THE COMMON SQUEAL.

A Song for Shriekers.

I.

MEN, whose fathers lied, and tricked, and bribed to bring about the Union,

Men, whose brothers at the Music Hall grimace,

I will show you that the Poet with your spirits own communion,

I will show you that the Bard is of your race.

II.

What are those that shriek and squeal against the Isle across the water.

What is he that crams our ears with patriot cant? See the lyrist lick the party hack at breathing fire and slaughter?

See the man of rhymes embrace the man of rant?

III.

Here the plea whereby the Poet apes, and charms, the Penny Paper

"We are they whose works sensationally shine,

I was ever good at curses, Victor Hugo I'll out-vapour,
And if there is a scurril tongue 'tis mine"

IV.

Who would fear to back the Poet as a double-barrelled screamer,

Pure of morals, clean of language, free from bile? Do you want old Gladstone scarified, the sanguinary schemer? I will show you how to slander and revile.

(Does so in nine violent verses, savage and scathing, but scarcely suited for publication.

XIV.

There! That cuts every record in the way of party squealing, That's the style to pelt and pulverise your foes.

You thought Lord Randolph rabid, but this comes as a revealing,

And there's lots more where it comes from-verse or prose.

XV.

Perfect rancour, wrath eternal, everlasting objurgation,
Freedom? Yes, I've always praised it, and may be

It may do for France or Italy. But that curst Irish nation?—
Rather slay them man by man from sea to sea!
Punch, July 10, 1886.

THE WEEKLY DISPATCH PARODY COMPETITION.
PRIZE POEM.

MEN, whose fathers went to battle hounded on by bards and singers,

Deafened by loud cymbals and the sounding drum, Show your spirit now, if any trace of courage in you lingers; Something worse than all these evils now has come.

Who is this most dreary driveller, rowdy ranter, prating poet? Whence comes all this filthy flood of nasty rhyme ?

See the tongue that talked of truth so steeped in lies that none may know it ;

See the man of poesy besmeared with slime.

Quarrelling cats upon your housetop, cocks and hens in your back garden.

Dogs that in the silent midnight bay the moon, Next-door neighbour's cracked piano, wild excursionists to Hawarden,

Are a sweet relief compared with this man's tune.

Perfect nonsense, utter rubbish, everlasting shameless drivel,
Still to some it sounds like truth. To you and me
There's still time to kill the slander, put to shame the lying
devil;

Spitting venom o'er our land from sea to sea.

THE COMMON SQUEAL: A SONG FOR THE SLEEPLESS. What are these that scream and squeal upon the roof of this, my dwelling?

Who are they who flood my ears with nightly squall? See the tabby join the horrid band that sets the neighbours yelling

See Grimalkin lord it grimly over all!

Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel "Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace.

Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable? When I use it-then shall hope of sleep increase !"

Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby, Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw?

Night is well-nigh spent," I cry; "you vote me cruel, tricksy, shabby?

I am riled and will not give you any law !"

Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember,
On my housetops and my neighbour's in the town;
Many a time I've blazed at him the fell band's grey and

grizzled member

But, unluckily, I've never brought him down!

F. B. DOVETON,

From The Weekly Dispatch, July 18, 1886.

190

Died April 19, 1824.

AWAY with your fictions of flimsy romance;

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love!

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart

Which throb with delight to the first kiss of love!

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move. Arcadia displays but a region of dreams :

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

Ye charmers whose bosoms with cosmetics glow Whose passions are put on and off like a glove; I'm blessed if your long studied acting can show, With the natural charms of the maiden I love.

If Rachel should e'er her assistance refuse
Or her kin, for that lady has taken a move
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to your ruses
And copy the forms of the maiden I love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art,
All young men despise ye, and old ones reprove
I court the emotions that spring from the heart
The unpractised charms of the maiden I love.
Your eyebrows, your locks, your fantastical dresses
Perhaps may amuse, but never can move;
The arcade exhibits a thousand such tresses
What are Mummies like these to the maiden I love?

Oh! cease to affirm that your sex since its birth
From Eve until now, has with coming age strove,
Some portion of nature still is on earth

In the delicate blush of the maiden I love.

When age chills your blood, and your pleasures are passed, And your youth fled away on the wings of the dove; Why caricature you, still to the last

The natural bloom of the maiden I love.

:0:

P. F. T.

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.
WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest-and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break,
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother's sake.

I kissed it and repressed my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride

Had quenched at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all,-save hope,-the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

TO MARY.

WELL! thou art happy, and I say
That I should thus be happy too;
For still I hate to go away

As badly as I used to do.

Thy husband's blest,-and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass,-O, how my heart

Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought, like Dutchmen, "I'd go dead," But when I saw its breakfast piled,

BYRON.

I thought how much 't would take for bread.

I saw it, and repressed my groans,
Its father in its face to see,

Because I knew my scanty funds

Were scarce enough for you and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away;

While thou art blest, to grieve were sin;
But near thee I can never stay,

Because I'd get in love again.

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride,
My boyish feeling had subdued,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
I'd try to get you if I could.

Yet was I calm: I recollect,

My hand had once sought yours again,
But now your husband might object,
And so I kept it on my cane.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
A disposition to be off.

Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake;
O, where is Mississippi's stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break!

From Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey, Boston, United
States, 1854.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zoe mou sas agapo.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;

By love's alternate joy and woe
Zoe mou sas agapo.

Maid of Athens ! I am gone.

Think of me, sweet! when alone,

Though I fly to Istambol,

Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee?

Zoe mou sas agapo.

No!

The heroine of this poem died in London ten or twelve years ago. For some time previously she had been in poverty and when, about 1870, a subscription was started for her, Gounod composed an air to Byron's "Maid of Athens " which produced about £20 towards the fund for the benefit of Mrs. Black, as she then was. It is said that Lord Byron wrote the poem in Athens, about 1810, when he was quite a young man, but I have never yet seen any mention made of the wonderful similarity between it, and the following ballad which appeared in The Monthly Mirror, November 1799:

BALLAD.

Addressed" to her I DEARLY LOVE."

By those orbits which, oft, I enraptur'd survey, Which, sparkling Content, the mind's image pourtray, While sweet Affability tempers their ray,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia !

By those features, which Grief of her tears can beguile,
Aid the gambols of Mirth, light the burthen of Toil,
Dispensing delight when bedeck'd with a smile,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia !

By thy tongue, which I ne'er have heard prattle amiss,
By thy teeth,snow-drop white,thy lips, teeming with bliss,
By the exquisite rapture you breathe in a kiss,

I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy temper as gentle as Spring's mildest shower,
By the accents so soft, which rob Grief of its power,
By the form my eyes doat on, the mind I adore,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia!

By thy wish to alleviate Misery's smart,
By the genial solace that wish does impart,

By the fond heart you've won, and your own little heart,
I conjure thee to love me Sophia !

By those vows at the altar our souls did approve,
By that union so sacred recorded above,
A compact divine, which demands love for love!
I conjure thee still love me Sophia!

PRETTY POLKA.

BENEDICT.

The sentimental young lady at the close of the season 1844.

DARLING Polka! ere we part,

Hear th' outpourings of my heart!
Since the season now is o'er,

Wretched, I can Polk no more.
Hear my vow before I go

Polka mou sas agapo!

By those steps so unconfined,
By that neat kick-up behind,
COULON'S hop, and MICHAU's slide,
Backward, forward, or aside,
By the alternate heel and toe
Polka mou sas agapo.

By the waltz's giddy round,
By the galop's maddening bound,
By the obsolete quadrille,

Polka mine! "I love thee still."

Compared with thee each dance is slow
Polka mou sas agapo.

Happy season! thou art gone,
I. alas! must Polk alone!

Though the country now I roll to,
Almacks holds my heart and soul too.
Can I cease to love thee?

Polka mou sas agapo.

Punch, August, 1844.

No!

PAY, OH! PAY US WHAT YOU OWE.
Song for the London 7radesmen.

HIGHER classes, ere we part,
For the country ere you start,
Let your tradespeople distress'd
Trouble you with one request:
Just a word before you go-

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe,

By those orders unconfined,
Which for goods of every kind
You so readily did give,

Think, oh! think that we must live-
Just a word before you go-

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By those dresses of the best,
Silken robe and satin vest,
In whose splendour, by our aid,
You so gaily were arrayed:
Hear us cry before you go-

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the Opera and the Rout,
Recollect who rigged you out;
By the drawing-room and ball,
Bear in mind who furnished all :
Just a word before you go-

Pay, oh! pay us what you owe.

