is that maiden in mine eyes, 
 
 Who loves and marryes ere she dyes. 
 
 Like to a needle without thread. 
 
 Or like a word without a deed. 
 
 Or like a warrant never sealed. 
 
 Or like a thought that's ne'er revealed, 
 
 Or like a line without a hooke, 
 
 Or like good meate without a cooke : 
 
 Just such as those may she be said. 
 
 That time doth lose and dyes a maid. 
 
 The thread with needle yields much pleasure ; 
 
 The deed and word make decent measure ; 
 
'"Pretty Comparisons." 37 
 
 The scale in force the warrant makes ; 
 The thought reveal'd all doubt forsakes ; 
 The hooke with line doth catch the fishes ; 
 The cooke of meate makes wholesome dishes ; 
 So is that maiden in mine eyes, 
 Who loves and marryes ere she dyes^ 
 
 Like to a question and no answer, 
 
 Or like a call without " Anon, Sir," 
 
 Or like a marrow-bone ne'er broken, 
 
 Or commendations and no token. 
 
 Or like a fort and none to win it, 
 
 Or like the moone and no man in it. 
 
 Just such as those may she be said. 
 
 That time doth lose and dyes a maid. 
 
 The question answered strife appeaseth ; 
 
 " Anon, Anon," the caller pleaseth. 
 
 The marrow-bone that's broke eates pleasant ; 
 
 The token makes a grateful present ; 
 
 There's triumph in the fort that's won ; 
 
 The man rides glorious in the moone. 
 
 So is that maiden in mine eyes. 
 
 Who loves and marryes ere she dyes. 
 
 But we must hark back. Before Eliza- 
 bethan poetry found a new outlet in the 
 drama every singer poured his love-agony into 
 the mold of the sonnet. The sufferer com- 
 pared his mistress to everything hyperbolically 
 
38 On Tarody. 
 
 beautiful and absurdly far-fetched. Hundreds 
 of these sonnets have been exhumed of late 
 years by literary body-snatchers who should 
 have known better than to have disturbed a 
 well-deserved repose. We can forgive the 
 occasional fatal step from the sublime to the 
 ridiculous in such a genius as Sidney, but his 
 imitators did not escape the lash of parody. 
 
 Davies (i 560-1618) made fun of the lover 
 rant in vogue in the following sonnet : 
 
 If there were O ! an Hellespont of cream 
 Between us, milk-white Mistress ! I would swim 
 To you, to show to both my love's extreme, 
 Leander-like, — yea ! dive from brim to brim. 
 But met I with a butter'd pippin-pie 
 Floating upon't, that I would make my boat 
 To waft me to you without jeopardy : 
 Though sea-sick I might be while it did float. 
 Yet if a storm should rise, by night or day, 
 Of sugar-snows, or hail of care-aways, 
 Then if I found a pancake in my way. 
 It, like a plank, should bear me to your quays, 
 Which, having found, if they tobacco kept, 
 The smoke should dry me well before I slept. 
 
 Besides the sonnet the pastoral poem was 
 the fashion, more especially the eclogue. Men 
 
"Pastoral ^Decadence. 39 
 
 steeped in classical feeling followed Latin or 
 Italian models naturally enough when Eng- 
 lish poetry had as yet no honored ancestry : 
 we must not therefore blame Spenser and 
 Sidney, Lyly and Lodge, Drayton and Drum- 
 mond, for the excesses of their followers who 
 rhymed glibly of banks of flowers, shepherds 
 and flocks when they never wandered a mile 
 from Bankside, could hardly distinguish a cow 
 from a cowslip, nor sheepishness from pas- 
 toral simplicity. This craze lasted for two 
 centuries. The idyls, eclogues, and rounde- 
 lays that we find for example in " England's 
 Helicon " are full of the beauty, freshness, and 
 vitality of dawn, but ideality became courtly 
 artificiality under the Stuarts, and degenerated 
 into modish inanity under the Georges. Con- 
 trast Gloriana in Arcadia with Marie Antoin- 
 ette at the Trianon and we have the similarity 
 between Greek statuary and Dresden-china 
 figures. One of the early signs of revolt 
 against the pastoral tyranny in literature is the 
 following parody by Robert Green (1560-92), 
 himself one of the masters of the style he 
 ridicules : 
 
40 On 'Parody. 
 
 DORON AND CARMELA. 
 An Eclogue. 
 
 DORON. 
 
 Sit down, Carmela ! here are cobs for kings, 
 Sloes black as jet, or like my Christmas shoes ; 
 Sweet cider, which my leathern bottle brings ; 
 Sit down, Carmela ! let me kiss thy toes ! 
 
 CARMELA. 
 
 Ah, Doron ! ah my heart ! thou art as white 
 As is my mother's calf or brindled cow ; 
 Thine eyes are like the slow-worms in the night ; 
 Thine hairs resemble thickest of the snow. 
 
 The lines within thy face are deep and clear, 
 Like to the furrows of my father's wain ; 
 The sweat upon thy face doth oft appear 
 Like to my mother's fat and kitchen gain. 
 
 Ah, leave my toes and kiss my lips, my Love ! 
 My lips are thine, for I have given them thee : 
 Within thy cap 'tis thou shall wear my glove ; 
 At foot-ball sport thou shall my champion be. 
 
 DORON. 
 
 Carmela dear ! even as the golden ball 
 That Venus got, such are thy goodly eyes ; 
 When cherries' juice is jumbled therewithal, 
 Thy breath is like the steam of apple-pies. 
 Thy lips resemble two cucumbers fair : 
 
Sir John Suckling. 41 
 
 Thy teeth like to the tusks of fattest swine ; 
 Thy speech is like the thunder in the air : 
 Would God thy toes, thy lips, and all were mine. 
 
 During the troublous times of the Puritan 
 Rebellion and final Revolution, parody was 
 chiefly political and therefore offers little of 
 interest to the general reader. Occasionally, 
 however, we find a specimen of literary merit, 
 showing that it was not absolutely necessary 
 for every satiric poem to be devoted to prov- 
 ing every Cavalier a cannibal, or every Round- 
 head a hypocrite. The last verse of Ben 
 Jonson's " Her Triumph " runs: 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 Before rude hands have touch'd it ? 
 Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow 
 Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 
 Have you felt but the wool of the beaver, 
 
 Or swan's down ever ? 
 Or have smell'd the bud o' the brier ? 
 
 Or the nard in the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 
 
 Sir John Suckling playfully parodies this 
 with perfect taste : 
 
42 On Tarody. 
 
 Hast thou seen the down in the air 
 
 When wanton blasts have tost it ? 
 
 Or the ship on the sea, 
 
 When ruder winds have crost it ? 
 
 Hast thou marked the crocodiles weeping, 
 
 Or the foxes sleeping ? 
 Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride 
 
 Or the dove by his bride ? 
 Oh ! so fickle ; oh ! so vain ; oh ! so false, so 
 false is she ! 
 
 Sir John himself formed the subject of a 
 parody on the ancient song " John Dory," 
 when the troop he raised for the king dis- 
 graced him in the North. The title is " Upon 
 Sir John Suckling's most Warlike Preparations 
 for the Scottish Warre." Two verses will 
 sufifice for a touch of its quality : 
 
 Sir John got him an ambling nag 
 
 To Scotland for to ride-a 
 
 With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, 
 
 To guard him on every side-a. 
 
 The colonell sent for him back again 
 To quarter him in the van-a. 
 But Sir John did swear he came not there 
 To be killed the very first man-a. 
 
 In " Wit's Recreations," 1656, where this 
 
The O^orthern 'Ballad. 43 
 
 occurs, we find a clever parody on Chaucer 
 also, and in " Wit Restored " is another on the 
 old ballad, "The Miller and the King's 
 Daughter," slyly showing up the elements 
 of the wierd and grotesquely pathetic charac- 
 teristic of the Northern ballad. The true 
 province of parody is here recognized. The 
 exaggeration of sentiment or incident is very 
 slight, and the satire is kept well within the 
 limits of good taste, a rare excellence in that 
 era of free speech. 
 
 THE MILLER AND THE KING'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 BY MR. SMITH. 
 
 There were two sisters they went a-play«V«g-, 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a, 
 To see their father's ships come sailing in. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 And when they came unto the sea-brym. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a, 
 The elder did push the younger in, 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 O sister, O sister, take me by the gowne, 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 And drawe me up upon the dry ground. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
44 On "Parody. 
 
 O sister, O sister, that may not be, 
 With a hie downe, downe, a downe-a. 
 Till salt and oatmeal grow both of a tree, 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 Sometymes she sanke, sometymes she swam. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a, 
 Untill she came unto the mil-dam. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 The miller runne hastily down the cliffe. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 And up he betook her withouten her life, 
 •With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he doe with her brest-bone ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 He made him a violl to play thereupon. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he doe with her fingers so small ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a, 
 He made him peggs to his violl withall. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he doe with her nose-ridge ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a, 
 Unto his violl he made him a bridge ; 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he doe with her veynes so blue ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 He made him strings to his violl thereto, 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
" The zMiller and the King's T)aughter. ' ' 45 
 
 What did he doe with her eyes so bright ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 Upon his violl he played at first sight, 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he doe with her tongue so rough. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 Unto the violl it spake enough ; 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 What did he do with her two shinnes ? 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 Unto the violl they danc't Moll Syms ; 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 Then bespake the treble string. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 O yonder is my father the king ; 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 Then bespake the second string. 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 O yonder sits my mother the queen. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 And then bespake the strings all three ; 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 O yonder is my sister that drowned mee. 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
 Now pay the miller for his payne, 
 With a hie downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 And let him be gone in the divel's name, 
 With a hy downe, downe, a-downe-a. 
 
46 On "Parody. 
 
 " Wit Restored " also contains two or three 
 parodies of one of the loveliest of Carew's 
 songs, which begins : 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties, orient deep. 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
 The best of these is given below. As a 
 comparison will show, it closely follows the 
 original. It is called " The Mock Song," 
 
 I tell you true whereon doth light 
 The dusky shade of banished night, 
 For in just vengeance heavens allow. 
 It still should shine upon your brow. 
 
 I tell you true where men may seek 
 The sound which once the owle did shreek. 
 For in your false dividing throat 
 It lyes and death is in its noate. 
 
 I tell you true whither do passe 
 The smiling look out of a glass ; 
 It leapes into your face, for there 
 A falser shadow doth appeare. 
 
 I tell you true whither are blowne 
 The airy wheeles of thistle-down, 
 They fly into your mind whose care 
 Is to be light as thistles are. 
 
Tolitical 'Parody. 47 
 
 I tell you true within what nest 
 
 The stranger cuckoe's eggs do rest, 
 
 It is your bosome which can keepe 
 
 Nor him, nor him, where one should sleepe. 
 
 In " The Rump," a series of poems by the 
 most eminent wits (1640-60), and in " Poems 
 on State Affairs " (before 1697), the bitterness 
 of party rancor inspires many a parody. " Sir 
 Eglamore " is changed to 
 
 General George that valiant knight 
 He took his sword and would go fight. 
 
 " Which nobody can deny," is the burden of 
 several savage songs. Unquotable litanies are 
 numerous, generally in this strain, but coarser : 
 
 From villany drest in the doublet of zeal. 
 From three kingdom's baked in one commonweal. 
 From a gleek of Lord Keepers of one poor seal, 
 
 Libera nos Domine. 
 
 From a chancery-writ and a whip and a bell, 
 From a Justice of Peace who never could spell, 
 From Colonel Pym and the Vicar of Hell, 
 
 Libera nos Domine. 
 
 From two hours of talk without one word of sense, 
 From Liberty still in the future tense. 
 From a Parliament's long-waisted conscience. 
 
 Libera nos Domine. 
 
48 On Tarody. 
 
 Carew also is laid under contribution in 
 twelve stanzas of this nature : 
 
 Ask me no more why there appears 
 Daily such troops of dragoneers ? 
 Since it is requisite you know ; 
 They rob cum privilegio. 
 
 Ask me no more why gaol confines 
 Our Hierarchy of best divines, 
 Since some in Parliament agree 
 'Tis for the subject's liberty. 
 
 Besides these we find political parodies on 
 " From the Far Lavinian Shore," and the 
 " Crier's Song," in the " Arraignment of 
 Cupid." 
 
 It would be an easy matter to fill a large 
 volume merely with parodies published as 
 broadside ballads, interesting to the student of 
 history, but not of general interest. Every 
 song was followed by a Mock, as it was then 
 called. In 1672 Captain Wm. Hickes published 
 a volume of " Mock Songs and Jovial Poems," 
 and the same year a lyric was sold in ballad 
 form with an attendant " mock," verse for verse. 
 We give it in part ; 
 
(Mock Song. 49 
 
 As often as I hear the tone 
 
 Of Phillida and Corydon, 
 
 Contemplating these choice delights 
 
 That attend Hymen's proselytes ; 
 
 The jolly mirth and dainty cheer, 
 
 They make with " Honey," " Duck," and " Dear "; 
 
 The pretty Prues and bonny Bessies, 
 
 Their courting, kissing, and caresses : 
 
 The pleasant noise and cheerly sound, 
 
 When music strikes and cups go round : 
 
 Methinks I'm blest with some rich spouse, 
 
 My head is crowned with myrtle boughs. 
 
 I roll myself in wealth and peace, 
 
 My sorrows fade, my joys increase. 
 
 My love's as fruitful as the Spring, 
 
 My house is fit to treat a king. 
 
 " Ah wretch," say I, " thou hast done wrong 
 
 To live a bachelor so long : 
 
 All my peace to this is strife. 
 
 No comfort like a married life." 
 
 THE MOCK. 
 
 And when I hear the filthy jars 
 
 'Twixt John and Joan, those curtain wars; 
 
 Considering well the destiny 
 
 Of such as priests and hangmen tie ; 
 
 The tattoo of the bed and cradle. 
 
 The walking of the tongue and ladle ; 
 
5© On Tarody. 
 
 "Blest man," I say, " who curbs desire, 
 And keeps his fingers out o' th' fire : 
 All my gall to this is honey. 
 No martyrdom like matrimony." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I must confess upon a day. 
 
 When all my thoughts were Westward ha ! 
 
 Near Hampton Court I saw a face. 
 
 The throne of modesty and grace ; 
 
 In whose each motion might be seen 
 
 Hadassa and the Southern Queen : 
 
 Her smiles were arguments to prove 
 
 The Phoenix and the God of Love. 
 
 From these the pencil learns those draughts 
 
 Of Titan beams and Cupid's shafts. 
 
 " Bless me," said I, " since I must die, 
 
 My heart a sacrifice shall lie. 
 
 Burnt with the lustre of her eye." 
 
 THE MOCK. 
 
 And I being lately Eastward bound, 
 
 To make a merry country round, 
 
 There I beheld a thing called woman. 
 
 Save him that hath her, match for no man ! 
 
 In whose behaviour you may spell 
 
 What Job's wife was and Jezebel. 
 
 Her looks made good the doubtful story 
 
 Of Acheron and Purgatory. 
 
 From these the painter had advice 
 
Faithful or False. $1 
 
 To limn the toad and cockatrice. 
 This made me cry, " Since friends must part, 
 Ere this vile wretch shall have ray heart, 
 I'll suffer, drive away the cart." 
 
 1675- 
 
 In 1665, Matthew Stevenson writes : 
 
 ON THE FAIR AND FAITHFUL. 
 
 Ye wish to know her, for she sweeter is 
 Than Indian spices, or Elysian bliss. 
 Were she but comely, courteous, and tall, 
 Constant and chaste as doves — if that were all 
 I would not love her though enjoined by Fate! 
 Nature does this in others imitate. 
 But she's a virtue, may from vice recall 
 The world and be the saving of us all. 
 
 An anonymous writer the same year shows 
 us the reverse of this : 
 
 ON THE FOUL AND FALSE. 
 
 Wish not to know this woman, she is worse 
 Than all the ingredients made into a curse, 
 Were she but ugly, peevish, (bad at core). 
 Perjured and painted, so she were no more, 
 I could forgive her and connive at this. 
 Alleging, " Still she but a woman is ! " 
 But she is worse and may in time forestall 
 The Devil and be the damning for us all. 
 
52 On Tarody. 
 
 There is no mistaking this; it is parody 
 with a purpose. The " mob of gentlemen who 
 wrote with ease " were becoming somewhat 
 wearisome with their Cyprian strains. Stereo- 
 typed phrases and endless repetition of the 
 same images offered fine food for the mockers. 
 One of them cries : 
 
 They talk of Raptures,Flames, and Darts, 
 Of burning Fevers in their Hearts, 
 Of Gods of Love in Women's eyes, 
 Which please and ravish and surprise : 
 How they admire, love, adore, 
 With thousand other wonders more. 
 
 The courtly Dorset himself, who wrote of 
 Chloris, Dorinda, and Phillis, in the prevailing 
 fashion, at last broke out into natural vital 
 song with : 
 
 Methinks the poor town has been troubled too long 
 With Phillis and Chloris in every song. 
 
 and proceeded to praise his " Bonny Black 
 Bess." This was parodied in its turn, begin- 
 ning: 
 
 Methinks the poor town has been troubled too long 
 With Hatton and Dysart and old Liddington.* 
 * Three frail court beauties. 
 
The 'Portrait. 53 
 
 A pretty conceit with the earlier poets of 
 this period had been the " Advice to a Painter" 
 as to the best means of doing justice to Celia's 
 charms. The host of imitators soon worked 
 this theme threadbare. Waller gives us an 
 example, Denham has four, and Marvell three. 
 A street ballad of the time thus complains : 
 
 Poets of old about to write did use 
 
 T'invoke th' assistance of some friendly muse, 
 
 But now the fashion's almost set aside. 
 
 And muse's place by painter is supplied : 
 
 Each puny brother of the rhyming trade 
 
 At every turn implores the painter's aid ; 
 
 And, fondly enamour'd of his own foul brat, 
 
 Cries in an ecstasy, " Paint this," " Draw that " ; 
 
 " Draw conclaves, fights, plots, fires, and, in a ring, 
 
 Draw evil counsellors about the King." 
 
 I fear, lest being at every fool's command, 
 
 Painter, th' hast spent thy colours, tired thy hand. 
 
 This protest did not have the desired effect 
 of restricting the supply. We find the painter 
 periodically invoked for another century. 
 The Duke of Buckingham suggests the follow- 
 ing portraiture for the Earl of Arlington : 
 
 First draw an arrant fop from top to toe 
 Whose very looks at first dash show him so ! 
 
54 On Tarody. 
 
 Give him a mean proud garb, a dapper face, 
 A pert dull grin, a black patch 'cross his face, 
 Two goggle eyes, so clear, though very dead, 
 That one may see him through quite thro' his 
 
 head. 
 Let every nod of his and subtle wink 
 Declare the fool would talk, but cannot think. 
 
 Buckingham indeed was an able parodist. 
 He was the chief author of " The Rehearsal," 
 written before 1665 originally to ridicule Daven- 
 ant, but afterward altered to a bitter attack on 
 Dryden. Not content with parodying some of 
 the most familiar passages in Dryden's plays, 
 he took considerable pains in teaching Lacy, 
 who performed Bayes, to mimic the author's 
 manner of reciting them. Well-known pas- 
 sages of other playwrights, such as Killigrew, 
 the Howards, and Mrs. Behn, were also aimed 
 at in this patchwork of parody. 
 
 The prologue declares : 
 
 Our poets make us laugh at tragedy 
 
 And with their comedies they make us cry. 
 
 And the whole work is an amplification of 
 this text. Many of the passages satirized are 
 easily recognized. (Cf. " The Rehearsal," IV., i.) 
 
The %ekearsal. 55 
 
 *Bayes (reads). Since death my earthly part will 
 thus remove, 
 I'll come a Humble Bee to your chaste love. 
 With silent wings I'll follow you, dear Couz ; 
 Or else, before you, in the Sunbeams buz. 
 And when to melancholy groves you come, 
 An Airy Ghost, you'll know me by my Hum ; 
 For sound, being Air, a Ghost does well become. 
 
 Smith (after a pause). Admirable ! 
 
 Bayes. At night into your bosom I will creep, 
 And Buz but softly if you chance to sleep ; 
 Yet, in your dreams, I will pass sweeping by. 
 And then both Hum and Buz before your eye. 
 
 * Berenice. My earthly part — 
 Which is my Tyrant's right, death will remove, 
 I'll come all Soul and Spirit to your Love. 
 With silent steps I'll follow you all day ; 
 Or else before you in the sunbeams play. 
 I'll lead you thence to melancholy Groves, 
 And there repeat the scenes of our past Loves. 
 At night I will within your curtains peep ; 
 With empty arms embrace you while you sleep ; 
 In gentle dreams I often will be by. 
 And sweep along before your closing eye : 
 All dangers from your bed I will remove : 
 But guard it most from any future Love. 
 And when, at last, in pity you will die, 
 I'll watch your birth of Immortality. 
 Then, Turtle-like, I'll to ray Mate repair ; 
 And teach you your first flight in open Air. 
 
 — Dryden, Tyrannick Love, III., i. 
 
S6 On Tarody. 
 
 Johnson. By my troth, that's a very great 
 promise. 
 
 Smith. Yes, and a most extraordinary comfort 
 to boot. 
 
 Bayes. Your bed of Love from dangers I will 
 free ; 
 But most, from love of any future Bee. 
 And when, with pitie, your heart-strings shall crack, 
 With emptie arms I'll bear you on my back. 
 
 Smith. A pick-a-pack, a pick-a-pack. 
 Bayes. Ay, Igad, but it is not that] tuant now. 
 Ha ? is not that tuant? Here is the end. 
 
 Then at your birth of immortality. 
 
 Like any winged Archer, hence I'll fly. 
 
 And teach you your first fluttering in the Sky. 
 
 Johns. O rare ! it is the most natural, refin'd 
 fancie that ever I heard, I'll swear. 
 
 Prior borrowed this model in parodying 
 Dryden's " The Hind and the Panther " with 
 his "The Town and Country Mouse." Here 
 Bayes again takes Messrs. Smith and Johnson 
 on a personally-conducted tour through his 
 latest composition. The aim of the work is 
 best explained in Bayes' own words : 
 
 Bayes. You shall see me lay the Reformation on 
 its back, egad, and justify our religion by way of 
 fable. 
 
The Town and Country (Mouse. S7 
 
 Johnson. An apt contrivance, indeed ! what, 
 do you make a fable of your religion ? 
 
 Bayes. Ay, egad, and without morals too ; for 
 I tread in no man's steps, and to show you how far 
 I can outdo anything that ever was writ in this 
 kind I have taken Horace's design ; but, egad, I 
 have so outdone him you shall be ashamed of your 
 old friend. You remember in him the story of the 
 country-mouse and the city-mouse, what a plain, 
 simple thing it is ; it has no more life and spirit in 
 it, egad, than a hobby horse, and his mice talk so 
 meanly, such common stuff, so like mere mice, that 
 I wonder it has pleased the world so long. But 
 now will I undeceive mankind and teach 'em to 
 heighten and elevate a fable. I'll bring you in the 
 very same mice disputing the depth of philosophy, 
 searching into the fundamentals of religion, quot- 
 ing texts, fathers, councils and all that, egad, as 
 you shall see either of 'em could easily make an 
 ass of a country vicar. Now whereas Horace 
 keeps to the dry naked story, I have more copious- 
 ness than to do that, egad. Here I draw you 
 general characters and describe all the beasts of 
 the creation ; there I launch out into long digres- 
 sions and leave my mice for twenty pages together ; 
 then I fall into raptures and make the finest solilo- 
 quies, as would ravish you. Won't this do, think 
 you ? 
 
 Johnson. Faith, Sir, I don't well conceive you ; 
 all this about two mice ? 
 
58 On Tarody. 
 
 Bayes. Ay, why not ? It is not great and hero- 
 ical. But come, you'll understand it better when 
 you hear it ; and pray be as severe as you can, 
 egad, I defy all critics. Thus it begins : 
 
 *A milk-white mouse immortal and unchang'd, 
 Fed on soft cheese and o'er the dairy rang'd ; 
 Without unspotted, innocent within ; 
 She fear'd no danger, for she knew no gin. 
 
 Johnson. Methinks, Mr. Bayes, soft cheese is a 
 little too coarse diet for an immortal mouse ; were 
 there any necessity for her eating, you should have 
 consulted Homer for celestial provision. 
 
 Bayes. Faith, Gentlemen, I did so ; but, indeed, 
 I have not the Latin one, which I have mark'd, by 
 me, and could not readily find it in the original. 
 
 Yet had she oft been scarred by bloody claws 
 Of winged owls and stern grimalkin's paws, 
 Aim'd at her destin'd head ; which made her fly, 
 Tho' she was doom'd to death and fated not to die. 
 
 * A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd, 
 Fed on the lawns and in the forest rang'd 
 Without unspotted, innocent within, 
 She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. 
 Yet she had oft been chas'd with horns and hounds, 
 And Scythian shafts ; and many wingM wounds 
 Aim'd at her heart ; was often forced to fly, 
 And doomed to death, though fated not to die. 
 
 — The Hind and ike Panther, 
 
The Town and Country cMouse. 59 1 
 
 Bayes. But come, gentlemen, let us return to 
 our business and here I'll give you a delicate de- 
 scription of a man. 
 
 Smith. But how does that come in ? 
 
 Bayes. Come in ? Very naturally. I was talk- 
 ing of a wolf and that supposes a wood, and then 
 I'll clap an epithet to't and call it a Celtic wood. 
 Now when I was there I could not help thinking 
 of the French persecution, and, egad, from all 
 these thoughts I took occasion to rail at the 
 French King and show that he was not of the 
 same make with other men, which thus I prove : 
 
 * The Divine Black-Smith in th' abyss of light. 
 Yawning and lolling, with a careless beat. 
 Struck out the mute creation at a heat. 
 But he work'd hard to hammer out our souls, 
 He blew the bellows and stirred up the coals ; 
 
 * The smith divine, as with a careless beat 
 Struck out the mute creation at a heat 
 But when arrived at last to human race 
 The Godhead took a deep considering space. 
 
 Confessing still the softness of his clay, 
 And kind as kings upon their coronation day ; 
 With open hands and with extended space 
 Of arms to satisfy a large embrace. 
 Thus kneaded up with milk the new-made man 
 His kingdom o'er his kindred world began : 
 Till knowledge misapplied, misunderstood, 
 And pride of empire soured his balmy blood. 
 
 — TAe Hind and the Panther, 
 
6o On 'Parody. 
 
 Long time he thought and could not on a sudden 
 Knead up with unskim'd milk this reas'ning pud- 
 ding, 
 Tender and mild within its bag it lay, 
 Confessing still the softness of its clay. 
 And kind as milkmaids on their wedding day ; 
 Till pride of empire, lust, and hot desire 
 Did overboil him, like too great a fire ; 
 And understanding grown, misunderstood, 
 Burn'd him to the pot and sour'd his curdled 
 blood. 
 
 Johnson. But sure this is a little profane, Mr 
 Bayes. 
 
 Bayes. Not at all : does not Virgil bring in his 
 god Vulcan working at the anvil ? 
 
 Johnson. Ay Sir, but never thought his hands 
 the fittest to make a pudding. 
 
 Bayes. Why, do you imagine him an earthly, dirty 
 blacksmith ? Gad, you make it profane indeed. 
 I'll tell you there's as much difference between 'em, 
 egad, as betwixt my man and Milton's. 
 
 We have already given (p. 36) a series of 
 " pretty comparisons." The abnormal frequency 
 of the simile was a failing of the dramatists of 
 the Restoration, who dragged it in on every 
 possible occasion. " The Rehearsal " did not 
 fail to draw attention to this affectation. In 
 the " Conquest of Granada," Dryden had 
 written ; 
 
The Simile. 6i 
 
 So two kind turtles, when a storm is nigh, 
 Look up and see it gathering in the sky. 
 Perched on some drooping branch, they sit alone, 
 And coo and hearken to each other's moan. 
 
 " Bayes " imitates this in what he styles " one 
 of the most delicate, dainty similes in the 
 world, egad " : 
 
 So boar and sow, when any storm is nigh, 
 Snuff up and smell it gathering in the sky. 
 Pensive in mud they wallow all alone. 
 And snort and gruntle to each other's moan. 
 
 The good that Buckingham did was " interred 
 with his bones," as far the simile was con- 
 cerned. Its abuse lived on all through the 
 next century. In 1730 Henry Fielding girds 
 at it in " Tom Thumb," in many absurd mock 
 similes. The best known one is : 
 
 So, when two dogs are fighting in the streets, 
 When a third dog, one of the two dogs meets, 
 With angry tooth he bites him to the bone. 
 And this dog smarts for what that dog has done. 
 
 In the third act of Addison's " Cato " is a 
 simile which is also parodied by Fielding, as 
 follows : 
 
62 On 'Parody. 
 
 So have I seen, in some dark winter's day 
 A sudden storm rush down the sky's highway, 
 Sweep through the streets with terrible ding-dong. 
 Gush thro' the spouts and wash whole crowds 
 
 along, 
 The crowded shops the thronging vermin screen. 
 Together cram the dirty and the clean. 
 And not one shoe boy in the street is seen. 
 
 Rhodes in " Bombastes Furioso," 1816, re- 
 turns to the charge and presents us with an- 
 other batch of absurd similes. A familiar one 
 of these forming a double parody is : 
 
 Bomb. So have I heard on Afric's burning shore 
 A hungry lion give a grievous roar ; 
 The grievous roar echo'd along the shore. 
 
 King. So have I heard on Afric's burning shore 
 Another lion give a grievous roar. 
 And the first lion thought the last a bore. 
 
