intended for a harmless pleasantry, has raised a literary controversy of wide dimensions. His verses were copied into serious French journals, and many well-informed foreigners believe the lines to have originated from a French source. Thus M. Octave Delepierre, in his Essai sur la Parodie (Trübner and Co., London, 1870), seems to have been entirely misled by the hoax. He gives part of the French version, and whilst stating that it is not a settled point, which was first written, he does not mention Father Prout's article, and seems entirely ignorant of the fictitious and humorous origin of the French imitation.

Singularly enough, The Atheneum, of July 1, 1871, in reviewing M. Delepierre's work, fell into the same error, and seriously argued against the French claim, forgetting all about Father Prout.

M. Delepierre's statement is (Essai sur la Parodie, p. 163) :-“ Lorsqu'elle fut publiée en 1824, elle parut assez belle pour que le Capitaine Medwin suggérat qu'elle était due à la muse de Byron. Sydney Taylor réfuta cette supposition, et restitua l'ode à son véritable auteur, le Rer. Charles IVolfi."

" Ce n'est pas seulement en Angleterre qu'on a discuté la paternité de cette ode célèbre. On trouve à ce sujet toute une discussion littéraire dans le journal L'Intermédiare des Chercheurs et Curieux, 5e année, page 693, et 6e année, pages 19 et 106.”

“D'après ces détails, il paraîtrait que cette pièce n'est que la traduction d'une ode Française, composée à l'occasion de la mort du Comte de Beaumanoir, tué en 1749, à la défense de Pondichery. L'une de ces deux odes est évidemment une traduction de l'autre; mais quel est l'original ? ”

The following is the note in the Intermediare, ! to which M. Delepierre refers :

the Arundines Devæ (Edinburgh, 1853); there is also a parody of it bythe late Mr. J. H. Dixon, which is highly spoken of, but, up till now, this has eluded the editor's researches.

The Rev. R. H. Barham's well known parody in “ The Ingoldsby Legends” is especially notable for its close imitation of the original; thus not only is the metre closely followed, but nearly all the lines are made to end with similar rhymes to those in the original.

Barham had a good excuse for this comical effusion, in the wish to expose and ridicule the pretensions of a certain soi-disant “ Doctor," a Durhain veterinary surgeon of the name of Marshall, on whose behalf a claim had been made, in 1824, for the authorship of the “ Ode." But this was afterwards said to have been a mere hoax, as this Marshall was more remarkable for convivial, than literary tastes.

NOTE,- In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might have been the production of Lord Byron's muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Rev. Charles Wolle. During the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a soi-disant Doctor Marshall,” who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain “ Doctor Peppercorn" put forth his pretensions to what he averred was the only "true and original” version, viz. :

Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note,

And he looked confoundedly furried, As he bolted away without paying his shot,

And the Landlady aster him hurried.

“The well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore, attributed to the Rev. Charles Wolfe, but never acknowledged by him, are so similar to the above, that it is supposed Mr. Wolfe may have received the French stanzas from his relative, Mr. Wolfe Tone, asier his return from France."

The best answer to which is, that the French have never yet produced a genuine and authentic copy of the original version, of a date earlier than that of Wolfe.

The ode has been translated into German (by the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey); into Latin Elegiacs (by the Rev. J. Hildyard); and there is a Greek translation of it “By a Scottish Physician” in

We saw him again at dead of night,

When home from the Club returning,
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light

Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,

Reclined in the gutter we found him,
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,

With his Marshall cloak around him.
6. The Doctor's as drunk as the d---," we said,

And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh’d at the thought that his head

Would consumedly ache on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,

And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red

Herrings, with soda water.
Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,

And his Lady began to upbraid him ;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on

Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done,

When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun

Of a watchman, “One o'clock,” bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down .

From his room in the uppermost story ;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,

And we left him alone in his glory.
IIos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores. - Virgil.
I wrote the verses, ** claimed them- he told stories.

Thomas Ingrolusly.

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,
Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot

As a corse from the grave we unburied.
We nibbled it slily at dead of night,

The sod with our pick-axes turning,
By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light,

And our lanterns so queerly burning.
Few and short were the words we said,

And we felt not a bit of sorrow,
But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead

And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.
The useless shroud we tore from his breast

And then in regimentals bound him,
And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest,

With his lobster togs around him.
We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed,

Our snatching trick now no look sees ;
But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled,

And we far away towards Brooks's.
Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone

And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him ;
But nothing we care if they leave him alone

In a place where a snatcher has laid him.
But half of our snatching job was o'er,

When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling,
And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar

That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling.
Slily and slowly we laid him down,

In our cart famed for staching in story;
Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown,

For we bolted away in our glory.

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

CONSTITUTION. "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 suneral note,

As his corpse to the devil they hurried,
Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot,

O'er the grave where our idol was buried.
They buried him darkly at dead of night,

With their threats our remonstrance turning,
By the struggling Stephen's misty light,

In the brazen socket burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

In a sheet of parchment they bound him,
And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest,

With schedule A around 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,

And thought of the coming morrow.
We thought as they tumbled him into his bed,

And laid him at rest on his pillow,
That the Radical soon would step over our head,

And we be turned out by the bill--oh !
Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid hin,
But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on,

In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done,

When the time came for ending the session,
And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun,

That the King was now in procession,
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the further defence of the Tory,
We carved not a line on his funeral stone,

But we left him alone in his glory.
Figaro in London, Sth 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 :


(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,

As down on the floor he hurried ;
Not a member offered to lend his coat,

At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly

asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient · constitution of the country would be swept

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He cautiously put out his head, and looked down

From his room in the second story :
He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone;'
He was all alone,-in his glory (?)

JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. College Rhymes (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864.

We looked at him slily at dead of night,

Our backs adroitly turning,
That he might not see us laugh outright

By the lights so brightiy burning.
No useless advice we on him press'd,

Nor in argument we wound him ;
But we left him to lie, and lake his rest,

With his Irish clique around him.
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

He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow. [for dead, We thought, we'll be careful where we tread,

And avoid him where he's lying ; For if we should tumble over his head,

'Twould certainly send us flying. Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone,

Ani p'rhaps for his lolly upbraid him ; But little he'll care, and again try it on,

Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.
But half of us asked, “ What's now to be done?"

When the time arrived for retiring.
And we heard the door-keeper say, “It's no fun

Our attendance to watch him requiring.”
Slowly and softly they shut the door,

After Radical, Whig, and Tory ;
And muttering out, “ We'll stop here no more,"
They left him alone in his glory.

Punch, December, 1847.


“Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note,

As our friend to the bridal we hurried ;
Not a wil discharged his farewell shot,

As the bachelor went to be married.
“ We married him quietly to save his fright,

Our heads from the sad sight turning ;
And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light,

To think he was not more discerning.
“To think that a bachelor free and bright,

And shy of the sex as we found him,
Should there at the altar, at dead of night,

Be caught in the snares that bound him.
“Few and short were the words that we said,

Though of wine and cake partaking;
We escorted him home from the scene of dread,

While his knees were awfully shaking.
“Slowly and sadly we marched him down,

From the first to the lowermost storey ;
And we never have heard or seen the poor man

Whom we left alone in his glory."
These lines appeared in Notes and Queries
June 27, 1868, and are said to have been written
by Thomas Hood.



He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note

Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry,
That, alas! he had no testamur got ;

And he felt in a deuce of a flurry.
Ile thought how he'd read at dead of night,

The page of Herodotus turning,
By the tallow-candle's flickering light,

Or the moderator burning.
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 ;

But he choked not down his sorrow;
For he sadly remembered the hopes that were filed,

And pictured the “ Governor's horror.”
Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed,

And dashed his head down on the pillow,
That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid,

And would quickly be sending his bill, oh! Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone),

"Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him ; But nothing he'll get : I'll be off to Boulogne,"

And he went, out of Britain to shade him. Just after his heavy sleep, each tone,

As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, And he fancied that many a ravenous dun

At the oak was sullenly knocking.


CANADA, “ 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, “ All 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,

As over the border he hurried ;
He took to his heels without firing a shot,

Only looking tremendously furried.
No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast,

As over the ground he jolted ;
Not caring a straw what became of the rest,

He unhesitatingly bolted.


And snug in his quarters, at dead of night,

The Yankee General found him ; His bed all ready, his candle alight,

And bottles of whisky around him.

And when at his door came the clanking and noise, · His courage all sank to zero; For, though at the head of the Fenian “bhoys,"

He wasn't exacıly a hero.

Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell,

Though of both 'twas surely deserving When, cruelly murdered, Macbeth fell

By the hand of the entinent Irving. He murdered him, lengthily, that night,

With his new and original reading. Till his efforts left him in sorry plight,

And the sweat on his brow was bleeding.

When the Britishers find that he really is gone,

In impotent rage they upbraid him;
IC Mr. O'NEILL they had laid hands upon

At that moment, they surely had May'd him !

Few and short were the words they said

They only expressed their sorrow That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed

Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow.

But safe in New York, under FOSTER's convoy,

He has gone to tell his own story; Where “shut up” very much, this broth of a boy Is at present alone in his glory!

Judy, 22nd June, 1870.


By a Good Templar in the Forre. A groan was heard, like a suneral note,

From a toper in mud half-buried, And our Serjeant “Drunk and incapable” wrote,

When his form to the station we hurried.

Five different garments enclosed his breast,

Five brand-new dresses were found him,
Though in never a one did he look at rest,

Though the people might sleep around him.
Many and long were the words he said,

Till we wished in fervent sorrow,
We could only get home to our welcome bed,

And we vowed not to come on the morrow.
We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode,

And made us long for our pillow,
That a taste of his tragic genius he owed

To our cousins far over the billow.
Even there, though his fame before has gone ;

He may find it meit in a minute ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him act on

In a play with a murderer in it.
But half the heavy play was o'er

When we seized ile chance for retiring,
And left him grovelling about on the flour,

With his friends all madly admiring.
Sadly we thought as we went away,

From his acting so dreary and gory,
That the eminent I, if he's wise will not play,
Macbeth any more, is for glory.

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.

We hurried him swistly at dead of night,

And ost with our truncheons spurning, Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light,

Through alley and crooked turning.

In rags and tatters the toper was dressed,

For in poverty drink had bound him. And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest,

With little pigs squeaking around him.

We listed him up, but he sell as one dead,

And we tumbled him into a barrow ; And the idle spectators shouted and said,

“ He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!'


Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er empty bottles upbraid him ; But linte he'll reck, as they let him sleep on

In the cell where the constables laid him.

No curtains had he to his lonely bed,

And a rough deal plank was his pillow; Ile will wake with parched throat and an aching head,

And thirst that would drink up a billow.

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,

To make it a question burning ;
We strained every nerve to set it alloat,

The hate of all Englishmen earning.
They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul

(There's much of it still adhering), And we knew by the distant and random growl

That the foe was sullenly sneering.

Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down,

That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary,
And wished that the dissolute youth of the town
A warning might take from his story.

Funny Folks.

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With a “ brilliant” lie we bedecked its breast,

In a “cloak of deceit” we wound it, So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest,

With its weapons all around it.

In November, 1879, The IVeekly 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:

Brief and stern was the service said,

In its own peculiar lingo) ; By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read

From the gospel according to Jingo.

Lighuy we'll speak of the Ministry gone.

Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it, We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on

In the dishonoured past where we've laid it.

The Editor added the following remarks :

“ Among the numerous parodies of “The Burial of Sir John Moore' there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably vigorous verses. One competitor, for in. stance, treating Jingo as a personality, says :

No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast,

Nor in cerement white we bound him ; But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest,

With a pool of that liquid around him.'

(From a Tory point of view.) Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note,

As away from the House we all scurriedNot a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot,

The grave where our hopes were buried. We buried them sadly and deep that night,

For we had no hope of returning, By Reason's bright returning light,

And our hearts were sadly yearning. Few indeed were the words we said,

But though sew they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin tled

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;

And he smiled at us all, confound him ! We thought, as we left with a silent tread,

of Cross and his dreadful Water, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead,

And we far away from that quarter.
Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone,

And of course they've a right to abuse us ;
But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on

In our places and wouldn't refuse us.

Another winds up thus :

“Smiling and gladly we toppled him down,

That image of humbug so gory;
We wrote but one line — * Here, under this stone,

Lies bombast, false glitter, and glory.''

And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy :

“He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed,

And pommelled bis lonely pillow,
He was pitching away into Gladstone's head;

And his sury was like the billow.'"

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