And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,

And the Commons, in that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Have a pretty treat in store!

This amusing parody originally appeared in Funny Folks, March 6, 1875, accompanied by a portrait of Dr. E. V. Kenealy. This was immediately after his election as member for Stoke, and the week after it appeared the clever but eccentric advocate of the "unfortunate nobleman " inserted the parody in his newspaper, The Englishman, with a compliment to its author, and it was re-copied in many other newspapers. The author, Mr. Joseph Verey, a well-known contributor to dramatic and humorous peric dicals, has written many other clever parodies, amongst them being "Mariana at the Railway Station," inserted

on page 4, Volume I.; and "The Night Policeman," after Longfellow, inserted on page 68, Volume I. of this collection.

While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping

As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door, And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door, Just a tap, and nothing more.

Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member, Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more ; Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision, There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlourdoor,

Icy chill came creeping o'er me whilst I gazed upon the door,

Getting frightened more and more.

And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain,

Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping

That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door,

Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle,

As she'd often done before.

Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their pallor,

"Maid," said I, "or Mary, just you place the candle at the door,

Pond'ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping,

And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlourdoor;

Mary, scarcely could I hear you," then I went unto the door

Darkness there, and nothing more!

Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over heated, When again I heard the sapping louder than it was be‘ore, "Eless me!" said I, "This again, something's at the window-pane,

Now some knowledge I'll obtain of this strange mysterious bore;

Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore. 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"

Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had broken,

Thro' the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby's of yore,

Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever,

Flight he took with told endeavour, perching o'er my parlour door,

From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door, Sat and looked-did nothing more!

Cunning looked he, as though chaffing-funny bird! he set me laughing,

Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor :

"Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be

no craven,

Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door." Quoth the raven, "Say no more!"

"Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you've bethought you

Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore. Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or women, Which thou wilt reveal to no men-speak the message, I implore."

Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlourdoor,

Said he, "Think the matter o'er."

There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately,

Like a monk he was "complately," thinking something deeply o'er,

All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered

Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o'er the door ;

Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne'er before
To a raven o'er a door.

-At the Prince's Pierhead, said he, there you'll find a policeman steady,

Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there, With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling,

Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare
Pierhead rank they ll never stand in, never ply for landing
"fare "
Whilst that "bobby's" stationed there !

At the Town Hal banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and stately,

Full of pomp he was "complately," sitting rigid in his chair. When the Army's health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted,

Whilst with with'ring tongue he "roasted" Captain Douglas sitting there,

That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair With the Army must compare!

Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley

Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair; Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare

"Such an honour now was rare!"

Chinamen out there in "Peeking," Treaty obligations breaking,

Our Ambassador is seeking wily 'stubborn men to awe, Telling them the British nation anger'd cannot brook evasion;

Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he'll withdraw; So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion's paw,

China says she'll keep the law.

Sea is rough and weather breezy, still "Serapis," steaming

easy,

Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain's Queen,

Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing,

Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen; Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien,

Greeting son of India's Queen

Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended,

Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door.

Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken, He had given me the token, and he hopp'd along the floor, Thro' the window into darkness-glancing at my parlour door,

Raven saw I nevermore !

The Porcupine (Liverpool), October 30, 1875.

A BLACK BIRD THAT COULD SING BUT WOULDN'T
SING.

(A Lyric of the American Southern States.)

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

O'er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before;

While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking,

- Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my doorSaw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door, Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor,

Peeping in, and—nothing more.

Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it,
And I ever shall regret it that I looked towards that door,
For I saw a monstrous figure-like a giant, only bigger,
And there stood a big buck nigger, with his back against
the door,

Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor,

A reeking, lantern-jaw'd buck nigger bolt upright against my door,

Glancing in, and—nothing more.

Quick instinctively espying where my ham and eggs were frying,

There I saw a poker lying near the hearth upon the floor, And with most determined vigour seized and hurled it at the nigger,

But so quick was he on the trigger, as he jump'd it struck the door,

Struck beneath him, as he bounded just like lightning from the floor,

As like a tarr'd and feather'd Mercury, up he bounded from the floor, Grazed his heel, and-nothing more.

Back toward my hearth-stone looking, where my ham and eggs were cooking,

Shaking, quaking as no mortal ever shaked or quaked before, Soon I heard the ugly sinner mutter forth these words, "Some dinner,"

Looking still more gaunt and thinner, even than he looked before,

These the words the heathen mutter'd-the sole and only sound then uttered,

As down from his high jump he flutter'd 'lighting on his major toe, "Dinner," said he, nothing more.