 Passages in " Tom Thumb " parodied lines 
 from a host of plays, now forgotten, by Dry- 
 den, N. Lee, Otway, Banks, Theobald, Ad- 
 dison, and Young. Thomson even, who had 
 produced " Sophonisba " the year before, 
 which play contained the immortal line, 
 
 "0 Sophonisba, Sophonisba O," 
 
The 'Delights of the 'Bottle. 6z 
 
 and had already been apostrophized 
 
 " O Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson O," 
 
 is again parodied in " Tom Thumb " with 
 
 " O Huncamunca, Huncamunca O." 
 
 We must leave dramatic for a time to return 
 to lyrical parody. 
 
 Shadwell's famous song beginning : 
 
 The delights of the bottle and charms of good 
 
 wine, 
 To the power and pleasures of love must resign : 
 Though the night in the joys of good drinking be 
 
 passed 
 The debauches but till the next morning will last ; 
 But love's great debauch is more lasting and 
 
 strong, 
 For that often lasts a man all his life long, 
 
 prompted a host of imitations and parodies. 
 Lord Grimstone, in 1683, replies : 
 
 The frights of the bottle, the charms of ill wine, 
 
 Are chosen by some to drive away time ; 
 
 But th' aching head and sickness at heart. 
 
 For those illspent hours do make them to smart. 
 
 But love's dear enchantments good time doth 
 
 redeem. 
 Where no pain but all pleasure is everywhere seen. 
 
64 On Tarody. 
 
 Perhaps this was a direct hit at that rival 
 whom Dryden describes : 
 
 Og, from a treason tavern rolling home, 
 Round as a globe and liquored every chink, 
 Goodly and great he sails behind his link. 
 
 These were evil days for respectable parody 
 — the corruption of the Court had debauched 
 public taste. The frank nuditarianism of the 
 Elizabethans had given place to the studied 
 indecencies and gross obscenities of the 
 Rochesters, Behns, Wycherlys, and Swifts. 
 The stream of poetry was running as foul as 
 the Fleet Ditch, and parody partook of the 
 prevailing grossness. The phrases " to swear 
 like a lady of quality," and " to get as drunk 
 as a lord," became proverbial. Society was 
 not even outwardly decent, and the satirists, 
 who catered for its amusements, were not likely 
 to risk their popularity by unnecessary refine^ 
 ment. Eighteenth century parody, moreover, 
 as a rule, is dull when it is not objectionable, 
 but we find exceptions. By many critics " The 
 Splendid Shilling," by the blind poet's nephew, 
 John Phillips, is considered the best parody of 
 
"Pope and Swift. 65 
 
 Milton ever written. To the modern reader, 
 however, the poem falls somewhat flat. 
 
 In his youth Pope wrote " Imitations of 
 English Poets," which closely verge on parody, 
 the two songs after Dorset being especially 
 good. In the " Rape of the Lock," however, 
 he gives us parody at its best. The passages 
 in Miltonic heroics are some of the most ex- 
 quisite in the poem. Take for instance the 
 catastrophe : 
 
 The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, 
 T' inclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
 E'en then before the fatal engine closed, 
 A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 
 Fate urged the shears and cut the sylph in twain, 
 (But airy substance soon unites again) 
 The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
 From the fair head for ever and for ever. 
 
 The Little Wasp of Twickenham also wrote 
 several parodies, as did also Swift, on the pas- 
 torals of Ambrose Philips, but these were 
 afterward eclipsed by Gay's " Shepherd's 
 Walk." Swift's " Meditations on a Broom- 
 stick," and the following well-known song, 
 show what he could do with parody when he 
 cared to keep within the bounds of decency. 
 
66 On 'Parody. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 {In the modern taste, i733-) 
 
 Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, 
 Gentle Cupid o'er my heart ; 
 
 I, a slave in thy dominions ; 
 Nature must give way to art. 
 
 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, 
 Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, 
 
 See my weary days consuming 
 All beneath yon flowery rocks. 
 
 Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping 
 Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth ; 
 
 Him the boar, in silence creeping. 
 Gored with unrelenting tooth. 
 
 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers, 
 Fair Discretion, string the lyre ; 
 
 Soothe my ever-waking slumbers : 
 Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 
 
 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, 
 Arm'd in adamantine chains, 
 
 Lead me to the crystal mirrors, 
 Watering soft Elysian plains. 
 
 Mourning cypress, verdant willow, 
 Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
 
 Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, 
 Hear me pay my dying vows. 
 
Verse a la OAode. 67 
 
 Melancholy smooth Meander, 
 
 Swiftly purling in a round, 
 On thy margin lovers wander, 
 
 With thy flowery chaplets crowned. 
 
 Thus when Philomela drooping 
 
 Softly seeks her silent mate. 
 See the bird of Juno stooping ; 
 
 Melody resigns to fate. 
 
 This attack on modish verse was fully justi- 
 fied. The " dying swain " and the " charming 
 fair" still " complained " and " disdained," with 
 pastoral accessories. Shenstone, who himself 
 wrote charming pastoral poetry (everybody 
 knows his " My Banks They are Furnished 
 with Bees "), was constrained to parody the 
 eclogue, and he thus animadverts : 
 
 ON CERTAIN PASTORALS. 
 
 So rude and tuneless are thy lays, 
 
 The weary audience vow 
 'Tis not th' Arcadian swain that sings. 
 
 But 'tis his herds that low. 
 
 Shenstone's verse is nearly always unobjec- 
 tionable, and his humor delicate and refined, 
 far above the average writer of his age. Com- 
 
68 On 'Parody. 
 
 pare his eclogue with similar parodies by Pope, 
 Swift, and Gay, and the fact will be patent. 
 
 COLEMIRA. 
 
 A Culinary Eclogue. 
 
 Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread, 
 And silence reign'd and folks had gone to bed ; 
 When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire, 
 Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire. 
 
 " Could I," he cried, "express how bright a grace 
 Adorns thy morning hands and well-washed face, 
 Thou would'st, Colemira, grant what I implore, 
 And yield me love, or wash thy face no more. 
 
 " Ah ! who can see, and seeing not admire, 
 Whene'er she sets the pot upon the fire? 
 Her hands outshine the fire and redder things ; 
 Her eyes are blacker than the pot she brings. 
 
 " But sure no chamber damsel can compare, 
 When in meridian lustre shines my fair. 
 When warm'd with dinner's toil in pearly rills, 
 Adown her goodly cheeks the sweat distills. 
 
 " Oh ! how I long, how ardently desire. 
 To view those rosy fingers strike the lyre ! 
 For late, when bees to change their clime began. 
 How did I see them thrum the frying-pan ! 
 
Shenstone. 69 
 
 "When from the hearth she bade the pointers go, 
 How soft, how easy, did her accents flow ! 
 ' Get out,' she cried, ' when strangers come to sup 
 One ne'er can raise those snoring devils up.' 
 
 " Then, full of wrath, she kicked each lazy brute ; 
 Alas ! I envied even that salute : 
 'Twas sure misplaced — Shock said, or seemed to say, 
 He had as lief I had the kick as they. 
 
 " If she the mystic bellows take in hand, 
 Who like the fair can that machine command ? 
 O mayst thou ne'er by Eolus be seen, 
 For he would sure demand thee for his queen ! 
 
 " Look with what charming grace, what winning 
 
 tricks, 
 The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks : 
 So bright she makes the candlesticks she handles, 
 Oft have I said there were no need of candles." 
 
 Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice, 
 The lambent flames in languid streams arise. 
 And smoke, in azure folds, evaporates and dies. 
 
 " The Schoolmistress " is a still finer exam- 
 ple of Shenstone's powers as a parodist. The 
 advertisement to the poem says : " What par- 
 ticulars in Spenser were imagined most proper 
 for the author's imitation on this occasion are 
 his language, his manner of description, and a 
 
70 On Tarody. 
 
 peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable 
 throughout his works." He certainly suc- 
 ceeded, lor many of the verses have the 
 unmistakable ring of true parody. 
 
 Herbs too she knew and well of each could speak 
 That in her garden sip'd the silvery dew ; 
 Where no vain flow'r disclosed a gawdy streak ; 
 But herbs for use and physick, not a few, 
 Of grey renown within those borders grew : 
 The tufted Basil, pun-provoking Tyme, 
 Fresh Baiim and Marygold of cheerful hue ; 
 The lowly Gill, that never dares to climb ; 
 And more I fain would sing disdaining here to 
 rhirae. 
 
 Yet Euphrasy may not be left unsung, 
 That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around : 
 And pungent Radish, biting infants' tongue ; 
 And Plantain rib'd, that heals the reaper's wound ; 
 And Marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found ; 
 And Lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
 Shall be, ere while, in arid bundles bound ; 
 To lurk amidst the labours of her loom. 
 And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare 
 perfume. 
 
 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve. 
 Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete, 
 If winter 'twere she to her hearth did cleave ; 
 But in her garden found a summer-seat : 
 
Imitations of Spenser. 71 
 
 Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
 How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
 While taunting foemen did a song entreat. 
 All, for the nonce, untuning every string, 
 Up hung their useless lyres — small heart had they 
 to sing. 
 
 Here the embellishment of trivialities sepa- 
 rates this poem from the company of imita- 
 tions of which we find so many. Thomson 
 confessedly wrote his " Castle of Indolence " 
 in the manner of Spenser. Thomas Warton 
 also imitated Spenser and Milton, and so did 
 shoals of the small fry. Christopher Pitt par- 
 odied " The Faerie Queene " with undeniable 
 humor and ability, but his grossness is fatal. 
 The Birthday Odes of the Poets-Laureate 
 attracted merited mockery, and the odes to 
 everything else imaginable did not escape. 
 Among others we must not forget the " Odes 
 to Oblivion and Obscurity," after Gay. 
 Jenyns, circ. 1760, offers a diverting specimen 
 for quotation : 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Now lovely spring her velvet mantle spreads, 
 
 And tints with green and gold the flowery meads ; 
 
72 On "Parody. 
 
 Fruit-trees in vast white periwigs are seen, 
 
 Resembling much some antiquated beau, 
 
 Which north-east winds that blow so long and keen 
 
 Powder full oft with gentle flakes of snow ; 
 
 Soft nightingales their tuneful vigil hold, 
 
 And sweetly sing and shake — and shake with cold. 
 
 The most favored forms of verse in the eight- 
 eenth century were the ode and the elegy. 
 Oldham had shown the growth of these as 
 early as 1680. His lines are worth quoting : 
 
 Soft elegy, designed for grief and tears. 
 
 Was first devised to grace some mournful hearse ; 
 
 Since to a brisker note 'tis taught to move, 
 
 And clothes our gayest passions, joy and love. 
 
 But who was first inventor of the kind. 
 
 Critics have sought but never yet could find. 
 
 Gods, heroes, warriors, and the lofty praise 
 
 Of peaceful conquerors in Pisa's race, 
 
 The mirth and joys which love and wine produce. 
 
 With other wanton sallies of a muse, 
 
 The stately ode does for its subjects choose. 
 
 Gray's " Elegy in a Country Churchyard " 
 was more frequently and more contemptibly 
 parodied than any poem of the period ; which 
 was at least a proof of its popularity. " Dilly's 
 Repository," 1777, gives it with seven attend- 
 ant parodies, dull and wearisome to the last 
 
Low Ebb of "Parody. 73 
 
 degree. We offer one (with apologies) as a 
 specimen. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A CERTAIN POET. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 One nor to Fortune nor to fame unknown ; 
 For Science frowned not on his humble Birth, 
 And smooth-tongued Flattery marked him for her 
 own. 
 
 Large was his wish — in this he was sincere, 
 Fate did a recompence, as largely send, 
 
 Gave the poor C r four hundred pounds a year. 
 
 And made a dirty minister his friend. 
 
 No further seek his deeds to bring to light, 
 For, ah ! he offered at Corruption's shrine ; 
 And basely strove to wash an .^thiop white, 
 While Truth and Honour bled in every line ! 
 
 — Duty's Repository, 1777. 
 
 Another of the above, commencing, " The 
 curfew tolls the knell of closing gates," appears 
 to have been taken from the " Oxford Sawsage," 
 a "collection of such small, but valuable. Poeti- 
 cal Pieces, written by Gentlemen of Oxford, as 
 never before appeared together." In this we 
 find " A Pipe of Tobacco : in imitation of six 
 several authors. By Hawkins Browne, Esq." 
 
74 On Tarody. 
 
 The authors parodied are Colly Cibber, A. 
 Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, and Swift. 
 As, with the exception of Pope and Swift, these 
 poets are seldom read now, it is not surprising 
 that the verses do not supply us with very ex- 
 hilarating reading. They are all so poor that 
 it does not matter which one is selected. The 
 parody of the style of A. Philips will serve : 
 
 Little tube of mighty power, 
 Charmer of an idle hour. 
 Object of my warm desire, 
 Lip of wax and eye of fire : 
 And thy snowy taper waist. 
 With my finger gently braced ; 
 And thy pretty swelling crest. 
 With my little stopper prest. 
 And the sweetest bliss of blisses. 
 Breathing from thy balmy kisses. 
 Happy thrice, and thrice agen, 
 Happiest he of happy men ; 
 Who when agen the night returns, 
 When agen the taper burns ; 
 When agen the crickets gay, 
 (Little cricket full of play) 
 Can afford his tube to feed 
 With the fragrant Indian weed ; 
 Pleasure for a nose divine. 
 Incense of the god of wine. 
 
"Can Love be Controlled by ^Advice}" 75 
 
 Happy thrice and thrice agen, 
 Happiest he of happy men. 
 
 In Dodsley's " Collection " are two parodies, 
 one of Chaucer, by " J. H., Esq.," rather more 
 respectable than similar ones of the same poet 
 by Prior and Gay, and one on the popular 
 song, "Can Love be Controlled by Advice?" 
 These, though not especially brilliant, are some- 
 what better than the usual parodies of the period. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF CHAUCER. 
 
 Right wele of lerned clerkis is it sed, 
 
 That womenhud for mannis' use is made ; 
 
 But naughty man liketh not one or so, 
 
 He lusteth aye unthriftily for mo ; 
 
 And whome he whilorae cherished, when tied. 
 
 By holy church he cannot her abide. 
 
 Like unto dog which lighteth of a bone, 
 
 His tail he waggeth, glad therefore y-grown. 
 
 But thilke same bone if to his taile thou tye, 
 
 Pardie, he, fearing it, away doth fly. 
 
 — J. H., Esq., Dodsley Collection, 1775. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 Can ease be consistent with state ? 
 
 Can freedom and pomp thus agree ? 
 O Stanhope, who would not be great. 
 
 If easy in greatness like thee ? 
 
76 On Tarody. 
 
 Let statesmen pretend to despise 
 Those talents that furnish delight, 
 
 'Tis Stanhope's alone to be wise, 
 Yet pleasure with wisdom unite. 
 
 State burdens with form the gay soul, 
 
 Unbended alone we taste joy. 
 Too soon our grey hairs must control 
 
 That bliss which our prime should employ. 
 Then Stanhope be blest in your choice, 
 
 Be happy your life in each stage ; 
 While spirits attend you rejoice, 
 
 You've wisdom enough for old age. 
 
 — Dodsley Collection, 1775. 
 
 Dr. Johnson's opinion of parody was that it 
 was easy and, therefore, vulgar and common. 
 One evening, at Miss Reynolds' tea-table, re- 
 ferring to Bishop Percy's collection of ballads, 
 he said he could rhyme as well and elegantly 
 in common narrative and conversation. " For 
 instance," he continued : 
 
 " As with my hat upon my head 
 I walked along the Strand, 
 I there did meet another man 
 With his hat in his hand. 
 
 Or to render such poetry subservient to my own 
 immediate use : 
 
Tir. Johnson. 77 
 
 " I therefore pray thee, Renny, dear, 
 That thou wilt give to me, 
 With cream and sugar softened well, 
 Another dish of tea. 
 
 " Nor fear that I, my gentle maid, 
 Shall long detain the cup, 
 When once unto the bottom I 
 Have drunk the liquor up. 
 
 " Yet hear, alas ! this mournful truth. 
 Nor hear it with a frown ; 
 Thou canst not make the tea so fast 
 As I can gulp it down." 
 
 Another of his parodies on the " Hermit of 
 Warkworth " runs : 
 
 The tender infant, meek and mild, 
 
 Fell down upon the stone ; 
 The nurse took up the squealing child. 
 
 But still the child squealed on. 
 
 So far as the doctor's own efforts go, there- 
 fore, we are inclined to accept his estimate of 
 the art. 
 
 About 1770 an anonymous worshiper of 
 Bacchus gives us a lively, and (it is to be 
 hoped) Hbelous, perversion of " The Vicar of 
 
78 On Tarody. 
 
 Bray," which we are willing to rescue from 
 oblivion. 
 
 In Charles the Second's merry days, 
 
 For wanton frolics noted, 
 A lover of cabals I was, 
 
 With wine like Bacchus bloated. 
 I preached unto my crowded pews. 
 
 Wine was by God's command, sir ; 
 And damned was he who did refuse 
 To drink while he could stand, sir. 
 And this is law I will maintain 
 
 Unto my dying day, sir ; 
 That, whatsoever king shall reign, 
 I'll drink a gallon a day, sir. 
 
 When James, the sot, assumed the throne, 
 
 He strove to stand alone, sir ; 
 But quickly got so drunk, that down 
 
 He tumbled from the throne, sir ; 
 One morning — crop-sick, pale and queer, 
 
 By sitting up with gay men — 
 He reel'd to Rome, where priests severe. 
 
 Deny the cup to laymen. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 Then Will, the tippling Dutchman, saved 
 
 Our liberties from sinking ; 
 We crowned him king of cups, and craved 
 
 The privilege of thinking. 
 
The Vicar of "Bray. 79 
 
 He drank your Holland's gin, 'tis said, 
 
 And held predestination ; 
 Fool ! not to know the tippling trade 
 
 Admits no trepidation. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 When brandy Nan became our queen, 
 
 'Twas all a drunken story ; 
 I sat and drank from morn till e'en. 
 
 And so was thought a Tory. 
 Brim full of wine, all sober folks 
 We damned, and moderation ; 
 And for right Nantz,* we pawned to France 
 Our dearest reputation. 
 And this is law, I will maintain. 
 
 For ever and for ay, sir ; 
 That, whether king or queen shall reign, 
 I'll drink a gallon a day, sir. 
 
 King George the First then filled the throne. 
 
 And took the resolution 
 To drink all sorts of liquors known. 
 
 To save the Constitution. 
 He drank success in rare old rum. 
 
 Unto the State and Church, sir ; 
 Till, with a dose of Brunswick, mum. 
 
 He dropp'd from off the perch, sir. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 King George the Second then arose, 
 A wise and valiant soul, sir ; 
 * Brandy. 
 
8o On 'Parody. 
 
 He loved his people, beat his foes, 
 And pushed about the bowl, sir. 
 
 He drank his fill to Chatham Will, 
 To heroes, for he chose them ; 
 
 With us true Whigs he drank until 
 He slept in Abram's bosom. 
 And this is law, etc. 
 
 His present Majesty then came, 
 
 Whom Heaven may long preserve, sir ! 
 He gloried in a Briton's name, 
 
 And swore he'd never swerve, sir. 
 Though evil counsellors may think 
 
 His love from us to sever. 
 Yet let us loyal Britons drink — 
 King George the Third for ever ! 
 And this is law I will maintain, 
 
 For ever and for aye, sir ; 
 That, whatsoever king may reign, 
 I'll drink both night and day, sir. 
 
 From this time onward till the appearance 
 of the "Rejected Addresses," in i8i2, the 
 most important parodies are those found in 
 the Anti-Jacobin, the principal writers of which 
 were Freer, Ellis, Canning, and Gifford. 
 
 As the name implies, the Anti-Jacobin com- 
 bated the revolutionary excesses of the French 
 Jacobins, who had admirers and sympathizers 
 in England, Southey being one of the chief. 
 
The fsAnti-facobin. 8i 
 
 Southey's " Inscription in Chepstow Castle 
 on Martin the Regicide" was parodied in 1797 
 by Canning, et al., as follows : 
 
 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 next year the Anti-Jacobin gave us 
 some more trenchant satire in an " Ode to a 
 Jacobin," cleverly parodying Suckling's well- 
 known " Ode to a Lover." It concludes with 
 the following stanza : 
 
82 On "Parody. 
 
 If thus by love of executions, 
 Thou provest thee fit for revolutions ; 
 Yet, one achieved, to that art true, 
 Nor wouldst begin to change anew, — 
 
 Know this 
 
 Thou think'st amiss ; 
 
 Deem, to think true. 
 All Constitutions bad, but those bran new. 
 
 The publication contains many parodies 
 aimed at such Catalinian novum rerum lovers, 
 and besides these were parodies of Coleridge's 
 classic meters; and the "Loves of the Trian- 
 gles," parodying Dr. Darwin's unaccountably 
 popular " Loves of the Plants " — too long for 
 insertion here. 
 
 Canning was also the author of an amusing 
 parody of the old ballad " Despairing Beside a 
 Clear Stream." 
 
 By the side of a murmuring stream, an elderly gen- 
 tleman sat. 
 
 On the top of his head was his wig, and a-top of his 
 wig was his hat. 
 
 The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the 
 
 elderly gentleman sat ; 
 And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in 
 
 the river his hat. 
 
Canning. 83 
 
 The gentleman then took his cane, which lay by his 
 
 side as he sat ; 
 And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting 
 
 to get out his hat. 
 
 His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his 
 
 eye madness sat ; 
 So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his 
 
 wig and his hat. 
 
 Cool reflection at last came across, while this elderly 
 
 gentleman sat ; 
 So he thought he would follow the stream, and look 
 
 for his cane, wig, and hat. 
 
 His head being thicker than common, o'erbalanced 
 
 the rest of his fat ; 
 And in plumpt this son of a woman, to follow his 
 
 wig, cane, and hat. 
 
 Besides the poems already mentioned the 
 Anti-Jacobin contains " The Rovers," a general 
 parody on the contemporary plays of the Ger- 
 man school, whose principal tendencies seemed 
 to be toward the wierd and grotesque, and its 
 ethical aim " to make mankind revere wives 
 gone astray." The influence of the supernatural 
 especially affected ballad-poetry and novels. 
 
84 On Tarody. 
 
 George Colman the Younger draws attention 
 to this abuse, and suggests the remedy : 
 
 Lay bare the weak farrago of these men 
 Who fabricate such visionary schemes, 
 
 As if the nightmare rode upon their pen. 
 
 And troubled all their ink with hideous dreams. 
 
 Draw but a Ghost or Fiend, of low degree, 
 And all the bubble's broken : Let us see. 
 
 He thereupon give us the following parody, 
 which we have cut down considerably on ac- 
 count of space : 
 
 THE WATER-FIEND. 
 
 On a wild moor, all brown and bleak. 
 
 Where breeds the heath-frequenting grouse, 
 
 There stood a tenement antique ; 
 Lord Hoppergollop's country house. 
 
 Here silence reign 'd with lips of glue. 
 And undisturbed maintained her law ; 
 
 Save when the Owl cried " VVhoo ! whoo ! whoo ! " 
 Or the hoarse crow croak'd " Caw ! caw ! caw ! " 
 
 Swift whirl the wheels. — He's gone — a Rose 
 Remains behind, whose virgin look, 
 
 Unseen, must blush in wintry snows, 
 
 Sweet, beauteous blossom. — 'Twas the cook ! 
 
7be Water-Fiend. 85 
 
 A bolder far than my weak note, 
 
 Maid of the Moor ! thy charms demand ; 
 
 Eels might be proud to lose their coat, 
 If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand. 
 
 Long had the fair one sat alone. 
 
 Had none remain 'd save only she ; — 
 
 She by herself had been — if one 
 Had not been left, for company. 
 
 'Twas a tall youth, whose cheeks clear hue 
 Was ting'd with health and manly toil ; — 
 
 Cabbage he sow'd ; and, when it grew, 
 He always cut it off to boil. 
 
 Oft would he cry, " Delve, delve the hole ! 
 
 And prune the tree and trim the root ! 
 And stick the wig upon the pole, 
 
 To scare the sparrows from the fruit ! " 
 
 Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong, 
 While Bobtail in his face would look. 
 
 And mark'd his master troll the song, — 
 
 " Sweet Molly Dumpling ! Oh, thou cook ! " 
 
 Ah ! not averse from love was she ; 
 
 Tho' pure as Heaven's snowy flake ; 
 Both lov'd, and tho* a gard'ner he. 
 
 He knew not what it was to rake. 
 
86 On 'Parody. 
 
 Cold blows the blast :— the night's obscure ; 
 
 The mansion's crazy wainscots crack : 
 No star appeared : — and all the moor, 
 
 Like every other moor, — was black. 
 
 List'ning, her hand supports her chin ; 
 
 But, ah ! no foot is heard to stir : 
 He comes not, from the garden, in ; 
 
 Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur. 
 
 They cannot come, sweet maid ! to thee ; 
 
 Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass ! 
 And what's impossible can't be ; 
 
 And never, never, comes to pass ! 
 
 She paces through the hall antique 
 To call her Thomas from his toil ; 
 
 Opes the huge door ; the hinges creak. 
 Because the hinges wanted oil. 
 
 Thrice, on the threshold of the hall. 
 
 She " Thomas ! " cried with many a sob ; 
 
 And thrice on Bobtail did she call, 
 
 Exclaiming sweetly, — " Bob ! Bob ! Bob ! ' 
 
 Vain maid ! a gard'ner's corpse, 'tis said. 
 
 In answers can but ill succeed ; 
 And dogs that hear when they are dead. 
 
 Are very cunning dogs, indeed ! 
 
The Water-Fiend. 87 
 
 More strong and strong her terrors rose ; — 
 Her shadow did the maid appal ; — 
 
 She trembled at her lovely nose, — 
 It look'd so long against the wall. 
 
 Up to her chamber, damp and cold, 
 
 She climb'd Lord Hoppergollop's stair ; — 
 
 Three stories high — long, dull, and old, — 
 As great lord's stories often are. 
 
 List'ning she lay ; — with iron din, 
 
 The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide ; 
 And Thomas grimly glided in 
 
 With little Bobtail by his side. 
 
 Tall, like the poplar, was his size. 
 
 Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks ; 
 
 Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes ; 
 Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks ! 
 
 Soon as the spectre she espied. 
 
 The fear-struck damsel faintly said : 
 
 " What would my Thomas ? " — he replied : 
 " Oh ! Molly Dumpling ! I am dead. 
 
 " All in the flower of youth I fell, 
 
 Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd ; 
 I was not ill — but in a well 
 
 I tumbled backwards and was drown'd. 
 
88 On Tarody. 
 
 " Yes ; — two foul Water-Fiends are we ; 
 
 Maid of the Moor ! attend us now ! 
 Thy hour's at hand ; — we come for thee ! " 
 
 The little Fiend-Cur said " Bow-wow ! " 
 
 The Fiends approach ; the maid did shrink ; 
 
 Swift through the night's foul air they spin ; 
 They took her to the green well's brink, 
 
 And with a souse they plump'd her in. 
 
 We have now traced the course of Parody- 
 down to the point at which Religious Parody- 
 fell into desuetude as bordering on blasphemy ; 
 and Literary Parody, with the appearance of 
 the " Rejected Addresses," sprang with one 
 bound into such popularity as it had, perhaps, 
 never yet enjoyed. From this point the 
 stream widens and the difficulty now becomes, 
 not to find good parodies, but to select those 
 of the most varied matter and treatment from 
 the enormous aggregation available. Before, 
 however, giving specimens of parodies of all 
 the great poets, it will be well to inquire into 
 the exact nature and scope of Parody as an 
 art, and see in what light it has been regarded 
 by the men it has chiefly affected, and whether 
 its influence has been for good or evil. 
 
Classes of Tarody. 89 
 
 Parody may be conveniently divided into 
 four principal classes : * 
 
 1. The simple change of single words. An 
 example of this is Richelieu's famous say- 
 ing altered to " In the great lexicon of politics 
 there's no such word as truth." Catherine 
 Fanshawe also wickedly parodies Pope with : 
 
 Here shall the Spring its earliest colds bestow ! 
 Here the first noses of the year shall blow ! 
 
 by the simple substitution of "colds" and 
 " noses " for " sweets " and " roses." 
 
 2. The correct quotation, but malicious 
 application, of a well-known passage or verse. 
 At the end of the first canto of " Don Juan " 
 Byron makes striking and effective use of this 
 form of parody : 
 
 Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 
 I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways ! 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 
 
 The world will find thee after many days. 
 
 * We neglect in this classification the fifth kind of parody, 
 which, so common in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, 
 has since fallen into disuse. Sufficient are the examples 
 already given of this Parodia used in the strict sense of the 
 word, viz.," I cite the words of a poet and apply them slightly 
 changed to another purpose.'' 
 
90 On "Parody. 
 
 When Southey's read and Wordsworth under- 
 stood, 
 I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
 The first four rhymes are Southey's, every line : 
 For God's sake, reader! take them not for 
 mine. 
 
 There belongs also to this class what we 
 may call the Parody of Perverse Quotation. 
 An instance of this is the reply : " Is thy ser- 
 vant a dog that he should do this thing ? " 
 made by the bishop whose portrait Landseer 
 offered to paint. A pause or change of accent 
 will sometimes make a passage parody itself, 
 as "There's a divinity doth shape our ends 
 rough, hew them how we may." 
 
 3. The treatment of a trivial or incongruous 
 subject in the style and spirit of a well-known 
 writer. Sometimes also a whole school of 
 writers may be parodied at once, or only a 
 particular form of composition, such as the 
 sonnet or ballads of various kinds.* 
 
 * It is, however, denied by some authorities that this, strictly 
 speaking, is true parody, and is merely a travestied imitation. 
 We must protest against such fine distinctions being draven, 
 especially since, if this contention be allowed, we must rule 
 out many of the finest examples of what is generally accepted 
 as parody, including the " Rejected Addiesses." 
 
