Part 6

“Up, up, up, In the morn before daylight, The bathman cries ‘Get up,’ (I wish he were up for a fight). While underneath the eaves, The dry snug swallows cling; But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs, And see if they’ll come next spring.

“Oh! oh! it stops my breath, (He calls it short and sweet), Could they hear me underneath I’ll shout them from the street! He says that in half an hour A different man I’ll feel; That I’ll jump half over the moon and want To walk into a meal!

“I feel more nerve and power, And less of terror and grief; I’m thinking now of love and hope— And now of mutton and beef. This glorious scene will rouse my heart, Oh, who would lie in bed? I cannot stop, but jump and hop, Going like needle and thread.”

With buoyant spirit upborne, With cheeks both healthy and red, The same man ran up the Malvern Crags, Pitying those in bed. Trip, trip, trip, Oh, life with health is sweet; And still in a voice both strong and quick, Would that its tones could reach the sick, He sang the Song of the Sheet. _Anonymous._

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led. She didn’t come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,— They cost an awful sight! The “corner lot” on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day,— That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport:— My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate,— I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember, My dear one’s smile and sigh; I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when she wasn’t got! _Phœbe Cary._

AFTER ALFRED BUNN

A YULE-TIDE PARODY

WHEN other wits and other bards, Their tales at Christmas tell, Or praise on cheap and colored cards The time they love so well, Secure from scorn and ridicule I hope my verse may be, If I can still remember Yule, And Yule remember me.

The days are dark, the days are drear, When dull December dies; But, while we mourn an ended year, Another’s star will rise. I hail the season formed by rule For merriment and glee; So let me still remember Yule, And Yule remember me.

The rich plum-pudding I enjoy, I greet the pie of mince; And loving both while yet a boy, Have loved them ever since. More dull were I than any mule That eyes did ever see, If I should not remember Yule, And Yule remember me. _Anonymous._

SELF-EVIDENT

WHEN other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You’ve heard from many a swell; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You’d give the world to see A friend, whose love you know will wash, Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours, And Captain Craft’s at Ryde, And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors, And Lord knows who besides; When to exist you feel a task Without a friend at tea, At such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me. _J. R. Planché._

AFTER LORD MACAULAY

THE LAUREATE’S TOURNEY

_By the Hon. T— B— M._

FYTTE THE FIRST

“WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the southern land? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand? How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen? And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?”

“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen’s hall; I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s battle-call; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er had seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

“‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ ’Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

“Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. ‘Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—

“‘What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you there beneath?’ ‘The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry long!’

“Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn ‘Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

“‘Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves; Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

“‘No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!’

“Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near; Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears for death? ’Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!

“Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow; For armor bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; ’T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too, If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!’

“‘The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore, ‘and not the lists of Mars;’ Said Hunt, ‘I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s jars!’ ‘I’m old,’ quoth Samuel Rogers.—‘Faith,’ says Campbell, ‘so am I!’ ‘And I’m in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

“‘Now out upon ye, craven loons,’ cried Moxon, good at need; ‘Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred’s motion, boys,—let’s try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.’

“Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to draw; Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! ’Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,— The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!”

FYTTE THE SECOND

OH, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,— How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. “What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let’s see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honored name!”

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; Then said our Queen—“Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? His name—his race?”—“An’t please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

“Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!”—Then rang the startled air With shouts of “Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s there.”

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—“That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!”

“Done,” quoth the Brougham,—“And done with you!” “Now minstrels, are you ready?” Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—“You’d better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!” “Amen!” said good Sir Aubrey Vere; “Saint Schism defend the right!”

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball; His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just! Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

“Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!” Alas! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s son. “Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!” “It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the covey’s dead!”

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe. “Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!”

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine, You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s wine! _William Aytoun._

AFTER EMERSON

MUTTON

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays, Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain, Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says— “I’ll come, and cut and come again.”

To hungry wolves that on him leer Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same, No famished god would at him sneer— To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assures That they are geese, but wanting wings— Your coat is his whose life is yours, And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood, And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork, Come taste, ye lovers of the good— Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork. _Anonymous._

AFTER MARY HOWITT

THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE

“WILL you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!” But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance— Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied. “There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France— Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?” _Lewis Carroll._

AFTER MRS. BROWNING

IN THE GLOAMING

IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming, And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet; When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.

“To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teaches That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails, Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals, An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.

Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady, Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann: Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you, When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.

Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover; Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea’s “size”: P’raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender, And to read you’re no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.

Then to hear her call you “Harry,” when she makes you fetch and carry— O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is! To be photograph’d—together—cased in pretty Russia leather— Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!

Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one— Next a bracelet, if she’ll wear one, and a heap of things beside; And serenely bending o’er her, to inquire if it would bore her To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!

Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover Or Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e’er befalls; For I’ve read in many a novel that, unless they’ve souls that grovel Folks _prefer_ in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover’s Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant, As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun. _C. S. Calverley._

GWENDOLINE

’TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughs That shadowed her so finely; It was the hair that swept her brows, And framed her face divinely; Her tawny hair, her purple eyes, The spirit was ensphered in, That took you with such swift surprise, Provided you had peered in.

Her velvet foot amid the moss And on the daisies patted, As, querulous with sense of loss, It tore the herbage matted. “And come he early, come he late,” She saith, “it will undo me; The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate Already quivers through me.

“When I beheld his red-roan steed, I knew what aim impelled it. And that dim scarf of silver brede, I guessed for whom he held it. I recked not, while he flaunted by, Of Love’s relentless vi’lence Yet o’er me crashed the summer sky, In thunders of blue silence.

“His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale, But left behind their lava; What should have been my woman’s mail Grew jellied as guava. I looked him proud, but ’neath my pride I felt a boneless tremor; He was the Beér, I descried, And I was but the Seemer!

“Ah, how to be what then I seemed, And bid him seem that is so! We always tangle threads we dreamed, And contravene our bliss so, I see the red-roan steed again! He looks as something sought he; Why, hoity-toity!—_he_ is fain, So _I_’ll be cold and haughty!” _Bayard Taylor._

AFTER LONGFELLOW

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

HE killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That’s why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. _Anonymous._

HIGHER

THE shadows of night were a-comin’ down swift, And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift, As thro’ a village a youth did go, A-carryin’ a flag with this motto,— Higher!

O’er a forehead high curled copious hair, His nose a Roman, complexion fair, O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash, And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache! “Higher!”

He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper A number of families sittin’ at supper, But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’— “Higher!”

“Take care you there!” said an old woman; “stop! It’s blowing gales up there on top— You’ll tumble off on t’other side!” But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied, “Higher!”

“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night, Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright. On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, But still he remarked, as he upward clomb, “Higher!”

“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree! Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!” Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed And the singular voice replied overhead, “Higher!”

About quarter past six the next afternoon, A man accidentally goin’ up soon, Heard spoken above him as often as twice The very same word in a very weak voice, “Higher!”

And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven— He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven— Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow, Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto— Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt, The lamp of life being decidedly out, On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’! And there was no more use for him to be sayin’ “Higher!” _Anonymous._

TOPSIDE GALAH!

THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop, One young man walkee, no can stop, Colo makee; icee makee; He got flag; chop b’long welly culio, see— Topside Galah!

He too muchee folly; one piecee eye Lookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi; He talkee largee, talkee stlong, To muchee culio; alla same gong— Topside Galah!

Inside any house he can see light; Any piecee loom got fire all light; He lookee see plenty ice more high, Inside he mouf he plenty cly— Topside Galah!

“No can walkee!” olo man speakee he; “Bimeby lain come, no can see; Hab got water welly wide!” Maskee, mi must go topside— Topside Galah!

“Man-man,” one galo talkee he, “What for you go topside look see?” “Nother teem,” he makee plenty cly, Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high— Topside Galah!

“Take care that spilum tlee, young man; Take care that icee!” he no man-man That coolie chin-chin he good-night; He talkee “mi can go all light”— Topside Galah!

Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin, Morning teem that Joss chin-chin, No see any man, he plenty fear, Cause some man talkee, he can hear— Topside Galah!

Young man makee die; one largee dog see Too muchee bobbery, findee he. Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop— Topside Galah! _Anonymous._

EXCELSIOR

THE swampy State of Illinois Contained a greenish sort of boy, Who read with idiotic joy— “Excelsior!”

He tarried not to eat or drink, But put a flag of lightish pink, And traced on it in violet ink— Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd, Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word, Has not been placed upon record— Excelsior!

The characters were very plain, In German text, yet he was fain With greater clearness to explain— Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight, And hollered out with all his might, (As to a person out of sight)— “Excelsior!”

And everybody thought the lad Within an ace of being mad, Who cried in accents stern and sad— “Excelsior!”

“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried; The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed, And then appropriately replied— “Excelsior!”

The evening sun is in the sky, But still the creature mounts on high And shouts (nor gives a reason why) “Excelsior!”

And ere he gains the topmost crag His feeble legs begin to lag; Unsteadily he holds the flag— Excelsior!

Now P. C. Nab is on his track! He puts him in an empty sack, And brings him home upon his back— Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store, They toss him in and lock the door, Which only makes him bawl the more— “Excelsior!” _Anonymous._

“THE DAY IS DONE”

THE day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker, Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,— A good and regular meal— That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn’t give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the “finally, brethren,” That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook. And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run. _Phœbe Cary._

A PSALM OF LIFE

TELL me not, in idle jingle, Marriage is an empty dream, For the girl is dead that’s single, And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest, Single blessedness a fib, Taken from man, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib.