ALFRED TENNYSON (continued).

There still remain to be quoted a few amusing parodies of Tennyson's early poems, the first in order being Mariana, which was thus closely burlesqued in George Cruikshank's Comic Almanack for 1846.

At morn, the noise of boys aloof,

Inspectors orders, and the chaff Of cads upon the husses' roof,

To Poplar bound, too much by half Did prove ; but most he loathed the hour

When Mr. Jardine chose to say

Five shillings he would have to pay, Now he was in policeman's power.

Then said he, “This is very dreary ;”

“ Bail will not come,” he said ; He said, “I'll never more get beery,

But go straight home to bed!”



I in pret

& English

leilate tht

The Bow STREET Grange.

By Alfred Tennyson.
With blackest mud, the locked-up sots

Were splashed and covered, one and all. And rusty nails, and callous knots,

Stuck from the bench against the wall. The wooden bed felt hard and strange ; Lost was the key that oped the latch ;

To light his pipe he had no match, Within the Bow Street station's range.

He only said, “It's very dreary ;"

“ Bail will not come,” he said; He said, “I have been very beery,

I would I were a bed !”

arvudies of

In 1855, Messrs. G. Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled Mirth and Melre, which contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreana, after the The Ballad of Oriana; and another, called Vauxhall, which imitated Locksley Hall. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, the author of several well-known novels, who died in May, 1864.

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The rain fell like a sluice that even ;

His Clarence boots could not be dried, But had been soaked since half-past seven

To get them off in vain he tried. After the smashing of his hat,

Just as the new police came by,

And took him into custody,
He thought, I've been a precious flat,

He only said, “The cell is dreary ;”

“Bail cometh not,” he said ; He said, “I must be very beery,

I wish I were in bed !"


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My brain is wearied with thy prate,

I sit and curse my hapless fate,

What time the rain pours down the gutter,
Still your platitudes you utter

Boreäna, I unholy wishes mutter,


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Ere the night-light's flame was fading,

Boreana, While the cats were serenading,

Boreäna, Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing, We heard the beasts to Smithfield going,

Boreana, You said the butcher's bill was owing,


All night within that gloomy cell

The keys within the padlock creaked; The tipsy “gents' bawled out as well,

And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked. Policemen slyly prowled about ;

Their faces glimmered through the door,

But brought not, though he did implore, One humble glass of cold without.

He only said, “ The night is dreary ;"

“Bail cometh not,” he said ;
He said, “I have been very beery,

I would I were in bed !”

At Cremorne, we two alone,

Boreana, Ere my wisdom teeth were grown,

While the dancers gaily hopped,
And the brass-band never stopped,

I to thee the question popped,



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One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate,

Till at the last the sight began to pall.
I said, “How know I 'tis of ancient date,

Or China-ware at all ?".

So when one year was wholly finished,

I put that willow-pattern plate away. “Now rather bring me Satsuma !” I said,

“Or blue-green Cloisonnée.

“ For I am sick of this pervading hue,

Steeped wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue ?'

Yea, all is blue,' reply.

They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be ;
They say he's left off raking, mother, what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I

may. The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended

glass, And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass ; The roads are dry and dusty ; it will be a fine, fine day, And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if

I may. The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to “fair”

from “ showers." The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst

the flowers, Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother ; I will be queen, if I

may. So call me, if you're waking ; call me, mother, from my

restThe “ Middle Horticultural” is sure to be the best. Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day : And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if

I may.

“ Yet do not smash the plate I so admired,

When first my high aesthetic house I built ; I may come back to it, of Dresden tired,

And Sèvres gaily gilt."

Although taken from Cruikshank's Comic Almanack, for 1846, the following parody of The May Queen is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday :

II.—THE DAY AFTER. [Slow, and with sad expression.]


By Alfred Tennyson.

1.- THE DAY BEFORE. [To be read with liveliness.]

If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or

bleak; To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week ; It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay, And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. There's many a bright barege, they say, but none so bright

as mine, And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of tur

pentine ; But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say ; And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I

may. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good

shake; For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons

gay, And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother ; I'm to be queen, if

If you're waking, call me early ; call me early, mother dear;
The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear ;
I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me,
Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea.
I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day,
When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away;
And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain:
I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.
I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,
I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild ;
He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child.
Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret :
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet ;
Had it been ane-I cannot tell-he might have had my

arm ;
But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.
I'll wear the dress again, mother ; I do not care a pin,
Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in ;
But do not let her see it yet-she's not so very green,
And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.
So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to

dawn; I dread to look at my barege-it must be so forlorn ; We'll put it in the rough-dried box : it may come out next

year; So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear

I may.

As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should

meet, Eut Harry-looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street ; He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss

RaeBut I'll be queen, if I may, mother ; I'll be queen, if I may.

