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YE RADICALS OF BRUMM'GEM.
YE Radicals of Brumm'gem,
Your voice shall ne'er be raised again
You shall fall, spouters all,
When our party strikes the blow,
The demagogues and stumpers
Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,
For you fall, stumpers all,
When our party strikes the blow,
When our party strikes the blow.
Britannia'll have no rebels
Her soil in blood to steep;
Her strength can crush the blustering knave
Her wit the sly and deep;
And class with class she reconciles
They unite for the fight
And together strike the blow,
And they make the battle short, I say,
Conservatives of England;
A light enlightening burn To help the poor and guide the rich Right Members to return.
Then, then, you ranting Radicals, Our song and feast shall flow,
As we tell how you
When the nation struck the blow, How the battle was uncommon short When the nation struck the blow.
A Pen'orth o' Poetry for the Poor, London, 1884.
PARODIES BY A PREMIER.
(Addressed to the L-s of the Ay.)
"YE Mariners of England,"
(I'll term you if you please),
Whose brag has raised, a hundred times,
As ye creep down the steep
Companion" stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
"The spirits of your fathers"
Won't "start from every wave ".
For the deck "it was their field of fame,"
Nor to creep down the steep
Companion" stairs below;
While the crisis rages loud and long,
Her ships crawl "o'er the mountain waves,"
And they swear-you're aware
"When the stormy winds do blow," 'Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong, "When the stormy winds do blow."
"The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn ".
They say when Liberal L-ds depart,
And Tory ones return.
Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs !
Their song and jest shall flow,
To make game of your name
When you've ceased to go below;
When my fiery flights are heard no more,
And you've ceased to go below.
That wondrous willow waves again
To match the old, old foe,
Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight,
And the "field" do all they know.
Britannia need not tremble
Whilst he his "block" can keep, And slog for sixes and for fours,
Though the field stand close or deep There's "powder" yet in every stroke, His "drives" like lightning go,
And men roar as the score
Swells at every swashing blow, Though Ulyett "sends 'em down" like hail, And Peate his best doth show
The Cricket fame of England
Shall yet in brightness burn,
And we can wait without blue funk
Whilst W. G. can show such form
The fame of his name
Sounds wherever Britons go,
And the mighty score on Scarborough's shore
Panch, September 12, 1885.
ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY
IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884.
YE SHOPKEEPERS of London,
Ye Merchants, too, of London,
Until a glut of luxuries
Your appetites will cloy;
Come, think of those whose tired hands shake,
As at your books they toil;
And, oh, do not, for pity's sake,
Truth, December 18, 1884.
Another long imitation of the same original appeared in Truth, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing "YE Ministers of England."
Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled "DIVINE SONGS OF THE MUGGLETONIANS," printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as "God save the King," "Hearts of Oak," "De'il
tak the wars," and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell's Mariners :
"You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve; Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear,
That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.
Campbell's poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in The Weekly Dispatch, as, in addition to those already. alluded to, he also selected "The Maid's Remonstrance" for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885 :THE BENCH OF BISHOPS. NEVER working, ever wooing, Loving fat things, wealth pursuing ; Know ye not the wrong ye're doing, O ye favoured few?
All your lives obstruction brewing.
Measures banished, wrongs not righted.
Cringing, wav'ring, and benighted,
Yet you deem yourselves a blessing-
Time is short, and needs are pressing;
Dull and useless, always messing;
RANDOLPH'S REMONSTRANCE TO SIR STAFFORD.
NEVER fighting, ever cooing,
Still a fruitless course pursuing;
Read you not the wrong you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?
All my lifelong hopes eschewing—
Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,
Office-once your dearest blessing;
HENRY L. BRICKEL.
NEVER peaceful, ever doing,
Where is now the troth we plighted?
Now 'tis quenched with tears.
Once you earned my richest blessing,
Soon its sweets you'll miss,
For your love's not worth possessing
J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.
NEVER winning, ever wooing,
All your life seems spent in brewing
Rivals bullied and indicted,
When your glowworm lamp is lighted
'Mid'st the groans and cheers.
EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim,
Joy, joy for ever! the task is done,
The city's free and Evans has won.
It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron 'Dear De Vear,' to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude."
AIR.-Erin go bragh.
THERE came to the hustings an exile from office,
For his sal'ry he sigh'd, when one night he threw off his
But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,
And thinks he "pon my soul I've a very strong notion,
"Oh sad is my fate," said the wretched ex-placeman,
But I have no chance, for so great's my disgrace man,
Ah, never again from John Bull's breeches pocket,
My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it,
Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh.
Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken,
And sigh for the votes that support me no more.
Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.
And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?
But yet all my bitter reflections repressing,
There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, De Vear, thy old protegé gives thee his blessing, Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh. Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion) I've no longer the means of proposing a motion In the House, I'll still out of it sing with devotion, You've been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.' Figaro in London, May 18, 1833.
This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The "Sir Frank" alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest.
THE EXILE OF ERIN;
Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
"My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,
Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
THE VISIT TO ERIN.
THERE came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
For a place and a party remain not in me.
O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,
O fate, cruel fate! would'st thou only replace me
I'd seem like their leader, though they might command
Where is my great University measure?
Prelates and priests, did ye weep o'er its fall?
O that, all sad recollections suppressing,
From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw, I'd sing, over-coming, all memories distressing,
Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh! Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship's motion, Still joyously homeward I'll traverse the ocean, And murmur, in token of grateful devotion,
Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh! From "They are Five," by W. E. G., 1877.
Sad is my fate!' said the heart-broken stranger; 'The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone; For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger,
To new homes and new countries my children have flown, Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary
And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story,
In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?
O happy land, only thou can'st replace me
In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me,
Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart,
Now is the cabin-door open and shattered,
Father and mother are weeping within;
Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered,
From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?
Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing,
One only fond wish my sad heart can desire-
KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD),
THERE crept o'er the loveliest isle of the ocean The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain, And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion.
Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane; For the food of the famishing people was rotten, And the hate that is often of hunger begotten Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten,
And the singers of Erin were silent again.
O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O'Connell,
The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause?
If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause. 'Sad is our fate,' cries the famishing peasant ;
'The wild bird is left to its home on the tree, And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant,
But no roof and no food for my children and me.
Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,
We wander half-starved over mountain and shore, And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more; Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken, To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken, And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,
That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground, Could he know that the land upon which he was lying Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound; And the trials and straights of despair and starvation Through which he was fighting should end in salvation To happier sons of a new generation,
Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.'
HYPOPHOSPHATE (MISS E. CHAMBERLAYNE,)
An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.
The subject was chosen for a prize competition in The World, the model selected being Campbell's Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:
THE TAY BRidge Disaster,
ON Balgay when the sun was low,
Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow,
Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.
But Balgay saw another sight,
When rose the wind at fall of night,
And distant gleams of splendour light
Mid light and darkness fast arrayed
The Storm-King's hosts commenced their raid, And every furious blast essayed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven, Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven, And nearer 'neath the vault of heaven,
Out flashed the train lights ruddily.
But brighter still that light shall gleam,
The coming sun shall light no more
Beneath her smoky canopy.
The horror deepens. Who can save
And leaps in dreadful rivalry.
None, none shall part where many meet ;
CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.)
ON Tay the summer sun sinks low,
The wondrous bridge winds airily.
The tempest rages furiously.
Homeward they wend from town and glade,
Forth speeds the train to ruin driven-
The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
That fiery flash the signal gave;
Down crashing through the maddened wave,
With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
OF Nelson and the North,