PART II.

YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift Flashed through me as I sat and gazed. But not the less some season I made shift To keep my wits undazed.

And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks I stood it: on the fourth I fell. All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks, And I felt--far from well.

* * * * *

Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames, With opiate eyes, and foreheads all As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames, Glared on me from each wall.

Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate Those square and skinny jaws, those high-cheek bones. Nocturnes in soot and symphonies in slate Moved me to sighs and groans.

Queer convolutions of dim drapery Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare. I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry Of copper-coloured hair.

I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall; The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves-- I loathed them one and all.

I howled aloud, "I would no more behold A witch, an angel, or a saint. Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, Or _cinque-cento_ quaint.

"It may be that my taste has come to grief, But if the spectral, dismal, dry, _Do_ constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief High Art is all my eye."

So when four weeks were wholly finishéd, I from my gallery turned away. "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said, "Fresh air and light of day. I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart Of the affected, strained, and queer. What was to me Ambrosia of Art Hath grown as drugged small-beer.

"Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare: When Art abjures the crude and dim, I yet may house the High Ideal there. Purged from preposterous Whim!"

_Punch_, July 14, 1877.

* * * * *

The following poem appeared in _The Times_ for May 9, 1859, and although not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever:--

THE WAR.

There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts, and take good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

Form, be ready to do or die! Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally,[9] But only the devil knows what he means. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form!

T.

* * * * *

INTO THEM GOWN.[10]

_A Wicked Parody on_

RIFLEMEN FORM.

There was a sound of "Town" from afar, Town in the High that threaten'd a mill, Storm of town, and thunder of gown, And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill." Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

Be not afraid of the peelers' staves, Be not gulled by a proctor's plea, Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves, Why should a proctor stop our spree? Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

Leave your wines for a moment or so. Double your fists for the State and the Church, Better the purple claret should flow, Than "_La Belle Science_" be left in the lurch. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them Gown.

Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care, Deal black eyes and the bloody nose; True that we have an excellent mayor, Butt him again, and down he goes. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown.

_College Rhymes_, 1861.

* * * * *

The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of Royalty, contained in his later poems.

It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" was written more than fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured admission.

The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the 20th and last Earl of Oxford.

CAPTAIN FALCON OF THE GUARDS.

I.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, How nice you thought to do me brown; You thought that I'd accept a bill For discount, when you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The black-leg of a hundred "hells," Your friendship's not to be desired.

II.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, I know you thought to get my name; Your cunning was no match for mine, Too wide-awake to play your game. Nor would I write for your delight A name the Jews ne'er saw before-- My simple name across a bill Is worth a hundred pounds or more.

III.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, Some softer pupil you must find, For were you Colonel of your troop, I'd shun you still, and all your kind. You thought to've seen me jolly green; A plump refusal's my reply: The army agents in Craig Court Are not more up to you than I.

IV.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice the bill had been renewed When I beheld young Pigeon fled. Your crack turn-outs, your drinking bouts, A fine acquaintance you may be; But there was that across the bill, That he had hardly cared to see.

V.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, When first he met the gov'nor's view, He had the passions of his kind-- He spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word About a certain game at cards, Which, should it e'er get noised abroad, Would cook your goose at the Horse Guards.

VI.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, There stands a bailiff in your hall; Tradesmen are knocking at your door: Pigeon no longer pays for all. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his run of luck, And, last, you fairly stripped him clean, And sought some other bird to pluck.

VII.

Trust me, Falcon of the Guards, That bill to pay he never meant; The grand old Judge who tried the cause Smiled at your claim for money lent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me These promised pounds are not bank-notes; Gold sovereigns are more than words, And copper pence than paper groats.

VIII.

I know you, Falcon of the Guards; You're linked with many a scoundrel crew, Whose nights are spent in playing deep-- Would that your play was honest too! Be rogue, you must; spurned with mistrust, Cash is no longer raised with ease; Your credit, has it sunk so low, You needs must play such pranks as these?

IX.

Captain Falcon of the Guards, If tin be needful at your hand, Are there no money lenders left, Nor any Jews within the land? Oh! take the bill-discounters in, Or try the legal shark to do; Pray write a promissory-note-- And let the foolish Pigeons go.

