And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers,
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone-but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade-but nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.


Doth mar thy course, nor dost thou now retain
One sign of human reason save alone,
When for a moment with thy might and main
Thou cling'st unto some lamp-post with a groan,
Without a hat, and luckily, unseen, unknown.
His steps shake on the path-the hat he wears
Is but a sport for him-he doth arise,

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.

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(By a Poetical Butler.)

THERE is pleasure in cask of wood,
There is a rapture on a stony floor,
There is society where none intrude,

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,
As black as Bradford. This was once the land
Where poets sang its countless marble piles,
And RUSKIN wrote and revelled in its sunny isles!

In Venice RUSKIN'S echoes are no more,
And steam has stopped the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crammed with goods galore,
And barcarolles no longer meet the ear;
Those days are past-but Enterprise is here.

Shares fall, Stocks fade, but Commerce doth not die
But reckons dodges more than Doges dear,
And gain above artistic sanctity;
Accounting best on earth, the Trade of Italy.
Punch, December 9, 1882.

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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,
Thou and thy fellow-when the pale stars fade
At dawn, and when the glow-worm lights her torch,
O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?
--Who asketh why the Beautiful was made?
A wan cloud drifting o'er the waste of blue,
The thistledown that floats above the glade,

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
Before me, robed in broadcloth and brocade,
And all the nameless grace of Beadle-hood!

I would not smile at ye-if smile I could,

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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,
Who talk to me "in language quaint and olden"
Of gods and demigods, and fawns and elves,
Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds :)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born,
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,

No fashions varying as the hues of morn.

Just as they pleased they dressed, and drank, and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn),
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were, no doubt, extremely incorrect.

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
Has always struck me as extremely curious.
The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,
That they should stick to liquors so injurious-
(Wine, Water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt)—
And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,
And artful beverage Beer. How the digestion
Got on without it, is a startling question.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!
Names that should be on every infant's tongue!
Shall days, and months, and years, and centuries pass,
And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,

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;
Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:
When "Dulce est desipere in loco"

Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
When a rapt audience has encored "Fra Poco
Or "Casta Diva," I have heard that then
The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,
Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

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,
Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
Seared is, of course, my heart-but unsubdued

Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

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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
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers,

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,
The first, last look by death reveal'd!

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Such is the aspect of this shore;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair.

We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

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!




HE that had gazed upon this head
Ere yet the spark of life was fled,
Before the butcher's cursed fingers

"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
Could e'er curtail its narrow span-
In fetters drag it helpless thence,
And slay it in its innocence !

E'en now methinks its looks implore,

Tho' fixed in death, tho' stain'd with gore;
"And but for that sad shrouded eye,"
That gives the rising thought the lie,
One yet might think it breath'd with life,
And gaz'd upon the threat'ning knife!

The sturdy ox falls in his prime,
The sheep is happy for a time,
This only feels man's ceaseless hate ;-
I mused-and pond'ring o'er its fate,

And on the butcher's cruel steel,
I vow'd I'd never eat of veal!
Alas! our best resolves are vain,
Repentance leads to sin again !

That selfsame minute-callous sinner!
I hastened to my friend and dinner;
And, as a mistress at her lover,

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
On justice, cruelty and fate.

Like him I took the loaves and fishes, And paid my court to all the dishes!


From The Gownsman, (Cambridge) December 31, 1830.
Another Parody appeared in The Gossip (London,)
June 9, 1821, commencing :

HE that hath bent him o'er a goose,
When the first slice of breast is loose-
The first prime slice for tenderness,
The last for grateful savouriness;
(Before the glutton's eager fingers
Have swept the dish where gravy lingers)
And mark'd the brown inviting air,
The harvest of fine cuts that's there,
The firm yet greasy lumps that deck
The roundness of its luscious neck.

He who hath bent him o'er the bed
On which some dreamer rests his head,
Before the housemaid's tapping fingers
Disturb the room where slumber lingers,
May possibly have pondered o'er
The fitful start and vacant snore;
And wondered, as his vision caught
The working of the slumberer's thought,
How different a turn 'twould take
When he should be once more awake.

From Beauty and the Beast, by Albert Smith, 1843.


HE that don't always bend his head
When London streets he fain would tread,
But with a mild and stately air,
From left to right doth idly stare,
Or looking round him, slightly lingers,
Twirling his guard-chain round his fingers,
Will, as he gives a look behind,

Not seeing where he means to go,
Receive from a tremendous blind,
An almost stupifying blow.
So darkly low, so lowly dim,

It breaks the hat from crown to rim.
The taller victim as he goes,

Receives the blind below his nose;
While the less loftier passer-by,

Sheathes the fierce ledge-point in his eye.
A cry of vengeance fills the air-
'Tis vain, police are wanting there.

Punch, 1847.


(Desecrated from Byron.)

HE who hath looked with aching head
Where pipes and glasses still are spread,
In the first hour of seediness,

The last of seeing such a mess

(Before the housemaid's clumsy fingers
Have swept the rooms where smoke still lingers)
And marked the rank unwholesome air,
The evidence of gin that's there,

The upset trays that plainly speak
Of what has caused that pallid cheek;
And but for that strong stale cheroot
Which sickens now his very soul,
And but for that half-empty bowl,
Where sugar, limes, and rum to boot,
Appal the seedy gazers heart,
As if they ne'er had formed a part
Of what he'd lavished praise upon-
Yes, but for these, and these alone
Some moments, aye, till office hour,
He still might doubt false whiskey's power.
But no, to bed he faintly reels,

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.)


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 citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:

Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,

In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

'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.


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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
Are sparkling and bright as the pieces they act,
Where the wretch who wants money may safely make
this bet

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,
And the queer looking ornithorhynci are found?
The land of the south, that lies under our feet,
Deficient in mouths, overburdened with meat,
Know'st thou that land, JOHN BULL, my friend?
Thither, oh thither, poor people should wend !
(Four verses omitted.)


KNOW ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle
Is bestowed on good livers in eating sublime?
Where the rage for fat ven'son and love of the turtle
Preside o'er the realms of an epicure clime?
Know ye the land where the juice of the vine
Makes Aldermen learned, and Bishops divine?
Where each Corporation, deep flushed with its bloom,
Waxes fat o'er the eyes of the claret's perfume?
Thick spread is the table with choicest of fruit,
And the voice of the reveller never is mute:
Their rich robes, though varied, in beauty may vie.
Yet the purple of BACCHUS is deepest in dye :—
'Tis the clime of the East-the return of the sun
Looks down on the deeds which his children have
done :

Then wild is the note, and discordant the yell,
When, reeling and staggering, they hiccup -Farewell.
From Hone's Year Book, Vol. I., p. 1337-38.


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 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.

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"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?
Oh bind up my brows with the leaves of some myrtles,
Let me mourn for the loss of a feast so sublime.
Did they do it from fear?-did they do it in fun?
Sure no one could smile at the mischief they've done.
Had shipwreck been threaten'd, and had it been known,
That everything must have been overboard thrown.
Though the whole of the freight in the ocean were cast,
The turtles should always be kept till the last.
Oh, had I been there in that terrible hour,
As Mayor I'd at once have exerted my power,
And made the most active endeavours to save
The turtle alive, from a watery grave,

I envy thee, NEPTUNE-for thou art possess'd
Of a treasure by which I had hoped to be blessed;
I'm almost disposed to make one of thy group,
And drown myself, just to come in for the soup."
Punch, 1846.


KNOW ye the land where the hot toast and muffin
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their spheres ;
Where scandalous stories and hints about nuffin,
Now melt into whispers, now rise into sneers?
Know ye the land where the liquids and cake
Their circumvolutions consecutive make;

Where POMPEY's strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe,
And the air waxes faint with the scent of the sloe;

*The last eight lines parody the first eight lines of Zelica's song in Moore's Lalla Rookh.

Where malice produces its bitterest fruit,
And the voice of detraction can never be mute;
Where the tints of the story, the shades of the lie
In number though varied, in falsehood may vie,
And the venom of scandal is deepest in dye;
Where virgins of fifty strange ringlets entwine,
In the fond misconception of looking divine?
'Tis the land of the teapot, the realm of the tray.
Can we smile when we know what their votaries say?
Oh! false as the curls of their ancientest belle,

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Punch, December, 1846.


KNOW ye the town where policemen and navvies,
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime!
Where the noise of the clocks, and the cries of the tabbies,
E'er rouse you to madness o'er roofs as they climb ?
Know ye that Smithfield, abounding in kine,
Where the dirt ever blossoms, and beams never shine?
Know ye the land where their coffee is beans?

Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens,
Where they polish their apples and all other fruit,

And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute?
Where the tints of your nose and the chimney-pot high,
In colour not varied with blackness may vie,
And the soot that falls on you is deepest in dye?
'Tis the town of the North, and of great Exhibitions,
Of pick pockets, thieves, and of base impositions !
Can you smile as you ride and you know all the while,
That the cabman will charge you five shillings a mile?
Oh, false as the bills of an actor's "farewell,'
Are the hearts that they bear, and the lies that they tell.
The Month, by Albert Smith and John Leech, October,


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KNOW ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer
Are emptied of all their foul slushes and slimes,
Where the feculent tide of rich liquid manure

Now sickens the City, now maddens the Times?
Know ye the filth of that great open sink,
Which no filter can sweeten, no "navvy" can drink;
Where in boats overcrowded the Cockney is borne
To the mud-bounded gardens of joyous Cremorne ;
Where the gas-works rain down the blackest of soot,
And the oath of the coal-whipper never is mute :
Where the liquified mud, which as "water" we buy,
With the richest of pea-soup in colour may vie,
And deodorisation completely defy;

Where the air's fill'd with smells that no nose can define,
And the banks teem prolific with corpses canine?

'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 City Article.

KNOW'ST thou the spot where the venison and turtle Meet best, from the heather and tropical clime;

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