THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw;

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay-stay with us!-rest, thou art weary and worn!" (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE BOAT RACE,

"Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis.”

WE had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired;
Our starter intent on his watch set his eye;

On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired,
The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try.

The last gun was fired, we are off and away,

With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat's track; 'Twas pumping-my knees, too, got in my way, And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back.

The flush of exertion broke out on my face,
And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain,
And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race,
And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again.

Put it on-well-rowed all-now you're gaining-full oft
I heard on the bank from many a tonguê,
And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft
From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung.
Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more,
Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart,
Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore,

To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart.
Easy all! 'Tis a bump! 'Tis a bump, I'll be sworn!
I was glad, for my back had begun to give way.
Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne,
And our boat became head of the river that day.
From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and
Hall, London, 1874.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

(After T. CAMPBELL, by A. CAMP-BEAU)

WE were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured,
And the sentinels' throats were the only things dry;
And under their tents Chobham's heroes had cowered,
The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh.

While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,
With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain-
After one glass of grog, cold without-that was all-
I'd a dream, which I hope I shall ne'er have again.
Methought froin damp Chobham's mock-battle array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
'Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.

I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,
I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft,

And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT'S orchestra flung.
She was there-I would "pop"- and a guardsman no more,
From my sweet little partner for life ne'er would part,
When sudden I saw-just conceive what a bore-
A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart!
"Out of sight, out of mind!" It was not to be borne-
To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away—
When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn
Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day.
Punch, July 9, 1853.

THE TORY PREMIER'S DREAM.

OUR leaders sang truce-for the session had lowered,
And a cloud had come o'er the political sky;
And the Parliamert sank on the ground over-powered,
The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry.

After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw
With the vote-guarding "faggot" still haunting my
brain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e'er the cock crew I dreamed it again.

Methought from the Polling-booth's dreadful array
Triumphant I rose, for of votes I'd no lack.
'Twas delightful to hear all constituents say.
"We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!"

I flew to the policy traversed so oft,

The secrecy whence my "surprises" have sprung; My motto, Imperium," floated aloft,

And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung.
Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore
From our spirited policy never to part;
The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o'er,
And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest till an Empire is born;
And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay ;
But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn,
And all my majority melted away.

Funny Folks, April 17 1880.

'Twas night-a damp-dark-misty-murky night,
Scarce thro' the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp's light,
When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor's name,
A crowd of carriages and chariots came,
Stopping in turns, successively before
A mansion's wide and double-knockered

door;

And there was heard the carriage door's quick slam,Anon a halt- and then a sudden jam

Of poles retrorsally thro' chariots driven,

And shrieks of "Coachman! -Thomas! John! -oh
Heaven!"

At length, in safety's reached the drawing room,
Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume,
Floating and shining o'er neck, head, and ears,*
Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav'nly spheres
From the high roof where gold and azure blended,
In hues designed to typify the sky,
Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended
In colours each of too resplendent aye
For human art with one of them to vie.
Oh! 'twas a scene too dazzling to the sight-
Too grandly gay-too beautifully bright!

And now the music and the dance began,

The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan ;

And oft between the pauses of each dance,

To lull the listener to a dreamy trance,

Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed,

To which a voice responsive accents breathed,

Filling with such sweet harmony the air,

It seemed an angel had been wafted there !

But who is he of foreign garb and air,
That roams about with sentimental stare?
No common personage; his star-lit breast
Bespeaks him noble-little boots the rest;
Russian he is, a rich ambassador,
And oh !-propitious fact! a batchelor!
A faded heiress looks on him intent;
But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,-

And such another! who her charms can paint?
Description waxes in the effort faint;

Pure as an infant in its first repose-
Mild as a summer evening at its close-
Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,-
Meek as the lily-tender as the vine-
Chaste as the Vestal,-modest as the ray,
Which the sun leaves for night to scare away!
These, and a thousand other charms, to boot
Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute!
Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began,
And partners briskly to their stations ran;

Now thought the amorous Ambassador,

Now let me dance-yes, now, or never more!
With this he rushed to where his loved one stood,
Asked her to dance-sweet girl!-she said she would;
Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed,

And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;

Too fatal speed! the floor's vanished chalk

Which pairs, more careful, step o'er in a walk,

Arrests not them too fond to look below,

Till down they suddenly together go!

Smile not, ye fools!-the fair one's head is broke!

They raised her up, but never more she spoke !
Ah well with anguish may her partner start,

For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart! The Comic Magazine, 1834.

*Campbell has, in his Gertrude of Wyoming, "All gladness to the heart, nerve, ear and sight."

The Wizard

LOCHIEL'S WARNING

LOCHIEL! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate,
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave!

Lochiel

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

The Wizard

Ah! laughs't thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest!
Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan's dark river
Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever,
And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells
Of an envoy's foul slaughter exultingly tells.
Oll Year-

Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power
Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer ;
Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead,

And back from your borders the Russian I've sped;
And no brighter pages can valour display.

John Bull

Old Year, Old Year, I'm glad of the day

From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight
Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night;
Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm ;
Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine's alarm;
While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain
Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain.
With Sedition's loud cry, have our annals been
shamed,

With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed,
With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press
To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress,
While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low-
Old Year-

False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go:

All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed;

I have soothed the war-passions my brothers be-
queathed;

If want and Disaster have marched by my hand,
They have knit class to class, and endeared land to
land;

And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine
At the trials you have passed through in'Seventy-nine.
ZIEGELSTEIN. (Goymour Cuthbert).