Exotic Verse. 91 
 
 JACK SPRATT. 
 
 Within the limits of well-ordered law 
 
 They lived, this trusty squire and eke his spouse ; 
 
 No discord marred the genial dinner-hour, 
 
 Where union, rooted in disunion, stood. 
 
 And tastes divergent served the end in view. 
 
 What he would not, she would, what she not, he. 
 
 So in all courtesie the meal progressed 
 
 And soon the viands wholly passed from sight. 
 
 This is an example of the general parody of 
 a poet and not of an individual poem. In the 
 same way the methods, teachings, and charac- 
 teristics of certain schools of poetry are bur- 
 lesqued. The taste for exotic forms of verse, 
 especially the roundel, in the school of 
 aesthetic mediaevalism is particularly aimed at 
 in the following rondel ; 
 
 A LOVE AGONY. 
 Rondel. 
 
 So an thou be, that faintest in such wise. 
 With love-wan eyelids on love-wanton eyes, 
 Fain of thyself ! I faint adoring thee. 
 Fain of thy kisses, fainer of thy sighs, 
 Yet fainest, love ! an thou wert fain of me, 
 So an thou be. 
 
92 On Tarody. 
 
 Yea lo ! for veriest fainness faint I, Sweet, 
 Of thy spare bosom where no shadows meet 
 And small straight hip and weak delicious knee ! 
 For joy thereof I swoon and my pulse-beat 
 Is as of one that wasteth amorously, 
 So an thou be ! 
 
 Shepherd art thou, or nymph that ailest there ? 
 Lily of Love, or Rose ? Search they who care 
 My likeness for a sign ? For, verily. 
 Naught reck I, Fairest, so an thou be Fair ! 
 E'en as he recks not that hath limned thee. 
 So an thou be ! 
 
 — Punch, June 5, 1880. 
 
 4. The substitution of a subject as incongru- 
 ous as possible with the original, while pre- 
 serving closely the style, meter, sentiment, 
 and phraseology. It would be hard to find a 
 finer example of this class than a parody, 
 which appeared in Judy, of Miss Rosetti's 
 sonnet : 
 
 REMEMBER. 
 
 Remember it, although you're far away — 
 Too far away more fivers yet to land. 
 When you no more can proffer notes of hand, 
 Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay. 
 Remember when no more in airy way, 
 
'^member! 93 
 
 You tell me of repayment sagely planned : 
 Only remember it, you understand ! 
 It's rather late to counsel you to pay ; 
 Yet, if you should remember for awhile. 
 And then forget it wholly, I should grieve : 
 For, though your light procrastinations leave 
 Small remnant of the hope that once I had, 
 Than that you should forget your debt and smile 
 I'd rather you'd remember and be sad. 
 
 By far the largest number of parodies comes 
 under this head. It is so easy to change a few 
 words and produce a poor and vulgar parody 
 of a popular song, and so we find them in 
 their thousands. The latter die stillborn and 
 are quickly buried ; with them it would prove 
 a thankless task to act the part of resurrection- 
 ist. There are others, however, such as the 
 example given above, that do not overstep the 
 bounds of good taste and demand powers of 
 no mean order to produce them. This leads 
 us to inquire what are the requirements of a 
 good parody. 
 
 In the first place the work parodied must be 
 well-known and likely to remain so, if the par- 
 ody is to have a life of longer duration than 
 that of the Ephemeridae. If the model is lost 
 
94 On Tarody. 
 
 to sight half the humor of the parody, that of 
 contrast, is also lost, and the poem must stand 
 by its own strength, which it can rarely do. 
 
 A good parody, then, must be a good poem 
 in itself, humorous and clever, and only being 
 the more so by reason of a sly side glance at, 
 and reminiscence of, another poem. For in- 
 stance, take the following parody : 
 
 Three brighest blessings of this thirsty race, 
 (Whence sprung and when I don't propose to trace) ; 
 Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night, 
 Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright ; 
 To make the third combine the other two, 
 The force of nature can no further go. 
 
 — Truth. 
 
 This owes its humor entirely to Dryden's 
 famous lines. In itself it would be flat and 
 uninteresting, whereas the " Remember," 
 above quoted, would be witty and clever even 
 if Miss Rosetti had never written her beautiful 
 doleful sonnet. 
 
 Secondly, the subject must be in contrast to 
 that of the original. Light and trivial sub- 
 jects should be substituted for ponderous and 
 serious ones and treated mock-heroically, or 
 
littles of Tarody. 95 
 
 on the same lofty plane as the poem parodied. 
 The mimicry of expression must be faithful 
 and the parallels not overstrained. The sense 
 of spontaneity must be maintained as far as 
 possible. 
 
 Thirdly, all coarseness, vulgarity, and bitter- 
 ness must be avoided, and humor must not de- 
 generate into buffoonery. There is no excuse 
 for deliberately debasing and vulgarizing a 
 great, or famous, poem in a mere wanton icon- 
 oclastic spirit. Parody should smile, not sneer. 
 Its province is to criticise and to amuse, but 
 not to disfigure and to debase. 
 
 The fortiter in re species of Parody, consist- 
 ing of vulgar abuse and savage sarcasm, is not 
 half so effective as the suaviter in modo, which 
 with its good-natured humor heals the sting of 
 its satire. Wordsworth's occasional puerility 
 was Byron's bite noir — in fact he detested the 
 " Lake School," but dislike could not justify 
 such an attack as this : 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 There's something in a stupid ass : 
 And something in a heavy dunce ; 
 But never since I went to school 
 
96 On Tarody. 
 
 I saw or heard so damned a fool 
 As William Wordsworth is for once. 
 
 And now I've seen so great a fool 
 As William Wordsworth is for once, 
 I really wish that Peter Bell 
 And he who wrote it were in hell, 
 For writing nonsense for the nonce. 
 
 I saw the " light in ninety-eight," 
 Sweet Babe of one and twenty years ! 
 And then he gave it to the nation, 
 And deems himself of Shakespeare's peers. 
 He gives the perfect works to light ! 
 William Wordsworth — if I might advise, 
 Content you with the praise you get 
 From Sir George Beaumont, Baronet, 
 And with your place in the excise. 
 Ravenna, March 22, 1820. 
 
 Here Parody is put to vile use. As a con- 
 trast let us see how Hartley Coleridge uses the 
 same weapon in attacking the same poet : 
 
 ON WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He lived amidst th' untrodden ways 
 
 To Rydal Lake that lead ; 
 A bard whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to read. 
 
Varied iMockery. 97 
 
 Behind a cloud his mystic sense, 
 
 Deep hidden, who can spy ? 
 Bright as the night when not a star 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 Unread his works — his " Milk White Doe " 
 
 With dust is dark and dim ; 
 It's still in Longman's shop, and oh ! 
 
 The difference to him. 
 
 Here we feel the gentleman and forgive the 
 malice for the sake of the wit. Wordsworth 
 himself might have turned from its perusal 
 with a half-smile, half-sigh. Catherine Fan- 
 shawe presents us with a parody of the same 
 poet, which by some people is considered the 
 finest that has ever been written. It will illus- 
 trate still further the critical powers of Parody. 
 
 There is a river clear and fair 
 'Tis neither broad nor narrow ; 
 It winds a little here and there — 
 It winds about like any hare ; 
 And then it holds as straight a course 
 As, on the turnpike road, a horse. 
 Or, through the air, an arrow. 
 
 The trees that grow upon the shore 
 Have grown a hundred years or more ; 
 So long there is no knowing : 
 
gS On 'Parody. 
 
 Old Daniel Dobson does not know 
 When first those trees began to grow ; 
 But still they grew, and grew, and grew, 
 As if they'd nothing else to do, 
 But ever must be growing. 
 
 The impulses of air and sky 
 
 Have reared their stately heads so high, 
 
 And clothed their boughs with green ; 
 
 Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, — 
 
 And when the wind blows loud and keen, 
 
 I've seen the jolly timbers laugh. 
 
 And shake their sides with merry glee — 
 
 Wagging their heads in mockery. 
 
 Fixed are their feet in solid earth 
 
 Where winds can never blow ; 
 
 But visitings of deeper birth 
 
 Have reached their roots below. 
 
 For they have gained the river's brink, 
 
 And of the living waters drink. 
 
 There's little Will, a five years' child — 
 
 He is my youngest boy ; 
 
 To look on eyes so fair and wild, 
 
 It is a very joy ; 
 
 He hath conversed with sun and shower, 
 
 And dwelt with every idle flower. 
 
 As fresh and gay as them. 
 
 He loiters with the briar-rose, — 
 
 The blue-bells are his play-fellows, 
 
 That dance upon their slender stem. 
 
C. Fanshawe. 99 
 
 And I have said, my little Will, 
 
 Why should not he continue still 
 
 A thing of Nature's rearing ? 
 
 A thing beyond the world's control — 
 
 A living vegetable soul, — 
 
 No human sorrow fearing. 
 
 It were a blessed sight to see 
 That child become a willow-tree, 
 His brother trees among. 
 He'd be four times as tall as me, 
 And live three times as long. 
 
 Here we have Critical Parody at its best. It 
 is not only a critique, but a commentary. In 
 this poem is no vulgar abuse, no ill-natured 
 personal attack, but it acts as a mirror reveal- 
 ing more of the mental and moral character- 
 istics of the poet than we could gather from an 
 hour's lecture. It betrays his literary style, his 
 ultra-simplicity, not to say commonness of dic- 
 tion, his dwelling upon unnecessary details, his 
 almost driveling over trivialities, his intimate 
 knowledge of, and sympathy with, the workings 
 of Nature, his slimness of incident and puerility 
 of narrative. All these are pointed out one by 
 one, but without comment. All criticism is 
 avoided, — that is left to the reader, — and we are 
 
100 On "Parody. 
 
 persuaded that the poet himself laughed over 
 
 it and wished to make the lady's acquaintance. 
 
 Still another parody of Wordsworth, by Dr. 
 
 Maginn, will illustrate Parody guiltless of satire. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A bailiff in the street. 
 'Twas so since first frora one I ran ; 
 'Twas so e'en in the Isle of Man ; 
 'Twill be so e'en in Newgate's hold ; 
 
 Or in the Fleet ! 
 A trap is hateful to a man : 
 
 And my whole course of life shall be 
 Bent against them in just antipathy. 
 
 Here Wordsworth is not satirized, directly or 
 indirectly. This parody is one of a large class 
 which demands passing notice. 
 
 Parody generally, but by no means invari- 
 ably, criticises. When an author is about to 
 compose a comic poem, he will frequently cast 
 about for a suitable mold into which to pour 
 the matter, so as to turn it out in a more comic 
 shape. Perhaps he will choose the form of 
 Parody, because incongruity of subject en- 
 hances the humor of his verse, or gives it the 
 requisite grotesqueness. Thus it is quite 
 
Stingkss Tarody. loi 
 
 accidental whether one poet or another is 
 chosen for parody in such a case, and neither 
 he nor his poem is satirized. Take for in- 
 stance : 
 
 MAKING UP THE SLATE. 
 
 Stratman Ben Jackey — may his tribe decrease — 
 Awoke one night quite sick and ill at ease, 
 And saw within the lamplight in his room — 
 Making it yellow with a sickly gloom — 
 The devil, scratching on a brazen slate. 
 Thinking to chaff him Jackey reared his pate, 
 And said, without the customary hail, 
 " What writest thou ? " The devil whisked his tail, 
 And, quite astonished at the fellow's cheek, 
 Answered, " The names of those who office seek." 
 " And is mine one ? " said Jackey. " Yes, you 
 
 bet ! " 
 The devil said. Not hesitating yet. 
 Quite unabashed, said Jack, " I beg — ahem ! 
 Write me Collector, or at least P. M." 
 The devil smiled and vanished. The next night 
 He staggered into Jackey's room half-tight, 
 And showed the names upon his slate of brass. 
 And lo ! this Jack was written down an Ass. 
 
 Here it is evident that no satire is directed 
 against Leigh Hunt ; his poem is merely used 
 as a medium for ridiculing the ofifice seekers, 
 
102 On 'Parody. 
 
 and so also in the former case, Dr. Maginn is 
 humorous at his own, rather than Words- 
 worth's, expense. There are other parodies 
 still further removed from satire of subject or 
 style. Compare the first verse of " Wapping 
 Old Stairs " : 
 
 " Your Molly has never been false, she declares. 
 Since the last time we parted at ' Wapping Old 
 
 Stairs '; 
 When I said that I would continue the same. 
 And give you the 'bacco-box marked with my 
 
 name," 
 
 with Thackeray's " The Knightly Guerdon " : 
 
 " Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, 
 I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, 
 Since the desolate hour when we stood by the 
 
 shore. 
 And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er ; 
 My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd. 
 As I gave you the Battle- Axe, marked with your 
 
 crest." 
 
 Here, it is to be seen, the usual order of 
 Parody is inverted, the ridiculous being raised 
 to the heroic instead of the heroic being low- 
 ered to the ridiculous. A common variety of 
 
The Spirit and the Letter. 103 
 
 this kind of Parody is the serious treatment of 
 trifles in ultra-classic as opposed to familiar 
 language, as in, " This is the domiciliary edifice 
 erected by John." So also the proverb: 
 
 Teach not thy parent's mother to extract 
 The embryo juices of the bird by suction. 
 
 The good old lady can that feat enact 
 Quite irrespective of thy kind instruction. 
 
 In looking over the enormous number of 
 parodies that have been written, we cannot 
 help coming to the strange conclusion that a 
 good parody is. rarer than a good poem. If 
 this is true, it disposes of the popular notion 
 that the Art of Parody is an easy one to excel 
 in. The parodist soon finds out that the mere 
 imitation and travesty of externals is not 
 enough. There is a higher and rarer art which 
 brings before us the intellectual characteristics 
 of the original. The aim of a fine parodist is 
 not so much to ridicule the mannerisms of his 
 victim, as to put his modes of thought in a 
 ridiculous light. It requires a far higher art 
 to caricature a mental attitude than is needed 
 in burlesquing a mere style. The parodist 
 
104 On 'Parody. 
 
 must understand the spirit, and, for the time 
 being, place himself in sympathy with the 
 ethical and emotional leanings of his original. 
 To illustrate with examples let us take : 
 
 PROCURATORES. 
 
 O vestment of velvet and virtue, 
 
 O venomous victors of vice. 
 Who hurt men who never have hurt you, 
 
 Oh, calm, cruel, colder than ice. 
 Why wilfully wage ye this war, is 
 
 Pure pity purged out of your breast ? 
 O purse-prigging Procuratores, 
 
 O pitiless pest. • 
 
 Five shillings ye fine the frail freshman, 
 
 Five shillings, which cads call a crown, 
 Men caught in your merciless mesh, men 
 
 Who care not for cap or for gown. 
 When ye go grandly garbed in your glories. 
 
 With your coarse callous crew of canines, 
 O pitiless Procuratores, 
 
 Inflictors of fines. 
 
 We have smote and made redder than roses, 
 With juice not of fruit, nor of bud. 
 
 The truculent townspeople's noses. 
 And bathed brutal butchers in blood. 
 
'"Dolores." 105 
 
 And we, all aglow with our glories, 
 Heard you not in the deafening din. 
 
 As ye came, O ye Procuratores, 
 And ran us all in. 
 
 — Shotover Papers. 
 
 This parody of Swinburne's " Dolores," 
 though perfect as to rhythm and exaggerated 
 alliteration, besides echoing many of the actual 
 lines of the original, is yet Swinburnian in 
 sound rather than spirit. The following 
 parody of the same poem, though not so close 
 in actual verbal construction, is a finer speci- 
 men of mental comprehension and analytical 
 exposure : 
 
 OCTOPUS. 
 
 Strange beauty eight-limbed and eight-handed. 
 
 Whence earnest to dazzle our eyes ? 
 With thy bosom bespangled and banded 
 
 With the hues of the seas and the skies ; 
 Is thy home European or Asian, 
 
 O mystical monster marine ? 
 Part mollusk and partly crustacean. 
 
 Betwixt and between. 
 
 Wert thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets ? 
 Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess 
 
io6 On Tarody. 
 
 Of the sponges, — thy muffins and crumpets, 
 Of the sea-weed — thy mustard and cress ? 
 
 Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, 
 Remote from reproof or restraint ? 
 
 Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, 
 Sinburnian or saint ? 
 
 Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper 
 
 That creeps in a desolate place. 
 To enrol and envelop the sleeper 
 
 In a silent and stealthy embrace ; 
 Cruel beak craning forward to bite us. 
 
 Our juices to drain and to drink. 
 Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus' 
 
 Indelible ink ! 
 
 O breast that 'twere rapture to writhe on ! 
 
 O arms 'twere delicious to feel 
 Clinging close with the crush of the python, 
 
 When she maketh her murderous meal ! 
 In thy eightfold embraces enfolden. 
 
 Let our empty existence escape ; 
 Give us death that is glorious and golden 
 
 Crushed out of all shape ! 
 
 Ah ! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious 
 With death in their amorous kiss ! 
 
 Cling round us and clasp us and crush us. 
 With bitings of agonized bliss ; 
 
Toets as Tarodists. 107 
 
 We are sick with the poison of pleasure, 
 Dispense us the potion of pain ; 
 
 Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure, 
 And bite us again ! 
 
 When a statue was to be raised to the Duke 
 of Wellington, the likeness finally selected, 
 from which the features were chiseled, was 
 from a cartoon in Punch. Parodies like the 
 one quoted may be compared to just such 
 admirable pictorial caricatures which reveal 
 more of the real man than it would be possible 
 to gather from a serious portrait. 
 
 From what has been said as to the requisites 
 of a good parodist, we should not expect to find 
 great poets writing good parody. The stronger 
 and more original their own writing, so much 
 the less would be their powers of imitating the 
 work of another man and saturating it with 
 that other's personality. The great poet would 
 not be able to divest himself of himself. We 
 find this to be the case, for the great parodists 
 have been men not in the front rank as a rule. 
 Shakespeare and the great dramatists were 
 content with the lower flights of the art. 
 Shelley's " Peter Bell the Third" makes dreary 
 
io8 On Tarody. 
 
 reading, and the attempts of Byron, Burns, 
 Moore, and Hogg, are far from successful. 
 The best parodists are found in the Smiths, 
 whose " Rejected Addresses " delighted even 
 those they victimized, the Hoods, Ayton, 
 Calverley, " Lewis Carroll," Mortimer CoUins, 
 Shirley Brooks, Bayard Taylor, Bret Harte, 
 and A. C. Hilton. Besides these, most of the 
 minor poets of the day write good parody: 
 among others, Lang, Bromley Davenport, 
 Cholmondeley Pennell, Henley, Bunner, Ashby 
 Sterry, Gilbert, Burnand, Sims, etc. 
 
 Not every critic has been hostile to Parody, 
 the Ugly Duckling of Literature. Fuzelier 
 says : " Many tragedies disguise vices into 
 virtues, and parodies unmask them." The Abb6 
 Sallier tells us that in the hands of criticism it 
 is a torch with which to illuminate the faults of 
 an author who has taken popular admiration 
 by surprise. Charles Lamb approves of it and 
 parodies an old song, Coleridge recognizes its 
 serious value, and Leigh Hunt declares that it 
 is a positive compliment, since it at once stamps 
 a work with the recognition of its popularity. 
 Shaftesbury maintains that what will not bear 
 
Critics and Toets. 109 
 
 raillery is suspicious, and this is especially to 
 the point, for where Parody plays the part of 
 an iconoclast the images it breaks are those of 
 false gods. A parody can only harm a poem 
 by bringing into view faults or imperfections 
 before unnoticed. Hazlitt says : " The best 
 parodies are the best and most striking things 
 reversed ... It is a common error to suppose 
 that a parody degrades the original." When, 
 however, we turn from the critics to the poets, 
 we find, with a few notable exceptions, that 
 they themselves are the worst offenders in 
 putting Parody to malignant use, or employing 
 in it good-humored satire. Let us recapitulate 
 the black list of great writers: Chaucer, 
 Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and a host of drama- 
 tists. Green, Sir Jno. Davies, Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh, Sir John Suckling, Duke of Buckingham, 
 Prior, Pope, Swift, Garth, Gay, Shenstone, 
 Edmund Burke, Burns, Southey, Coleridge, 
 Byron, Shelley, Keats, Moore, Rogers, and 
 Hogg. The parodist therefore may comfort 
 himself with the knowledge that he sins in 
 good company. 
 
 Of all poets none was more intensely hostile 
 
no On 'Parody. 
 
 to Parody than Robert Browning. This may 
 have been the result of his disappointment at 
 not being generally recognized as his own 
 parodist, since many of his lines might well 
 pass for parodies of those that precede them. 
 His ramshackle blank verse, with its jagged, 
 jolting lines bristling with prepositions, con- 
 junctions, and interjections, its contractions 
 and elisions, its intrusive parentheses, its small- 
 est of jokes and poorest of puns, its pedantic 
 display of untimely erudition, and aimless wan- 
 dering from the subject in hand, render it the 
 despair of the would-be parodist. Before 
 Browning exaggeration stands appalled : the 
 master himself wallows in such obscurity and 
 mazy verbiage that when Parody has done its 
 best it finds itself after all only imitation. 
 
 Not many of the great poets have shared 
 Browning's antipathy. Thin-skinned people 
 are thick-headed as a rule. Voltaire shrank 
 from, and professed to hate. Parody, and yet he 
 amused himself with parodying Ossian. La 
 Motte was sore on the subject, but Racine 
 smiled at it, as did Boileau, who also teased 
 Corneille with it. 
 
The Hoods. iii 
 
 Tom Hood, Jr., looked upon it with a kindly 
 eye, and evidently failed to see the " desecra- 
 tion " of it, since he contributed to the first 
 number of Truth a lengthy parody of his own 
 father's poem " I Remember." Two verses will 
 give an idea of it : 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The house, 'twas Clunn's Hotel ; 
 The friends who came to knock me up 
 
 I recollect aS well. 
 They never came a wink too soon, 
 
 Nor brought too long a day, 
 For brandy flowed from when they came 
 
 Till when they went away. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 Last and fresh this memory comes, 
 They brought hot pickle sandwiches 
 
 Which filled my bed with crumbs. 
 It was a heated taste I own. 
 
 But brandy's apt to cloy 
 Unless you pick your palate up 
 
 With devilled eggs and soy. 
 
 Lastly we come to the rare cases in which 
 poets have parodied themselves. Self-mockery 
 is not unknown. We have seen it in Shakes- 
 
112 On "Parody. 
 
 peare in a mild form ; Drayton offers a strange 
 instance in his ninth sonnet : 
 
 As other men so I myself do muse, 
 Why in this sort I wrest invention so ; 
 And why these giddy metaphors I use, 
 Leaving the path the greater part I go ? 
 I will resolve you : I am lunatic ! 
 
 Byron again was full of it, and we find 
 Southey and Coleridge making fun of their 
 own work. Coleridge canie to recognize the 
 weaknesses of his youthful style, and in the 
 following sonnet he collected many of the 
 actual phrases to be found in his early poems. 
 
 And this reft house is that the which he built 
 Lamented Jack ! and here his malt he piled. 
 Cautious in vain ! these rats that squeak so wild, 
 Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt. 
 Did he not see her gleaming through the glade ! 
 Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. 
 What though she milked no cow with crumpled 
 
 horn, 
 Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed : 
 And aye before her stalks her amorous knight ! 
 Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, 
 And through those brogues, still tattered and be- 
 
 torn. 
 His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white. 
 
Literary Flagellants. 113 
 
 Ah ! thus through broken clouds at night's high 
 noon, 
 
 Peeps in fair fragments forth thefuU-orb'd harvest- 
 moon ! 
 
 Swinburne is our last instance of out-H erod- 
 ing Herod ; he has put himself on the rack in 
 
 NEPHELIDIA. 
 
 From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn 
 through a notable nimbus of nebulous noon- 
 shine, 
 
 Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that 
 flickers with fear of the flies as they float. 
 
 Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean 
 ■ from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine. 
 
 These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that 
 thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat ? 
 
 Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal 
 of an actor's appalled agitation, 
 
 Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than 
 pale with the promise of pride in the past ; 
 
 Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that 
 reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, 
 
 Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam 
 through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts 
 go aghast ? 
 
 Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremul- 
 ous touch on the temples of terror, 
 
114 On Tarody. 
 
 Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of 
 
 the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of 
 
 death : 
 Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic 
 
 emotional exquisite error, 
 Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself 
 
 by beatitude's breath. 
 Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to 
 
 the spirit and soul of our senses 
 Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs 
 
 in the semblance and sound of a sigh ; 
 Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods 
 
 and triangular tenses — 
 Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark 
 
 till the dawn of the day when we die. 
 Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory 
 
 melodiously mute as it may be. 
 While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by 
 
 the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod ; 
 Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats 
 
 bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm- 
 breathing baby. 
 As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, 
 
 under skies growing green at a groan for the 
 
 grimness of God. 
 Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old 
 
 and its binding is blacker than bluer : 
 Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, 
 
 and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed 
 
 of things ; 
 
"Parody and "Burlesque. us 
 
 Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free 
 
 as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue 
 
 her, 
 Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a 
 
 hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel 
 
 of kings. 
 
 — TAe Heptalogia. 
 
 It is time that the claims of Parody to seri- 
 ous consideration and honorable recognition at 
 the hands of Criticism should be no longer 
 denied. Take up any critic who discourses 
 volubly and learnedly on English Literature 
 and what do we find ? Satires consisting of 
 coarse personaHties and virulent abuse more or 
 less witty, from Juvenal through Dryden and 
 Pope down to Byron, receive praise and honor- 
 able mention pressed down and running over ; 
 burlesque even occasionally arrests the atten- 
 tion of a passing critic, for are not " The 
 Knight of the Burning Pestle," " The Rehear- 
 sal," " Tom Thumb," " Bombastes," and " The 
 Critic " among the classics ? But when the 
 critic comes to Parody he covers his mouth 
 and hurries by on the other side as if a lep- 
 rous distillment tainted the air. Satire is legiti- 
 mate warfare, but Parody, the most potent 
 
ii6 On 'Parody. 
 
 weapon in the armory, is cried down like a 
 poisoned bullet. Nevertheless it is the touch- 
 stone of excellence : before it all weaknesses 
 of diction and sentiment stand confessed. A 
 clever parody often reveals a writer's tricks 
 of style and expression, affectations and defi- 
 ciencies, as nothing else could ever do. It is 
 to an author as the " true glass " that Queen 
 Elizabeth called for before death, when she 
 desired to see herself as she really was. 
 Parody needs no apologist. Its aim is a 
 reforming and purifying one. In Planch^'s 
 words : 
 
 I fling all follies in your face 
 And call back all the false starts of your race, 
 Show up your shows, affect your affectation 
 And by such homoeopathic aggravation, 
 Would cleanse your bosom of that perilous stuff 
 Which weighs upon our art — bombast and puff. 
 
MODERN PARODIES OF THE 
 POETS. 
 
 Having now completed our historical and 
 critical sketch of the Art of Parody, we pro- 
 ceed to give examples gathered from every 
 source, carefully selected and arranged in 
 accordance with the principles already laid 
 down. Four kinds of Parody were enumer- 
 ated, but it will not be necessary to quote 
 examples of the first two of these — those 
 already given will suffice. Our selections in 
 the following pages therefore are arranged in 
 two groups corresponding to the third and 
 fourth classes of Parody already mentioned. 
 The first is the general parody, or, if the 
 purists will have it so, the travestied imita- 
 tion, of a certain school of poets, a particular 
 poet's general style, or a particular form of 
 verse, such as the ballad in its various forms. 
 
ii8 On Tarody. 
 
 or the rondel, or any fashionable mode. Of 
 these fashions Landor suggestively notes : 
 
 The Swain and Nymph went out together, 
 Now Knight and Ladie ride o'er heather : 
 And who comes next ? Perhaps again 
 Will smirk and sidle Nymph and Swain. 
 
 Parodies of the various kinds of ballad, with 
 and without refrain, are placed side by side, 
 then come parodies of old meters, followed by 
 general parodies of various poets, not recalling 
 any one poem or passage exclusively. The 
 " Ode to a Jar of Pickles " comes last, because 
 it stands exactly on the line dividing this 
 section and the following one. As a whole it 
 is a general parody on Keats' style, with an 
 eye more particularly to his Odes " To the 
 Nightingale" and "To a Grecian Urn," two 
 or three lines crossing the boundary into the 
 domains of direct parody, specimens of which 
 immediately follow, forming the largest group 
 of all. 
 
Smallclothes and Jerkin. 119 
 
 THE ELIZABETHAN STYLE. 
 
 Scene — Smallclothes, with a new pair of gallant velveteen 
 hose, Jerkin, his man, regarding him. 
 
 Smallclothes. Affectest thou my nether gar- 
 ments, Jerkin ? 
 Methinks right quaint hath proved the tailor's work. 
 The pattern's marvellous — and for the cut, 
 Such cut a tailor's brain ne'er spawn'd before. 
 'Tis featly done, I wis. Now truly speak, 
 Saw'st e'er these goodly haunches worthier deck'd 
 Then in these velveteens ? 
 
 Jerkin. They're fairly made. 
 
 Small. 'S.o'ii, fairly made ! " Fairly's " a phrase 
 unfair ! 
 A most vile phrase ! A phrase unfairly phrased. 
 Fifty cold brains like thine could ne'er conceive 
 Hose of such rare device. What ! Fairly made ! 
 The phrase bespeaks a coward craven mind. 
 That does not breathe the venom that it would, 
 But veils it aye in coldness. Fairly made ! 
 
 Jerkin. Master, I use not to o'erlay my sense 
 With glittering gawd and phrase extravagant. 
 Mine is an honest tongue, good Master Small- 
 clothes. 
 
