Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.-Virgil. The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the British Museum, bearing the imprint :-"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and "Burking," were not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc. : NOT a trap was heard, or a Charley's note As our course to the churchyard we hurried, As a corse from the grave we unburied. We nibbled it slily at dead of night, The sod with our pick-axes turning, But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed, Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone But half of our snatching job was o'er, When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling, Slily and slowly we laid him down, In our cart famed for staching in story; At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the period : ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE "Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its prototype." Not a moan was heard-not a funeral note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet of parchment they bound him, Few and short were the speeches said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, That the Radical soon would step over our head, But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, When the time came for ending the session, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, Figaro in London, 8th September, 1832. There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay : LINES, (AFTER WOLFE) Written on the threatened Death (on the Floor of the House) of John O'Connell. Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, We looked at hira slily at dead of night, Few and short were the speeches made, And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, 'Twould certainly send us flying. Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him. And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun Slowly and softly they shut the door, After Radical, Whig, and Tory; And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more," Funch, December, 1847. "GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM.” "A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED.” He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note And he felt in a deuce of a flurry. He thought how he'd read at dead of night, By the tallow-can lle's flickering light, No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, Nor did indigestion wound him ; But he said-as the worry was breaking his rest"That Examiner-confound him!"` "What's the odds?" were the words that he said; For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, He cautiously put out his head, and looked down He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone ;' JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. College Rhymes (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864. PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." "Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note, We escorted him home from the scene of dread, "Slowly and sadly we marched him down, These lines appeared in Notes and Queries June 27, 1868, and are said to have been written by Thomas Hood. THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF "GENERAL O'NEILL, who, at the head of the Fenian forces recently invaded Canada, seems to combine, together with his love for Ireland, a certain amount of affection for the ordinary enjoyments of life; for one complaint against him is, that the morning of the attack, when awakened at three o'clock by a captain belonging to his quarters, he merely said, “Áll right!" and fell asleep again. On two subsequent occasions he was awakened with no more practical result, and on being called a fourth time, got up. Even then, however, he declined to proceed at once with the glorious work of liberating Ireland, but said, “He guessed he would wait till breakfast." After breakfast this great patriot advanced at the head of his forces, but being surprised by a party of Canadian Volunteers, who fired upon the Fenians, immediately retired to his quarters, where he was found very comfortably lodged, and was arrested by General Foster, the United States Marshal, for a breach of the neutrality laws.” Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note, He took to his heels without firing a shot, No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast, Not caring a straw what became of the rest, THE MURDER OF "MACBETH." Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell, He murdered him, lengthily, that night, And the sweat on his brow was bleeding. Five different garments enclosed his breast, Though the people might sleep around him. We could only get home to our welcome bed, We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode, That a taste of his tragic genius he owed To our cousins far over the billow. Even there, though his fame before has gone; But little he'll reck, if they let him act on But half the heavy play was o'er When we seized the chance for retiring, And left him grovelling about on the floor, With his friends all madly admiring, Sadly we thought as we went away, From his acting so dreary and gory, The Figaro, 16th October, 1875. This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving in the part of Macbeth. But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the end of the play, which he should have witnessed before condemning the actor. THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN." Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note, As the Bill to the tellers we hurried; So solemn and dread is the midnight vote When a title has to be buried. We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, We strained every nerve to set it afloat, They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul And we knew by the distant and random growl In November, 1879, The Weekly Dispatch (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following: (From a Tory point of view.) Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note, The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night, By Reason's bright returning light, Few indeed were the words we said, But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin fled To inspire us with hope for the morrow. No gaudy star was upon his breast, No ermine cloak was around him, Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest ; We thought, as we left with a silent tread, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, 'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed, THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER. "Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in 'Blue Beard,' at the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems to be impossible." -Daily Paper. NOT a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound, He'd come before to a parlous pass, Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour; And finished him once for ever! It killed and buried him sitting there, His wired gardenia graced his breast, As he sat there sucking his stick with zest, A deep red groove in his puffy throat, That collar's starched edge was flaying; And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote, Were the clocks of his hose displaying. Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place, And his shirt front's wealth of whiteness Made yet more sallow his pasty face, More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness. No thought worth thinking was in his breast, The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him. And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick, They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death, That they next morning, with feverish breath, That their faith in the curried egg might go, Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low, They felt that the power to attention gain And that public contempt would let them remain In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them. And so, when Burnand his task had done, And received a right warm ovation, Of all the Mashers was left not one; And they buried them there, where they first were born. In the mashing garbs that they long had worn- Blithely and gaily they laid them down, Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there; And they carved not a line and they raised not a stoneFor the Mashers were worthy of neither! Truth, March 22, 1883. NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR. (An old story by an Old Bachelor.} (With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's clothing.) I. He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, II. He tried to banish her face from his sight, III. But who'd have thought-ah, even guessedThat after she had caught and bound him; It was to be but a flirting jest, An impartia! joke to sound him. IV. Few and short were the words he had said, V. What was he to do? should he hate her instead? Or wiping away the tears he had shed, VI. Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens ; Only to find his poor heart torn By devotion, which her hard heart hardens. VII. L'ENVOI. The moral of this I hope you won't shun, VIII. Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, And this is the end of my story, And as I don't mean to alter my tone, I drink to all flirts "con amore." From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones & Piggott), |