Chief

Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer! If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear, Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke's Drift, and Ekowe Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe. Wizard

Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side?

Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride.

Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies! And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies.

Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood,

And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood,

fight.

They guide us, they lead e'en their country and
Queen-

Accursed be the puppets that trespass between!
Poor Salisbury's bunkum and muddling are vain,
And the "shut up committee " is baffled, 'tis plain.
For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling
words-

What voice of the people defies the great Lords?
'Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await
That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State,
A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there,
But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair.
Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend;
Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end.
For this triumphant army the Lords can't withstand,
The Lords-whose foundations fast sink in the sand.

The following Parody was also printed :--

O CECIL! O Cecil! beware of the day
When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array;
When the people's stern will rushes on in its might,
And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight,
Their standard shows ever "
For kingdom and crown,"
Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,
Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,
While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain.
But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,

The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:—

O, SALISBURY, Salisbury, beware of the day
When the people shall meet thee in hostile array!
For what can it end in excepting thy flight?
Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight,
It is not a contest 'twixt people and crown,

And woe to the lords who would trample them down!
Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain,
And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain.

And hark! 'mid the mutt'rings of those you would
dare,

What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air?
'Tis "Down with the Lords!" and, though Gladstone
deplores,

The people in anger will surge at your doors.
Then take Gladstone's warning, your error repair,
Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and
despair;

Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late,
And you and your lords meet a merited fate!

GLADSTONE'S WARNING.

ALBERT OTLEY.

(Nothing to do with Lochiel's Warning.)

O TORIES! O Tories! beware of the day
When my legions shall meet you in battle array!
For the state of the poll in a vision I trace,
With a name at the top, and a name at the base;
Ye rally and cry: "For ourselves and the Crown!
And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down.
Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor,
That he works for them now-though he did not before.
But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air,
Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair?
'Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late,
The country has snubbed him, and-shown him the gate!
Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain,
O weep!-can ye hope to deceive them again?
They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and
smart,

That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart!

The Judge, November 28, 1885.

:0:

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it "Alteration of the old ballad 'Ye Gentlemen of England' composed on the prospect of a Russian War;" it was published early in 1801, in the Naval Chronicle, with the line "Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell," instead of "Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,"

this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the "Revenge" against the Spanish Armada.

After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line

"Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell."

The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell, had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL Ode.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas:

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle, and the breeze!

YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.

YE kite-flyers of Scotland,

Who live from home at ease;

Who raise the wind, from year to year,

In a long and strong trade breeze :

Your paper-kites let loose again

On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout

Lay the English ragmen low;

Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall peep from every leaf;

For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.
Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,

That a way to convey

Better far than their's you know,

When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags

And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way

Is by promising to owe,

By making promises to pay

When she only means to owe.

The meteor rag of Scotland

Shall float aloft like scum,

Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:

Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,

Your hone-a-rie must flow,

While you drink your own ink

With your old friend Nick below,

While you burn your bills and singe your quills

In his bonny fire below.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

The above parody is one of a series entitled Paper Money Lyrics, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate ; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance,

CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS.

(On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England.)

MARCH, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale,
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vanity you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,

Bidding you vanish from dairy and "lauder"
Dogs you have had your day,

Down tail and slink away;

You'll pick no more bones on this side of the border. Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;

Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law; Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle, Crying, De'il tak the hindmost" and "Charlie's awa'."

COMIC SONGS FOR YOUNG LADIES.

YOUNG gentlemen of England,
That only mind your ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
Young ladies try to please!
Give ear unto the Milliners,
And they will plainly show
How the waist must be laced,
By the Fashion-books to go.

She who'd attract attention

Must laugh at common sense,
For when one goes to choose a dress,
One mustn't mind expense;

Nor think how Pa will scold one,
Whene'er he comes to know
How he's let into debt,

By the Fashion-books to go.
What terrible privations

Young ladies must endure,
A lovely face and form of grace
From damage to secure!
Their appetites they must control,
Lest they too stout should grow,
And in vain strive and strain
By the Fashion-books to go.
In days of bitter weather,
Which winter doth enforce,
One cannot think of such a thing
As good thick boots, of course;
With instep undefended,

In rain, and hail, and snow,
All so bold one gets cold,
By the Fashion-books to go.

Punch, December 14, 1844.

YE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.
(Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk.)
YE Peasantry of England,

Who till our fertile leas,
How little do ye think a man
May live on, if he please?
Your weekly wages, it is plain,
As far again would go,
And keep you so cheap,

(For Norfolk's Duke says so)

If, when hunger rages fierce and strong,
To curry you would go,

This powder, hungry fathers,
From all expense will save;
For if your children eat thereof,
No other food they'll crave;
And any time that wages fall,
(As oft they fall, you know,)

'Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep

In water-a pint or so;

And when hunger rages fierce and strong, To your curry powder go.

At a time of great agricultural distress the Duke of Norfolk had suggested that the poor people should provide themselves with a curry powder of his own device, as a palliative for hunger. He had perhaps forgotten that when Marie Antoinette was told that the poor in Paris were starving for the lack of bread, she replied "Poor things, why don't they buy some cake.")