_The Puppet Show_, July 8, 1848.

* * * * *

THE RUSSIAN CZAR.

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! On me you shall not play the fool; You thought to make a tool of me Before you occupied Stamboul. You drew your plan _en gentleman_, But I was not to be deceived; A Russian Czar's a Russian Czar-- You are not one to be believed.

* * * * *

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! Some softer envoy you must gloze, For were you Emperor of the world, I would not stoop to tricks like those. You set a cunning trap for me, But I was cunning in reply; The monjeike at your palace gate Was not more _down_ to you than I.

* * * * *

But trust me, ruthless Russian Czar! Though heaven above be brightly blue, 'Tis writ upon your palace walls-- Dark is the doom prepared for you! Howe'er it be, it seems to me The truly great are truly good; God watches o'er those minarets When _Christian faith_ sheds Turkish blood.

I know you, haughty Russian Czar! You sigh to leave your frozen towers; Short-sighted are your bloated eyes, Which strain to feast on Moslem bowers. You move by stealth through boundless wealth; Your very nobles are o'erawed; You do so little good at home, You needs must play such pranks abroad.

Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! If power be heavy on your hands, Are there no wretches in your realm, Nor any slaves upon your lands? Oh teach your monjeiks how to read, Emancipate your serfs; but no-- _First pray to have a human heart_, And let the turban'd Moslem go.

_Diogenes_, April, 1854.

(This parody contained nine verses in all.)

* * * * *

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE;

OR, RUSTIC ADMIRATION.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, The country sun has made you brown, And now they tell me that you start To-morrow afternoon for town; Ah! how I sighed when I descried Your lovely form beside the stream The other day when on my way I passed with Farmer Jackson's team!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I wish that you would change your name For such a humble one as mine: But no--you'd think it quite a shame; So I must be content to take My choice of humbler maiden's charms-- Must marry someone who can bake, And has a sturdy pair of arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some "Lord Dundreary" _you_ must find; Our rustic bread and cheese and beer Would hardly suit your taste refined. If I should write you of _my_ love, And wait outside for a reply, The lion on your old stone gates, Would talk of verdure in his eye.

* * * * *

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, They say--and really p'rhaps they're right-- That I had better give you up, And marry pretty Sally White; You are a swell--_she_ loves me well, And then her cooking is so good-- Jam tarts are more than coronets, And elder wine than Norman blood!

SPHINX, CHRIST'S COLL., CAMBRIDGE.

_College Rhymes_, 1868.

* * * * *

LADY CLARA IN THE SOUTH.

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You whom the Laureate makes attacks on, If your papa were not a peer, If you were not an Anglo-Saxon, In short, if 'twere not too absurd, To think of _you_ where aught of trade is, I'd almost say, upon my word, I'm looking at you now in Cadiz."

Here follow five other verses descriptive of a Spanish coquette, concluding:--

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I don't believe _femme souvent varie_, Your sex are all the same, I fear, From Timbuctoo to Tipperary."

MAXWELL REILLY.

_Kottabos_, Dublin 1870.

* * * * *

Another parody of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" appeared in _Funny Folks_, April 10, 1875, entitled "The Vicar's Surplice." It was addressed to a Rev. Mr. Mucklestone, who had declined to pay the charges of his laundress, a lady rejoicing in the euphonious name of Gubbins, who resided at Haseley, in Warwickshire. The subject is somewhat wanting in dignity for poetical treatment. The following is the first of six verses:--

"Reverend Mr. Mucklestone, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to have your surplice washed For nothing, but it won't go down. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled, Each time your surplice had a 'rense,' I charged, and felt quite justified, The modest sum of eighteenpence."

* * * * *

A MAY DREAM OF THE FEMALE EXAMINATION.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For to-morrow in the senate-house at nine I must appear: To-morrow for all womankind will be a glorious day, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

There's many a blue, blue stocking, but none so blue as I; There's not a girl amongst them all with me can hope to vie: There's none so sharp as little Alice, not by a long, long way, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say,

I lie awake all night, mother, but in the morn I sleep, And dream of Virgil, Euclid, Dons, all jumbled in a heap, And the letters in the Euclid dance about like lambs at play: O, I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

As I came by King's Chapel, whom do you think I saw, But Andrew Jones de Mandeville Fitzherbert Aspenshaw! He thought of that hard problem I gave him yesterday; For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

He thought me such a bore, mother, for he couldn't get it right, To see him puzzle o'er it was such a funny sight; But not on such a dolt as that I'd throw myself away! For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o the list, they say.