 Small. I do believe that thou art honest, Jerkin. 
 But Heavens ! What means that look ? those star- 
 ing eyes — 
 As though at sight unsightly ? 
 
 Jerkin. Master Smallclothes, 
 
120 On 'Parody. 
 
 I know not if I dream ; but sure a rent, 
 A gaping, yawning, hideous, ghastly rent 
 AiBicts these eyes and an unwonted horror 
 Bedaubs my trembling face with livid white. 
 
 Small. A rent, good Jerkin ! Do not say a rent : 
 Unsay that word or else my heart is rent. 
 How long a rent? How wide ? A gaping rent ? 
 Art silent ? Ay, I see the truth is writ 
 Upon thy murky and portentous brow ; 
 My hose are rent — my swelling pride has fall'n. 
 
 Jerkin. Nay, Master Smallclothes, be not over- 
 cast ; 
 Hose have been rent ere now — and I have heard 
 How subtile wits have craftily devised. 
 By patch and piece and such like shrewd conceit, 
 To heal such wounds in cloth. 
 
 Small. What say'st thou ? " Patch," 
 
 Patch is for knaves and not for gentle blood. 
 Shall Smallclothes wear a patch — a horrid patch ! 
 Like a pied jennet stride along the Mall ? 
 Back to the tailor shall my hose return, 
 While in my study I console myself. 
 Deep-buried in some learned ponderous tome. 
 My soul's executor. \^Exit. 
 
 Jerkin. " My soul's executor ! " Quaintly ex- 
 press'd ! 
 By cock and pie, I marvel what it means ! [Exit. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
'Ballad Toetry. 121 
 
 PART I. 
 
 The auld wife sat at her ivied door, 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 A thing she had frequently done before ; 
 And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees. 
 
 The piper he piped on the hill-top high, 
 
 {Butter and eggs and a found of cheese) 
 
 Till the cow said " I die " and the goose asked 
 
 " Why " ; 
 And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas. 
 
 The farmer he strode through the square farmyard ; 
 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 
 His last brew of ale was a trifle hard. 
 
 The connection of which with the plot one sees. 
 
 The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes, 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, 
 As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. 
 
 The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips ; 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 If you try to approach her, away she skips 
 Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. 
 
 The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair ; 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, 
 Which wholly consisted of lines like these. 
 
122 On Tarody. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 And spake not a word. While a lady speaks 
 There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. 
 
 She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks ; 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese') 
 She gave up mending her father's breeks, 
 And let the cat roll in her best chemise. 
 
 She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks ; 
 {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) 
 And this song is considered a perfect gem, 
 And as to the meaning, it's what you please. 
 
 — C. S. Calverley. 
 
 'Tis sweet upon th' impassioned wave 
 
 To hear the voice of music stealing, 
 And while the dark winds wildly rave, 
 
 To catch the genuine soul of feeling ! 
 While all around, the ether blue 
 
 Its dim majestic beam is shedding, 
 And roseate tints of heavenly hue 
 
 Are through the midnight darkness spreading. 
 
 So is it when the thrill of love 
 
 Through every burning pulse is flowing ; 
 And, like the foliage of the grove, 
 
 A holy light on all bestowing ! 
 
'Ballads. 123 
 
 O ! never from this fever'd heart 
 
 Shall dreams on wings of gold be flying : 
 
 But even when life itself shall part, 
 
 I'll think on thee, sweet maid, though dying ! 
 
 'Twas thus, upon the mountain's height, 
 
 Young Dermod sang his plaint of sorrow. 
 Regardless of the evening light. 
 
 That ushers in the gay to-morrow ! 
 For love had of his cheek bereft 
 
 That smile — that glow — of joyous gladness. 
 And sympathy's cold sting had left 
 
 Nought there — but pale and gloomy sadness ! 
 — Blackwood, 1826. 
 
 A BALLAD OF BEDLAM. 
 
 O lady, wake ! — the azure moon 
 
 Is rippling in the verdant skies, 
 The owl is warbling his soft tune, 
 
 Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. 
 The joys of future years are past. 
 
 To-morrow's hopes have fled away ; 
 Still let us love, and e'en at last. 
 
 We shall be happy yesterday. 
 
 The early beam of rosy night 
 Drives off the ebon morn afar, 
 
 While through the murmur of the light 
 The huntsman winds his mad guitar. 
 
124 On Tarody. 
 
 Then, lady, wake ! my brigantine 
 
 Pants, neighs, and prances to be free ; 
 
 Till the creation I am thine. 
 To some rich desert fly with me. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD. 
 
 {To his Lily) 
 
 My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, 
 
 My languid lily-love fragile and thin, 
 
 With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly, 
 
 That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly ! 
 
 Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin ! 
 
 Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay ! 
 
 Art thou not Utter and wholly akin 
 
 To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, 
 
 And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway 
 
 The peacock's feather, sweeter than sin, 
 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday ? 
 
 My long lithe lily, my languid lily, 
 
 My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win — 
 
 Woo thee to wink at me ? Silver lily, 
 
 How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly ? 
 
 What shall I weave for thee — what shall I spin — 
 
 Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai ? 
 
 Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in 
 
 Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin 
 
'Ballads. 125 
 
 Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play 
 On the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin, 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. 
 
 My languid lily, my lank limp lily, 
 My long lithe lily-love, men may grin — 
 Say that I'm soft and supremely silly — 
 What care I while you whisper stilly ; 
 What care I while you smile ? Not a pin ! 
 While you smile, while you whisper — 'Tis sweet 
 
 to decay ? 
 I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin. 
 The churchyard mould I have planted thee in. 
 Upside down in an intense way, 
 In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 A BALLAD OF BALLADE-MONGERS. 
 
 (After the manner of Master Francois 
 Villon of Paris.) 
 
 In Ballades things always contrive to get lost, 
 
 And Echo is constantly asking where 
 Are last year's roses and last year's frost ? 
 
 And where are the fashions we used to wear ? 
 And what is a " gentleman," what is a " player " ? 
 
 Irrelevant questions I like to ask : 
 Can you reap the tret as well as the tare ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask f 
 
126 On Tarody. 
 
 What has become of the ring I tossed 
 
 In the lap of my mistress false and fair ? 
 Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed ; 
 
 But who is to be the next Lord Mayor, 
 And where is King William of Leicester Square ? 
 
 And who has emptied my hunting flask ? 
 And who is possessed of Stella's hair ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask ? 
 
 And what became of the knee I crossed, 
 
 And the rod and the child they would not spare ? 
 And what will a dozen herring cost 
 
 When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair? 
 And what in the world is the Golden Stair ? 
 
 Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask, 
 Like Clarence for love of liquor there ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask ? 
 
 Envoy. 
 
 Poets, your readers have much to bear. 
 For Ballade-making is no great task, 
 
 If you do not remember, I don't much care 
 Who was the man in the Iron Mask. 
 
 — Augustus M. Moore. 
 
 ROUNDEL IN THE RAIN. 
 
 Hi ! we shout with voice ecstatic, 
 As the coming 'bus we spy ; 
 In the wet we get rheumatic — 
 Hi! 
 
lipndels. 127 
 
 Stop ! we fain would travel dry, 
 
 O conductor acrobatic, 
 
 Why not stop a moment, why ? 
 
 " Full inside ! " the autocratic 
 Driver yells as he goes by ! 
 Still we shout with voice emphatic, 
 Hi! 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 RONDEAU INSCRIBED TO AN INTENSE 
 POET. 
 
 {Culture in the Slums.) 
 
 " O crickey, Bill ! " she ses to me, she ses. 
 " Look sharp," ses she, " with them there sossiges. 
 Yea ! sharp with them there bags of mysteree ! 
 For lo ! " she ses, " for lo ! old pal," ses she, 
 " I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less." 
 
 Was it not prime — I leave you all to guess 
 How prime ! — to have a jude in love's distress 
 Come spooning round and murmuring balmilee, 
 " O crickey, Bill ! " 
 
 For in such rorty wise doth Love express 
 His blooming views and asks for your address, 
 And makes it right and does the gay and free. 
 I kissed her — I did so ! And her and me 
 Was pals. And if that ain't good business, 
 O crickey, Bill ! 
 
 — W. E. Henley. 
 
128 On Tarody. 
 
 THE POETS AT TEA. 
 
 I. 
 {Macaulay, who made it^ 
 
 Pour, varlet, pour the water, 
 
 The water steaming hot ! 
 A spoonful for each man of us. 
 
 Another for the pot ! 
 We shall not drink from amber. 
 
 No Capuan slave shall mix 
 For us the snows of Athos 
 
 With port at thirty-six ; 
 Whiter than snow the crystals 
 
 Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires. 
 More rich the herb of China's field. 
 The pasture lands more fragrance yield ; 
 For ever let Britannia wield 
 
 The teapot of her sires. 
 
 II. 
 {Tennyson, who took it hot) 
 
 I think that I am drawing to an end : 
 For, on a sudden, came a gasp for breath. 
 And stretching of the hands and blinded eyes 
 And a great darkness falling on my soul. 
 O Hallelujah ! — kindly pass the milk. 
 
 III. 
 (Swinburne, who lei it get cold.) 
 
 As the sin that was sweet in the sinning 
 Is foul in the ending thereof, 
 
The Toets at Tea. 129 
 
 As the heat of the summer's beginning 
 
 Is past in the winter of love : 
 O purity, painful and pleading, 
 
 O coldness, ineffably gray ! 
 O hear us, our handmaid, unheeding. 
 
 And take it away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 (jCowper, who thoroughly enjoyed i(.) 
 
 The cosy fire is bright and gay, 
 
 The merry kettle boils away 
 And hums a cheerful song. 
 
 I sing the saucer and the cup ; 
 Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, 
 
 And do not make it strong. 
 
 V. 
 
 {Browning, who treated it allegorically.') 
 
 Tut ! Bah ! We take as another case — 
 
 Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill ; 
 
 notice the capsule 
 (A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place 
 Reliance on trade-marks, Sir) — so perhaps you'll 
 Excuse the digression — this cup which I hold 
 Light-poised — Bah, it's spilt in the bed ! well, let's 
 
 on go — 
 Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir ; if you were told 
 The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo ? 
 
130 On Varody. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ( Wordsworth, who gave it away.) 
 
 " Come, little cottage-girl, you seem 
 
 To want ray cup of tea ; 
 And will you take a little cream, 
 
 Now tell the truth to me." 
 
 She had a rustic woodland grin. 
 
 Her cheek was soft as silk, 
 And she replied, " Sir, please put in 
 
 A little drop of milk." 
 
 " Why, what put milk into your head ? 
 
 'Tis cream my cows supply ; " 
 And five times to the child I said, 
 
 " Why, pig-head, tell me, why ? " 
 
 " You call me pig-head," she replied, 
 
 " My proper name is Ruth, 
 I call that milk " — she blushed with pride 
 
 " You bade me tell the truth." 
 
 VII. 
 
 (Foe, 7vho got excited over it.) 
 
 Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea ! 
 
 What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance 
 
 brings to me ! 
 Oh, from out the silver cells 
 
 How it wells ! 
 
 How it smells ! 
 
The Toets at Tea. 131 
 
 Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune, 
 
 To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. 
 
 And the kettle on the fire 
 
 Boils its spout off with desire. 
 
 With a desperate desire 
 
 And a crystalline endeavor, 
 
 Now,, now to sit or never. 
 
 On the top of the pale-faced moon. 
 
 But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, 
 
 tea, 
 Tea to the nth — . 
 
 VIII. 
 
 (Rossetti, who took six cups of if.) 
 
 The lilies lie in my lady's bower 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost) ; 
 They faintly droop for a little hour ; 
 My lady's head droops like a flower. 
 
 She took the porcelain in her hand 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost) ; 
 She poured ; I drank at her command ; 
 Drank deep, and now — you understand ! 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). 
 
 IX. 
 
 {Burns, who liked it adulterated!) 
 
 Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, 
 Whusky or tay — to state my mind 
 For ane or ither ; 
 
132 On Tarody. 
 
 For, gin I take the first, I'm fou, 
 And gin the next, I'm dull as you. 
 Mix a' thegither. 
 
 ( Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a 
 minute^ 
 
 One cup for my self-hood. 
 
 Many for you. Allons, camarados, we will drink 
 
 together 
 O hand-in-hand ! That tea-spoon, please, when 
 
 you've done with it. 
 What butter-colored hair you've got. I don't want 
 
 to be personal. 
 All right, then you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver. 
 Eighteenpence if the bottles are returned. 
 Allons, from all bat-eyed formulas. 
 
 — B. E. O. Pain. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 He is to weet a melancholy carle : 
 
 Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair. 
 
 As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle 
 
 It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair 
 
 Its light balloons into the summer air ; 
 
 Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom, 
 
 No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer ■ 
 
Spenser. t$$ 
 
 No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, 
 But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian 
 loom. 
 
 Ne csirhd he for wine, or half and half ; 
 
 Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ; 
 
 And sauces held he worthless as the cha^if ; 
 
 He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl ; 
 
 Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ; 
 
 Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair ; 
 
 But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul 
 
 Panted and all his food was woodland air ; 
 
 Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare. 
 
 The slang of cities in no wise he knew, 
 Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; 
 He sipped no " olden Tom," or " ruin blue," 
 Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek 
 By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek ; 
 Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, 
 Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek 
 For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, 
 Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their 
 feet. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Browning. 
 
 Not that I care for ceremonious — no ; 
 But still there are occasions, as you see 
 (Observe the costumes — gallantly they show 
 To my poor judgment !) which twixt you and me, 
 
134 On 'Parody. 
 
 Not to come forth, one's few remaining hairs, 
 Or wig, — it matters little, — bravely brushed 
 And oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tears 
 And tweaks and wrenches people overflushed 
 With — well, not wine — oh, no, we'll rather say 
 Anticipation, the delight of seeing 
 No matter what ! inflict upon you (pray 
 Remove your elbow, friend !) in spite of being 
 Not quite the man one used to be, and not 
 So young as once one was, would argue one 
 Churlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, what 
 You please to say. 
 
 So, not to spoil the fun — 
 Comprenez-vous ? — observe that lady there, 
 In native worth ! Aha ! you see the jest ? 
 Not bad, I think. My own, too ! Woman's fair. 
 Or not — the odds so long as she is dressed? 
 They're coming ! Soh ! Ha, Bennett's Barcarole — 
 A poor thing, but mine own ! That minor third 
 Is not so bad now ! Mum, sirs ! (Bless my soul, 
 I wonder what her veil cost !) Mum's the word ! " 
 
 POETS AND LINNETS. 
 
 Where e'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet- 
 And linnets are plenty, thistles rife — 
 
 Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it, 
 There's ample promise of further life. 
 
 Now, mark how we begin it. 
 
'Browning. 135 
 
 For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, 
 As blows the white-feather parachute ; 
 
 And ships will reel by the tempest blinded. 
 Ay, ships, and shiploads of men to boot ! 
 
 How deep whole fleets you'll find hid. 
 
 And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither, 
 Forgetful of linnets and men and God. 
 
 The dew ! — for its want an oak will wither — 
 By the dull hoof into the dust is trod, 
 
 And then who strikes the cithar ? 
 
 But thistles were only for donkeys intended, 
 
 And that donkeys are common enough is clear. 
 And that drop ! What a vessel it might have 
 befriended ! 
 Does it add any flavour to Glugabib's beer ? 
 Well's, there's my musing ended. 
 
 Tom Hood, Jr. 
 
 XTenn^son. 
 
 I hold this truth with one who sings 
 That when a donkey will not go. 
 The kick, the curse, the brutal blow. 
 
 Should be exchanged for milder things. 
 
 But who that sees the donkey's ears 
 
 Droop downward and his hind-legs rise, 
 While from the creature's back he flies 
 
 Can spare the lissom switch he bears. 
 
136 On Tarody. 
 
 Or who can smile when crowds condemn, 
 
 And ragamuffin imps deride, 
 
 Advising him to " get inside " 
 That product of Jerusalem ? 
 
 Had I the brute that would not stir 
 
 Despite " Gee-woa ! " or " Kim-up, Ned ! " 
 I should methinks use arts instead 
 
 Of supplemented provender. 
 
 — Funny Folks. 
 
 Swinburne. 
 
 OLEOMARGARINE. 
 A Domestic Threnody. 
 
 I am she whose nameless naked name to utter 
 
 The strong are weak. 
 The suet-sprung soft sweet sister of bad butter, 
 
 Yet rid of reek. 
 I, that, molten o'er the fires beneath me burning 
 
 From void of vat, 
 Uprise supremer in this my creamless churning 
 
 First-born of fat ! 
 By the bitter cry of bilious man down-trodden 
 
 'Neath trick of trade ; 
 By the spade — the saffroned smoothness salt and 
 sodden 
 
 Not called a spade : 
 
Swinburne. 137 
 
 By the ghastly grease in seethe of soapstone blended, 
 
 Nice, yet not nice ; 
 By the rancid richness mutely mixed and mended. 
 
 Prime at the price : 
 By the fetid foulnesses which feed and fatten 
 
 With slimy spread ; 
 By the blind brute bit of boyhood bound to batten 
 
 On buttered bread ; 
 By the toothsome taste of tongues that ache and 
 hunger. 
 
 For something sound ; 
 Take me, the cheap churn-child of the chaste 
 cheese-monger. 
 
 And try a pound. 
 
 — Punch, 1 88 1. 
 
 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. 
 
138 On Tarody. 
 
 Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady 
 Whose beauty has maddened this bard, 
 
 And olives from groves that are shady ; 
 And eggs — boil 'em hard. 
 
 — Mortimer Collins. 
 
 IRossettf. 
 
 CIMABUELLA. 
 
 Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn 
 In crescent curves above the light 
 
 Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn 
 Becomes not day : a forehead white 
 
 Beneath long yellow heaps, of hair, 
 
 She is so strange she must be fair. 
 
 Had she sharp slantwise wings outspread, 
 She were an angel, but she stands 
 
 With flat dead gold behind her head 
 And lilies in her long thin hands : 
 
 Her folded mantle gathered in, 
 
 Falls to her feet as it were tin. 
 
 Her nose is keen as pointed flame ; 
 
 Her crimson lips no thing express ; 
 And never dread of saintly blame 
 
 Held down her heavy eyelashes : 
 To guess what she were thinking of 
 Precludeth any meaner love. 
 
1{ossetti. 139 
 
 An azure carpet fringed with gold, 
 Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid 
 
 Before her straight cool feet unrolled ; 
 But she nor sound nor movement made, 
 
 (Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile. 
 
 Printing her neck a moment's while) ; 
 
 And I was shamed through all my mind 
 For that she spake not, neither kissed, 
 
 But stared right past me. Lo ! behind 
 Me stood, in pink and amethyst, 
 
 Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted, 
 
 A tall gaunt youth with frowzy head. 
 
 Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes. 
 Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me ! 
 
 I saw with most forlorn surprise 
 He was the Thirteenth Century, 
 
 I but the Nineteenth ; then despair 
 
 Curdled beneath my curling hair. 
 
 Love and Fate ! How could she choose 
 My rounder outlines, broader brain. 
 
 And my resuscitated Muse ? 
 
 Some tears she shed, but whether pain 
 Or joy in him unlocked their source, 
 
 1 could not fathom which, of course. 
 
 But I from missals, quaintly bound, 
 With cither and with clavichord 
 
 Will sing her songs of sovran sound : 
 Belike her pity will afford 
 
I40 On Tarody. 
 
 Such faint return as suits a saint 
 So sweetly done in verse and paint. 
 
 — Diversions of the Echo Club. 
 
 LILITH LIBIFERA. 
 
 Under a canopy dark-hued as — well 
 
 Consult the Bilious Book, page 51 — 
 
 Lies pallid Whiskersley's presentment, done 
 
 By Whiskersley's own weird unearthly spell. 
 
 His is that lady known as Jezebel, 
 
 Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion, 
 
 Libifera, that is, that takes the bun, 
 
 Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel. 
 
 Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break 
 
 The pumpkin's heart ; and hers the eyes that shame 
 
 The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts. 
 
 Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake 
 
 Nocturnally their amorous ardent flame 
 
 In the wan waste of weary water-butts. 
 
 — Punch, 
 
 mm, /TOorris. 
 
 In the cushioned Abbey pew 
 There is space for Me and You, 
 Twine the blossoms in my hair ; 
 Never mind if people stare — 
 Never mind, for none knoweth 
 If one flirteth after death. 
 
IVm. (Morris. 141 
 
 Hark — the organ shakes the pew ! 
 Would it were for me and you ? 
 Yes I would indeed it were ! 
 Are they staring ? Let them stare ! 
 Never mind, for none knoweth 
 If one laugheth after death. 
 
 We will slumber in the pew — 
 I am weary, so are you, 
 And the cushions in repair ! 
 Let the British public stare ! 
 Never mind, for none knoweth 
 If one sleepeth after death ! 
 
 And next they wandered to a steepy hill. 
 Whence all the land was lying gray and still. 
 And not a living creature there might be. 
 From the cold mountains to the salt, cold sea ; 
 Only within a little cove, one sail 
 Shook, as it whimpered at the cruel gale. 
 And the mast moaned from chafing of the rope, 
 So all was pain : they saw not any hope. 
 
 — Diversions of the Echo Club. 
 
 Jean llngelow. 
 
 LOVERS AND A REFLECTION. 
 
 In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter 
 (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean ; 
 
 Meaning, however, is no great matter) 
 
 Where woods are a-tremble with rifts atween ; 
 
142 On Tarody. 
 
 Thro' God's own heather we wonned together, 
 I and my Willie (O love my love) : 
 
 I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, 
 And flitter-bats wavered alow, above : 
 
 Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, 
 (Boats in that climate are so polite,) 
 
 And sands were a ribbon of green endowing. 
 And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight .' 
 
 Thro' the rare red heather we danced together 
 (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers : 
 
 I must mention again it was glorious weather. 
 Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours : 
 
 By rises that flushed with their purple favours, 
 Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen. 
 
 We walked or waded we two young shavers, 
 Thanking our stars we were both so green. 
 
 We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, 
 In fortunate parallels ! Butterflies, 
 
 Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly 
 Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes : 
 
 Song-birds darted about, some inky 
 
 As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds ; 
 
 Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky — 
 
 They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds ! 
 
yean Ingelow. 143 
 
 But they skim over bents which the mill-stream 
 washes, 
 
 Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem ; 
 They need no parasols, no goloshes ; 
 
 And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. 
 
 Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather), 
 That endowed the wan grass with their golden 
 blooms ; 
 
 And snapt — (it was perfectly charming weather) — 
 Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms : 
 
 And Willie 'gan sing — (Oh, his notes were fluty ; 
 Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged 
 sea) — 
 Something made up of rhymes that have done 
 much duty. 
 Rhymes (better to put it) of " ancientry " : 
 
 Bowers of flowers encountered showers 
 In William's carol — (O love my Willie !) 
 
 Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow 
 I quite forget what — say a daffodilly. 
 
 A nest in a hollow, " with buds to follow," 
 I think occurred next in his nimble strain ; 
 
 And clay that was " kneaden " of course in Eden — 
 A rhyme most novel I do maintain : 
 
144 On Tarody. 
 
 Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, 
 And all least furlable things got " furled "; 
 
 Not with any design to conceal their glories. 
 But simply and solely to rhyme with " world." 
 
 O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers. 
 And all the brave rhymes of an elder day. 
 
 Could be furled together, this genial weather 
 And carted or carried on wafts away, 
 
 Nor ever again trotted out — ay me ! 
 
 How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be. 
 
 — C. S. Calverly. 
 
 XKDLorbswortb. 
 
 OLD CUMBERLAND PEDLAR. 
 
 George Fisher, Goody Blake and Betty Foy, 
 Johanna, Matthew, Tims, and you too, Stokes, 
 Come, sit ye down upon this bank of fresh 
 But bilious buttercups : 'tis scarcely seven, 
 And I shall not drink tea till half-past eight, 
 Or peradventure nine, so that one hour. 
 One sober hour remains for converse sweet. 
 You all knew Peter Bell, the pedlar, he 
 Was a hale man and honest and each spring 
 What time the cuckoo carolled in the hedge. 
 Would seek our simple villagers to vend 
 His patron's wares — of him I now would speak ; 
 
Wordsworth. 145 
 
 That morn I lost my breakfast, but returning 
 Home through the New Cut by Charles Fleming's 
 
 field. 
 Westward of Rydal Common and below 
 The horse-pond, where our sturdy villagers 
 Duck all detected vagrants, I espied 
 A solitary stranger ; like a snail 
 He wound along his narrow course with slow 
 But certain step and, lightly, as he paced, 
 Drew from the deep Charybdis of his coat, 
 What seemed to my dim eyes a handkerchief. 
 And forthwith blew his nose : the adjacent rocks. 
 Like something starting from a hurried sleep, 
 Took up the snuffling twang and blew again. 
 That ancient woman seated on Helm-scar, 
 And the tall steep of Silver-How sent back 
 Their nasal contributions ; Loughrigg heard. 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone. 
 
 — Warreniana. 
 
 Sbelles. 
 
 THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me — 
 Our mutual flame is like th' affinity 
 That doth exist between two simple bodies : 
 I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 
 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow 
 Shall shortly make us one. That unity 
 Is, after all, but metaphysical. 
 
146 On ^Parody. 
 
 Oh ! would that I, my Mary, were an acid, 
 A living acid ; thou an alkali 
 
 Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, 
 We both might coalesce into one salt, 
 One homogeneous crystal. Oh ! that thou 
 Wert Carbon and myself were Hydrogen ; 
 We would unite to form defiant gas, 
 Or common coal, or naphtha — would to heaven 
 That I were Phosphorus and thou wert Lime ! 
 And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. 
 I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, 
 So that thou might be Soda. In that case 
 We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia 
 Instead, we'd form that's named from Epsom. 
 Could'st thou Potassa be, I Aqua-Fortis, 
 Our happy union should that compound form, 
 Nitrate of Potash — otherwise Saltpetre. 
 And thus our several natures sweetly blent. 
 We'd live and love together, until death 
 Should decompose the fleshly tertium quid. 
 Leaving our souls to all eternity 
 Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs 
 And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we 
 Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs ? 
 We will. The day, the happy day is nigh 
 When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 They were not married by a muttering priest. 
 With superstitious rites and senseless words. 
 Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book 
 
Shelley. 147 
 
 In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen) 
 Of an old house that fools do call a church ! 
 Their altar was the flowery lap of earth — 
 The starry empyreum their vast temple — 
 Their book, each other's eyes — and Love himself, 
 Parson and Clerk, and Father to the bride ! 
 Holy espousals ! whereat wept for joy 
 The spirit of the Universe — 
 
 I was telling 
 Of those most pure espousals. — Innocent pair ! 
 Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains 
 About the yielding mind of credulous youth 
 Wound by the nurse and priest, — your energies. 
 Your unsophisticated impulses. 
 Taught ye to soar above their " settled rules 
 Of Vice and Virtue." — Fairest creature ! He 
 Whom the world called thy husband was in truth 
 Unworthy of thee. — A dull plodding wretch ! 
 With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit 
 Held no communion. — 'Twas well done, fair 
 
 creature, 
 T' assert the independence of a mind 
 Created — generated, I would say — 
 Free as " that chartered libertine, the air." 
 Joy to thy chosen partner ! — blest exchange ! 
 Work of mysterious sympathy ! that drew 
 Your kindred souls by . . . 
 
 Even in life, 
 While still pent up in flesh and skin and bones. 
 My thoughts and feelings, like electric flame, 
 Shot through the solid mass, toward their source, 
 
148 On Tarody. 
 
 And blended with the general elements, 
 
 When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung 
 
 Far from its zenith yet, low lagging clouds 
 
 (Vapours of earth) obscur'd its heaven-born rays — 
 
 Dull fogs of prejudice and superstition, 
 
 And vulgar decencies begirt thee round : 
 
 And thou did'st wear awhile th' unholy bonds 
 
 Of "holy matrimony ! " — and did'st vail 
 
 Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat. 
 
 But reason came — and firm philosophy, 
 
 And mild philanthropy, and pointed out 
 
 The shame it was — the crying, crushing shame, 
 
 To curb within a little paltry pale 
 
 The love that over all created things 
 
 Should be diffusive as the atmosphere. 
 
 Then did thy boundless tenderness expand 
 
 Over all space — all animated things 
 
 And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart 
 
 And ready tear for all. The dying whale 
 
 Stranded and gasping, ripped up for his blubber 
 
 By man, the tyrant — The small sucking-pig 
 
 Slain for his riot — The down-trampled flower. 
 
 Crushed by his cruel foot — all, each and all, 
 
 Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then — 
 
 (Sublime perfection of perfected love) 
 
 Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing 
 
 That dared to call thee " husband," and to claim, 
 
 As her just right, support and love from ihee, — 
 
 Then didst thou . . . 
 
 — Blackwood, 1823. 
 
Ode on a Jar of Tickles. 149 
 
 Ikeats. 
 
 ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES. 
 
 A sweet acidulous, down-reaching thrill 
 Pervades my sense : I seem to see or hear 
 The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill 
 In autumn when the crispy leaves are sere : 
 And odours haunt me of remotest spice 
 From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, 
 Or from the saffron fields of Jericho, 
 
 Where everything is nice : 
 The more I sniff the more I swoon away. 
 And, what else mortal palate craves, forego. 
 
 Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell 
 Are keener ; wherefore let me sniff again ! 
 Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well 
 In youth, when pickles were a passing pain ; 
 Unwitting youth that craves the candy stem. 
 And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer. 
 And even licks the pots of marmalade 
 
 When sweetness clings to them : 
 But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh. 
 Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade. 
 Lo ! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon. 
 Plucked with its dew the cucumber is here, 
 As to the Dryad's parching lips a boon, 
 And crescent bean pods, unto Bacchus dear; 
 And last of all the pepper's pungent globe, 
 
150 On Tafody. 
 
 The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, 
 Provoking purple draughts ; and, surfeited 
 
 I cast my trailing robe 
 O'er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, 
 And twist the Delphic reed to suit my head. 
 
 Here shall my tongue in other verse be soured 
 Than fretful men's in parched and palsied days ; 
 And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered, 
 Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise. 
 No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born. 
 Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine ; 
 Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, 
 
 The lemon-tinted morn 
 Enjoy, and find ascetic twilight fine ; 
 Wake I, or sleep ? The pickle- jar is void ! 
 
 — Diversions of the Echo Club. 
 
 We now come to the last class of Parody — 
 that which unmistakably parodies a partic- 
 ular poem. The examples which follow are 
 arranged generally in the chronological order 
 in which the poets lived, no notice being taken 
 of the dates at which the parodies themselves 
 were written. This class is concluded with a 
 sub-section, in which parodies of songs, ancient 
 and modern, are grouped by themselves. 
 
Campaspe. 151 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 
 
 At cards for kisses ; Taspe paid : 
 
 She stakes her powder, scents, and rouge, 
 
 Her tresses false, dyed with gamboge ; 
 
 Loses them too ; then down she throws 
 
 Her set of porcelain teeth ; the rose 
 
 Tinting her cheek (but none knows how ! ), 
 
 With these her curved and pencilled brow ; 
 
 And then her cherished crinoline ; 
 
 All these did Master Cupid win. 
 
 At last she set him her glass eyes, 
 
 And she a battered wreck did rise. 
 
 Decked out in all her finery. 
 
 Oh, Love ! what will become of thee ? 
 
 — E. S. 
 
 Sbaftespeare. 
 
 POKER. 
 
 To draw, or not to draw, — that is the question: — 
 Whether 'tis safer in the player to take 
 The awful risk of skinning for a straight, 
 Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit 
 And thus, by bluiSng, get it. To draw, — to skin 
 No more — and by that skin to get a full. 
 Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings 
 That luck is heir to — 'tis a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To draw — to skin ; 
 
152 On Tarody. 
 
 To skin ! perchance to burst — ay, there's the rub ! 
 For in the draw of three what cards may corae, 
 When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack, 
 Must give us pause. There's the respect 
 That makes calamity of a bobtail flush ; 
 For who would bear the overwhelming blind, 
 The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge, 
 The insolence of pat hands and the lifts 
 That patient merit of the bluffer takes. 
 When he himself might be much better off 
 By simply passing ? Who would trays uphold. 
 And go out on a small progressive raise, 
 But that the dread of something after call — 
 The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength 
 Such hands must bow, puzzles the will. 
 And makes us rather keep the chips we have 
 Than be curious about the hands we know not of. 
 Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all : 
 And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush 
 Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club, 
 And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth 
 With this regard their interest turn away 
 And lose the right to open. 
 
 TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY 
 FAIR. 
 
 With pretty speech accost both old and young. 
 And speak it trippingly upon the tongue ; 
 But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh. 
 With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff — 
 
Shakespeare. 153 
 
 As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs, 
 
 I had as lief a huckster sold my wares. 
 
 Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear. 
 
 Oh ! it offends me to the soul to hear 
 
 The things that men among themselves will say 
 
 Of some soi-disant "beauty of the day," 
 
 Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it, 
 
 Out-Rachels Rachel ! pray you, girls, avoid it. 
 
 Neither be you too tame — but, ere you go. 
 
 Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe ; 
 
 Offer them coyly to the Roman herd — 
 
 But don't you " suit the action to the word," 
 
 For in the very torrent of your passion 
 
 Remember modesty is still in fashion. 
 
 Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls — 
 
 Ladies of rank, my dear — to whom befalls 
 
 Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies ; 
 
 So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz, 
 
 Powder-rouge — lip-salve — that I've fancied then 
 
 They were the work of Nature's journeymen. 
 
 — W. S. Gilbert. 
 
 He jests at scars who ne'er in climbmg hit upon 
 A place with spikes and broken glass to sit upon. 
 But soft, a light ! — where lights are there's a liver, 
 'Tis she ! I'll try a gentle hint to give her 
 Upon my mandoline, though I'm afraid 
 I'm somewhat too hoarse for a serenade. 
 This night air is too musical by far. 
 And on my chest has struck a light catarrh. 
 
154 On Tarody. 
 
 Ah, see ! The window opens — it is she, 
 More fair than ever in her robe de nuit. 
 She speaks — yet nothing says ! She's not to blame, 
 Members of Parliament do much the same. 
 Her mouth rests on her hand — I'm not above 
 Wishing I were upon that hand a glove. 
 Gladly the storms of Poverty I'd weather, 
 So we might live from hand to mouth together ! 
 — Francis Talfourd. 
 
 All the world's a wardrobe. 
 And all the girls and women merely wearers. 
 They have their fashions and their fantasies, 
 And one she in her time wears many garments 
 Throughout her seven stages. First, the baby, 
 Befrilled and broidered in her nurse's arms. 
 And then the trim-hosed school-girl, with her flounces 
 And small-boy-scorning face, tripping, skirt-wag- 
 
 g'ing, 
 Coquettishly to school. And then the flirt, 
 Ogling like Circe, with a blushing aillade 
 Kept on her low-cut corsage. Then a bride. 
 Full of strange finery, vestured like an angel. 
 Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance. 
 Seeking the woman's heaven — admiration. 
 Even at the altar's steps. And then the matron. 
 In fair rich velvet, with suave satin lined, 
 With eyes severe and skirts of youthful cut. 
 Full of dress-saws and modish instances, 
 To teach her girls their parts. The sixth age shifts 
 
Shakespeare. 155 
 
 Into the gray, yet gorgeous, grandmamma, 
 With goXd. pince-nez on nose and fan at side, 
 Her youthful tastes still strong and worldly-wise 
 In sumptuary law, her quavering voice. 
 Prosing of fashion and Le Follet, pipes 
 Of robes and bargains rare. Last scene of all, 
 That ends the sex's mode-swayed history. 
 Is second childishness and mere oblivion 
 Of youth, taste, passion, all — save love of dress ! 
 
 — Punch, 1882. 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell to all imbibing ! 
 This is the state of man as I'm describing : 
 To-day he takes a glass because he's dry, 
 To-morrow one to wet the other eye ; 
 The third day takes one extra, just "to shed 
 A tear — he feels it gets into his head : 
 The fourth day takes two extra ones and feels 
 'Stead of his head it's got into his heels ; 
 And in the morning, with perhaps two suits on. 
 He finds himself — in bed, but with two boots on; 
 Then after that he's nowhere ; and that's how 
 He falls as I did — which I won't do now. 
 
 — F. C. BURNAND. 
 
 Oh ! that dishonoured notes of hand would melt. 
 Thaw, and dissolve themselves when overdue, 
 And never leave the holder time to sue ; 
 Or that in pickle no such sharp rod lay 
 As the unpleasant writ called a. ca sa ! 
 
iS6 On Tarody. 
 
 How weary, flat, unprofitable, stale, 
 To kick one's heels inside a debtor's gaol ! 
 Fie on't ! 'Tis an unweeded garden clearly ; 
 Blackguards and seedy swells possess it merely. 
 That it should come to this! At two months' date! — 
 No, not two months ; six weeks is less than eight. 
 So excellent a bill ! The blow will floor me ! 
 Is this a bailiff that I see before me, 
 A capias in his hand ? Come, let me dodge thee ; 
 Or in a sponging-house I know thou'It lodge me. 
 — Leicester Buckingham. 
 
 Oh, then, I see, young Laurie's been with you ; 
 
 He is the Sheriff's coachmaker, and builds 
 
 A drag no smaller than is suitable 
 
 For the dimensions of an Alderman, 
 
 Drawn by a team of little elephants. 
 
 To bear his worship as he lolls asleep ; 
 
 The chariot wheels of pink, picked out with blue ; 
 
 The body like the wings of butterflies ; 
 
 The traces studded o'er with silver knobs ; 
 
 The collars gilt and glittering with Japan ; 
 
 The whip of amber and the lash of green ; 
 
 The coachman a lace-coated liveryman. 
 
 Not half so slender as a beadle bred 
 
 To twenty stone upon parochial fat ; 
 
 The coach is made by Laurie and his Co., 
 
 Time out of mind the City Coachmakers, 
 
 And in this state the slumbering Sheriff rides 
 
 By butchers' shops and then he dreams of beef ; 
 
Shakespeare. 157 
 
 By fishmongers', and then of turbot straight, 
 By poulterers', then of capons dreameth he, 
 By cooks' and then he doth on turtle dream, 
 Or haply venison comes athwart his nose. 
 And then he dreams of gloating o'er a haunch ; 
 And sometimes Fancy with a roast pig's tail 
 Tickles his palate as he lies asleep, 
 Ofttimes he rideth to the Mansion House, 
 And then he dreams of feasting foreign kings, 
 Italian, Russian, Prussian, Spanish blades ; 
 Of toasts five fathom deep, and then anon 
 Cheers in his ear, at which he starts and wakes. 
 And being thus roused, gives a hooray or two. 
 And snores again. True, these are only dreams. 
 Begot of nothing more than phantasy, 
 Suggested by the Sheriff's flaming coach. 
 
 — Punch, 1848. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING IN THE 
 CITY. 
 
 Sigh no more, dealers, sigh no more. 
 
 Shares were unstable ever, 
 They often have been down before, 
 At high rates constant never. 
 Then sigh not so 
 Soon up they'll go 
 And you'll be blithe and funny, 
 Converting all your notes of woe. 
 Into hey, money, money. 
 
158 On Tarody. 
 
 Write no more letters, write no mo, 
 
 On stocks so dull and heavy. 
 
 At times on 'Change 'tis always so. 
 
 When bears a tribute levy. 
 
 Then sigh not so 
 
 And don't be low, 
 
 In sunshine you'll make honey, 
 
 Converting all your notes of woe 
 
 Into hey, money, money. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 SHAKESPERIAN FRAGMENT. 
 {As sutig by Father Newman^ 
 
 Hark, hark ! the Clerk the service sings. 
 
 The candlesticks arise ; 
 We'll soon have water from the springs, 
 
 In salted fonts that lies. 
 And winking Mary's heads begin 
 
 To ope their canvas eyes : 
 With everything that Roman bin. 
 
 My good John Bull arise — 
 Arise, arise ! 
 
 — Punch, 1849. 
 
 What shall he have that killed the hare ? 
 Three months ; that's all — and found in fare; 
 
 Then send him home. 
 Take no reproach the game to poach. 
 Or empty ponds of carp and roach ; 
 
Shakespeare. 159 
 
 Though lords and squires abhor it, 
 Yet they will pay you for it : 
 
 To poach, to poach, the game to poach, 
 
 Is not a matter of reproach. 
 
 — Punch, 1846. 
 
 3Ben Jonson. 
 
 LINES TO AN EDITOR. 
 {On sending a book for review.) 
 
 Print for me only just one word. 
 
 And I will pledge thee mine. 
 If thou wilt give a wholesome puff 
 
 That I will not repine. 
 I think my work should be preferred 
 
 ('Tis very large and fine), 
 Though dullards may not like my stufif, 
 
 / would not change a line. 
 
 {On the non-appearance of a notice from the same to 
 the same.) 
 
 I sent thee late my able book, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee. 
 As hoping something would appear 
 
 That might bring L. S. D. 
 But thou thereon didst neither look, 
 
 Nor sent'st it back to me. 
 Since when I feel inclined to swear 
 
 Both at myself and thee. 
 
i6o On 'Parody. 
 
 George IHIlitber. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Be she painted, fast, or old. 
 Be she flirt, or rake, or scold. 
 
Merrick. i6i 
 
 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 ! 
 
 — Herman C. Merivale 
 
 l&errfcft. 
 
 TO THE YOUNG CITY MAN. 
 To make much of (^Luncheon) Time. 
 
 Gather ye fish-bones while we may, 
 
 The luncheon hour is flying, 
 And this same cod that's boiled to-day 
 
 To-morrow may be frying. 
 
 The handsome clock of ormolu 
 
 A quarter past is showing. 
 And soon 'twill be a quarter to, 
 
 When you must think of going. 
 
 The man eats best who eats the first, 
 When fish and plates are warmer. 
 
 But, being cold, the worse and worst 
 Fare still succeeds the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your lungs. 
 And, while ye may, cry " Waiter ! " 
 
 For having held just now your tongues. 
 You may repent it later. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
On 'Parody. 
 
 Xovelace. 
 
 Champagne will not a dinner make, 
 
 Nor caviare a meal : 
 Men gluttonous and rich may take 
 
 These till they make them ill. 
 If I've potatoes to my chop 
 
 And after chop have cheese 
 Angels in Pond and Spiers's shop 
 
 Know no such luxuries. 
 
 —Punch, 1875. 
 
 Mailer. 
 
 THE ESTHETE TO THE ROSE. 
 
 Go, flaunting Rose ! 
 Tell her that wastes her love on thee. 
 
 That she naught knows 
 Of the new Cult, Intensity, 
 If sweet and fair to her you be. 
 
 Tell her that's young, 
 Or who in health and bloom takes pride, 
 
 That bards have sung 
 Of a new youth at whose sad side 
 Sickness and pallor aye abide. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of Beauty in crude charms attired. 
 
 She must shun mirth. 
 Have suffered, fruitlessly desired. 
 And wear no flush by hope inspired. 
 
'T>r. Watts. 163 
 
 Then die that she 
 May learn that Death is passing fair : 
 
 May read in thee 
 How little of Art's praise they share, 
 Who are not sallow, sick, and spare ! 
 
 — Punch, October i, 1881. 
 
 S)r, Matts. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 BY DR. " WHAT'S-HIS-NAME ? " 
 
 In spring, which of Youth is the type, 
 
 How fondly we Happiness hug. 
 When the bullfinch draws near with his pipe 
 
 And the nightingale comes with his jug. 
 
 — CUTHBERT BeDE. 
 
 THE WISE ONE AND THE FOOLISH. 
 
 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, 
 " You have waked me too soon, I must slumber 
 
 again," 
 As a door on its hinges, so, in his bed, he 
 Turned and drowsily muttered, " A soda and B ! " 
 
 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, 
 " I fancy last night I drank too much champagne ; 
 But no," he exclaimed as he lolled at his ease, 
 " It was not the champagne, 'twas the salmon and 
 peas." 
 
164 On 'Parody. 
 
 I looked once again as he lay on the bed, 
 His eyes they were bloodshot, his nose it was red, 
 And I said to myself, as I turned from the sight, 
 " It is clear he was up till a late hour last night." 
 
 Then I said to my heart, " Here's a lesson for me ! 
 That man's but a picture of what I might be. 
 But no, I am cautious in all that I eat ; 
 I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat." 
 
 —Judy, 1874. 
 
 DR. WATTS IMPROVED. 
 
 BY A SEA-SIDE LODGER. 
 
 How doth the little busy Flea, 
 
 Disturb each silent hour. 
 And all night long, most wickedly, 
 
 Our weary limbs devour. 
 
 How cruelly he breaks our rest, 
 How wroth he makes us wax. 
 
 When, jumping from his hidden nest, 
 He bites our tender backs. 
 
 Now had it been in works like these 
 That my first years were passed, 
 
 I might have come, like little Fleas, 
 To no good end at last. 
 
'Dr. IVatts. 165 
 
 For so the little cruel Flea, 
 
 By those who would have slept, 
 
 Will drowned, or burned, or buried be, 
 
 Unpitied and unwept. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 How doth the little busy B— 
 
 By B I mean a belle — 
 Improve each shining hair, to see 
 
 If she can catch a swell. 
 
 How skilfully she plaits each tress. 
 How neatly folds her pads. 
 
 And lets a curl flow down her back 
 To tempt us artless lads. 
 
 THE IRISH LANDLORD'S SONG. 
 
 Whene'er I take my walks abroad 
 
 My tenantry I see. 
 And each one has a blunderbuss, 
 
 A-looking out for me. 
 
 —Judy. 
 
 Why should I relieve my neighbour 
 With my goods against my will ? 
 Can't he live by honest labour ? 
 Can't he borrow .' Can't he steal ? 
 
 —Judy. 
 
1 66 On ^Parody. 
 
 Sbenstone. 
 
 AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL 
 GARDENS. 
 
 {By a Stuttering Lover ^ 
 
 I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair, 
 
 I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub- 
 breed ; 
 
 Will you co-co-come and I'll show you the bub- 
 bub-bear, 
 
 And the lions and the tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed. 
 
 I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song 
 
 Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale ; 
 
 Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day 
 
 long 
 Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tail. 
 
 You shall pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke 
 With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip- 
 pip-pip-pole ; 
 But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-poke 
 At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip- 
 pip-pip-pip-parasol ! 
 
 You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play, 
 You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately rac- 
 coon ; 
 And then did-dear, together we'll stray 
 To the cage of the bub-bub-blue faced bab-bab- 
 boon. 
 
Goldsmith— 'Burns. 167 
 
 You wished (I r-r-remember it well, 
 And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish) 
 To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel- 
 Ican swallow the 1-live little fuf-fuf-fish ! 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 6ol&smitb. 
 
 ANOTHER WAY. 
 
 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 from every eye. 
 Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover, 
 
 And spoil a scalp-skin is — to dye. 
 
 — Shirley Brooks. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 MEETIN' ON THE SLY. 
 
 Gin a nursey meet a bobby, 
 
 Meet him on the sly. 
 Gin a nursey leave a babby 
 
 Need a babby cry ? 
 Gin a bobby to a babby 
 
 Acts in way unkind, 
 Need the nursey stop that bobby 
 
 Need that babby mind ? 
 
1 68 On 'Parody. 
 
 Gill a nursey smack a babby 
 
 With a strength extreme, 
 Gin a nursey pinch a babby 
 
 Need that babby scream ? 
 Gin a bobby shake a babby 
 
 Need that babby yell ? 
 Gin a nursey kiss that bobby 
 
 Need that babby tell ? 
 
 — Judy, December lo, 1879. 
 
 They say the peasant's life is sweet, 
 But that we know all trash is, O ; 
 
 He very little gets to eat, 
 
 For often scarce his cash is, O. 
 
 Teeth then he gnashes, O, 
 
 Gnaws his moustaches, O ; 
 But jolly are the hours he spends 
 
 When plentiful the cash is, O. 
 
 — Leicester Buckingham. 
 
 WE TWA HA DUNE A LITTLE BILL. 
 {Air — "Auld Lang Syne.") 
 Should auld acceptance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to mind ? 
 Should auld acceptance be forgot, 
 All drawn, endorsed, and signed ? 
 
 Endorsed, drawn and signed, my friend, 
 Endorsed, drawn, and signed ; 
 
'Burns. 169 
 
 And noo 'tis time to take it up, 
 The siller we must find. 
 
 We twa ha dune a little bill, 
 
 To raise the bonny wind, 
 And tak the matter how we will, 
 
 That document will bind. 
 Endorsed, etc. 
 
 And Shadrach will nae time alloo. 
 
 And therefore a'm inclined 
 To think that we had better do. 
 
 Anither o' the kind. 
 Endorsed, etc. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your bit stamp. 
 
 And I'll nae be behind. 
 And we'll do a right gude billie-wacht 
 The needful cash to find. 
 
 Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend. 
 
 Endorsed, drawn, and signed, 
 We'll do anither billie yet, 
 Just the wherewitha' to find. 
 
 — Punch, 1848. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 WRECK OF BIBULUS. 
 
 Drink to the brave ! 
 
 The brave that love the bowl. 
 And drown beneath the wave 
 
 The anguish of the soul. 
 
1 70 Oti'Tarody. 
 
 A dozen thirsty souls, 
 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 Had spread the festive board, 
 
 And quaffed the joyous tide. 
 
 A loud laugh shook the board, 
 
 And it was overset ; 
 Down went the festive load 
 
 And all the crew complete. 
 
 It was not that the bottle 
 Or bumper gave the shock. 
 
 It was not Xeres sherry. 
 
 Champagne or sparkling hock. 
 
 Drink to the brave ! 
 
 Brave Bibulus is gone. 
 His last wine-cup is spilt. 
 
 His work of suction done. 
 
 His head was on aside, 
 His cup was in his hand. 
 
 When Bibulus went down 
 Because he could not stand. 
 
 Raise the poor fellow up ! 
 
 Once first to crown the bowl. 
 And mingle in the cup 
 
 The tide that cheers the soul. 
 
Scott. 171 
 
 That cup of brightest silver 
 
 Shall circle round again, 
 Full charged with best Oporto, 
 
 Or brimming with champagne. 
 
 But Bibulus is gone, 
 
 His song and jest are o'er ; 
 And he amidst the table legs 
 
 Is slumbering on the floor. 
 
 — College Rhymes, 1864. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 A DEDICATION. 
 
 O Woman ! in our hours of ease 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze ! 
 Unequalled too at making cheese — 
 And variable as the shade 
 By the light quivering aspen made ; 
 And " very-able " too, thou jade. 
 In managing a shopping raid — 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 Well, one of two things then art thou : 
 That is, thou'rt either a born nurse ; 
 Or else a nuisance if not worse ! 
 O Woman, too, in hours of woe. 
 Into hysterics apt to go : 
 When trouble levies its distraint. 
 How prompt art thou thereon to faint ! 
 
172 On 'Parody. 
 
 When danger's for the time supreme, 
 How ready art thou too to scream ! 
 In fact, what hour of night or day 
 Is there when thou'rt not in the way ? 
 
 — Joint's, 1877. 
 
 LAY OF THE SCOTTISH FIDDLE. 
 
 Blood of Armstrong and Deloraine, 
 Skulked through the urchin's itching vein, 
 And well he proved the great descent 
 For both in him seemed sweetly blent. 
 When puling in his nurse's arms. 
 He stole her amulets and charms, 
 Pilfered her snuff, at Sabbath day 
 Purloined her loved prayer-book away. 
 And early showed how great he'd be 
 In feats of modern chivalry. 
 
 Oft from his bed he forth did hie 
 
 At ghastly midnight hour. 
 When witches on their broomsticks fly. 
 
 And fairies leave their bower. 
 
 And roam at large o'er hill and dale. 
 
 And prowl in silence round, 
 Skulking like sheeted spectre pale, 
 
 O'er holy churchyard mound. 
 
Wordsworth. 173 
 
 And if perchance he hap'd to find 
 
 A hen-roost he might rob, 
 Or shirt, aye swelling in the wind. 
 
 Or any other job ; 
 
 Merrily, merrily, he would hie 
 
 To the castle and hide his spoil, 
 And when was raised a hue and cry. 
 
 Like holy innocent would smile. 
 
 Such were his childish freaks, I ween. 
 And ere he sixteen years had seen. 
 Five times in the stocks he'd been. 
 At length to be more bravely free 
 To rob at large he went to sea. 
 
 — J. K. Paulding, 1813. 
 
 Mor&swortb. 
 
 GOOSEY. 
 
 He dwelt in miry sodden ways. 
 
 And differed from the dove, 
 A bird that poets never praise 
 
 And only gourmets love. 
 
 They " made much of him," till he'd grown 
 
 Prodigious to the eye, 
 Till his one liver — his alone 
 
 Would fill a Strasburg pie. 
 
174 On Tarody. 
 
 He should have lived on diet low, 
 And kept his figure slim. 
 
 He gorged on all they gave, — and oh 
 The difference to him ! 
 
 -A. S. M. 
 
 XefQb ibunt 
 
 FRANCESCA DE RIMINI. 
 
 But when the dance was o'er and arm in arm 
 (The full heart beating against the elbow warm), 
 We passed into the great refreshment hall, 
 Where the heaped cheesecakes and the comfits 
 
 small 
 Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn 
 Around the margin of the negus urn : 
 When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice. 
 And with inquiring accents whispered " Ice, 
 Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble, 
 But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. 
 A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain. 
 The corks seemed starting from the brisk cham- 
 pagne. 
 The custards fell untouched upon the floor, 
 Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no 
 more. 
 
 — William Aytoun. 
 
Lord 'Byron. 175 
 
 THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA. 
 
 The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her 
 
 hold, 
 And their costumes were gleaming with purple and 
 
 gold, 
 And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the 
 
 sea. 
 As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee. 
 
 Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is 
 
 green, 
 That host in its glory at noontide was seen ; 
 Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked 
 
 and worn, 
 That host four hours later was tattered and torn. ' 
 
 For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast. 
 Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it 
 
 passed ; 
 And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste. 
 As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the 
 
 waist. 
 
 And there lay the feather and fan side by side. 
 But no longer they nodded or waved in their 
 
 pride ; 
 And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips. 
 And spur-torn material in plentiful strips. 
 
176 On T'arody. 
 
 And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair ; 
 And fragments of back-combs and slippers were 
 
 there ; 
 And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all 
 
 hushed, 
 Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of 
 
 the crushed. 
 
 And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their 
 
 wail, 
 And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale ; 
 And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the 
 
 scene. 
 That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen. 
 
 — Jon Duan. 
 
 THE MAID OF CLAPHAM. 
 
 Maid of Clapham ! ere I part. 
 Tell me if thou hast a heart ! 
 For so padded is thy breast, 
 I begin to doubt the rest ! 
 Tell me now before I go, 
 Apr Bov aXX /xads vnopvw ? 
 
 Are those tresses thickly twined 
 Only hairpinned on behind ? 
 Is thy blush which roses mocks 
 Bought at three and six per box ! 
 Tell me, for I ask in woe, 
 Apr Bov aXk jiiads vnopvm ? 
 
'Sjiron. 177 
 
 And those lips I seem to taste 
 
 Are they pink with cherry-paste ? 
 
 Gladly I'd the notion scout, 
 
 But do those white teeth take out ? 
 
 Answer me, it is not so, 
 
 'Apr S'ov aX\ fxade VTtopvm ? 
 
 Maid of Clapham ! come, no larks ! 
 For thy shoulders leave white marks. 
 Tell me ! quickly tell to me 
 What is really real in thee ? 
 Tell me, or at once I go, 
 Art thou all made up or no ? 
 
 — Jon Duan. 
 
 Twelfth Cake is the monarch of sweetness ; 
 
 They crowned him long ago. 
 With images bright and sugar as white 
 
 As a diadem of snow. 
 
 The halfpenny bun with sugar done, 
 And a portrait in chalk of the Queen, 
 
 The image may take of a true Twelfth Cake, 
 But its treachery soon will be seen. 
 
 The homely plum may do for some 
 Who for cheapness a shift would make, 
 
 When covered with frost, at a moderate cost ; 
 But it's not a true Twelfth Cake. 
 
178 On Tarody. 
 
 Oh, never trust to a showy crust, 
 
 With images gaudily decked, 
 Lest under the paint you find there aini 
 
 The richness you did expect. 
 
 The pound cake, I'm told, confined in a mould, 
 
 Will forms fantastic take ; 
 But look at me, unfettered and free, 
 
 A regular round Twelfth Cake. 
 
 — Punch, 1844. 
 
 ©atberine ifansbawe. 
 
 COCKNEY ENIGMAS ON THE LETTER H. 
 
 I dwells in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair ; 
 If you searches the Hocean you'll find that I'm 
 
 there ; 
 The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, 
 Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 
 
 •Igh. 
 But tho' on this Horb I am destined to grovel, 
 I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 
 
 'Ovel ; 
 Not an 'Oss nor an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas ! 
 But often I'm found on the top of a Hass, 
 
 I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam, 
 And yet I'm invariably habsent from 'Ome. 
 Tho' 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere 
 
 part, 
 I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art, 
 But look and you'll see in the Heye I appear, 
 
Catherine Fanshawe. 179 
 
 Only 'ark and you'll 'ear me just breathe in the 
 
 Hear ; 
 Tho' in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox !), 
 Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox. 
 Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning ! and mark, 
 Tho' I goes not with Noar, I'm the first in the Hark. 
 I'm never in 'Elth — have with Fysic no power ; 
 I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour. 
 
 — Horace Mayhew, Comic Almanack, 1850. 
 
 Ittemans. 
 
 THE MULE. 
 
 The mule stood on the steamboat deck, 
 
 For the land he would not tread ; 
 They tied an halter round his neck 
 
 And whacked him on the head. 
 Yet obstinate and braced he stood. 
 
 As born the sea to rule, 
 A creature of the old pack brood, 
 
 A stubborn steadfast mule. 
 
 They cursed and swore, but he would not go 
 
 Until he felt inclined, 
 And though they thundered blow on blow 
 
 He altered not his mind. 
 The ship's boy to his master came, 
 
 " The varmint's bound to stay," 
 And still upon that old mule's hide 
 
 The sounding lash made play. 
 
i8o On Tarody. 
 
 His master from the shore replied, 
 
 " The ship's about to sail, 
 And as all other means you've tried 
 
 Suppose you twist his tail ; 
 I think that that will make him land." 
 
 The ship's boy, brave and pale. 
 The nearer drew with outstretched hand 
 
 To twist that old mule's tail. 
 
 There came a sudden kick behind, 
 
 The boy, oh ! where was he ? 
 Ask of the softly-blowing wind, 
 
 The fishes in the sea. 
 For a moment not a sound was heard. 
 
 And that mule he winked his eye, 
 As though to say to him who'd gone, 
 
 " How was that for high ? " 
 
 THE THYROID GLAND. 
 
 " We hear thee speak of the thyroid gland. 
 But what thou say'st we don't understand ; 
 Professor, where does that acinus dwell ? 
 We hashed our dissection and can't quite tell, 
 Is it where the mascula lutea flows. 
 And the suprachordial tissue grows ? " 
 
 " Not there, not there, my class ! " 
 
 " Is it far away where the bronchi part. 
 And the pneuraogastric controls the heart ? 
 Where endothelium encardium lines. 
 And a subpericardial nerve intertwines ? 
 
Hemans. i8i 
 
 Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand ? 
 Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland ? " 
 " Not there, not there, my class ! " 
 
 " I have not seen it, my gentle youths, 
 My myxcedemia, I'm told, it soothes. 
 Landois says stolidly, 'functions unknown '; 
 Foster adopts an enquiring tone. 
 Duct does not lead to its strange recess. 
 Far below the vertex, above the pes. 
 
 It is there, I am told, my class ! " 
 
 — R. M., Nature, January i8, 1894. 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They sucked their pap-spoons side by side. 
 
 They filled one house with shines — 
 Their graves are lying severed wide, 
 
 By many railway lines. 
 The same nurse tied the plain night-cap 
 
 At evening on each brow ; 
 She gave each naughty child a slap — 
 
 Where are those screamers now ? 
 
 One, by the broad-guage line which goes 
 
 To Exeter, is laid. 
 They ran into a luggage train 
 
 And mincemeat of him made. 
 
i82 On 'Parody. 
 
 The Eastern Counties line hath one — 
 He sleeps his last long sleep 
 
 Near where an engine chose slap off 
 A viaduct to leap. 
 
 Another went from Euston Square 
 
 By an ill-fated train ; 
 They buried him at Coventry, 
 
 With others of the slain. 
 And one — 'neath her an axle broke, 
 
 And stayed life's running sand — 
 She perished on the Dover line — 
 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 And parted thus they lie, who played 
 
 At hop-scotch in the court, 
 Who after every cab that passed 
 
 Cried " Whip behind ! " in sport : 
 Who played upon the nigger-bones. 
 
 And jumped Jim Crow with glee — 
 Oh, steam ! if thou wert everywhere, 
 
 Where would poor mortals be ? 
 
 — The Man in the Moon, vol. it. 
 
 Soutbei?. 
 
 THE SHORE. 
 
 How do the Cheap Trippers 
 Come down to the shore ? 
 
 From their sources they wend 
 In the squalid East-end ; 
 
Southey. 183 
 
 From Whitechapel 
 Surge and grapple 
 Its 'Arries and its Carries, 
 Through court and through lane, 
 They run and they shout, 
 For awhile till they're out. 
 By their own special train. 
 And thence at departing. 
 All bawling at starting, 
 They drink and they feed, 
 And away they proceed 
 Through the dark tunnels, 
 'Mid smoke from the funnels, 
 Where they shriek in their flurry. 
 Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry, 
 Now singing and smoking, 
 Now practical joking. 
 Till, in this rapid ride 
 On which they are bent, 
 They reach the sea-side 
 And make their descent. 
 
 The excursion crowd strong 
 Then plunges along. 
 Running and leaping. 
 Over rocks creeping. 
 Kissing and flinging, 
 Kiss-in-the-ringing, 
 Pulls at the whiskey. 
 Making them frisky. 
 Smiting and fightin', 
 
184 On 'Parody. 
 
 A thing they delight in — 
 
 Confounding, astounding, 
 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound. 
 
 Sea-weeding and feeding. 
 And mocking and shocking, 
 And kissing and missing, 
 And skipping and dipping, 
 And drinking and winking. 
 And wading and bathing, 
 Shell-picking and sticking 
 In mud-holes and kicking. 
 And going a-rowing, 
 And fishing and wishing, 
 And roaming and gloaming, 
 Sight-seeing and tea-ing, 
 And larking and sparking. 
 Love-making and taking 
 To beering and jeering. 
 Donkey-riding and hiding, 
 And squeaking and seeking. 
 
 And galloping and walloping. 
 And wandering and maundering, 
 Uncoating and boating and floating, 
 Upsetting and getting a wetting, 
 And crying and drying and spying. 
 Immersing, dispersing and cursing, 
 And meeting and greeting and seating and eating, 
 
OAoore. 185 
 
 And fuddling and muddling and huddling and 
 
 puddling. 
 And so never ending, but always descending, 
 The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending 
 All at once and all o'er with a mighty uproar, — 
 And thus the Cheap Trippers come down to the 
 
 shore ! 
 
 — Punchy 1880. 
 
 /iDoore. 
 
 " TO A GENT." 
 
 Believe me if all those ridiculous charms 
 
 Which I see on thy watch guard to-day. 
 
 Were to-morrow locked up at the Lombardy Arms, 
 
 Thine uncle's advance to repay, 
 
 Thou would'st still look the snob which this mo- 
 ment thou art 
 
 (Let thy vanity think what it will), 
 
 For those blazing red buttons, that shirt-front so 
 smart, 
 
 And those studs prove thy gentishness still. 
 
 — Punch's Almanack, 1855. 
 
 When he who adores thee has left but the fame 
 
 Of his one little weakness behind, 
 
 Oh ! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his 
 
 name, 
 Thou, to boredom so sweetly resigned ? 
 
1 86 On Tarody. 
 
 Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn, 
 Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
 For, though I have often been shut up by them, 
 I have always found patience in thee. 
 
 To buttonhole thee was my constant delight. 
 
 Every cock-and-bull story was thine, 
 
 Each mare's nest I found I exposed to thy sight. 
 
 To my twaddle thine ear thou'dst incline. 
 
 Oh ! blest be thy kindness which hearing would 
 
 give 
 To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee, 
 Tlie great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live. 
 Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee ! 
 
 EVENING BELLES. 
 
 Those evening belles, those evening belles. 
 How many a tale their costume tells 
 Of Fashion, in its latest show, 
 Reviving modes of long ago. 
 
 Our grandmothers have passed away, 
 Yet in their habits girls look gay. 
 As, in last-century gowns, the swells 
 To dinner take the evening belles. 
 
 And so 'twill be when we are gone, 
 Fashion's caprices will go on ; 
 A century hence what now repels 
 Will serve to deck the evening belles. 
 
DAoore. 187 
 
 Come rest on this gridiron, my own dear aesthete, 
 Though the herd may condemn, 'tis a true High 
 
 Art seat ; 
 These, these are the contours Art yearns to create, 
 A leg that is spindly, a back that is straight. 
 
 Oh, where is the taste that is worthy to name 
 Loves not the stiff lines of this cast-iron frame ? 
 I know not, I ask not, if ease they impart, 
 I but know they are true to the canons of Art. 
 
 Do they call it all corners ? They know not the 
 
 bliss 
 Of the angular style in a seat such as this, 
 In furnishing firmly High Art I'll pursue. 
 And I'll crouch on my gridiron couch till all's blue. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 A FEW MUDDLED METAPHORS. 
 
 BY A MOORE-OSE MELODIST. 
 
 Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour, 
 I've seen my fondest hopes recede ! 
 
 I never loved a tree or flower 
 
 That didn't trump its partner's lead. 
 
 I never nursed a dear gazelle, 
 To glad me with its dappled hide, 
 
 But when it came to know me well, 
 It fell upon the buttered side. 
 
1 88 On 'Parody. 
 
 I never taught a cockatoo 
 
 To whistle comic songs profound, 
 
 But, just when " Jolly Dogs " it knew. 
 It failed for ninepence in the pound. 
 
 I never reared a walrus cub 
 
 In my aquarium to plunge, 
 But, when it learned to love its tub, 
 
 It placidly threw up the sponge ! 
 
 I never strove a metaphor 
 
 To every bosom home to bring 
 
 But — just as it had reached the door 
 
 It went and cut a pigeon's wing ! 
 
 — Tom Hood, Jr. 
 
 DEFEATED MANOEUVRES. 
 
 " The Marquis is nof to be won. Mamma ; 
 My advances he seems to shun, Mamma ! 
 
 I appeal to you 
 
 What am I to do ? 
 Oh, tell me what's next to be done. Mamma." 
 
 " Have you sat by his Lordship's side, my child ? 
 And every blandishment tried, my child ? 
 
 Have you heaved deep sighs 
 
 And looked in his eyes 
 And adroitly flattered his pride, my child ? " 
 
OAoore. 189 
 
 "O yes, and I've done even more, Mamma : 
 Things I never have done before, Mamma ; 
 
 For I fainted quite 
 
 In his arms last night, 
 As we stood on the sea-girt shore. Mamma ! " 
 
 " If the man is proof against that, my child. 
 Why the sooner he takes his hat, my child. 
 
 Between you and me. 
 
 The better 'twill be. 
 For you see he's not such a flat, my child ! " 
 
 — Anon. 
 
 The minstrel boy through the town is known. 
 
 In each quiet street you'll find him. 
 With his master's organ — it is ne'er his own. 
 
 And his monkey led behind him. 
 " Straw laid down ! " cries the minstrel boy, 
 
 " Some sick man here needs quiet ; 
 ' Bobbin' Around ' will this house annoy, 
 
 At any rate I'll try it ! " 
 
 The minstrel grinds and his victims pay ; — 
 
 To his claims he forced compliance ! 
 To the poet's study then he takes his way — 
 
 To the men of art and science. 
 And cries, " My friends, in vain you'd toil 
 
 At books, at pen, or easel ; 
 One roving vagabond your work shall spoil," — 
 
 He plays " Pop Goes the Weasel." 
 
 — William Brough, 
 
190 On Tarody. 
 
 IbOOD. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The day that I was born, 
 When first I saw this breathing world. 
 
 All naked and forlorn. 
 They wrapped me in a linen cloth. 
 
 And then in one of frieze ; 
 And tho' I couldn't speak just then, 
 
 Yet I contrived to sneeze. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Old ladies came from far ; 
 Some said I was like mother dear, 
 
 But others thought like Pa ; 
 Yet all agreed I had a head, 
 
 And most expressive eyes ; 
 The latter were about as large 
 
 As plums in Christmas pies. 
 
 [On the occasion of an inebriated " swell" being expelled 
 from the Prince of Wales' Theatre by P. C. 22 Z.] 
 
 Take him up tendahly. 
 Lift him with caah ; 
 Clothes are made slenderly 
 Now, and will taah ! 
 
 Punch not that nob of his. 
 Thus I imploah ; 
 Pick up that bob of his, 
 Dwopped on the floah ! 
 
Hood. 191 
 
 Pwaps he's a sister, 
 Pwaps he's a bwother, 
 Come to the play with him — 
 Let 'em away with him — 
 One or the other. 
 
 Ram his hat lightly, 
 Yet firmly and tightly, 
 Ovah his head. 
 Turn his coat-collah back. 
 Get his half-dollah back. 
 22 Z. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 The pipe that I first drew. 
 With red-waxed end and snowy bowl, 
 
 It perfect was and new. 
 It measured just four inches long, 
 
 'Twas made of porous clay ; 
 I found when I began to smoke 
 
 It took my breath away. 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 
 In fear I struck a light ; 
 And when I'd smoked a little time, 
 
 I felt my cheeks grow white. 
 My nervous system mutinied, 
 
 My diaphragm uprose. 
 And I was very — very ill 
 
 In a way you may suppose. 
 
192 On Tarody. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 The very rod he got, 
 When father, who discovered me. 
 
 Made me exceeding hot. 
 He scattered all my feathers then, 
 
 While, face down, I reclined ; 
 I sat upon a cold hearthstone 
 
 I was so warm behind. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 I viewed the rod with dread, 
 And silent, sad and supperless, 
 
 I bundled off to bed. 
 It was a childish punishment 
 
 And now 'tis little joy 
 To know that, for the self-same crime, 
 
 I wallop my own boy. 
 
 — Cope's Tobacco Plant, 1875. 
 
 TO AN UTTER STRANGER. 
 
 ( With whom the bard had bumped heads at a corner?^ 
 
 Our heads have met and, if thine smarts 
 Like mine, you hope they won't again. 
 Friends who saw the painful scene 
 Laughed till laughter grew a pain. 
 I only know we bumped them once, 
 I only know we looked insane : 
 Our heads have met (mine seemed in parts), — 
 I hope they'll never meet again. 
 
'Poe. 193 
 
 Then we fell, but lent a hand 
 
 To raise each other from the wet, 
 
 My head's altered form above 
 
 Prevents my hat from fitting yet. 
 
 Friends no doubt we seemed to be. 
 
 And pardon begged in phrases set : 
 
 Our heads have clashed, but still mine smarts, — 
 
 I would our heads had never met. 
 
 Ipoe. 
 
 THE GOBLIN GOOSE. 
 
 Once it happened I'd been dining, on my couch I 
 
 slept reclining, 
 And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my 
 
 bedroom floor, 
 It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I 
 
 remember. 
 But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near 
 
 the door. 
 Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber 
 
 door 
 
 Stood a bird, — and nothing more. 
 
 And I said, for I'm no craven, " Are you Edgar's 
 famous raven, 
 
 Seeking as with him a haven — were you mixed up 
 with Lenore ? " 
 
 Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sen- 
 tence strange he uttered, 
 
194 On Tarody. 
 
 "Hang Lenore,"he mildly muttered; "you have 
 
 seen me once before, 
 Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely 
 
 once before, 
 
 I'm the Goose — and nothing more." 
 
 Then he murmured " Are you ready ? " and with 
 motion slow and steady, 
 
 Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a 
 stifled roar ; 
 
 And I cried " As I'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I 
 was winner, 
 
 'Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half- 
 past four. 
 
 Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I 
 ate at half-past four." 
 
 Quoth he hoarsely, " Eat no more ! " 
 
 Said I, " I've enjoyed your juices, breast and back ; 
 
 but tell me. Goose, is 
 This revenge, and what the use is of your being 
 
 such a bore ? 
 For goose-flesh I will no more ' ax,' if you'll not sit 
 
 on my thorax, 
 Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your 
 
 throat is sore, 
 You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I'm sure 
 
 your throat is sore." 
 
 Quoth the nightmare, " Eat no more ! " 
 
Toe. 19s 
 
 " Goose ! " I shrieked out, " leave, oh leave me," 
 surely you don't mean to grieve me, 
 
 You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance 
 must be o'er ; 
 
 Though to-night you've brought me sorrow, com- 
 fort surely comes to-morrow, 
 
 Some relief from those I'd borrow at my doctor's 
 ample store." 
 
 Quoth the goblin, " Eat no more ! " 
 
 And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare 
 
 still is sitting 
 With me all the night emitting words that thrill my 
 
 bosom's core. 
 Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie 
 
 and gasp and wheeze, on 
 Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can 
 
 restore ; 
 I am driven mad and nothing surely can restore. 
 
 While that Goose says " Eat no more ! " 
 —Punch, 1881. 
 
 THE CANNIBAL FLEA. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago 
 
 In a District called E. C, 
 
 That a monster dwelt whom I came to know 
 
 By the name of Cannibal Flea, 
 
 And the brute was possessed with no other thought 
 
 Than to live — and to live on me ! 
 
196 On "Parody. 
 
 I was in bed, and he was in bed 
 
 In the District named E. C, 
 
 When first in his thirst so accurst he burst 
 
 Upon me, the Cannibal Flea, 
 
 With a bite that felt as if someone had driven 
 
 A bayonet into me. 
 
 And this was the reason why long ago 
 
 In that District named E. C. 
 
 I tumbled out of my bed, willing 
 
 To capture the Cannibal Flea, 
 
 Who all the night until morning came 
 
 Kept boring into me ! 
 
 It wore me down to a skeleton 
 
 In the District hight E. C. 
 
 From the hour I sought my bed — eleven — 
 
 Till daylight he tortured me — 
 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know 
 
 In that District named E. C.) 
 
 I so often jumped out of my bed by night 
 
 Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea. 
 
 But his hops they were longer by far than the hops 
 
 Of creatures much larger than he — 
 
 Of parties more long-legged than he ; 
 
 And neither the powder nor turpentine drops, 
 
 Nor the persons engaged by me. 
 
 Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop 
 
 Of the terrible Cannibal Flea. 
 
'Poe. 197 
 
 For at night with a scream, I am waked from my 
 
 dream 
 By the terrible Cannibal Flea ; 
 And at morn I ne'er rise without bites — of such 
 
 size ! — 
 From the terrible Cannibal Flea. 
 So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer reside 
 In the District — the District — where he doth abide, 
 The locality known as E. C. 
 That is postally known as E. C. 
 
 — Tom Hood, Jr. 
 
 'Twas more than a million years ago. 
 
 Or so it seems to me. 
 That I used to prance around and beau 
 
 The beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 There were other girls in the neighbourhood 
 
 But none was a patch to she. 
 
 And this was the reason that long ago. 
 
 My love fell out of a tree, 
 And busted herself on a cruel rock ; 
 
 A solemn sight to see, 
 For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 We loved with a love that was lovely love, 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee 
 And we went one day to gather the nuts 
 
 That men call hickoree — 
 
rpS On Tarody. 
 
 And I stayed below in the rosy glow 
 While she shinned up the tree, 
 
 But no sooner up than down kerslup 
 Came the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 And the pallid moon and the hectic noon 
 
 Bring gleams of dreams for me, 
 Of the desolate and desperate fate 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 And I often think as I sink on the brink 
 Of slumbers' sea, of the warm pink link 
 
 That bound my soul to Annabel Lee ; 
 And it wasn't just best for her interest 
 
 To climb that hickory tree. 
 For had she stayed below with me, 
 We'd had no hickory nuts may be 
 But I should have had my Annabel Lee. 
 
 — Stanley Huntly. 
 
 THAT AMATEUR FLUTE. 
 
 Hear the fluter with his flute — 
 
 Silver flute. 
 Oh, what a world of waiting is awakened by its toot! 
 How it demi-semi-quavers 
 On the maddened air of night, 
 And defieth all endeavours 
 To escape the sound or sight 
 Of the flute, flute, flute. 
 With its tootle-toptle-toot — 
 
Toe. 199 
 
 With reiterated toolings of exasperating toots, 
 The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, 
 
 Flute, flute, flute, 
 And the wheezings and the spittings of its toot. 
 Should he get that other flute — 
 
 Golden flute. 
 What a deep and deadly anguish will its presence 
 
 institoot ! 
 How his eyes to Heaven he'll raise 
 
 As he plays 
 
 All the days. 
 How he'll stop us on our ways 
 
 With its praise ! 
 And the people, oh, the people 
 That don't live up in the steeple, 
 But inhabit Christian parlours. 
 Where he visiteth and plays, — 
 Where he plays, plays, plays, 
 In the cruellest of ways. 
 And thinks we ought to listen 
 And expects us to be mute, 
 Who would rather have an ear-ache 
 Than the music of his flute — 
 
 Of his flute, flute, flute 
 And the tootings of its toot, — 
 Of the toos wherewith he tootleth the agonizing toot 
 Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, 
 
 Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, 
 And the tootle-tootle-tooing of its toot. 
 
200 On T'arody. 
 
 1R. p. mfllis. 
 
 KEREN-HAPPUCH. 
 
 The comforters of Job had come and gone. 
 They were anhungered ; for the eventide 
 Sank over Babylon and smokes arose 
 From pottage cooked in palace and in tent. 
 Then Keren -happuch, from her lordly bower 
 Of gem-like jasper and the porphyry floors, 
 Swept by the satins of her trailing robe, 
 Came forth and sat beside her father Job, 
 And gave him comfort 'mid his painful boils 
 And scraped him with a potsherd ; and her soul 
 Rebelled at his unlovely misery, 
 And from her lips that parted like a cleft 
 Of ripe pomegranates o'er their ruby teeth, 
 Broke forth a wail : 
 
 "Alas for thee ! my sire ! 
 And for the men and maidens of thy train, 
 And for thy countless camels on the plain. 
 
 More than thou didst require ; 
 Thou might'st have sold them at the morning 
 
 dawn 
 For heavy gold : at even they were gone ! 
 
 "And they who dressed my hair 
 With agate braids and pearls from Samarcand 
 Have died ; there is no handmaid in the land 
 
 To make my visage fair : 
 
3^. T. milts. ioi 
 
 Unpainted and unpowdered, lo ! I come, 
 Gray with the ashes of my gorgeous home ! 
 
 " Yea, thou and I are lone : 
 The prince who wooed me fled in haste away 
 From thine infection ; hungered here I stray. 
 
 And find not any bone ; 
 For famished cats have ravaged shelf and plate. 
 The larder, like my heart, is desolate ! 
 
 " And it is very drear, 
 My sire, whose wealth and beauty were my pride. 
 To see thee so disfigured at my side. 
 
 Nor leech nor poultice near. 
 To save thy regal skin from later scars ; 
 Yea, thou art loathsome by the light of stars ! 
 
 " Go, hie thee to thy room, 
 And I will gather marjoram and nard, 
 And mix their fragrance with the cooling lard. 
 
 And thus avert thy doom. 
 A daughter's sacrifice no tongue can tell : 
 The prince will stay away till thou art well ! " 
 — Diversions of the Echo Club. 
 
 Xongfellow. 
 
 HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING. 
 
 From his shoulder Hiawatha 
 Took the camera of rosewood, 
 Made of sliding, folding rosewood ; 
 
202 On Tarody. 
 
 Neatly put it all together. 
 
 In its case it lay compactly, 
 
 Folded into nearly nothing ; 
 
 But he opened out the hinges, 
 
 Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges. 
 
 Till it looked all squares and oblongs. 
 
 Like a complicated figure 
 
 In the Second Book of Euclid. 
 
 This he perched upon a tripod — 
 Crouched beneath its dusky cover — 
 Stretched his hand enforcing silence — 
 Said " Be motionless, I beg you ! " 
 Mystic, awful was the process. 
 
 All the family in order 
 Sat before him for their pictures : 
 Each in turn as he was taken, 
 Volunteered his own suggestions, 
 His ingenious suggestions. 
 
 First the Governor, the Father : 
 He suggested velvet curtains 
 Looped about a massy pillar ; 
 And a corner of a table, 
 Of a rosewood dining-table. 
 He would hold a scroll of something. 
 Hold it firmly in his left-hand ; 
 He would keep his right-hand buried 
 (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat ; 
 He would contemplate the distance 
 With a look of pensive meaning. 
 As of ducks that die in tempests. 
 
 Grand, heroic was the notion : 
 
Longfellow. 203 
 
 Yet the picture failed entirely : 
 Failed, because he moved a little. 
 Moved, because he couldn't help it. 
 
 Next, his better half took courage ; 
 She would have her picture taken. 
 She came dressed beyond description, 
 Dressed in jewels and in satin 
 Far too gorgeous for an empress. 
 Gracefully she sat down sideways, 
 With a simper scarcely human. 
 Holding in her hand a bouquet 
 Rather larger than a cabbage. 
 All the while that she was sitting, 
 Still the lady chattered, chattered, 
 Like a monkey in the forest. 
 "Am I sitting still ? " she asked him. 
 " Is my face enough in profile ? 
 Shall I hold the bouquet higher ? 
 Will it come into the picture ? " 
 And the picture failed completely. 
 
 Next the son, the Stunning-Cantab : 
 He suggested curves of beauty, 
 Curves pervading all his figure, 
 Which the eye might follow onward, 
 Till they centred in the breast-pin. 
 He had learnt it all from Ruskin, 
 (Author of " The Stones of Venice," 
 " Seven Lamps of Architecture," 
 " Modern Painters," and some others) ; 
 And perhaps he had not fully 
 Understood the author's meaning ; 
 
204 On 'Parody. 
 
 But, whatever was the reason, 
 All was fruitless, as the picture 
 Ended in an utter failure. 
 
 Next to him the eldest daughter : 
 She suggested very little, 
 Only asked if he would take her 
 With her look of " passive beauty." 
 Her idea of passive beauty 
 Was a squinting of the left-eye. 
 Was a drooping of the right eye, 
 Was a smile that went up sideways 
 To the corner of the nostrils. 
 
 Hiawatha, when she asked him. 
 Took no notice of the question, 
 Look'd as if he hadn't heard it ; 
 But, when pointedly appealed to, 
 Smiled in his peculiar manner. 
 Coughed and said it " didn't matter," 
 Bit his lip and changed the subject. 
 
 Nor in this was he mistaken, 
 As the picture failed completely. 
 So in turn the other sisters. 
 
 Last the youngest son was taken : 
 Very rough and thick his hair was. 
 Very round and red his face was. 
 Very dusty was his jacket. 
 Very fidgety his manner. 
 And his overbearing sisters 
 Called him names he disapproved of : 
 Called him Johnny, " Daddy's darling. 
 Called him Jacky, " Scrubby school-boy." 
 
Longfellow. 205 
 
 And, so awful was the picture, 
 In comparison the others 
 Seemed, to his bewildered fancy, 
 To have partially succeeded. 
 
 Finally my Hiawatha 
 Tumbled all the tribe together, 
 (" Grouped " is not the right expression), 
 And, as happy chance would have it, 
 Did at last obtain a picture 
 Where the faces all succeeded: 
 Each came out a perfect likeness. 
 Then they joined and all abused it. 
 Unrestrainedly abused it, 
 As " the worst and ugliest picture 
 They could possibly have dreamed of. 
 Giving one such strange expressions — 
 Sullen, stupid, pert expressions. 
 Really anyone would take us 
 (Anyone that did not know us) 
 For the most unpleasant people ! " 
 (Hiawatha seemed to think so. 
 Seemed to think it not unlikely.) 
 All together rang their voices. 
 As of dogs that howl in concert. 
 As of cats that wail in chorus. 
 
 But my Hiawatha's patience. 
 Unaccountably had vanished. 
 And he left that happy party. 
 Neither did he leave them slowly, 
 With the calm deliberation. 
 The intense deliberation 
 
2o6 ' On Tarody. 
 
 Of a photographic artist : 
 But he left them in a hurry, 
 Left them in a mighty hurry, 
 Stating that he would not stand it, 
 Stating in emphatic language 
 What he'd be before he'd stand it. 
 Hurriedly he packed his boxes : 
 Hurriedly the porter trundled 
 On a barrow all his boxes : 
 Hurriedly he took his ticket : 
 Hurriedly the train received him : 
 Thus departed Hiawatha. 
 
 — Lewis Carroll. 
 
 THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT. 
 
 I shot a partridge in the air, 
 
 It fell in turnips, " Don " knew where ; 
 For, just as it dropped, with my right, 
 
 I stopped another in its flight. 
 
 I killed a pheasant in the copse. 
 
 It fell among the fir-tree tops ; 
 For though a pheasant's flight is strong, 
 
 A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long. 
 
 Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, 
 
 I found the birds in jelly lie ; 
 And the pheasant, at a fortnight's end, 
 
 I found again in the " carte " of a friend. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
Longfellow. aoy 
 
 FLIGHT. 
 I. 
 Suddenly, joyfully, 
 
 Leaving the Row, 
 The London belle 
 Is beginning to go. 
 
 Cover the couches, 
 
 And shut out the light ; 
 Calls cease in the morning, 
 
 And parties at night. 
 
 Closed are the windows, 
 
 And out is the fire ; 
 The knockers are silent — 
 
 All footmen retire. 
 
 No groom in the chambers. 
 
 No porter in hall ! 
 Dust and brown hoUand 
 
 Reign over all. 
 
 II. 
 The Season is ended 
 
 And closed like the Play ; 
 And the Swells that adorned it 
 
 Vanish away. 
 
 Dim grow its dances ; 
 
 Forgotten they'll be. 
 Like the ends of cigars 
 
 Thrown into the sea. 
 
2o8 On Tarody. 
 
 Squares lapse into silence, 
 The railways are full, 
 
 The windows are papered. 
 The West-End is dull. 
 
 Fewer and fewer 
 
 The people to call ; 
 Sweeps and the charwoman 
 
 Reign over all. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 Tell us not in idle jingle, 
 
 " Marriage is an empty dream ! " 
 For the girl is dead that's single, 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 " Life is real, life is earnest ! " 
 
 Single blessedness a fib ; 
 Man thou art, to man returnest. 
 
 Has been spoken of the rib. 
 
 Not enjoyment and not sorrow 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act that each to-morrow 
 Finds us nearer marriage-day. 
 
 Life is long and youth is fleeting. 
 And our hearts are light and gay ; 
 
 Still like pleasant drums are beating 
 Wedding-marches all the day. 
 
Longfellow. 209 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a heroine, — a wife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ; 
 
 Let the dead past bury its dead ; 
 Act, act in the living present, 
 
 Hoping for the spouse and head. 
 
 Lives of married folks remind us 
 
 We can live our lives as well. 
 And departing, leave behind us 
 
 Such examples as will tell. 
 
 Such examples that another. 
 
 Wasting time in idle sport, 
 A forlorn unmarried brother, 
 
 Seeing shall take heart and court. 
 
 Let us then be up and doing. 
 
 With a heart on triumph set ; 
 Still contriving, still pursuing. 
 
 And each one a husband get. 
 
 — Phcebe Gary. 
 
 A PSALM OF BURIAL. 
 
 Tell me not with words inflated 
 Bodies were not meant to burn 
 
 For the moo-cow when cremated 
 Doth to " frosted-silver " turn. 
 
210 On 'Parody. 
 
 Not the graveyard, not interment 
 Is the cheapest, healthiest way ; 
 
 But to rob the worm preferment 
 Finds with cultured men to-day. 
 
 Lights of learning all have told us 
 We can shunt the gloomy pall. 
 
 And when churchyards will not hold us, 
 Roast our flesh for funeral. 
 
 Let us, then, keep time with culture : 
 " Earth to earth " is out of date — 
 
 Leave no carrion for the vulture. 
 Spurn the sexton and cremate. 
 
 — Moonshine, 1884. 
 
 THE COUNTY FAIR. 
 