Light Green, a magazine published at Cam. bridge, in 1872, contained another parody of the same original, it is called “The May Dream,” by Alfred Pennysong.

The following appeared in The Tomahawk, of December 5th, 1868.

Meseemed that, as I gazed, my vision changed :

The loose-girt ladies on the pictured wall I saw no more ; but, fancy led, I ranged

The fair in Albert Hall.

The hothouse blossoms of a sunless year,

And quaintest crewels, wrought in grays and greens, Adorned the stalls—extravagantly dear,

For they were sold by queens.

Foremost I saw, with overloaded stall

Beset from morn till eve with densest crowd, A daughter of the Jews, divinely small,

And most divinely proud.

With high-pitched tones in broken English she

Waved bystanders aside, and sold her wares Only to scions of nobility,

With all her choicest airs.

And passing on, not caring to pay dear

For portraits which in all shop-windows are, I saw our novel Helen standing near,

Far-gleaming like a star.


A Song of the Future (?). You must wake and call me early, call me early mother

dear, Though November is the dullest month of any in the year, Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country-oh ! how

droll ! For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of

the Poll! There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one

won't be mine), But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign, Supported by my Coleridge-Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast

soul, Shall í be the Queen of the Poll, mother ! I, be the Queen

of the Poll ! The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my

haunt, That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er

me daunt, My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll. And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of

the Poll. I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and The Valse is filed, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the

Lawn ; Another Lawn, clear-starched and white, rises before my The Speaker's risen to orders, why the Dickens shouldn't I? Pardon my slang, for auld slang syne, I'm still a woman

true, And women's tongues were never made to say what they

might rue ; But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd

forgot, Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or not? Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah ! tomorrow 'll

1 he day ven women's rights a'e settled, then won't we have our

Say ; And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol, For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of

the Poll !

Softly she spake: 'I would that from my stall

Some favour you would buy, that I may gain Tenfold in praise, and beat my rivals all

In making fools of men.'


Outleapt my answer : 'Try me with thy wile :

A crown for that sweet rose!' With polished ease She shook from haughty eyes a languid smile :

Not so; a guinea, please.'


Lighter my purse, as onward, pacing slow,

I turned from right to left in idle quest, Till on me flashed, fair as the sunset glow,

Mrs. Cornwallis West.

Strangely my eyes their wonted functions changed ;

I saw her once again, white-veiled, white-furred, As oft by deft photographers arranged,

A photographic bird

Prest to her lips 'mid counterfeited snow.

Full soon the fancy ceased. I heard a cry Peal from the lips that men have worshipped so :

*Pass quickly on, or buy!'

A labyrinth of beauty, sweet to see!

The proud Guinness, the noted Wheeler-all Our much-belauded London galaxy,

Protecting each a stall.


(From The World, July 23rd, 1879).

Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene,

Painted by Poynter, of the famous bay, Wherein Phæacian maids surround their queen

Nansicaa in play.

Sweet forms, fair faces, everywhere the same;

And many a withered flower and trinket old I purchased recklessly, till joy became

A solemn scorn of gold.

And clearer on my trancèd gaze there grew

The ceiebrated beauties of the town ; Leaping in front, I saw with wonder new

The sexless thing in brown.

The slow day faded in the evening sky

Ere all my petty cash was squandered free. One joy remained. I bade my hansom fly

To visit Connie G.


Those who have read Locksley Hall will greatly appreciate The Lay of the Lovelorn, a parody contained in the Bon Gaultier Ballads of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun.

Tennyson's original poem commences thus :Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early

morn; Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the

bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland fying over Locksley

Hall; Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sub.

lime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN, Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the

chair I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger

beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little



Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing

hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords

with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out

of sight. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately

ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more, O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren

shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have | sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish ton.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunesBless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace

of moons! See! the stars ! how bright they twinkle, winking with a

frosty glare ; Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to

despair. Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, con.

found it ! I must wear the mournful willow,-all around my hat I've

bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could

you ever ? Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a

liver ? Happy! Damme ! Thou shalt lower to his level day by

day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is,-he is stomach-plagued and

old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his

gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,-something less than his

cayenne. What is this ? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh,

no, no,Bless your soul ! it was the salmon,-salmon always makes

him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber-southe him with thy

lightest fancies; i He will understand thee, won't he ?-pay thee with a lover's

glances ?

gue !

Is it well to wish thee happy ? having known me—to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than

mine! Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with

clay. As the husband is the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee

down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its

novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of

youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's

rule. Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the

Better thou wert dead before me—better, better, that I

stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel

Good ! Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and

dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed. Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul

to sin ! Cursed be the want of acres,-doubly cursed the want of


tin !

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