They say he is fond-hearted, but that can never be: He can't get through his "Littlego," then what is he to me? There's many a Senior wrangler who'll woo me in the May, For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the gate, And, till they give the questions out, at the window she must wait; And when she's got them, back to you, mother, she'll haste away, And I m to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

In the papers country parsons have been writing lots of trash: They say this scheme for us, mother, is sure to come to smash; And agèd Dons all shake their heads, and say it will not pay; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say.

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, I'd something more to say, mother, but my head is not quite clear; For I always have a headache when I put my books away; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list they say.

* * * * *

"I thought to have gone down before, but still up here I am, And still there's hanging o'er me that horrible Exam. They said I should be top, mother; but then I'd such bad luck, Though I went in for honours--_I only got a pluck!_"

X. Y. B., CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

_College Rhymes_, 1865.

* * * * *

MRS. HENRY FAWCETT ON THE UNIVERSITY EDUCATION OF WOMEN, APRIL, 1884.

"That large numbers of women--numbers that every year are rapidly increasing--demand a University training is not a matter of controversy; it is a simple fact. This training is already offered to them by University College, London, and by Cambridge University. The hall-mark of the degree is offered to them by the University of London, and a certificate of having passed the Tripos Examinations (almost as valuable as a degree) is offered to them by the University of Cambridge. The last Census shows that there were in Great Britain and Ireland more than 120,000 women teachers. To many of these a University degree or certificate is of the highest professional importance. This is a question to many women, not of sentiment, but of bread. Those whose generosity has provided scholarships, exhibitions, and a loan fund for women at Cambridge could prove how invaluable to many a woman a University training is. Equipped with her University certificate she can at once obtain a situation, and command a much more adequate remuneration for her services. Cambridge has had twelve years' experience of the presence of women students resident in Newnham and Girton Colleges. They number now in the two Colleges about 150. Nearly all the professors' lectures are open to them; they attend some of the lectures given in College rooms. When the experiment was first started at Cambridge there is little doubt that the bulk of the residents thought the presence of women students objectionable and alarming. But the fears at first entertained were at Cambridge so entirely removed by experience that when, in 1881, the question had to be decided by the Senate of opening the Tripos examinations to the students of Girton and Newnham, only thirty members of the Senate were found to oppose it, while those who supported it were so numerous that it was impossible to record all the votes within the time and under the conditions prescribed. It was estimated that about 500 members of the Senate came up to Cambridge to vote in favour of the proposal. More than 300 actually voted.

* * * * *

The two Parodies, from which the following extracts are taken, appeared in _The Porcupine_, a Liverpool comic paper.

They refer to the Cart Horse procession held in Liverpool on May-day, and describe, with tolerable accuracy, the scenes of rough revelry and noisy merriment which this carnival gives rise to. These compositions are merely quoted as curiosities, possessing, as they do, every attribute which should be studiously avoided in a parody. They are slangy and vulgar, more especially in the omitted verses, without being either humorous or grotesque; they debase the memory of a really beautiful poem by the mere trick of repetition of a catch-phrase and some slight imitation of its metre. The subject chosen is low and commonplace, which might, perhaps, have been excused, had the description of its unpleasant details been enlivened by one spark of wit, or genuine originality. To the lovers of an original poem such Parodies must be offensive; whilst to those who delight in a really clever burlesque, such things as these can afford no gratification, and only tend to bring _true Parody_ into disrepute.

THE DRAY QUEEN.

_A Car-men on the May-day Carnival, after the Poet Lorry-ate._

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear! To-morrow'll be the liveliest time of all the glad New Year; Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

There'll be many a black, black eye, they say, and many a lively shine With Margaret and Mary, and Kate and Caroline; But none can lick this little Alice, in all the court, they say; So I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake If you do not call loud and give me, too, a jolly good shake; As I must buy some bonnet-flowers and sky-blue ribbons gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

As I came up our alley, whom think ye I should see? But Robin leaning on Chisenhale Bridge, as screwed as he could be; He had been cleaning his harness, mother, and drinking all the day; But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

You know my Robin drives a dray, a heavy brewer's cart; To-morrow with his handsome team of horses he will start A-roaming up and down the streets, loafing about all day, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

To-morrow I'll get out of pawn my bran-new winsey frock, For Robin he is sure to wear a reg'lar snow-white smock; His dray is cleaned and painted up, and now looks very gay, And I must be clean on the Dray, mother, I must be clean on the Dray.