 Night was fast falling on the scene. 
 As through the crowd on village green 
 There passed a youth who. once or twice. 
 Said as he stopped to eat an ice, 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 " Climb not the pole," the old man said, 
 " The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned.'' 
 With upward glance the youth replied : 
 " The mutton at the top is tied, 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 " O stay ! " the maiden said and sighed, 
 " And take me for a donkey ride ! " 
 
'Bret Harte. m 
 
 He grasped the pole and in reply 
 He softly murmured with a sigh, 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 " Beware ! " a withered crone cried out, 
 " Take care, take care what you're about," 
 Far up the pole they heard him pant, 
 As though his breath was rather scant, 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 Just as he neared the prize he stopped, 
 Then, quick as falling star, he dropped, 
 He lay upon the ground and groaned. 
 Yet still in feeble accents moaned, 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 —Truth, 1880. 
 
 Bret Ibarte. 
 
 THE HEATHEN PASS-EE. 
 
 BY BRED HARD. 
 
 Which I wish to remark, 
 
 And my language is plain. 
 That for plots that are dark. 
 And not always in vain. 
 The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar. 
 And the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 I would also premise 
 That the term of Pass-ee 
 
212 On Tarody. 
 
 Most fitly applies, 
 As you probably see, 
 To one whose vocation is passing 
 The ordinary B. A. degree. 
 
 Tom Crib was his name, 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply ; 
 But his face it was trustful and childlike, 
 And he had a most innocent eye. 
 
 Upon April the First 
 The Little-Go fell. 
 And that was the worst 
 Of the gentleman's sell, 
 For he fooled the Examining Body 
 In a way I'm reluctant to tell. 
 
 The candidates came 
 
 And Tom Crib soon appeared ; 
 It was Euclid. The same 
 Was " the subject he feared " ; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
 With a smile that was wary and weird. 
 
 Yet he did what he could. 
 
 And the papers he showed 
 Were remarkably good. 
 
 And his countenance glowed 
 With pride when I met him soon after 
 As he walked down the Trumpington Road. 
 
'Bret Harte. 213 
 
 We did not find him out, 
 Which I bitterly grieve, 
 For I've not the least doubt 
 That he'd placed up his sleeve 
 Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, 
 The same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But I shall not forget 
 
 How the next day at two 
 A stiff paper was set 
 By Examiner U., 
 On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchse ; 
 A subject Tom partially knew. 
 
 But the knowledge displayed 
 
 By that heathen Pass-ee, 
 And the answers he made, 
 Were quite frightful to see. 
 For he rapidly floored the whole paper 
 By about twenty minutes to three. 
 
 Then I looked up at U., 
 
 And he gazed upon me ; 
 I observed " This won't do " ; 
 He replied, "Goodness me; 
 We are fooled by this artless young person," 
 And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee. 
 
 The scene that ensued 
 
 Was disgraceful to view. 
 For the floor it was strewed 
 
 With a tolerable few 
 
214 On Tarody. 
 
 Of the " tips " that Tom Crib had been hiding 
 For the subject he " partially knew." 
 
 On the cuff of his shirt 
 
 He had managed to get 
 What we hoped had been dirt, 
 But which proved, I regret. 
 To be notes on the rise of the Drama, 
 A question invariably set. 
 
 In his various coats 
 
 We proceeded to seek. 
 Where we found sundry notes 
 And — with sorrow I speak — 
 One of Bohn's publications, so useful 
 To the student in Latin or Greek. 
 
 In the crown of his cap 
 
 Were the Furies and Fates, 
 And a delicate map 
 Of the Dorian states. 
 And we found in his palms which were hollow 
 What are frequent in palms, — that is dates. 
 
 Which I wish to remark. 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for plots that are dark 
 And not always in vain. 
 The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar. 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 — A. C. Hilton. 
 
Lochsley Hall. 215 
 
 XTenuBSon. 
 
 LOWESBY HALL. 
 
 Here at least I'll stay no longer, let me seek for 
 
 some abode, 
 Deep in some provincial country far from rail or 
 
 turnpike road ; 
 There to break all links of habit and to find a 
 
 secret charm 
 In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of 
 
 a farm, 
 To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of 
 
 peas. 
 Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread 
 
 and cheese ; 
 Never company to dinner ; never visitors from 
 
 town. 
 Just the parson and the doctor (Mr. Smith and 
 
 Mr. Brown). 
 Drops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner 
 
 snort. 
 And articulation dwindles with the second flask of 
 
 port. 
 
 — Bromley Davenport. 
 
 Tennyson stood in the wet. 
 And he and his publishers met, 
 The publishers cursing and swearing. 
 And they said : " O Tennyson, tell us, 
 Have you anything good to sell us ? 
 
2i6 On Tarody. 
 
 The public mind it enrages 
 To read such bosh by pages, 
 " The Victim " was little better 
 And oh ! that " Spiteful Letter "! 
 They spoke, their poor hair tearing, 
 Tennyson's poems rehearsing, 
 Publishers cursing and swearing, 
 Tennyson swearing and cursing. 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 Two children on Twelfth Night, all mirth and 
 
 laughter. 
 Obliged to take two powders the day after. 
 Two strangers meeting at a morning call. 
 Two lovers waltzing at a country ball. 
 Two mouths to feed upon an income small. 
 Two " lists to be retained " of various things 
 Washed out of town to save home's direst curse. 
 Two babies quite too much for one young nurse ; 
 So flies the time of life on rapid wings. 
 
 — The Man in the Moon, 1848. 
 
 TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST. 
 {During dinner and after Tennyson^ 
 
 Ask me no more : I've had enough Chablis ; 
 The wine may come again and take the shape 
 From glass to glass of " Mountain " or of " Cape," 
 
 But my dear boy, when I have answered thee, 
 Ask me no more. 
 
Tennyson. 217 
 
 Ask me no more : what answer should I give, 
 I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie ; 
 I feel if I took whiskey I should die ! 
 
 Ask me no more — for I prefer to live : 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : unless my fate is sealed, 
 And I have striven against you all in vain. 
 Let your good butler bring me " Hock " again : 
 
 Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Home they brought her lap-dog dead, 
 
 Just run over by a fly ; 
 Jeames to Buttons winking said, 
 
 " Won't there be a row, oh, my ! " 
 
 Then they called the flyman low. 
 Said his baseness could be proved. 
 
 How she to the Beak should go — 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Said her maid (and risked her place), 
 " In the 'ouse it should have kept. 
 
 Flymen drives at such a pace " 
 
 Still the lady's anger slept. 
 
 Rose her husband, best of dears. 
 
 Laid a bracelet on her knee. 
 Like a playful child she boxed his ears — 
 
 " Sweet old pet ! — let's have some tea." 
 — Shirley Brooks. 
 
2i8 On 'Parody. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 Half a bar, half a bar, 
 Half a bar onward ! 
 Into an awful ditch 
 Choir and precentor hitch, 
 Into a mess of pitch, 
 
 They led the Old Hundred. 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 Tenors to left of them, 
 Basses in front of them, 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh, that precentor's look. 
 When the sopranos took 
 Their own time and hook 
 
 From the Old Hundred ! 
 
 Screeched all the trebles here, 
 Boggled the tenors there, 
 Raising the parson's hair. 
 
 While his mind wandered ; 
 Theirs not to reason why 
 This psalm was pitched too high : 
 Theirs but to gasp and cry 
 
 Out the Old Hundred. 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 Tenors to left of them. 
 Basses in front of them 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Stormed they with shout and yell. 
 Not wise they sang nor well. 
 
Tennyson. 219 
 
 Drowning the sexton's bell, 
 While all the church wondered. 
 
 Dire the precentor's glare, 
 Flashed his pitchfork in air 
 Sounding fresh keys to bear 
 
 but the Old Hundred. 
 Swiftly he turned his back, 
 Reached he his hat from rack, 
 Then from the screaming pack 
 
 Himself he sundered. 
 Tenors to right of him, 
 Trebles to left of him. 
 Discords behind him 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh, the wild howls they wrought : 
 Right to the end they fought ! 
 Some tune they sang, but not, 
 
 Not the Old Hundred. 
 
 Hot, hot, hot 
 
 Is the blistering breath of June, 
 And I would that my throat could utter 
 
 An anti-torridness tune. 
 
 O well for the Esquimau 
 
 That he sits on a cake of ice ! 
 
 O well for the Polar bear 
 That he looks so cool and nice ! 
 
On Tarody. 
 
 But the scorching heat pours down 
 And blisters both head and feet ! 
 
 And O for a touch of vanished frost, 
 Or the sound of some hail and sleet. 
 
 WANDERERS. 
 As o'er the hill we roamed at will, 
 
 My dog and I together, 
 We marked a chaise, by two bright bays, 
 
 Slow-moved along the heather : 
 
 Two bays arch-necked, with tails erect. 
 And gold upon their blinkers, 
 
 And by their side an ass I spied ; 
 It was a travelling tinker's. 
 
 The chaise went by, nor aught cared I ; 
 
 Such things are not in my way : 
 I turned me to the tinker, who 
 
 Was loafing down a by-way. 
 
 I asked him where he lived — a stare 
 
 Was all I got in answer. 
 As on he trudged ; I rightly judged 
 
 The stare said " Where I can. Sir." 
 
 I asked him if he'd take a whiff 
 
 Of 'bacco ; he acceded ; 
 He grew communicative too 
 
 (A pipe was all he needed). 
 Till of the tinker's life I think 
 
 I knew as much as he did. 
 
Tennyson. 221 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " I deal in every ware in town, 
 
 I've rings for buddin' Sally, 
 That sparkle like those eyes of hern ; 
 
 I've liquor for the valet. 
 
 " I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots, 
 
 I hide by th' squire's covers ; 
 I teach the sweet young housemaids what's 
 
 The art of trapping lovers. 
 
 " The things I've done 'neath moon and stars 
 
 Have got me into messes ; 
 I've seen the sky through prison bars, 
 
 I've torn up prison dresses. 
 
 " I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloomed, I've glanced 
 
 AVith envy at the swallows 
 That through the window slid, and danced 
 
 (Quite happy) round the gallows : 
 
 " But out again I come, and shew 
 
 My face, nor care a stiver ; 
 For trades are brisk and trades are slow 
 
 But mine goes on for ever." 
 
 Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook. 
 Then I, " The sun has slipt behind the hill, 
 
222 On Tarody. 
 
 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. 
 
 — Calverley. 
 
 A LAUREATE'S LOG. 
 
 {^Rough-weather notes from the New Birthday-Book!) 
 
 Monday. 
 
 If you're waking, please don't call me, please don't 
 
 call me, Currie dear. 
 For they tell me that to-morrow toward the open 
 
 we're to steer ! 
 No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest 
 
 merriest way, — 
 But I always feel best in a bay, Currie, 
 / always feel best in a bay. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Take, take, take ? 
 What will I take for tea ? 
 The thinnest slice — no butter 
 And that's quite enough for me. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 It is the little roll within the berth 
 
 That, by and by, will put an end to mirth, 
 
 And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all. 
 
Tennyson. 223 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Let me alone ! What pleasure can you have 
 In chaffing evil ? Tell me, what's the fun 
 Of ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
 All you, the rest, you know how to behave 
 In roughish weather ! I, for one 
 Ask for the shore — or death, dark death, — 
 I am so done. 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Twelve knots an hour ! But what am I ? 
 A poet with no land in sight, 
 Insisting that he feels " all right," 
 
 With half a smile and half a sigh. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 Comfort ? Comfort scorned of lubbers ! Hear 
 
 this truth the Poet roar. 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering 
 
 days on shore. 
 Drug his soda lest he learn it when the foreland 
 
 gleams a speck 
 In the dead unhappy night, when he can't sit up 
 
 on deck ! 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Ah ! you've called me nice and early, nice and 
 
 early, Currie dear ! 
 What ? Really in ! Well, come, the news I'm 
 
 precious glad to hear ; 
 
224 On 'Parody. 
 
 For though in such good company I willingly 
 
 would stay — 
 I'm glad to be back in the bay, Carrie, 
 I'm glad to be back in the bay. 
 
 — Punch, 1883. 
 
 FROM " LOCKSLEY HALL HOTEL." 
 
 Waiter ! I am supper-sated, I am dying for a 
 
 doze : 
 Let me sleep ; and when you want me, play upon 
 
 me with the hose. 
 
 'Tis the room and all around it, where we supt the 
 
 night before ; 
 And the only sole survivor is my friend upon the 
 
 floor. 
 
 I have seen the swart Ojibway swallow vitriol for 
 
 sport. 
 And the almond-eyed duennas dance a jig to pipes 
 
 of port : 
 
 I have seen the double Dutchman play such fiery 
 
 pranks with gin, 
 That the juniperian berries sprang, in springtime, 
 
 from his skin. 
 
 I have seen the cow-like Lascar chew his alcoholic 
 
 cud, 
 And the grand old alligator wallow in unfathomed 
 
 mud. 
 
'Browning. 225 
 
 I have travelled east on business, I have wandered 
 
 west for fun : 
 And I hold the doughty walrus daintier than the 
 
 railroad bun. 
 
 But a tongue of tougher metal, or a throat of wider 
 
 bore, 
 I have never yet encountered than my friend's 
 
 upon the floor. 
 
 —The Old Country. 
 
 Browning. 
 
 TWO SIDES. 
 {Browning's^ 
 
 Love-making, how simple a matter ! No depths to 
 explore, 
 
 No heights in life to ascend — no disheartening 
 before — 
 
 No affrighting hereafter. Love will be love ever- 
 more. 
 
 {Ours.) 
 
 Love-making, how awful a matter! We've been 
 
 there before : 
 The father determined we shouldn't — the mother 
 
 watching the door ; 
 Till even the girl was affrighted, and wrote us to 
 
 see her no more. 
 
2 26 On 'Parody. 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
 FROM WESTMINSTER TO ISLINGTON. 
 
 When Chancellor Dizzy had ceased his confab, 
 Two Members of Parliament rushed for a cab. 
 " First Hansom ! " they shouted from Westminster 
 
 Hall; 
 " Cab ! " echoed a peeler who ran at the call. 
 At their knees the door clanged and they sank on 
 
 the seat, 
 While the vehicle galloped up Parliament Street. 
 
 Not a word to each other : they knew in the chair 
 M. A. President Beales would be tearing his hair ; 
 When a block or a wagon compelled them to stop, 
 To cabby they screamed through the hole in the 
 
 top ; 
 Encouraged by reins and a whip that could crack. 
 On galloped the broken-kneed, whistling old hack ! 
 
 'Twas latish at starting, but when they drew near 
 The outskirts, smart servants were fetching the beer. 
 In Holborn a yellow 'bus got in their way, 
 And close to Gray's Inn they were stopped by a 
 
 dray ; 
 But from Islington's steeple they heard the clock 
 
 chime. 
 So O'Donoghue chuckled "Bedad, we're in time." 
 
 But on they went galloping, gallant M. P.'s, 
 Though Pentonville Hill tried the horse's old knees. 
 
"Browning. 227 
 
 'Twas silly of boys and bystanders to laugh ! 
 'Neath the wheels broke the brittle macadam like 
 
 chaff. 
 In the Liverpool Road was a dazzle of light, 
 So, " Gallop ! " cried Taylor, " the Hall is in 
 
 sight." 
 
 " How they'll cheer us ! " but all in a moment the 
 
 hack 
 Fell neck and crop over and rolled on his back, 
 And then were the Members in pitiful plight, 
 With the news that would drive the League mad 
 
 with delight, 
 While the knowing old cab-driver sat on the head 
 Of the horse that lay sprawling apparently dead. 
 
 For he flung off his coat when he jumped from his 
 
 seat. 
 And uttered some words — which we need not 
 
 repeat — 
 Unfastened the traces and pulled at the ear, 
 And the nose and the tail of this " horse without 
 
 peer," 
 Kicked and thrashed, cursed and swore, any noise 
 
 bad or good. 
 Till at length to the Hall the cab galloped and 
 
 stood. 
 
 And the Members will ever remember the sound 
 Of the shouts as the platform they climbed from 
 the ground ; 
 
2 28 On 'Parody. 
 
 For no voice but was shouting stentorian " Hears," 
 And the speakers were greeted with volleys of 
 
 cheers, 
 While the President voted that thanks from them 
 
 all 
 Should be theirs who had brought the bad news to 
 
 the Hall ! 
 
 HOME TRUTHS FROM ABROAD. 
 
 "Oh ! to be in England 
 Now that April's there, 
 And whoever wakes in England 
 Sees some morning " in despair ; 
 There's a horrible fog i' the heart o' the town, 
 And the greasy pavement is damp and brown ; 
 While the rain-drop falls from the laden bough, 
 In England — now ! 
 
 II. 
 
 " And after April when May follows," 
 
 How foolish seem the returning swallows. 
 
 Hark ! how the east wind sweeps along the street. 
 
 And how we give one universal sneeze ! 
 
 The hapless lambs at thought of mint-sauce bleat, 
 
 And ducks are conscious of the coming peas. 
 
 Lest you should think the Spring is really present, 
 
 A biting frost will come to make things pleasant. 
 
Swinburne. 229 
 
 And though the reckless flowers begin to blow, 
 They'd better far have nestled down below ; 
 An English spring sets men and women frowning, 
 Despite the rhapsodies of Robert Browning. 
 
 —Punch, 1883. 
 
 Swinburne, 
 
 BRANDY AND SODA. 
 
 Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly, 
 My tongue feels a mouthful and more, 
 
 My senses are sluggish and sickly, 
 To live and to breathe is a bore. 
 
 My head weighs a ton and a quarter, 
 By pains and by pangs ever split, 
 
 Which manifold washings with water 
 Relieve not a bit. 
 
 My longings of thirst are unlawful. 
 
 And vain to console or control. 
 The aroma of coffee is awful. 
 
 Repulsive the sight of the roll, 
 I take my matutinal journal. 
 
 And strive my dull wits to engage, 
 But cannot endure the infernal 
 
 Sharp crack of its page. 
 
 What bad luck my soul had bedevilled, 
 What demon of spleen and of spite, 
 
 That I rashly went forth and I revelled 
 In riotous living last night ? 
 
230 On 'Parody. 
 
 Had the fumes of the goblet no odour 
 That well might repulse or restrain ? 
 O insidious brandy and soda. 
 
 Our Lady of Pain ! 
 
 Thou art golden of gleam as the summer 
 That smiled o'er a tropical sod, 
 
 daughter of Bacchus, the bummer, 
 A f oamer, a volatile tod ! 
 
 But thy froth is a serpent that hisses, 
 
 And thy gold as a bale-fire doth shine, 
 And the lovers who rise from thy kisses 
 Can't walk a straight line. 
 
 1 recall with a flush and a flutter 
 That orgy whose end is unknown ; 
 
 Did they bear me to bed on a shutter. 
 
 Or did I reel home all alone ! 
 Was I frequent in screams and in screeches ? 
 
 Did I swear with a forced affright ? 
 Did I perpetrate numerous speeches ? 
 Did I get in a fight ? 
 
 Of the secrets I treasure and prize most 
 Did I empty my bacchanal breast ? 
 
 Did I buttonhole men I despise most, 
 And frown upon those I like best? 
 
 Did I play the low farmer and flunkey 
 With people I always ignore ? 
 
 Did I caracole round like a monkey ? 
 Did I sit on the floor ? 
 
Swinburne. 231 
 
 O longing no research can satiate — 
 
 No aim to exhume what is hid ! 
 For falsehood were vain to expatiate 
 
 On deeds more depraved than I did ; 
 And though friendly faith I would flout not, 
 
 On this it were rash to rely, 
 Since the friends who beheld me, I doubt not. 
 Were drunker than I. 
 
 Thou hast lured me to passionate pastime 
 Dread goddess, whose smile is a snare ! 
 Yet I swear thou hast tempted the last time — 
 
 I swear it ; I mean what I swear ! 
 And thy beaker shall always forbode a 
 
 Disgust 'twere not wise to disdain, 
 O luxurious brandy and soda. 
 
 Our Lady of Pain. 
 
 — Hugh Howard. 
 
 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. 
 
232 On 'Parody. 
 
 If care were not the waiter 
 
 Behind a fellow's chair, 
 When easy-going sinners, 
 
 Sit down to Richmond dinners. 
 And life's sweet stream flows 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. 
 
 — Mortimer Collins. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF CRITICISM. 
 
 Blunt beyond brute or Briton, 
 
 Crowned with calm quills she stands, 
 
 Who gathers all things written, 
 With cold unwriting hands. 
 
 Her pampered praise is sweeter 
 
 Than friends', who fear to greet her, 
 
 To poetlings that meet her 
 From many schools and lands. 
 
The Garden of 'Proserpine. 233 
 
 She waits for each and other, 
 
 She will not heed their prayer, 
 That she was such another 
 
 As those before her chair ; 
 Dazed with dini dreams of dollars, 
 Masters and slaves and scholars, 
 With dank and dubious collars, 
 
 And sad superfluous hair. 
 
 To each she giveth sentence. 
 
 To some, perchance, rewards, 
 Or rules to ripe repentance 
 
 With snows of stern regards. 
 Before her Fame sinks shaken — 
 Pale poets tempest-taken. 
 Sweet Shakespeare boiled to Bacon, 
 
 Red strays of ruined bards. 
 
 She is not sure of gleaning 
 
 By threat, or call, or curse. 
 The curious crumbs of meaning^ 
 
 That rugged rhymes may nurse 
 Sighing that song should canker 
 Her heart begins to hanker 
 For pages even blanker 
 
 Than blank Byronic verse. 
 
 From too much love of Browning, 
 
 From Tennyson she rose. 
 And sense in music drowning 
 
 In sound she seeks repose. 
 
234 On Tarody. 
 
 Yet joys sometimes to know it, 
 And is not slow to show it, 
 That even the heavenliest poet 
 Sinks somewhere safe to prose. 
 
 Then Rhyme shall rule o'er Reason, 
 And Swinburne over Time, 
 
 And panting poets seize on 
 Each continent and clime ; 
 
 Aching alliteration, 
 
 Infantine indignation. 
 
 Eternal iteration 
 Wrapt in eternal rhyme. 
 
 — R. L. B. 
 
 TO THE CHESHIRE CAT. 
 
 Green eye-balls that gleam like a station, 
 When the signals are lit for the night ; 
 
 Fierce whiskers and fierce exultation 
 Of a grin full of feline delight ; 
 
 Swift questions and affable sallies, 
 Dark answers that never make plain ; 
 
 And a form that fades wholly and rallies 
 To vanish again. 
 
 Nine lives have thy brethren and sisters. 
 But thy lives will be ninety times nine, 
 
 For thy genius is true gold that glisters. 
 And thy rhymes shall be deathless as mine. 
 
To the Cheshire Cat. 233 
 
 The right of thy race has grown hoary 
 On the symbols of kingship to gaze ; 
 Thou hast grinned at the crown and its glory, 
 And then gone thy ways. 
 
 O creature untamed, yet domestic ! 
 
 O name that makes cheeses taste well ! 
 O mirth fully mouthed and majestic. 
 
 Dost thou lodge in a dream or a dell ? 
 O purring and ponderous Presence ! 
 
 O bright brindled birth of the years ! 
 O pleasantest face in a pleasaunce. 
 Untarnished by tears ! 
 
 Brief, brief is the pride of the Masher, 
 (For the Hare can it always be March ?) 
 
 And April will still be a splasher, 
 
 And vain are the splendours of starch. 
 
 In a region removed from these friskers, 
 Unruffled thou boldest thy reign ; 
 
 When the world has made wigs of thy whiskers, 
 Thy grin will remain. 
 
 The reigns of Aunt Sally and Croquet 
 Have passed and their titles sound sad ; 
 
 They are banished to lumber-rooms poky ; 
 New names make our girl-faces glad. 
 
 We have done with the masques that delighted 
 Our sires in the stalls of their youth ; 
 
 But we know that a joke once ignited 
 Is quenchless as truth. 
 
236 On 'Parody. 
 
 The puns that were penned for a Robson 
 
 Are pearls for a Terry to-day ; 
 They return as the numberless knobs on 
 
 March boughs when the wind has his way. 
 Thou shalt stay with us longer than they do, 
 
 Though the fads and the fashions fall brown, 
 When the sunflower has rest on its dado, 
 And none laugh it down. 
 
 We prate of our rhyme and our reason, 
 Thou art candid and cracked and content. 
 
 No word hast thou spoken in season ; 
 
 Nor explained what thou ever hast meant. 
 
 O chief of a querulous quorum, 
 
 When the last of the asses has passed 
 
 The planks of the Pons Asinorum, 
 Thy smile shall still last. 
 
 Dost thou tell us secure in thy greenness. 
 
 High up on thy free forest shelf, 
 " Take care of the sound, of its keenness ; 
 
 And the sense will take care of itself " ? 
 That the bell must be more than the chiming, 
 
 That the word must be more than the thought ; 
 And that reason must always be rhyming, 
 At least that it ought ? 
 
 We shall learn how the baker counts dozens ; 
 
 We shall learn whether day is not night ; 
 And our sisters, our aunts and our cousins. 
 
 Why they like to be married in white ; 
 
nAtalanta in Calydon. 237 
 
 We shall learn if twice eight can make twenty, 
 
 We shall learn if the Thames will ignite, 
 And of all things conceivable, plenty 
 — And perfectly right. 
 — S. G. J., The Student, Edinburgh. 
 
 ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN. 
 
 Ay, 'twas here, on this spot. 
 
 In that summer of yore, 
 Atalanta did not 
 
 Vote my presence a bore. 
 Nor reply to ray tenderest talk, " She had heard 
 all that nonsense before." 
 
 She'd the brooch I had bought 
 
 And the necklace and sash on. 
 And her heart, as I thought, 
 Was alive to my passion ; 
 And she'd done up her hair in the style that the 
 Empress had brought into fashion. 
 
 I had been to the play 
 
 With my pearl of a Peri — 
 But, for all I could say. 
 
 She declared she was weary. 
 That " the place was so crowded and hot, and she 
 couldn't abide that Dundreary." 
 
 Then I thought " 'Tis for me 
 
 That she whines and she whimpers ! " 
 And it soothed me to see 
 
238 On 'Parody. 
 
 Those sensational simpers, 
 And I said " This is scrumptious ! " — a phrase I had 
 learned from the Devonshire shrimpers. 
 
 And I vowed " 'Twill be said 
 
 I'm a fortunate fellow, 
 When the breakfast is spread, 
 When the topers are mellow, 
 When the foam of the bride-cake is white and the 
 fierce orange-blossoms are yellow ! " 
 
 that languishing yawn ! 
 O those eloquent eyes ! 
 
 1 was drunk with the dawn 
 Of a splendid surmise — 
 
 I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a 
 tempest of sighs. 
 
 And I whispered " 'Tis time ! 
 Is not Love at its deepest ? 
 Shall we squander Life's prime, 
 While thou waitest and weepest ? 
 Let us settle it, License or Banns? — though un- 
 doubtedly Banns are the cheapest." 
 
 "Ah, my Hero! "said I, 
 
 " Let me be thy Leander ! " 
 But I lost her reply — 
 
 Something ending with " gander " — 
 For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal 
 could quite understand her. 
 
 — Lewis Carroll. 
 
Swinburne. 239 
 
 There is glee in the groves of the Galilean — 
 The groves that were wont to be gray and glum — 
 
 And a sound goes forth to the dim ^gean, 
 To Helen hopeless and Dido dumb — 
 
 The sound of a noise of a cab or carriage, 
 
 A rhythm of rapture, a mode of marriage. 
 
 Sing Hallelujah ! Shout " lo Psean ! 
 Hymen — O Hymen, behold they come." 
 
 What shall I sing to them ? How shall I speak to 
 them? 
 
 Whose is the speech that a groom thinks good ? 
 Oh ! that awhile I might gabble in Greek to them — 
 
 Gabble and gush and be understood. 
 Gush and glow and be understanded, 
 Apprehended and shaken-handed ! 
 Yea, though a minute should seem a week to them, 
 
 I would utter such words as I might or could ! 
 
 For winter's coughs and cossets are over, 
 And all the season of sniffs and snows. 
 
 The rheums that ravish lover from lover, 
 The eyes that water, the nose that blows ; 
 
 And time forgotten is not remembered, 
 
 And cards are wedded and cake dismembered. 
 
 And in the Abbey closed under cover 
 
 Blooms and blossoms and breaks Love's rose. 
 
 Kissing the Heir, I saw him at my feet, 
 
 Wound round my finger, found him soft and sweet, 
 
240 On Tarody. 
 
 Made fast his feeble hands, dazzled his eyes, — 
 Like fishes' optics, no ways clear or wise. 
 With my best dresses made him find me fair — 
 Kissing the Heir ! 
 
 Deep the resources drained by him and me, 
 Deep as Disraeli, or the deeper sea, 
 What wife could draw him thus for her and hers? 
 What charm have made him more for me dis- 
 burse ? — 
 Ah ! if his guardian had not caught me there 
 Kissing the Heir ! 
 
 —The Hornet, 1871. 
 
 Before the beginning of years, 
 
 There went to the making of man 
 Nine tailors with their shears, 
 
 A coupe and a tiger and span, 
 Umbrellas and neckties and canes. 
 
 An ulster, — a coat, and all that — 
 But the crowning glory remains. 
 
 His last best gift was his hat. 
 
 And the mad hatters took in hand 
 
 Skins of the beaver and felt, 
 And straw from the isthmus land. 
 
 And silk and black-bear's pelt : 
 And wrought with prophetic passion, 
 
 Designed on their newest plan. 
 They made in the height of fashion 
 
 The hat for the wearing of man. 
 
iA 'Ballade of burdens. 241 
 
 BALLADE OF THE EIGHTS. 
 
 (J^or those about to train!) 
 
 The burden of hard training — eat away 
 Each morning at thy porridge and thy steak, 
 Cram down thy buttered eggs and whiting — yea, 
 Of marmalade unsparingly partake ; 
 Of port — a little, for thy stomach's sake 
 At night to wake thy strength and manly fire ; 
 Put from thee pipes and Wills his "Golden Flake." 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of long journeys, when the coach 
 
 Runs on the bank with loud and wrathful cries, 
 
 And heaps thy head with heavy hard reproach. 
 
