In this sight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,

Written in the Doomsday Book.

He thought of the good he might have done

For love and charity;
And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud

A word that begon with a “d!”
He started and woke--and exceedingly riled,
Rang the bell for a Soda and B.

How did he feel as he took out his watch,

And consulted the time of day?
Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep?

I hope for my sake he may !
And I think the moral did reach its goal,

For he's got quite stingy they say.
From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones and Piggott,
Cambridge, 1883).

Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures

By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, “Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal.

Mingling with the common dust.
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.



INTO the Silent Land !
Ah! who shall lead us thither ?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand,
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, O thither,
Into the Silent Land ?



( After Longfellow and Salis.)
Into the Irish Land !
Ah ! who shall lead us thither ?
Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather,
And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand.
Who leads us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Irish Land ?
O Land ! O Land !
For which poor Pat hath plotted,
GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted,
Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand,
To lead us with a friendly hand
Into the Land whence we've long been parted,
Into the Irish Land !

Punch, August 13, 1881.


A Lay of Berlin.
(After Professor Shortfellow.)
In his chamber, mine adjoining,
Was the German Baron dining.
Loud his voice with passion thundered,

And with sear the kellner shook.
As I listened it was plainer
That he bullied this retainer,
Forasmuch as he had blundered ;

Or it might have been the cook.
Just outside, upon the Linden,
On an instrument (a wind 'un)
Played a minstrel most demurely,

Dismal as the parish waits.
And so loud he kept on getting,
While his frau stood by him, knitting,
That I thought, “ The Baron, surely,

Will demolish all the plates."
“Spare a groschen, princely stranger !
May you never be in danger
Of the want of means to spare 'un,

Or a couple, if so be.”
Then the minstrel went on playing,
Not a single word more saying ;

And exclaimed the shuddering Baron,

Miserere Domine !"
Tears upon his eyelids glistened
While in agony he listened
To the instrument (a wind ’un)

Which the minstrel he did play.
Then unto the kellner ready,
"Take this double thaler," said he,
To the minstrel of the Linden,

Begging him to go away."
In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld with double vision
All the sins he had committed,

And he said in accents thick

In Punch of October 21, 1882, there was another parody of this poem, entitled “ Song of the Oyster Land,” by a Longing Fellow, commencing

“ Into the Oyster Land !
Ah ! Who shall lead us thither?

THE NORMAN BARON. In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying ; Loud without the tempest Thundered,

And the castle-turret shook.

To the kellner, “ Loo' here, kellner,

You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner ;
I'm a felner to be pitied ;

I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic.
“Can you feel for one in sorrow ?
I shall make my will to-morrow;
I shall leave you all my money,

Every single thing that's mine.
Watch-repeater ; ring-carbuncle ;
Kellner you're my long-lost uncle.
Just discovered this-how funny !

Fesh another bolowine.”
Many hours the clock has numbered
Since the German Baron slumbered ;
And his boots are at the portal

Or his ehamber, free from dust ;
And an instrument (a wind 'un)
Sounds again upon the Linden,
Waking that unhappy mortal
From the snorings of the just.

Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1871.


(A Long Way After a Longfellow.) Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures !

Not hymned alone in summer-time

With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme, Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern

measures ! Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who “put on "

Their three half-crowns for Insulaire,

Or intimate Sir Joseph's “square." Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week-as if I cared a button ! Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy.

We laugh until the dread bell rings,

But oh, the aches to-morrow brings, And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the

Monday! The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories :

It's ready when their horse comes in,

But somewhat muddled when you win. The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in

point of stories ! So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs,

In ending in too cheerful nights,

Headaches and debts, green veils and fights, And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers.

Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.

Longfellow's ballad, The Skeleton in Armour commences thus :

“ SPEAK ! speak! thou fearful guest !
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me !
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?” its metre was admirably imitated by the late C. S. Calverley, in his

Thou who, when sears attack
Bidst them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back,

Perching, unseatest;
Sweet when the morn is grey ;
Sweet when they've cleared away
Lunch, and at close of day

Possibly sweetest.
I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know are told,

Not to thy credit.

The following are parodies of the “ Saga of King Olaf,” contained in Longfellow's “Tales of a Wayside Inn":


(A Longfellow Cut Short.)
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft,
In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft ;
She held in her hand a ring of gold
That was brought to her by a henchman old.
King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift;
But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift,
She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain,
Who smiled as they handed it back again.
Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way,
Asked, “Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray ?”
They answered, “Queen, if the truth be told,
The ring is Brummagem—'t isn't gold !"
The colour flushed over forehead and cheek,
She simply stamped--but she did not speak.
A footstep rang on the outer stair,
And in strode Olaf with royal air.
He kissed her hand, and he whispered love,
And (just for the rhyme) he murmured “Dove ! ”
She smiled with contempt as she said “Oh, king !
Step it—and get five bob on that ring!"
The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom,
He swore as he sirode about the room.

Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco juice ;
Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?
We're not as tabbies are :
Smith take a fresh cigar !
Jones, the tobacco jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon !
From C. S. Calverley's Verses and Translations (George
Bell and Sons).

She raised her brows and looked at the King-
To swear before ladies is not the thing !"
“Why should I wed thee,” he cried, “old maid ?
A faded beauty, a heathen jade !"
He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp,
And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp.
They placed the King in a dungeon vault,
Because he was guilty of an assault,
With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns
They slowly starved him, those savage ones,
And his only drink was Petroleum-
And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Kum !

Smote on the Acme steel,
Smote with a mighty stroke,
Smote it and broke it up
Into small Ainderkins,
Banged it and smashed it up
Into smithereens.
Shocked, then I left him there,
Grumbling at Thor !

Punch's Almanack, 1834.


Another long parody of the same original was contained in Punch, September 20, 1879. It was entitled “A Modern Saga," and consisted of nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's travels and discoveries concerning the NorthEast passage.

THE SAGA OF THE SKATERMAN, Down by the Serpentine, Found I the SkatermanFound him a-wiping his Eyes with his ulster-sleeve, Eyes full of scalding tears, Red with much blubbering. Red was his nose likewise Deeply I pitied him. Cheer up, O Skaterman ! Never say die !" says I. Cheer up, my hearty!"-SO Tried I to comfort him, Slapping his back, whereby Coughed he like anything, Forth went my heart to him, Lent him my wipe, I did, Dried his poor nose and eyes, Sitting aside of him Holding his hand. Hark to the Skald !" I says, “ Tell him what's up with thee; Thor of the Hammer will Come to thine aid !" Then spake the Skaterman, Rumbling with muttered oaths Deep in his diaphragm, Grumbling at Thor : “Blow Thaw and Scald !'' he cried ; “Blow heverythink !" he cried, Salt tears a-rolling down Alongside his nose. “See these here . Hacmes,' Sir, New from the Store they are, Never been used afore, Twelve-and-six thrown away! Friga the Frigid came, Friga, great Odin's wife, Bound up the river-gods, Laid out an icy floor Mete for the Skaterman. Then I began to hoard. Weekly and weekly hoard, All of my saving to Buy these here thingsCame Thaw, the thunder-god, Brake up the Ice-bound streamTwelve-and-six thrown away, That's what's the matter, SirThaw, he be blowed !" Then, with a wild shriek, he Upped with his knobby stick,

It is now a good many years since a wellknown American author, Mr. Bayard Taylor, produced a clever little book, entitled “Diversions of the Echo Club." The late Mr. John Camden Hotten published it in London, and it has since gone through several editions. The scheme of the book is thus given by the author :-“In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lager. beer cellar and restaurant-which everyone knows, is but a block from the central part of Broadway—there is a small room, with a vaulted ceiling, which Karl calls his Löwengrube, or Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days, Zoïlus and the Gannet had been accustomed to meet, discuss literary projects, and read fragments of manuscript to each other. The Chorus, the Ancient and young Galahad gradually fell into the same habit, and thus a little circle of six, seven, or eight members came to be formed. The room could comfortably contain no more : it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to the Ancient, who had been in Leipzig. '.

Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers were talked about; sometimes a manuscript poem was read by its writer; while mild potations of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars delayed the nervous, fidgetty, clattering-footed American Hours. The character which the society assumed for a short time was purely accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was present at the first meeting, and, of course, I never failed afterwards. The four authors who furnished our entertainment were not aware that I had written down, from memory, the substance of the conversations, until our evenings came to an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtaining their permission to publish my reports.''

These so-called “Reports” describe the pro. ceedings at eight meetings of the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly amusing.

The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne; R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman ; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier; Oliver Wendell Holmes ; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors.

Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works are alınost unknown to English readers.

Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine

trees, Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and

Brigham. Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the

Good Time Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it, -the Kingdom of

Zion. Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit, Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of

Nauvoo. All is past ; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake. Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer, Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten

pins, Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and

the julep, Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: Also-for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral -Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is

patient. Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to

suffer ! Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present ! Bear a banner of strange devices, “Forever" and “Never !" Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, So that thy brethren may see it and say, “Go thou and do likewise !"

This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that “it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic verse is much more practicable.”

The Gannet hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains

—not of those which are so well known and so much quoted—which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval produces

On the Fifth night Zoilus draws Longfellow, and his comrades caution him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following imitation of Longfellow's hexameters :

Nauvoo. This is the place : be still for a while, my high-pressure

steamboat ! Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their

temple. Much" have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient

religions, Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums, Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion, Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at

Newport, Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipe.

stone, Also the inyths of the Zulus whose questions converted

Colenso, So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo.

Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who

succeeded, Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and

ephod, Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pome

granates, That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of

fancy. Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho, Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive, Great were the gain to the pictured, Aashing speech of the


The SEWING-MACHINE. A strange vibration from the cottage window

My vagrant steps delayed, And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo,

I paused beneath the shade.
What is, I said, this unremitting humming,
· Louder than bees in spring ?
As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming,

Shed from Sandalphon's wing.
Is this the sound of unimpeded labour,

That now usurpeth play?
Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor,

Ghittern and virelay ?
Or, is it yearning for a higher vision,

By spiritual hearing heard ?
Nearer I drew, to listen with precision,

Detecting not a word.

Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do,

Myself the while unseen,
I marked a maiden seated by the window,

Sewing with a machine.

Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle,

Her gentle hand the seam :
My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle

Those shirts, as in a dream !

Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar

Some imperceptible taste ; The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar,

By beauty is embraced.

O fairer aspect of the common mission !

Only the Poet sees The true significance, the high position

Of such small things as these.

Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges,

Deform the maiden's hand ;
Her implement its soft sonata merges

In songs of sea and land.

Where, enthroned above the table,
Sadly sits and broods the Speaker."

Should you ask me why he sits there?
I should answer, I should tell you,
“'Tis because the people will it ;
'Tis because they send up members
Who will talk for moons together;
Nought accomplishing, yet spouting,
Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha,
Weak and watery stuff for ever."

If still further you should ask me,
Saying “ But what do these members,
And the many like unto them,
In the House of Talkee-Talkee ?”

I should answer your enquiry
Straightway in such words as follow :-
“Much they love to hear their voices
Talking rubbish at all seasons :
Many 'mongst them seize all chances
For the riding of their hobbies ;
Ride them late and ride them early,
Ride them through the Standing Orders;
Ride them without bit or bridle,
Knowing not, nor caring whither.”

And if once again you query, Saying, “Is this all they do there?”

I should answer your fresh query,
I should meet your new conundrum
Right away in some such fashion
As the following, for instance,
I should tell you, “There are many
Who will bide their time with patience,
Knowing that to them by waiting
Will come all the things they long for.
That M. P. means ost More Power ;
That 'twill bring them briefs and clients,
Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen,
Knight them, maybe, in the future ;
Or ennoble them if only
They will spend their money freely
For the party they belong to."

If you really had the conscience
To make any more enquiries,
I would answer, I should tell you
Not to ask more leading questions,
But to wait and read these columns.
In these records find your answers,
In these lines replies discover;

And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton,

Blent with her rhythmic tread, Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten,

And troubadours are dead.

It may be said of “ Diversions of the Echo Club" (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus), that whilst many of the parodies are amusing, none are either vulgar or ill-natured; the criticisms on the various poets are generally just, thoughtful, and keenly perceptive.

Before leaving Longfellow there are two amusing imitations of Hiawatha to be quoted; Unfortunately, the very clever Song of Big Ben is too long to quote in full, but it is easily accessible :-



SHOULD you ask me why these columns
Filled with words of many speakers-
Why this record of their doings,
With their frequent repetitions,
Their inane deliberations,
And their aggravating dulness?

I should answer, I should tell you,
“That I write them as I hear them,
As I hear, and as I see them ;
That the world may learn what happens
In the painted, gilded chamber,
In the chapel of St. Stephen's,
At the House of Talkee-Talkee,
Where, upon the woolsack, patient,
Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed,

To the gilded, painted chamber Of the House of Talkee-Talkee, Comes a crowd of various people, Comes a flock of noble ladies, Painted most, and all decolletees ; Come the Bishops and the Judges, Gravely taking up their places ; Clad in their state robes, the Judges, Like to agéd washerwoman ; In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, Fussy, like the hen that cackles Over new-laid egg or chicken ; Come diplomatists by dozens, Blazing with their numerous orders, Which they gladly take, like bagmen ; Come with their vermilion buttons And their petticoats of satin,

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