The horses' tails all nicely combed, with ribbons will be decked, Upon the shining harness not a smirch you can detect, The very brutes they seem to feel it is the first of May, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

Upon the barrels I'll sit perched, the barrels all so full Of smashing stuff they sell for beer, and give you the long pull. My Robin rarely touches beer--for 'Rum's my drink,' he'll say-- But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

Through Lime-street, Lord-street, we'll parade each leading thoroughfare, While the spectators rival teams and turn-outs will compare, On brewers' and on millers' carts the brazen bands will play, And I'll be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be Queen o' the Dray.

* * * * *

For hours and hours we'll roam about, until the team it tires, And Robin will imbibe more rum than he actually requires; At many a 'public' he will stop a-moistening of his clay, And I'll be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be the Queen o' the Dray.

* * * * *

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. If I don't seem to hear you, give me a smack upon the ear; To-morrow'll be of all the year, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

* * * * *

THE DRAY QUEEN.

(_A Sequel to last May-day's Carol, by Our Own Poet Lorry-ate, Author of "I'm A-float," &c._)

IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer; It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see, For Robin he lays me low with a kick--and thinks no more of me.

Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day, And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray; And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops, Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops.

And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night, As drunken and disorderlies--both women and men were tight-- And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way-- Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay.

And in default of payment,--our cash we had spent in ale,-- That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol, Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still), And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill.

* * * * *

The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray, If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day, And though his wages was but low--a matter o' twenty-five bob-- Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job.

At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak, He never got drunk and kicked me--not more than twice a week, And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did, He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid.

* * * * *

And after that--it's a month ago--my Robin got much worse, 'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse, He never gets drunk as he used to do--that's once or twice in a week-- He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak.

When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed, He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead, And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel, I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel.

The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay, The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array, The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread, And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed.

* * * * *

Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born; I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn; The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear, So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer!

* * * * *

THE MAY QUEEN.

(_New Version, adapted to existing Climatic Conditions_).

[CONSIDERING apology superfluous, Mr. Punch offers none, as the Poet Laureate will doubtless approve the modification of his beautiful lines, rendered needful by recent meteorological conditions.]

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the tryingest time of all the Spring, this year-- Of all the Spring, this year, mother, the dreariest, dreadfullest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There'll be many a red, red nose, no doubt, but none so red as mine; For the wind is still in the East, mother, and makes one peak and pine: And we're going to have six weeks of it, or so the prophets say say-- And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, I am sure I shall never wake. So you'd better call me loud, mother, and perhaps you'll have to shake: I shall want some coffee hot and strong, before I'm called away, To shiver as Queen o' the May, mother, to shiver as Queen o' the May.

As I was coming home to-night, whom think you I should see But DOCTOR SQUILLS! And he saw that my nose was as red as red could be; And he said the weather was cruel sharp, that I'd better stay away,-- But I'm chosen Queen o' the May, mother, so I must be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch is white with sleety showers, And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers; And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,-- Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen o' the May?

The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit, For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot; Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day, Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May.

I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill, And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long, doctor's bill; And with prices up and wages down however will father pay? But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother--oh bother the Queen o' the May!

So please wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, That I may look out some winter wraps, fit for the spring this year. To-morrow of this bitter "snap," I'm sure 'twill be the bitterest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May."

_Punch_, May 12, 1877.

* * * * *

Truth had a long parody describing the visit in 1877 of Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, whose early rising, and insatiable appetite for sight-seeing were the topics of conversation. Two verses are sufficient to indicate the style:--

THE SIGHT-SEEING EMPEROR.

IF you're waking, call me early, "Boots," not later, please, than four, And if you're passing earlier, pray rat-tat at my door; But stay I have so much to do, that p'rhaps 'twill better be, Not to depend on you at all, but call myself at three.