 Praying that Fate may overtake thine eyes 
 
 To their complete destruction in this wise : 
 
 " Bow ! when you finish, bring those hands up 
 
 higher, 
 And as you're swinging \language\ let them rise." 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of much bumping — when the swing 
 Grows shorter than the swing of heretofore, 
 A burden without joy in quickening 
 Thy stroke from thirty-seven to two-score. 
 When those thou scornedst paddle on before, 
 And those thou mockedst at come nigh and nigher. 
 And curses reach thee from the further shore. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
242 On 'Parody. 
 
 But when thy toil is over, take thy rest ; 
 And if thou hast a sweet and juicy briar, 
 Light it and cease from sadness, being blessed, 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 — Punch, 1894. 
 
 In stature the Manlet was dwarfish — 
 
 No burly big Blunderbore he : 
 And he wearily gazed on the crawfish 
 
 His Wifelet had dressed for his tea. 
 " Now reach me, sweet Atom, my gunlet. 
 
 And hurl the old shoelet for luck : 
 Let me hie to the bank of the runlet 
 And shoot thee a Duck ! " 
 
 She has reached him his minnikin gunlet : 
 She has hurled the old shoelet for luck : 
 
 She is busily baking a bunlet. 
 
 To welcome him home with his duck. 
 
 On he speeds, never wasting a wordlet, 
 Though thoughtlets cling closely as wax. 
 
 To the spot where the beautiful birdlet 
 So quietly quacks. 
 
 Where the Lobsterlet lurks and the Crablet 
 
 So slowly and creepily crawls : 
 Where the Dolphin's at home and the Dablet 
 
 Pays long ceremonious calls : 
 Where the Grublet is sought by the Froglet : 
 
 Where the Frog is pursued by the Duck : 
 Where the Ducklet is chased by the Doglet — 
 So runs the world's luck. 
 
Swinburne Carolled. 243 
 
 He has loaded with bullet and powder : 
 
 His footfall is noiseless as air : 
 But the Voices grow louder and louder 
 
 And bellow and bluster and blare. 
 They bristle before him and after, 
 
 They flutter above and below, 
 Shrill shriekings of lubberly laughter. 
 Weird wailings of woe ! 
 
 They echo without him, within him : 
 
 They thrill through his whiskers and beard : 
 
 Like a teetotum seeming to spin him, 
 With sneers never hitherto sneered. 
 
 " Avengement," they cry, " on our Foelet ! 
 Let the Manikin weep for our wrongs ! 
 
 Let us drench him from toplet to toelet 
 With nursery-songs ! 
 
 " He shall muse upon Hey ! Diddle ! Diddle ! 
 
 On the Cow that surmounted the Moon ! 
 He shall rave of the Cat and the Fiddle, 
 
 And the Dish that eloped with the Spoon : 
 And his soul shall be sad for the Spider, 
 
 When Miss Muffet was sipping her whey, 
 That so tenderly sat down beside her. 
 And scared her away ! 
 
 " The music of Midsummer-madness 
 Shall sting him with many a bite. 
 
 Till, in rapture of rollicking sadness. 
 He shall groan with a gloomy delight : 
 
244 On 'Parody. 
 
 He shall swathe him like mists of the morning, 
 
 In platitudes luscious and limp, 
 Such as deck, with a deathless adorning, 
 The Song of the Shrimp ! 
 
 " When the Ducklet's dark doom is decided, 
 We will trundle him home in a trice : 
 
 And the banquet so plainly provided, 
 Shall round into rosebuds and rice : 
 
 In a blaze of pragmatic invention 
 
 He shall wrestle with Fate and shall reign : 
 
 But he has not a friend fit to mention. 
 So hit him again ! " 
 
 He has shot it, the delicate darling ! 
 
 And the Voices have ceased from their strife ; 
 Not a whisper of sneering or snarling. 
 
 As he carries it home to his wife : 
 
 Then, cheerily champing the bunlet 
 
 His spouse was so skilful to bake, 
 
 He hies him once more to the runlet. 
 
 To fetch her the Drake ! 
 
 — Lewis Carroll. 
 
 /iDfss C. IRossetti. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. 
 
 My heart is like one asked to dine 
 Whose evening dress is up the spout, 
 My heart is like a man would be 
 Whose raging tooth is half pulled out, 
 
Christina l^psetti. 245 
 
 My heart is like a howling swell, 
 Who boggles on his upper C ; 
 My heart is madder than all these — 
 My wife's mamma has come to tea. 
 
 Raise me a bump upon my crown, 
 Bang it till green in purple dies ; 
 Feed me on bombs and fulminates 
 And turncocks of a medium size. 
 Work me a suit in crimson apes. 
 And sky-blue beetles on the spree ; 
 Because the mother of ray wife 
 Has come — and means to stay with me ! 
 
 — yudy. 
 
 When I'm out dining, dearest, 
 
 Sit up not long for me ; 
 And if the wine do rack my head. 
 
 Let that not trouble thee : 
 Be a long glass on salver 
 
 With Schweppes and brandy set ; 
 This if thou wilt remember, 
 
 All else thou may'st forget. 
 
 I shall not shut the shutters. 
 
 Nor yet put up the chain ; 
 I shall not heed thy lecturing 
 
 On being late again : 
 My putting out the gaslight 
 
 Or not's an even bet ; 
 Haply I may remember. 
 
 Most likely may forget. 
 
 —Judy. 
 
246 On Tarody. 
 
 Hnn Zdi'Qlox. 
 
 THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 BY AN OUTCAST. 
 
 Who tucked me up in bed one night, 
 
 And cried, as she blew out the light 
 
 " Now, go to sleep, you little fright " ? — 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who patted me upon the head, 
 And in the gruffest accent said : 
 " Get out, you oaf, and earn your bread " ? — 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who dropped on me a scalding tear. 
 
 Exclaiming, as she boxed my ear : 
 
 " The gallows is your doom, I fear " ? — 
 
 My Sister. 
 
 Who gently asked me what I'd got. 
 And cried, while pocketing the lot : 
 " Be off, or else you'll get it hot " ? — 
 
 My Brother. 
 
 Who with my locks would gently play. 
 And wrote me when she ran away : 
 " With such a fool I cannot stay " ? — 
 
 My Wife. 
 
'Burial of Sir John OAoore. ■ 247 
 
 Who stuck to me through thick and thin, 
 Then drew a bill and let me in. 
 Exclaiming : " What an ass you've been " ? — 
 
 My Friend. 
 
 Who filled with tears my sorrow's cup, 
 By crying as she went to sup : 
 " Here, p'liceman lock this blackguard up " ? — 
 
 My Aunt. 
 
 Who rescued me from out the dirt, 
 And said in accents harsh and curt, 
 " No more nor sixpence on this shirt " ? — 
 
 My Uncle. 
 — Judy. 
 
 <r. moife. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR. 
 
 Not a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note. 
 As the groom to the wedding we carried ; 
 
 Not a jester discharged his farewell shot 
 As the bachelor went to be married. 
 
 We married him quickly that morning bright. 
 The leaves of our Prayer-books turning. 
 
 In the chancel's dimly religious light, 
 And tears in our eyelids burning. 
 
 No useless nosegay adorned his chest. 
 Not in chains but in laws we bound him ; 
 
 And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best 
 To look used to the scene around him. 
 
248 On Tarody. 
 
 Few and small were the fees it cost, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
 
 But we silently gazed on the face of the lost 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought as we hurried him home to be fed. 
 
 And tried our low spirits to rally, 
 That the weather looked very like squalls overhead 
 
 For the passage from Dover to Calais. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone, 
 And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him ; 
 
 But little he'll reck if they let him alone, 
 
 With his wife that the parson hath made him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done. 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we judged by the knocks which had now begun 
 That their cabby was rapidly tiring. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we led them down, 
 From the scene of his lame oratory ; 
 
 We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, 
 And we left them alone in their glory. 
 
 —Truth. 
 
 Barrs Cornwall. 
 
 Ride ! who rides 
 
 In a 'bus that taketh twelve insides ? 
 
 Ah ! who is this lady fine 
 
 That falls on this lap of mine ? 
 
The Arab's Farewell to his Favorite Steed. 249 
 
 A lady is she, 
 
 As big as three, 
 
 I prefer her room to her company. 
 
 Smoke ! who smokes 
 
 To the great annoyance of other folks ? 
 
 Ah ! who is this snob so fine ? 
 
 A gent. Sirs ! a gent ! 
 
 He comes with the noxious scent 
 
 Of tobacco, beer, and wine : 
 
 Far better that he 
 
 On the roof should be, 
 
 I prefer his room to his company. 
 
 — Punch, 1853. 
 
 Ibon. jflDrs. IRorton. 
 
 THE DYING VENDOR OF VEGETABLES 
 TO HIS PALFREY OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 " Where art thou now ? Where art thou now ? my 
 beautiful, my bold ; 
 
 And shall they take thee far away to green yards 
 to be sold ? 
 
 O rather let them take the bed where now, alas. 
 Hie, 
 
 Than seize on thee for debt or rent, my beauti- 
 ful, my shy ! 
 
25° On 'Parody. 
 
 " They tell me they'll take care of thee — I know 
 what 'tis they mean, 
 
 A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops 
 between. 
 
 O no ! it shall not be thy fate, I'd rather, ere I'd 
 part, 
 
 Plunge deep, my mild and patient ass, this pitch- 
 fork in thy heart ! 
 
 " Nay, do not turn aside thy nose and shake thine 
 
 honest ear. 
 Thy master's sense is wandering, but thou'st no 
 
 cause to fear ; 
 But let me give thee one embrace, ere from the 
 
 world I go. 
 There ! there ! nay, do not shrink from me, my 
 
 terrified — my slow ! 
 
 " Thou'st drawn with me, boy, many a year, the cart 
 along the streets : — 
 Put thine hoof on thy master's heart — thou feelest 
 
 how it beats ! 
 But, oh ! thine eyes benevolent, my anguished 
 
 feelings lull. 
 Farewell, my Jackass ! — Oh, farewell — my beauti- 
 ful !— my dull ! " 
 
 — Punch, 1843. 
 
7be Walrus and the Carpenter. 251 
 
 5Lewi0 Carroll. 
 
 THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBAND- 
 MAN. 
 
 BY LOUISA CAROLINE. 
 
 N. B. — A Vulture is a rapacious and obscene bird, which 
 destroys its prey hy plucking it limb from limb with its power- 
 ful beak and talons. 
 
 A Husbandman is a man in a low position of life, who sup- 
 ports himself by the use of the plough. 
 
 —Johnson's Dictionary, 
 
 The rain was raining cheerfully 
 
 As if it had been May, 
 The Senate-House appeared inside 
 
 Unusually gay ; 
 And this was strange, because it was 
 
 A Viva- Voce day. 
 
 The men were sitting sulkily, 
 
 Their paper work was done, 
 They wanted much to get away 
 
 To ride, or row, or run ; 
 " It's very rude," they said, " to keep 
 
 Us here and spoil our fun." 
 
 The papers they had finished lay 
 
 In piles of blue and white. 
 They answered everything they could. 
 
 And wrote with all their might, 
 But though they wrote it all by rote, 
 
 They could not write it right. 
 
252 On 'ParoOy. 
 
 The Vulture and the Husbandman 
 
 Beside these piles did stand ; 
 They wept like anything to see 
 
 The work they had in hand : 
 " If this were only finished up," 
 
 Said they, " it would be grand ! " 
 
 " If seven D's, or seven C's, 
 
 We gave to all the crowd, 
 Do you suppose," the Vulture said, 
 
 " That we could get them ploughed ? " 
 " I think so," said the Husbandman, 
 
 " But pray don't talk so loud." 
 
 " Oh, Undergraduates ! come up," 
 
 The Vulture did beseech, 
 " And let us see if you can learn 
 
 As well as we can teach ; 
 We cannot do with more than two, 
 
 To have a word with each." 
 
 Two Undergraduates came up 
 
 And slowly took a seat ; 
 They knit their brows and bit their thumbs 
 
 As if they found them sweet ; 
 And this was odd, because you know 
 
 Thumbs are not good to eat. 
 
 " The time has come," the Vulture said, 
 " To talk of many things — 
 
Out-CarrolUng Carroll. 253 
 
 Of Accidence and Adjectives, 
 
 And names of Jewish kings ; 
 How many notes a sackbut has, 
 
 And whether shawms have strings." 
 
 " Please, Sir," the Undergraduates said, 
 
 Turning a little blue, 
 " We did not know that was the sort 
 
 Of thing we had to do," 
 " We thank you much," the Vulture said, 
 
 " Send up another two." 
 
 Two more came up and then two more, 
 And more and more and more ; 
 
 And some looked upwards at the roof, 
 Some down upon the floor. 
 
 But none were any wiser than 
 The pair that went before. 
 
 "I weep for you," the Vulture said, 
 
 " I deeply sympathize ! " 
 With sobs and tears he gave them all 
 
 D's of the largest size, 
 While at the Husbandman he winked 
 
 One of his streaming eyes. 
 
 " I think," observed the Husbandman, 
 
 " We're getting on too quick ; 
 Are we not putting down the D's 
 
 A little bit too thick ? " 
 The Vulture said with much disgust, 
 
 " Their answers make me sick." 
 
254 On Tarody. 
 
 " Now, Undergraduates," he cried, 
 
 " Our fun is nearly done ; 
 Will anybody else come up ? " 
 
 But answer came there none ; 
 And this was scarcely odd, because 
 
 They'd ploughed them every one ! 
 
 — A. C. Hilton. 
 
 ©scar Mflbe. 
 
 MORE IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 BY OSCURO WILDGOOSE. 
 
 {La Fuite des Oies.) 
 
 To outer senses they are geese, 
 
 Dull drowsing by a weedy pool ; 
 
 But try the impression trick. Cool ! Cool ! 
 Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace ! 
 
 Deep silence on the shadowy flood. 
 
 Save rare sharp stridence {that means "quack "), 
 
 Low amber light in Ariel track 
 Athwart the dun {that means the mud). 
 
 And suddenly subsides the sun, 
 
 Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom, 
 ( That means the white geese waddling home) 
 
 And darkness reigns ! {See how it's done f) 
 
 — Punch, 1881. 
 
tAlice Gray. 255 
 
 ©'Sbaugbnessi?. 
 
 BLUE MOONSHINE. 
 
 BY O'PSHAWNESSY. 
 
 Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, 
 Throbbing in the mellow glow, 
 
 Glint the silvery spirit burnings, 
 Pearly blandishments of woe. 
 
 Aye ! for ever and for ever, 
 
 Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, 
 
 Whilst the jasper winds dissever, 
 Amber-like, the crystal deep. 
 
 Shall the soul's delirious slumber, 
 
 Sea-green vengeance of a kiss. 
 Teach despairing crags to number 
 
 Blue infinities of bliss ? 
 
 MllUam /IDee. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUS- 
 BAND. 
 
 She's not what fancy painted her — 
 
 I'm sadly taken in : 
 If some one else had won her, I 
 
 Should not have cared a pin. 
 
256 On 'Parody. 
 
 I thought that she was mild and good 
 
 As maiden e'er could be ; 
 I wonder how she ever could 
 
 Have so much humbugged me. 
 
 They cluster round and shake my hand — 
 
 They tell me I am blest : 
 My case they do not understand — 
 
 I think that I know best. 
 
 They say she's fairest of the fair — 
 They drive me mad and madder. 
 
 What do they mean by it ? I swear 
 I only wish they had her. 
 
 'Tis true that she has lovely locks, 
 
 That on her shoulders fall ; 
 What would they say to see the box 
 
 In which she keeps them all ? 
 
 Her taper fingers, it is true, 
 
 'Twere difficult to match : 
 What would they say if they but knew 
 
 How terribly they scratch ? 
 
 — Punch. 
 
 IRobert Soutbep. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
%obert Southey. 257 
 
 " In my youth," Father William replied to his son, 
 
 " I feared it might injure the brain ; 
 But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none. 
 
 Why, I do it again and again." 
 
 " You are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned 
 before, 
 
 And have grown most uncommonly fat ; 
 Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door — 
 
 Pray what is the reason of that ? " 
 
 " In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray 
 locks, 
 
 " I kept all my limbs very supple 
 By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box — 
 
 Allow me to sell you a couple." 
 
 " 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 did 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." 
 
 "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly 
 suppose 
 That your eye was as steady as ever ; 
 
258 On Tarody. 
 
 Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose — 
 What made you so awfully clever ? " 
 
 " I have answered three questions and that is 
 enough," 
 Said his father ; " don't give yourself airs ! 
 Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff ? 
 Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs ! " 
 
 — Lewis Carroll, 
 
SONGS. 
 
 DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND 
 CHILD. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 O lady, lay your costly robes aside, 
 No longer may you glory in your pride. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear 
 Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear ? 
 This day I am to be a bride, you know. 
 Why sing sad songs were made so long ago ? 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 mother, lay your costly robes aside, 
 For you may never be another's bride. 
 That line I learned not in the old sad song. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 1 pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue. 
 Play with the bridesmaids and be glad, my boy, 
 For thou shalt be a second father's joy. 
 
26o On Tarody. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 One father fondled me upon his knee. 
 One father is enough, alone, for me ! 
 
 — C. Lamb. 
 
 Young gentlemen of England, 
 
 That only mind your ease, 
 Ah, little do you think how hard 
 
 Young ladies try to please ! 
 Give ear unto the Milliners, 
 
 And they will plainly show 
 How the waist must be laced, 
 
 By the Fashion-books to go. 
 
 She who'd attract attention 
 
 Must laugh at common sense. 
 For when one goes to choose a dress. 
 
 One mustn't mind expense ; 
 Nor think how Pa will scold one. 
 
 Whene'er he comes to know 
 How he's let into debt. 
 
 By the Fashion-books to go. 
 
 What terrible privations 
 
 Young ladies must endure, 
 A lovely face and form of grace 
 
 From damage to secure ? 
 Their appetites they must control. 
 
 Lest they too stout should grow. 
 And in vain strive and strain. 
 
 By the Fashion-books to go. 
 
Sally in our t^lley. 261 
 
 In days of bitter weather, 
 
 When winter doth enforce, 
 One cannot think of such a thing 
 
 As good thick boots, of course ; 
 With instep undefended, 
 
 In rain and hail and snow, 
 All so bold one gets cold. 
 
 By the Fashion-books to go. 
 
 — Punch, 1846. 
 
 To catch a lover on the hip. 
 
 There's none like fair Babet-te ! 
 You'd love to kiss her rosy lip. 
 
 But, ah ! she'll never let 'ee ! 
 Yet shall she wash my Sunday suit, 
 
 Tho' she my suit refuses. 
 For, oh ! she washes far the best 
 
 Of all the blanchissooses ! 
 
 For washing-day all round the year, 
 
 She ever sticks to one day ; 
 She takes my linen Friday night. 
 
 And brings it back o' Monday ! 
 When I bestow the lordly franc, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear her " Thankee " — 
 She mends my hooks and darns my eyes, 
 
 And marks my pocky-hanky ! 
 
 She calls the wandering button home, 
 
 However hard I cuss it ; 
 She's good at collar and at cuff, 
 
 And truly great at gusset ! 
 
262 On Tarody. 
 
 To catch a lover on the hip, 
 
 There's none like fair Babet-te ! 
 
 You'd love to kiss her rosy lip, 
 But, ah ! she'll never let 'ee ! 
 
 — Herman Merivale. 
 
 LOBSTER SALAD. 
 
 Take, take, lobsters and lettuces ; 
 
 Mind that they send you the fish that you order 
 
 Take, take, a decent-sized salad-bowl. 
 
 One that's sufficiently deep in the border. 
 
 Cut into many a slice 
 
 All of the fish that's nice, 
 Place in the bowl with due neatness and order ; 
 
 Then hard-boiled eggs you may 
 
 Add in a neat array 
 All round the bowl, just by way of a border. 
 
 Take from the cellar of salt a proportion ; 
 Take from the castors both pepper and oil, 
 With vinegar, too — but a moderate portion — 
 Too much of acid your salad will spoil. 
 
 Mix them together ; 
 
 You need not mind whether 
 You blend them exactly in apple-pie order ; 
 
 But when you've stirred away, 
 
 Mix up the whole you may — 
 All but the eggs, which are used as a border. 
 
'Blue 'Bells of Scotland. 263 
 
 Take, take, plenty of seasoning ; 
 
 A spoonful of parsley that's chopped in small 
 
 pieces : 
 Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, 
 A small taste of onion the flavour increases. 
 
 As the sauce curdle may. 
 
 Should it ; the process stay, 
 Patiently do it again in due order : 
 
 For if you chance to spoil 
 
 Vinegar, eggs, and oil, 
 Still to proceed would on lunacy border. 
 
 — Punch, 1852. 
 
 THE GREAT KILT REFORM. 
 
 Oh, where, and oh, where, is your Highland Laddie 
 
 gone ? 
 Oh, he's gone into the hospital with pains in every 
 
 bone ! 
 And it's oh ! in my heart, that I wish he'd breeks 
 
 put on ! 
 
 What clothes, oh, what clothes, did your Highland 
 
 Laddie wear ? 
 Oh, his shoulders were well-covered, but his legs 
 
 were left all bare ; 
 And it's oh ! how that part must have felt the 
 
 wintry air ! 
 
264 On 'Parody. 
 
 Oh, why, and oh, why, was your Highland Lad not 
 dressed ? 
 
 Oh, some people say with half his clothes a High- 
 lander looks best ; 
 
 But it's oh ! in my heart, that I wish he'd wear the 
 rest ! 
 
 Suppose that his dress now your Highland Lad 
 
 reform ! 
 Oh ! I think 'twould be more decent and I know 
 
 'twould be more warm ; 
 And it's oh ! in my heart, how I wish he would 
 
 reform ! 
 
 Suppose and suppose that they make your High- 
 land Lad 
 
 Wear decent coat and trousers 'stead of kilt and 
 tartan plaid ? 
 
 Then it's oh ! in my heart, but just shouldn't I be 
 glad! 
 
 Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume 
 
 old; 
 Oh ! this winter's so severe, I'm sure he'll catch 
 
 his death of cold ; 
 And it's oh ! bless my heart ! how my Laddie 
 
 would be sold ! 
 
 — Diogenes, 1854. 
 
 VENUS AND ADONIS. 
 
 Where are you going to, my pretty maid ? 
 I'm going to be photographed, sir, she said. 
 
7he U^ew Woman. 265 
 
 May I go with you, my pretty maid ? 
 Yes, if you like it, she calmly said. 
 
 What is your fortune, my pretty maid ? 
 My face is my fortune, sir, she said. 
 
 How do you live on it, my pretty maid ? 
 By selling my photos, she promptly said. 
 
 Then may I marry you, my pretty maid ? 
 If you've a title, perhaps — she said. 
 
 —Punch, 1878. 
 
 NEW SONG FOR THE NEW WOMAN. 
 
 Where are you going, Revolting Maid ? 
 As far as I may, fair Sir, she said. 
 
 Shall I go with you, Revolting Maid ? 
 You may follow — behind me, Sir ! she said. 
 
 What is your object. Revolting Maid ? 
 Emancipation, Sir ! she said. 
 
 Will you marry. Revolting Maid ? 
 Perhaps — on my own terms. Sir ! she said. 
 
 And what may those terms be. Revolting Maid F 
 Absolute Liberty, Sir ! she said. 
 
 Then / sha'n't marry you. Revolting Maid ! 
 Did anyone ask you. Sir ? she said. 
 
 — Punch. 
 
266 On Tarody. 
 
 THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL. 
 
 Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door, 
 
 Seeking the hole for the key ; 
 His hat was wrecked and his trousers bore 
 
 A rent across either knee, 
 When down came the beauteous Lady Jane 
 
 In fair white draperie. 
 
 " Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell ? " she said; 
 
 " Oh, where have you been ? " said she : 
 " I have not closed an eye in bed, 
 
 And the clock has just struck three. 
 Who has been standing you on your head 
 
 In the ash-barrel, pardie ? " 
 
 " I am not drunk. Lad' Shane," he said : 
 
 " And so late it cannot be ; 
 The clock struck one as I entered — 
 
 I heard it two times or three ; 
 It must be the salmon on which I fed 
 
 Has been too many for me." 
 
 " Go tell your tale. Lord Lovell," she said, 
 
 " To the maritime cavalree. 
 To your grandmamma of the hoary head — 
 
 To anyone but me : 
 The door is not used to be opened 
 
 With a cigarette for a key." 
 
 —Quips, 1887. 
 
The Three Fishers. 267 
 
 The Pope he leads a happy life 
 Because he hasn't got a wife ; 
 And one to take he's not so flat, 
 He knows a trick worth two of that. 
 No shrill abuse his ear affrights 
 For stopping out too late at nights : 
 No curtain lectures damp his hopes ; 
 A happy lot must be the Pope's. 
 
 — Brough, 1848. 
 
 C. ftfngsles. 
 
 Three fishers went gaily out into the north — 
 Out into the north ere the sun was high, 
 
 And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth, 
 Resolved to capture the trout — or die. 
 
 For men will fish and men will lie, 
 
 About the fish they " caught on the fly," 
 Their Sunday school lessons scorning. 
 
 Three fishers lay under the trees at noon, 
 And " blamed " the whole of the finny race. 
 
 For never a nibble touched fly or spoon, 
 And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face. 
 
 For men will fish and men will lie, 
 
 And the way they catch trout when nobody's nigh 
 Is something to tell — in the morning. 
 
 Three fishermen came into town at night. 
 And their speckled beauties were fair to see ! 
 
 They talked of their sport with keen delight, 
 The envy of all the fraternity. 
 
268 On farody. 
 
 But men will fish and men will lie, 
 And what they can't catch they're sure to buy, 
 And never repeat in the morning. 
 Philadelphia, June 27, 1885. 
 
 — Saturday Evening Post. 
 
 MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE. 
 
 They told him gently he was made 
 
 Of nicely tempered mud, 
 That man no lengthened part had played 
 
 Anterior to the flood. 
 'Twas all in vain ; he heeded not, 
 
 Referring plant and worm, 
 Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, 
 
 To one primordial germ. 
 
 They asked him whether he could bear 
 
 To think his kind allied 
 To all those brutal forms which were 
 
 In structure Pithecoid ; 
 Whether he thought the apes and us 
 
 Homologous in form ; 
 He said Homo and Pithecus 
 
 Come from one common germ. 
 
 They called him " atheistical," 
 
 " Sceptic " and " infidel." 
 They swore his doctrines without fail 
 
 Would plunge him into Hell. 
 
The Lost Chord. 269 
 
 But he, with proofs in no way lame 
 
 Made this deduction firm, 
 That all organic beings came 
 
 From one primordial germ. 
 
 That as for Noahchian flood, 
 
 'Twas long ago disproved. 
 That as for man being made of mud, 
 
 All by whom truth is loved. 
 Accept as fact, what, malgr^ strife. 
 
 Research tends to confirm — 
 That man, and everything with life, 
 
 Come from one common germ. 
 
 — Tinsleys Magazine, 1868. 
 
 H. a. iproctor. 
 
 THE LOST VOICE. 
 
 Seated at Church in the winter 
 
 I was frozen in every limb. 
 And the village choir shrieked wildly 
 
 Over a noisy hymn. 
 
 I know not what they were singing. 
 But while I was watching them 
 
 Our Curate began his sermon 
 With the sound of a slight " Ahem ! " 
 
 It frightened the female portion 
 
 Like the storm which succeeds a calm. 
 
 Both maidens and matrons heard it 
 With a touch of inane alarm. 
 
270 On TaroAy. 
 
 It told them of pain and sorrow, 
 Cough, cold, and neuralgic strife. 
 
 Bronchitis and influenza. 
 
 All aimed at our Curate's life. 
 
 It linked all perplexed diseases 
 
 Into one precious frame ; 
 They trembled with rage if a sceptic 
 
 Attempted to ask its name. 
 
 They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, 
 Stuffed him with food and wine. 
 
 They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him 
 With sympathy divine. 
 
 It may be that other Curates 
 
 Will preach in that Church to them. 
 
 Will there be every time. Good Heavens ! 
 Such a fuss for a slight " Ahem " ? 
 
 THE COLLEGE BED-MAKER'S SONG. 
 
 I make the butter fly, all in an hour ; 
 
 I put aside the preserves and cold meats. 
 Telling my master his cream has turned sour. 
 
 Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets. 
 
 I never languish for husband or dower ; 
 
 I never sigh to see gyps at my feet ; 
 I make the butter fly all in an hour, 
 
 Taking it home for my Saturday treat. 
 
 — Sir G. O. Trevelvan. 
 
The 'Beadle's 'Dream. 271 
 
 The robe of other days has faded, 
 
 Its gloss has from it passed ; 
 For dust with little specks has shaded 
 
 The stuff too fine to last. 
 The robe of velvet made of cotton, 
 
 For wear much better pays ; 
 But, alas ! how shabby this I've got on. 
 
 The robe of other days ! 
 
 The coat that is not worth a stiver, 
 
 An old and worn-out thing, 
 When touched with black and blue revivers. 
 
 Like a new one up will spring. 
 You may dye the coat of one that's needy, 
 
 Of stuff as coarse as baize ; 
 But the robe is done for when 'tis seedy, 
 
 The robe of other days. 
 
 Gilbert A. A Beckett. 
 
 THE BEADLE'S DREAM, 
 
 I had a beat whereon the laziest brute 
 
 Might find repose, 
 A pound a week and every year a suit 
 
 Of brand-new clothes ; 
 A brass-nobbed cane, a hat with gold-lace band 
 
 Of breadth extreme, 
 A coat whose capes were numerous and grand. 
 
 It was a dream.