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And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
Doth mar thy course, nor dost thou now retain
And kick it from him; the vile nap it bears,
For four and ninepence, he doth all despise, Spurning it from the pavement towards the skies, And sends it shivering in his playful way Into the gutter, where perchance it lies Till, stumbling over it as well he may, He falls beside it; there together let them lay. The Puppet Show, March 25, 1848.
ADDRESS TO A WINE BARREL.
THERE is pleasure in cask of wood,
The vaulted roof above and nothing more!
I love not master less, but more his store,
From these our interviews in which I steal,
From all I may be, or have been before
To mingle two good brews and feel,
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot (hic) all conceal!
From Cribblings from the Poets, by Hugh Cayley. (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)
(By a Commercial Childe Harold.)
I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs;
A factory, a mill on either hand,
I saw from out the wave tall chimneys rise,
And wharves and busy steam-cranes edge the strand,
And palaces to warehouses expand :
A murky air, where sunshine never smiles,
In Venice RUSKIN'S echoes are no more,
Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die
The "Childe Harold " metre is comically reproduced and ridiculed in "Arcades Ambo," where Mr. C. S. Calverley thus addresses the beadles of the Burlington Arcade :
WHY are ye wandering aye 'twixt porch and porch,
The lilac blooms of April-fair to view,
And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.
Yes, ye are beautiful. Joy in your beauty. Their pathway to that
The young street boys Are ye there to bar paradise of toys,
Ribbons, and rings? Who'll blame ye if ye are ? Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar The dim aisle s stillness, where in noon's mid-glow Trip fair-haired girls to boot-shop or bazaar ; Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro
The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow
And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid
Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood
I would not smile at ye-if smile I could,
IN those old days which poets say were golden(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves : And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate,
Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:
And oft, I own, my "wayward fancy roams" Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor "did" her hair by means of long-tailed ccmbs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a year,
Nor-most astonishing of all-drank Beer.
So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt
O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!
And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her
Misguided sons that the best drink was water.
Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;
Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,
Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry
But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? Nay, stout itself-(though good with oysters, very)— Is not a thing your reading man should take. He that would shine, and petrify his tutor Should drink draught Allsop in its "native pewter."
But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear
A soft and silvery sound-I know it well, Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
Precious to me-it is the Dinner Bell.
O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and Beer,
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.
In "The Poetic Mirror, or The Living Bards of Britain," written by James Hogg, there is a poem entitled The Guerilla, written in the Spenserian stanza adopted by Lord Byron in his Childe Harold. As The Guerilla is a serious poem, not a parody, it would be out of place here. It consists of 47 stanzas, and is the first poem in The Poetic Mirror, of which volume a full account will be found on page 96.
A parody, entitled The Last Canto of Childe Harold, by Lamartine, was published in London in 1827, but is now difficult to find.
HE who hath bent him o'er the dead
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
The languor of the placid cheek,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
We start, for soul is wanting there.
That parts not quite with parting breath;
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth!
LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A "CALF'S HEAD" HANGING
UP IN BENE'T STREET.
HE that had gazed upon this head
"Had swept the lines where beauty lingers," Had playful seen in Nature's pride
The offspring at its mother's side
Oh! who could think that tyrant man
E'en now methinks its looks implore,
Tho' fixed in death, tho' stain'd with gore;
The sturdy ox falls in his prime,
And on the butcher's cruel steel,
That selfsame minute-callous sinner!
Impatient eyed each envious cover:
Which, lo disclosed-that Fate should will it ! Calf's head, mock turtle, and a fillet!
What could I do? To end my story,
I acted like a modern Tory;
For after all my long debate
Like him I took the loaves and fishes, And paid my court to all the dishes!
From The Gownsman, (Cambridge) December 31, 1830.
HE that hath bent him o'er a goose,
He who hath bent him o'er the bed
From Beauty and the Beast, by Albert Smith, 1843.
THE BLIND NUISANCE.
HE that don't always bend his head
Not seeing where he means to go,
It breaks the hat from crown to rim.
Receives the blind below his nose;
Sheathes the fierce ledge-point in his eye.
THE NEXT MORNING.
(Desecrated from Byron.)
HE who hath looked with aching head
The last of seeing such a mess
(Before the housemaid's clumsy fingers
The upset trays that plainly speak
So sad the sight that room reveals.
The Puppet Show, April 8, 1848.
(The above lines were reproduced, without the slightest acknowledgment, in the Summer Number of "The Chiel," 1885.)
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.
KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ! Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the Gardens of Gul in her bloom;
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
Grow broad in balconies and glorious in rhyme ! Where the tongue of the news-seller never is mute,
And the orange-stands glow with their yellow cheek'd fruit,
Where the stains of the street and the smoke of the sky And the purple of faces are darkest in dye?
Where statesmen are pure as the papers they sign.
And even the cloth of their coats superfine?
O large as the sigh at a lover's farewell
Are the fees which they take, and the fibs which they tell!
The Theatrical Journal, 1816.
"KNOW ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett
Five to one on Madame 'gainst the world-that's a
This parody proceeded to describe the various members of the Covent Garden Theatre Company.
Punch, Volume 2, 1842.
Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Punch, December 16, 1848, describing the advantages of emigration to Australia :
KNOW'ST thou the land where the kangaroos bound,
INSCRIBED TO AN ALDERMAN.
KNOW ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle
Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell,
FIFTY YEARS AGO.
KNOW ye the town of the turkey and turtle?
Fit emblems of tales that are told in their clime, Where stems of the laurel and leaves of the myrtle
KNOW YE THE HOUSE.
KNOW ye the House where the Whigs and the Tories Are emblems of deeds that are constantly done; Where the prosing of Peel, when in candour he glories, Now sinks into twaddle, now rises to fun? Know ye the house, of the benches all green, Where dozing at night many members are seen; Where the dull words of Borthwick,-the figures of Hume Wax faint, e'en to those whom to gull they assume; Where parties but squabble for place and its fruit, Where the voice of self-interest never is mute; Where the Minister's speech, and opponent's reply, In phrases though varied, in falsehood may vie, And the strongest assertion's the cleverest lie; Where the heads are as soft as the yarns that they spin, And all wish for change save the few that are in! 'Tis the House of the Commons-and Peel is its sun; Can he smile when he thinks how the country is done? Oh! vile as the votes which at Ipswich they sell, Are the measures they pass, and the lies that they tell. Punch, Volume 2, 1842.
THE MAYOR'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS
"SEVERAL hundred lively turtles were thrown overboard a little while ago from a ship bound for Liverpool. The Mayor of that town, who is remarkable for hospitality, has been, ever since the sad event, in a state of fearful despondency. The following touching lament has been heard to issue from his windows at fitful and feverish intervals
KNOW ye the loss of the beautiful turtles,
The emblems of soup, had they lived to this time?
I envy thee, NEPTUNE-for thou art possess'd
REFLECTIONS ON A TEA TABLE.
KNOW ye the land where the hot toast and muffin
Where POMPEY's strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe,
*The last eight lines parody the first eight lines of Zelica's song in Moore's Lalla Rookh.
Where malice produces its bitterest fruit,
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
Punch, December, 1846.
THE FOREIGNER'S LAY OF LONDON.
KNOW ye the town where policemen and navvies,
Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens,
And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute?
THE PRIDE OF LONDON.
KNOW ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer
Now sickens the City, now maddens the Times?
Where the air's fill'd with smells that no nose can define,
'Tis the stream of the Thames ! 'tis the Pride of the Town! Can a nuisance so dear to us e'er be put down?
Oh! fouler than words can in decency tell
Are the sights we see there, and the scents which we smell! Punch, September 11, 1852.
A BYRONIC VALENTINE.
A City Article.
KNOW'ST thou the spot where the venison and turtle Meet best, from the heather and tropical clime;