* * * * *

I cannot, though an Emperor, stay quietly at home, Some impulse irresistibly makes me for ever roam; Each week it holds me tighter still beneath its mystic thrall, Till soon I am afraid I shall not eat or sleep at all.

_Truth_, June 21, 1877.

Another parody of the same original, called _The Business of Pleasure_, appeared in _Truth_, May 9, 1878.

* * * * *

THE PENGE MYSTERY TRIAL.

YOU must come and dress me early, very early, Simmons, mind! For to-morrow'll be the summing-up, and I must not be behind; Of all this jolly trial, I'm told, to-morrow'll be _the_ day, So be sure you call me early, Simmons; now attend to what I say!

* * * * *

The judge means hanging, so they say, and when the sentence's pass'd, There's sure to be an awful scene, more curious than the last; P'raps the men will have hysterics--_that_ would be fun to see! And Alice Rhodes may have a fit. Oh! how jolly it will be!

So you must wake and call me early, Simmons, call me early, Simmons, mind! Or I'll give you a month's warning if you are at all behind! For to-morrow'll be, of all the trial, the awfullest jolliest day, For I think all four will be hanged, Simmons; all four will be hanged, they say!

_Truth_, October 4, 1877.

* * * * *

THE WELSHER'S LAMENT.

(_On the Suppression of Suburban Race Meetings_).

May, 1879.

IF yer passin', knock me up, Bill; knock me up, old cock, d'yer yere; For to-morrer's Kingsbury meetin', is the last there'll be, I fear; Of all suburbin races, the werry last they say, For that Anderson in Parlyment, 'as contrived to get 'is way. It's ter'ble rough on us, Bill; on us, an' all our pals, As 'asn't got no tickets for that bloomin' Tattersall's; For 'ow without these meetin's our livin's were to get, Is a rayther ticklish problim, as I 'avent worked out yet.

_Truth_, February 21, 1878.

* * * * *

THE MODERN MAY QUEEN.

(_The Result of the First Fortnight_).

DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear, To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year; Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day, And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May.

I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake, With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake; But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say; Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires in May?

A storm is coming across, mother, the _New York Herald_ has said, And, if you please, I'd rather lie as long as I like in bed; So bother the knots and garlands, mother, and all the foolish play, If we're to have fires in May, mother, why--we must have fires in May.

_Punch_, May 28, 1881.

The following parody appeared originally in a clever little Cambridge University Magazine, entitled _Light Green_, which has long been out of print. _Light Green_ contained many excellent parodies, notable amongst them being:--_The May Exam._, after Tennyson; _The Song of the Shirk_, after Hood; _The Heathen Pass-ee_, after Bret Harte; and _The Vulture and the Husbandman_, after Lewis Carroll. These, with several other amusing pieces of poetry, have been reprinted in a small pamphlet, which can be obtained from W. Metcalfe and Son, Trinity-street, Cambridge.

THE MAY EXAM.

(_By Alfred Pennysong_).

"Semper floreat Poeta Laureate."--HORACE.

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!

There's many a hot, hot man, they say, but none so hot as me; There's Middlethwaite and Muggins, there's Kane and Kersetjee; But none so good as little Jones in all the lot, they say, So I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

I read so hard at night, Filcher, that I shall never rise, If you do not take a wettish sponge and dab it in my eyes: For I must prove the G.C.M., and substitute for _a_, For I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.

As I came through the College Backs, whom think ye should I see But the Junior Dean upon the Bridge proceeding out to tea? He thought of that Ægrotat, Filcher, I pleaded yesterday,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May.

There are men that come and go, Filcher, who care not for a class, And their faces seem to brighten if they get a common pass; They never do a stitch of work the whole of the live-long day,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

All the College Hall, my Filcher, will be fresh and clean and still, And the tables will be dotted o'er with paper, ink, and quill; And some will do their papers quick, and run away to play,-- But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May!

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!

* * * * *

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

If you're waking call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, For I'll keep a morning Chapel upon my last New-year. My last New-year before I take my Bachelor's Degree, Then you may sell my crockery-ware, and think no more of me.

To-night I bade good-bye to Smith: he went and left behind His good old rooms, those dear old rooms, where oft I sweetly dined; There's a new year coming up, Filcher, but I shall never see The Freshman's solid breakfast, or the Freshman's heavy tea.