By the fête and the soirée,
And the costly déjeuner,
By your plate and ormulu,

Let your tradesmen get their due :
Just a word before you go-

Pay, oh pay us what you owe.

Punch, July 31, 1847.

"The figure advances upon me, flourishing its umbrella in the most deadly manner.

I discover it to be a man-a creature with a long clerically-cut coat, a white linen stock-a creature with its hair

parted down the middle to make the most of an inch-anda-quarter of forehead-a young-a very young ritualist priest.

He flourishes his umbrella in my face, and bursts out in the following alarming way":

AM I RIGHT FOR COLNEY HATCH?

I.

MAN of Mammon, e'er we part
Read the words upon my heart;
Or, if that has left my breast,
Go to Rome and read the rest.
By my vesper-breathing watch

Am I right for Colney Hatch?

II.

By mine alb and stole and cope,
By my tonsured head and Pɔpe,
By my banners' silken flow,
By my chalice veil of snow,
By the laces that attach,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?
III.

By the chancel dossals hung,
By the incense burnt and swung,
By the candles lit at noon,
By the Sacramental spoon,
By my napkins, cutters, such,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?
IV.

By my chasuble and stool,
By Loyola's holy rule,
By the font's baptismal jugs,
By my maniples and mugs,
By my altar-cloths to match,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?
V.

By the acolytes that file
In procession down the aisle,
By the silken flags they bear,
By the holy Cross that's there,
By my vigil, fast, and watch,

Am I right for Colney Hatch?
VI.

By my piping treble tones,
By my loved Gregorian groans,
By the priest's Confessional,
By man's faults transgressional;
Ah! that whispered word I catch-
Yes, I'm right for Colney Hatch.

BENJAMIN D. His Little Dinner. 1876.

MR. GLADSTONE AND THE "DAILY TELEGRAPH."
(The hour of midnight strikes.)

MR. GLADSTONE (at his casement.)
THIS is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say ;
I wish that I could do the same.
All day

I've worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo;
Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.

As he speaks, a form clad in large sheets of newspaper is seen stealing from the neighbouring copse, and sinking on its knees on the gravel before Mr. Gladstone's window, plaintively sings:

PEOPLE'S William, do not start,
Nor reply in accents tart;
See thy"Telly" kneel in pain,
Vowing thee to serve again;
See, and say before I go-

Is it all made up or no?

True it is I turned on thee;
Fate for this has punished me.
For, despite my subtle art,
Joseph M. is not a Bart.
Pity, then, thou It surely show!-
Is it all made up or no?

Should'st thou come again to pow'r,
William, recollect this hour!
That thy "Telly" on the stones
Knelt and prayed in piteous tones,
That thou should'st not be its foe-
Is it all made up or no?

Ere thou seek'st thy night's repose,
Tell me, are we friends or foes?
Wilt thou in our interests work,

If I drop the wicked Turk?

Tell me quickly ere I go,

Is it all made up or no?

Duo.-WILLIE AND HIS TELLY.

Willie Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you've said,

Telly: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I've sped,

Willie: Telly, Telly, quite Pall-Mally, have you been in all you wrote,

Telly Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I'll dote.

Willie: You I'll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don't your word forget.

Telly Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet,

If right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you? Willie: You will see, T., how 'twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in what I do!

THE MAID OF CLAPHAM.
MAID of Clapham! ere I part,
Tell me if thou hast a heart!
For, so padded is thy breast,
I begin to doubt the rest!
Tell me now before I go-
Αρτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπόρνῶ ?

Are those tresses thickly twined,
Only hair-pinned on behind!
Is thy blush which roses mocks,
Bought at three-and-six per box?
Tell me, for I ask in woe-
Αρτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπόρνῶ ?

And those lips I seem to taste,
Are they pink with cherry-paste?
Gladly I'd the notion scout,

But do those white teeth take out?
Answer me, it is not so-

Αρτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπόρι ῶ ?

Maid of Clapham! come, no larks !
For thy shoulders leave white marks-
Tell me ! quickly tell to me
What is really real in thee?
Tell me, or at once I go-
Αρτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπόρνῶ ?

MADE OF SOMETHING. MADE of Something! ere we part, Tell me, truly, what thou art ! For, it needs must be confessed, There is mystery at best Lurking in thine amber glow-Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ !

Jon Duan.