Then his impudence beginning, he displayed his gums in grinning,

And with eyes aught else but winning, leer'd upon me from the door,

Speaking thusly: "Tis your treat, man, I'll never go into the street, man,

Till I get some grub to eat, man, I shall never leave your door,

Never quit them aigs and bacon, now just done, I'm very

sure,

Never till I've cleaned the platter, though you beat me till I roar,

Treat me, or I'll charge 'em sure."

Then toward the fireplace marching, where my coffee too was parching,

Boldly stalked this sassy nigger right across my chamberfloor,

Never stopped to bend or bow, sir, then I knew there'd

be a row, sir,

For I made a solemn vow, sir, he should soon recross that floor,

And I kicked him through the room, sir, back again toward the door,

Kick'd and cuffed him, in my anger, back against my chamber-door, Then I kicked him yet once more.

But this midnight bird beguiling my stirr'd spirit into smiling,

By the wretched, rabid, ravenous look his hungry visage

wore,

"Tho'," I said, "thou art a freedman, thou hast gone so much to seed, man,

So I'll give you one good feed, man, as you seem to be so poor

One good feed in your sore need, man, as you seem so very poor;

The eggs and meat shall be my treat, if with light work you'll pay the score."

Quoth the nigger-"Work no more."

Awhile I sat absorbed in musing, what meant he by this refusing,

Till, mad, I turned into abusing the odious, odorous blackamoor.

"Sure," said I, "you must be crazy, to be so infernal lazy, So cussedly, outrageous lazy, as to want to work no more; You ugly, grim, ungainly, ghastly, heathen, savage blackamoor,

Will you even work for wages-food and clothes and payment sure?"

Quoth the nigger-" Work no more."

"Nigger," said I, "horrid demon! Nigger still if slave or freeman,

Pause and ponder ere you answer this one question, I implore:

Have you got no sense of feeling? do you mean to live by stealing?

Or by working and fair dealing; tell me truly, I implore, On your honour as a nigger, will you ever labour more? Plough in corn or hoe in cotton, as you did in days of yore?" Quoth the Nigger-"Nevermore!"

And the nigger, never working, still is shirking-still is shirking

Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door, And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture's starved and dreaming,

And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor.

But I'll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before,
That I'll maul his very lights out, if he dares to pass that
door,
He shall work or-eat no more!

The Figaro, February 16, 1876.

COWGATE PHILANTHROPY.

ONCE, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky,

Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door,

From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing

A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore,

And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store

Idle threats, and nothing more.

To myself I said, interror, "Surely here there is some error; This woman seems in deep distress-distress which pierces to the core;"

So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace, For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore,

That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore

Trace of beauty, now no more.

But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases, Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar,

When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction,

So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door, Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore ;

This I did, and nothing more.

For methought no member surely over this dry Bill will pore

They will not discuss its details, they will never o'er it pore; Merely pass it—nothing more.

"So I thought, until up-glancing, I beheld a form advancing From the seats below the gangway, boldly out upon the floor,

'Stay,' mused I; 'I know that figure. Yes, it is-it must be Biggar!'

Through the House there passed a snigger, but my heart was very sore;

For he caught my eye, confound him! and my heart was very sore;

Hope was left in it no more.

"Not the least obeisance made he, nor where he had risen stay'd he;

But he strode across the gangway, nearer to me than before. All the time that he was walking, he was hoarsely at me talking,

Nothing stopping him nor baulking, not a moment he forebore,

Caring not for sneers nor laughter, not a moment he forebore,

But talked on for evermore.

"Much it grieved me this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,

Though his phrases little meaning, little relevancy bore,
For I knew his stubborn nature, knew, too, in the Legislature,
That so obstinate a member it had never known before;
That a member so pig-headed never had been known before,
Never would be evermore.

"Far too 66
his leisure;
'Yes, it's very much too narrer!" then he went its
clauses o'er ;

narrer" is this measure,' quoth he, slowly, at

66

Turn'd it inside out, and twisted its provisions, as he listed; While his friend Parnell assisted-helped this most portentous bore;

Backed him up, and often prompted this unmitigated bore; Who kept speaking evermore !

66

Presently my wrath grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,

Sir! I said, 'you're not in order; keep in order, I implore!

This is but the second reading, yet you are in sooth proceeding

the floor!

As though in Committee pleading; cease from this or leave Mean you long to go on speaking, mean you long to keep the floor?"

Quoth J. Biggar, Evermore!'

"Then methought his voice grew hoarser, and his manner rather coarser;

Till that he my eye had ever caught, I did at heart deplore; Why, I thought, has Cavan sent thee? can no earthly power prevent thee?

None bring respite and nepenthe, from thy rudeness and thy roar?

Am I doomed to always listen to thy inharmonious roar?'
Quoth J. Biggar, 'Evermore.'

Didst thou not devote to business on thy own Ulsterian shore? Why not give to lard and bacon, all the energies mistaken, Thou from night to night art wasting on this House of Commons floor?

Stick to lard! Drop legislating! This of thee I would implore!'

Quoth J. Biggar, 'Nevermore.'

"Biggar,' said I, 'tell me truly, wilt thou always be unruly? Is there nothing thy lost senses can to thee at last restore? Wilt this chamber long be haunted by thy presence so undaunted?

Or would'st thou at home be wanted if pigs fetched much less per score

If lard fell a lot per bladder? Tell me--tell me, I implore?" Quoth J. Biggar, 'Nevermore !'

"Joseph,' said I, 'have a care, sir, lest thou shouldst me too much dare, sir,

For I give thee warning, fair sir, that if thou art much a bore,

I will henceforth always try, sir, that thou mayst not catch my eye, sir,

When in future thou mayst rise, sir, and stand out upon this floor!-

Stand in all thy blatant boldness on this desecrated floor;
Thou shalt catch it nevermore !

"But J. Biggar never stirring, went on stating and averring, Naught him staying or deterring, still his speech did he outpour,

And back on my cushion sinking, I was filled with dread at thinking

That this grim and greasy member might for ever harshly

roar

That this grim, ungainly, lardy man might never cease to bore,

But talk on for evermore !" Truth, March 8, 1877.

For as I thus thought of snoring, came a sound of liquid pouring

'Twas a sound that oft, when thirsty, I had heard with joy before;

And when it I heard repeating, thro' the darkness sent I greeting,

Saying, "Who is that that's drinking something in behind my door?"

For the sound came from a chamber, mine erstwhile, now mine no more

66

"Who are you and what d'you pour ?" But no answer came, so rising with a rashness most surprising, Sir," said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, when I heard some liquid lapping,

Lapping, lapping, softly lapping, in behind this chamberdoor.

Who are you in there, I pray you?"-here I opened wide the door

Smell of spirits, nothing more!

Deeply that strong odour sniffing stood I "butting" there and "if-ing;"

Guessing, wondering, surmising who it was that I'd heard

But upon a chair down sitting, beckoned me to what she bore:

'Twas a tiny roll of flannel in her portly arms she boreOnly that, and nothing more!

Then this flannel roll beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the strange and utter contrast that it to the matron bore, Sought my thoughts another channel, and I spoke unto the flannel,

Saying, "What art thou and wherefore art thou brought here, I implore?—

Tell me why thou art thus carried, why so gently, I implore?"

But it sobbed, and nothing more!

Much I marvelled at its sobbing, and my heart was quickly throbbing

As unto the ponderous matron said I, "Turn that flannel o'er !'

For you cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet beheld a bundle that could sob, and nothing moreEver yet a roll of flannel saw that sobbed and nothing more!" Quoth the matron, "Shut the door."

Then the flannel pink unfolding, soon was I with awe beholding Something like to which my eyes had never gazed upon before.

Nothing further then it ut'ered-but I mouthed awhile and stuttered

Till I positively muttered, "Tell me all, I would implore!" Said the matron, "There is little to inform you on that 'Tis your son, and nothing more !"

score:

"Ah," said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming,

"You've a monthly nurse's seeming, and 'twas you that I heard pour;

Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you'll cease to cumber,

Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore;
Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to
deplore."
Quoth that woman, "Never more!"

"Woman!" said I, "nurse, how dare you? If you do not

have a care, you

Soon will find that I can spare you, for I'll show to you the door !"

But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting,

In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor,
Took it up, although 'twas empty, took it up from off the
floor;
Waved it and said, "Never more!"

"Nurse," I shouted, "I won't stand it; put it down, at once, unhand it !

As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore; Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able,

Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore ; For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I'm dying for a snore !"

Quoth that woman, "Never more!" "Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse," said I, upstarting,

"Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where'er thou wast before;

Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken