YE RADICALS OF BRUMM'GEM.
(A Song for the next Election.)

YE Radicals of Brumm'gem,
With all your Caucuses,
Whose noise has rung a year or two
Just on a passing breeze,

Your voice shall ne'er be raised again
To deafen another foe;

You shall fall, spouters all,

When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short, I say,
When our party strikes the blow!

The demagogues and stumpers
No more shall rant and rave,
The platform was their field of fame,
Th' election is their grave.

Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke,
Now silence you shall know,

For you fall, stumpers all,

When our party strikes the blow,
And the battle will be short indeed

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
And fuses high and low-

They unite for the fight

And together strike the blow,

And they make the battle short, I say,
When, allied, they strike the blow.

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

fell

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,
A Parliament'ry "breeze!"
Your gallant features blanch again
Beneath another blow.

As ye creep down the steep

Companion" stairs below;

While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.

"The spirits of your fathers"

Won't "start from every wave ".

For the deck "it was their field of fame,"
And Kensal Green "their grave,'
"Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell"
You'll have no chance to go,

Nor to creep down the steep

66

Companion" stairs below;

While the crisis rages loud and long,
And you have to keep below.
"Britannia needs" her "bulwarks"
And "towers along the steep; "

Her ships crawl "o'er the mountain waves,"
Her navy's "on the cheap,"
With blunders from her naval L-ds
She riles the tars below,

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,
And spanks through their ranks
Whilst the bowlers puff and blow,

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
That Cornstalk Team's return,

Whilst W. G. can show such form
After twenty years or so;

The fame of his name

Sounds wherever Britons go,

And the mighty score on Scarborough's shore
Should bring him "one cheer mo' !"

Panch, September 12, 1885.

ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY

IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884.

YE SHOPKEEPERS of London,
Who live in lavish ease;
We beg of you for once to hear
Your poor employés pleas.
There is no need for us to say
How hard their daily task;
Then give the one short Saturday
Which they this Christmas ask!

Ye Merchants, too, of London,
Who Christmas will enjoy,

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,
Their taste of Yule-tide spoil!

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.

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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.
Cease, or else be true!

Measures banished, wrongs not righted.
See your Church, how disunited!
See the scores of bills you've blighted
In the House of Peers!

Cringing, wav'ring, and benighted,
'Midst your country's tears.

Yet you deem yourselves a blessing-
Sleek and fat, and self-caressing,

Time is short, and needs are pressing;
Soon you'll have to go.

Dull and useless, always messing;
Dotard's all, and slow.

JAMES TURNER.

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—
Fight, or cease to coo!

Gordon murdered, pledges slighted,
Still our ways are disunited.
When the goal is well-nigh sighted
Feeble funk appears;
Vacillation so benighted.
Is for Lib'ral fears.

Office-once your dearest blessing;
Place-we both would be possessing!
Hopes- a mutual soul confessing,
Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless our caressing-
Yours with age, mine woe.

HENRY L. BRICKEL.

BRITANNIA'S REMONSTRANCE.

NEVER peaceful, ever doing,
Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing,
And askance the straight path viewing-
All for pow'r and place!
Future storms for me you're brewing;
Cease, or veil my face!

Where is now the troth we plighted?
Both our hearts are disunited;
Freedom's lamp one day we lighted,

Now 'tis quenched with tears.
Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted,
Roused are all our fears.

Once you earned my richest blessing,
Thrilled soul with your caressing
my
Each a mutual love confessing,

Soon its sweets you'll miss,

For your love's not worth possessing
While War's lips you kiss.

J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

STAFFY'S REMONSTRANCE.

NEVER winning, ever wooing,
Still the sweets of place pursuing,
And the cause of my undoing,
Randolph-it is you!

All your life seems spent in brewing
Mischief ever new,

Rivals bullied and indicted,
Still our rauks are disunited;

When your glowworm lamp is lighted
Mine half-quenched appears;
I must wander on benighted

'Mid'st the groans and cheers.
Would you but bestow your blessing,
How I'd purr at your caressing!
But your pranks are so distressing
Soon you'll make me trow
Place itselt's not worth possessing
If you plague me so !

THE

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GOSSAMER.

EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh!
"Sad is my fate" ! said the heart-broken stranger,
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!

AIR.-Erin go bragh.

THERE came to the hustings an exile from office,
The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill,

For his sal'ry he sigh'd, when one night he threw off his
Patriotic disguise just assum'd for the bill.

But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion,
As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion,

And thinks he "pon my soul I've a very strong notion,
They'll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh."

"Oh sad is my fate," said the wretched ex-placeman,
"Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee,

But I have no chance, for so great's my disgrace man,
A seat in St. Stephen's remains not for me.

Ah, never again from John Bull's breeches pocket,
Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won't dock

it),

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,
In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store,
But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken,

And sigh for the votes that support me no more.
And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me,
In a post where electors no longer can chase me;
Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me,

Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore.
Where now is the Westminster rump that supported
Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall,
And where is the junta, that influence sported,

And where is De Vear too the dearest of all?
Alas what an ass I have been for declining
My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning
My office! but now there is no use in whining,
It cannot my seat or my office recal.

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,
The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;
He thought of the days of his spouting and " 'beering,"
As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.
He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,
And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,
Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
"Sad is my fate,," said the gray-coated stranger,

"My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee,
But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here;
Repose or tobacco exist not for me;
Ne'er again in the snug little bar

Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar.
Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war

By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
The Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.

THE VISIT TO ERIN.

THERE came an ex-Premier from England to Erin,
If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill.
From his country he came in the hope of repairing
Some errors whose memory clings to him still.
Can we doubt that e'en now, as he traversed the ocean,
His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion,
He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?

O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger,
O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.
The day still I rue when we parted in anger,

For a place and a party remain not in me.
Then grant me once more for a day or an hour
The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.
O cover my head with the shamrock's green flower,
And I'll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.

O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit the Speaker's right hand;
But, alas! with the dawn's reappearing I waken,
Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.

O fate, cruel fate! would'st thou only replace me
On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me,
With Biggar, O'Donnell, Parnell to embrace 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 how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure,
Which gave to you Trinity College and all?
O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!
O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing i
Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing,
My power and my party they cannot recall.

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,
Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen's glory,
Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.
Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken,

In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken

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,
Never again shall my children disgrace 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,
Their children with famine are wasted and thin.
Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow,
Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow,
How can I dare any comfort to borrow

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-
That my sons' bitter curses may change to a blessing,
As faction shall languish and discord expire!
Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean;
Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion,
And my children shall sing with new love and devotion,
Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!'

KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD),

SECOND PRIZE.

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?
Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O'Donnell,

If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
For small is the gain and the glory ensuing
From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing,
And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing,

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.
O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction!
When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction
From the home that is held by the heart's predilection,
We are forced o'er the bare breast of Erin to flee.

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,)

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HOHENLINDEN.

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,
And dark and muddy was the flow

Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.

But Balgay saw another sight,

When rose the wind at fall of night,

And distant gleams of splendour light
The darkness of her scenery.

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,
With one last flash o'er land and stream,
And then shall vanish like a dream
At daylight passing wearily.

The coming sun shall light no more
Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore,
And dark Dundee bereft shall cower

Beneath her smoky canopy.

The horror deepens. Who can save
Those rushing to a watery grave?
Wave dashes wildly over wave,

And leaps in dreadful rivalry.

None, none shall part where many meet ;
The sand shall be their winding sheet;
No churchyard turf shall veil their feet
In their untimely sepulchre.

CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.)

SECOND PRIZE.

ON Tay the summer sun sinks low,
Soaring above the broad Firth's flow;
A thread athwart yon ruddy glow,

The wondrous bridge winds airily.
But halcyon days have taken flight,
Wild howls the storm this winter's night,
And 'gainst that daring fabric light

The tempest rages furiously.

Homeward they wend from town and glade,
Husband and wife, and youth and maid,
For that dread race of death arrayed,
An all-unconscious company.

Forth speeds the train to ruin driven-
Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given
Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons-on they go;
Now o'er the bridge the lamp-lights glow,
Where, in the shuddering depth below,

The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run,
Longing to mark the passage done.
In vain the blast his prey has won,
And on it swoops relentlessly.

That fiery flash the signal gave;

Down crashing through the maddened wave,
Both bridge and freight have found a grave,
Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.

With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat;
The wild wave rolling at their feet
Mocks at their helpless misery.
COURTHOPE (L. Beck.)

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BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

OF Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown.