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Tell me, doth the glucose shine
Howsoe'er it be, I fear,
Made of Something, you are queer!
Free Press Flashes, 1882.
"Zoedone is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, it must be thoroughly iced; then-put a liqueur glass of brandy into a small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you like shandygaffian sort of drinking, you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty guineas, a Solvitur drink-no-endo. gentle and agreeable Refresher.
Verb. sap. We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse":—
MADE of something, ere we part,
Tell me, tell me what thou art?
Punch, September 18, 1880.
"BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.”*
MADAM RACHEL, ere we smash,
Upon my life, I'll sue you!
By these powdered tresses fine,
By these soft cheeks' blooming rouge;
By this lip he longed to taste;
By this zone-encircled waist;
By 'dear William's " quenched love,
Which I never more can move;
All the cash, and let me go!
Madam Rachel, I'll be gone :
Every nerve this system shocks,
Judy, June 24. 1868.
Madam Rachel, oh dear, no!
MAID of all work as a part
Maid of all work, when 'tis done,
Heart of calf, I'll eat thee so.
Punch, January 1852.
MAID OF ALL-WORK.
(To her Mistress.)
UNKIND Missis, e'er the day
Let my injured spirit speak,
Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek,
Hear my words before I go :
If I'm bad, you've made me so.
By my weary hours confined
To work and dirt and heat combined;
By my ever-lengthening day,
By my ever-shortening pay:
By the joints I ne'er might taste,
Cruel Missis! never more
Shall midnight find my toil scarce o'er-
If they're bad, you've made them so!
From Grins and Groans, Social and Political.
*The notorious Madame Rachel obtained large sums of money from a certain foolish woman, on the pretences that she could be made "beautiful for ever" and obtain the hand of the late Viscount Neither Madam Rachel's cosmetics, nor her Ranelagh in marriage. matrimonial schemes succeeded, and Madame Rachel was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for obtaining money under false pretences, whilst her victim became the laughing stock of London. Madame Rachel died before her term of imprisonment expired.
MAID OF GANGES.
By a Heart-broken Hindoo.
MAID of Ganges! thou that art
Thou that fairest art in all
To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Had I mines of gems and gold,
Begum's crowns and Nizam's thrones;
These I'd bring and more than these.
Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast
Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear
A Tuggaree twined in thy hair,
Maid of Ganges! dost thou love
Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave
As beneath thine eyes they bask
The Etonian, February 15, 1884.
TO A SLAVEY.
MAID-of-all-work we must part, You are not a pleasing tart, Smashing things with such a zest, You must surely need a rest.
Anyway, one thing I know:
Holy Moses! out you go!
[Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon and hands her out like a sack of coals.]
The Topical Times, March, 1886.
The following verses were said to have been copied from an intercepted post card :
JOE, my Joseph, ere we part,
Ere you break an old man's heart,
Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
Leave, oh leave us not alone;
Even those I reckon true :
If with us you'll only stay,
St. James's Gazette, March 22, 1886.
(Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had just resigned his seat in the Cabinet.)
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD
I WOULD I were a careless child,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ;
I ask but this-again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-iny early friends are fled :
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor fues, Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous joy is but a name.
THE OLD FOGEY'S LAMENT.
I WOULD I were a careless child,
And not a bit of need to shave.
Fortune, take back my house and lands,
I want a tipcat in my hands,
I want to make the football bound. Give me again tbe "rock" I loved
(Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!) Which, in my trousers' pocket shoved, With fluff and marbles used to mix.
I loved-but what I loved is gone.
My hoop, my silkworms, and my string.
Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the present hour. Give me again my faithful "chums," Who ate my cake and jam at school; Who let me copy off their sums,
Then thrashed me 'cause I was a fool.
Oh, would my boyhood could return,
And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys.
And could I rid me of its pain, With Fate I'd make a willing pact, And gladly be a boy again.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won-
Farewell to thee France !-but when Liberty rallies
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
THE BOHEMIAN'S FAREWELL.
FAREWELL to the Strand, and my uppermost story,
In strife with the p'lice ere my orgies were done!
With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun.
Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies,
E'en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me,
From the French.
FAREWELL to the land, where the gloom of my glory
I have warr'd with a world which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, The last single Captive to millions in war.
THE SPELL IS BROKEN.
THE spell is broken when we own
But lives to find he's caught a tartar.
Judy, December 29, 1880.
THE WAR SONG OF THE RADICAL PHILHELLENE. (After Lord Byron's translation of a famous Greek War Song.)
Sons of the Greeks, our eyes
Sons of the Greeks! to go
Your glorious uprising,
Are you aware, my friends? Is gravely jeopardizing Your patrons private ends.
With Philhellenic fervour
He burns, and so do I,
Gladly would he, I take it,
'But asking him to father
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Yet, O ye patriots banded!
Sons of the Greeks, I own
I made a bold diversion,
And left me up a tree.
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Well, to correct my blunder,
And, after all, there's reason
He's not at leisure, is he?
Though loath then, I assure you,
Sons of the Greeks, etc.
The Saturday Review, April, 1836.
'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. Without the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the heart, and tho' deaf to the ear, 'Twill make it acutely and instantly hear, But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flowerOh! breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.
A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.
I DWELLS in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair;
But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,
And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome.
Tho' 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art ;
Only look, and you'll see in the Heye I appear,
Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning! and mark,
THE LETTER H'S PETITION.
WHEREAS, I have by you been driven
From house, from home, from hope, from heaven, And placed by your most learned society
In exile, anguish, and anxiety,
And used, without one just pretence,
Whereas we've rescued you, Ingrate,
From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter,
And placed you where you ne'er should be, In honour, and in honesty ;
We deem your prayer a rude intrusion,
And will not mend our elocution.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER W TO THE
INHABITANTS OF LONDON.
WHEREAS by you I have been hurled
"Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre.
"The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate."
Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much to the annoyance of the com
petitors, who, having expended their time and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.
In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron, who produced the following:
Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday,
In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir'd and mourn'd,
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Play Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
*R. B. Sheridan,