THE MERMAID. (By a disgusted Tar with a vague recollection of TENNYSON.) I. Who would be A Mermaid dank, Bobbing about In a sort of tank, For the crowd to see At a shilling a head, In doubt if it be Alive or dead? II. I would not be a Mermaid dank, Or a seven-foot slug from the deep blue sea. The Mermaid of fiction was something fine, On a handy rock, 'midst the breezy brine, Without any bother of dress or machine, And likely the wandering tar to beguile, If that Mariner chanced to be anyways green. A sort of shapeless squab sea-lubber, A blundering bulk of leather and blubber, To bestow the Siren's respectable name, Which savours of all that is rare and romantic, On such a preposterous monster as this is, Would simply have frightened the mates of Ulysses. From Punch, July 20th, 1878, in reference to the so-called Mermaid then being exhibited at the Westminster Aquarium. Tennyson's The Peet-was in fourteen verses of four lines each, it commenced thus: "The poet in a golden clime was born, Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of sccrn, He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue, From studio to drawing-room he flung, And mazèd phantasies each morbid mind, Took shallow root, and springing up anew Like to the parent plant in semblance, grew And fitly furnished all abroad to fling Till many minds were lit with borrowed beams Thus trash was multiplied on trash; the world And Licence lifted in that false sunrise Her bold and brazen brow; While Purity before her burning eyes NAY, I cannot come into the garden just now, But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow, I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, As to you-if you like it, of course you can stay ; If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs When you might have been snoring for two or three hours. In 1879 the Editor of The World offered a prize for the best parody on Tennyson's LotusEaters, the chosen subject being" Her Majesty's Ministers at Greenwich." The prize was awarded to C. J. Billson, for the following parody, which appeared in The World, for September 3rd, 1879 THE WHITEBAIT-EATERS. 'COURAGE!' they said, and pointed through the gloom; 'There is a haven in yon fishful clime.' At dinner-time they came into a room, In which it seemed all day dinner-time. Whose menu excellent no tongue might blame; And sweet it was to jest of late affairs, Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er, Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed. Then some one said, 'We shall come here no more!' And all at once they cried, 'No more, indeed! The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead !' CHORIC SONG. Why are we weighed upon with weariness, But yield perpetual jest, Still from one blunder to another thrown : Nor ever pack our tricks, And cease from politics; Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor ; Nor hearken what the moving spirit said, 'Let there be Peace with Honour!' Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead? Let us alone. What pleasure could we have To war with Afghans? But the Chief said 'Fight! Whate'er I do is right.' Yea, interests are hard to reconcile ; 'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle ; We have done neither quite. Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song; O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long. AUGUSTO MENSE POETA. (C. J. Billson.) In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the thoughtless audiences at the music halls, (drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody of A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I read, before I fell into a doze, Some book about old fashions-curious tales Of bye-gone fancies-kirtles and trunk hoseOf hoops, and fardingales— Of medieval milliners, whose taste Preluded our vile fashions of to day- Of powdered heroes of the later days— So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks Till fancy, running riot in my brain, Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT's way; Methought that I was on what's called "a spree," Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer All common sense, votes decency a bore, Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare Shame on the gaping crowds who only know I saw that now, since License holds such sway, And then methought I stood in fairy bowers, Where Art groans under an unseemly ban, And airy nothings pass for full attire, The Stage appeals but to the baser man, And th' only blush, Red Fire! * Then starting I awoke from my nightmare. A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me. I'd dream'd the truth-bare facts (O much too bare!) An Extract from the original Margaret. O, SWEET pale Margaret, Of pensive thought and aspect pale, What can it matter, Margaret, Sang, looking thro' his prison bars? The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? MARY ANN. (After Mr. Tennyson's "Margaret.") O, slipshod Mary Ann, What gives your arms such fearful power gave you strength, your mortal dower, What can it matter, Mary Ann, O, red-armed Mary, you may tell You stand not in such attitudes, As your twin-sister, Mary Jane, Or crimson as the damask rose! ALBANY CLARKE' From The Weekly Dispatch, 25th June, 1882. It is in the strongly marked individuality of some of Tennyson's early poems that we find, at once, the secret of much of his popularity, and the excuse for the vast number of parodies of his works scattered about in nearly all our humorous literature; and three of the early poems have been especially chosen by parodists as models for imitation; these are the " May Queen," "Locksley Hall," and the "Charge of the Light Brigade." In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," by Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun, will be found several parodies of Tennyson, also of Tom Moore, Bulwer Lytton, Mrs. Browning, and Leigh Hunt, of whom parodies are rare. "The Biter Bit" is a kind of burlesque continuation of the "May Queen," the tender pathos of the original being turned into cynical indifference, whilst preserving a great similarity of style and versification. I quote a few verses of the original "Queen o' the May": You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year, Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May." As I came up the valley whom think ye I should see, But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : So you must wake and call me early, call me early mother, dear, To morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year: To morrow 'll be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Here are some verses of Bon Gaultier's imitation :: THE BITER BIT. The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother-I hear the marriage bell: It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell ; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely by his side she clings, she does, the demirep! Good taste had slept so sound, mother, I thought t'would never wake, But the Press, at last, has given it a most decided shake; "Chief Justice May has scandalously prejudged the Land League case, and in common decency he should not be allowed to try it. A fair trial is impossible after the partisanship which in the vilest possible taste this person has displayed. It is not the practice even now in Ireland to hang people first and try them afterwards, and |