Last May we went to Newmarket: we had a festive day, With a decentish cold luncheon in a tidy one-horse-shay. With our lardy-dardy garments we were really "on the spot," And Charley Vain came out so grand in a tall white chimney-pot.

There's not a man about the place but doleful Questionists; I only wish to live until the reading of the Lists. I wish the hard Examiners would melt and place me high; I long to be a Wrangler, but I'm sure I don't know why.

Upon this battered table, and within these rooms of mine, In the early, early morning there'll be many a festive shine; And the Dean will come and comment on "this most unseemly noise," Saying, "Gentlemen, remember, pray, you're now no longer boys."

When the men come up again Filcher, and the Term is at its height, You'll never see me more in these long gay rooms at night; When the old dry wines are circling and the claret-cup flows cool, And the loo is fast and furious with a fiver in the pool.

You'll pack my things up, Filcher, with Mrs. Tester's aid, You may keep the wine I leave behind, the tea, and marmalade. I shall not forget you, Filcher, I shall tip you when I pass, And I'll give you something handsome if I get a second-class.

Good-night, good-night, when I have passed my tripos with success, And you see me driving off to catch the one o'clock "express;" Don't let Mrs. Tester hang about beside the porter's lodge, I ain't a fool, you know, and I can penetrate that dodge.

She'll find my books and papers lying all about the floor, Let her take 'em, they are hers, I shall never use 'em more; But tell her, to console her, if she's mourning for my loss. That she's quite the dirtiest bedmaker, I ever came across.

Good-night: you need not call me till the bell for service rings, Through practice I am pretty quick at putting on my things; But I would keep a Chapel upon my last New Year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, Filcher dear.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass some time ago, but hang it, here I am, Having "muckered" in a certain Mathematical Exam. I have been "excused the General," and my reverent Tutor thinks I must take up Natural Science, which is commonly called "Stinks."

O sweet is academic life within these ancient walls, And sweet are Cambridge pleasures--boating, billiards, breakfasts, balls; But sweeter far about this time than all these things to me Would be the acquisition of my Bachelor's Degree.

* * * * *

THE PREMIER'S LAMENT.

I'll be in the House quite early, you come later, Herbie dear, This night will be the hardest in the Cabinet's career; Of all our mad career, Herbie, the hardest, horridest night, For the Vote of Censure's on us, and the Opposition fight.

* * * * *

O, sweet's the docile Liberal who never wants to rise. And sweeter still the Radical who shuns the Speaker's eyes, And sweet are dumb majorities, and men who silent stay, For the hardest things to listen to are what our friends all say.

* * * * *

There's Parnell's lot, my Herbie, that wretched Irish crew; Don't go and say I said so, this is confidence for you: I've done my best to catch them, and gain their solid vote; But Trevelyan's such a blunderer, he's always at their throat.

* * * * *

So I will go down early, you come down after, Herbie dear; To-morrow may be the saddest day of this our sad fifth year. I've felt some twinges sometimes of conscience and of gout; But the painfullest of all would be to know that we're turned out.

_The Evening News_, February 18, 1884.

* * * * *

THE NEW LORD MAYOR.

(_A long way after Tennyson_).

You must mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, d'ye hear. To-morrow'll be the nobbiest day of all this blessed year: Of all this wonderful year, JOHN, the scrumptiousest I declare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!

There's many an Aldermanic Swell, but none so great as me; I scorn your Common Councillors, such men I will not see; But none so grand as Alderman ELLIS the Liverymen all swear, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!

I sleep well after a heavy meal, and I shall never wake, If you don't knock at my door, JOHN, when day begins to break; And I must dress in my Sunday clothes, and titivate up my hair, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor!

As I came up to the Mansion House, whom think ye I should see, But FIGGINS and other Aldermen as glum as they well could be, They thought of the coming pageantry, and how I should swagger there, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor!

Then mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, don't fear To dig me in my illustrious ribs, and shout in my lordly ear; And to-morrow will see me roll along, while all the people stare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor!

_Punch_, November 12, 1881.

* * * * *

THE LORD MAYOR TO THE LADY MAYORESS.

["If this bill becomes law, it will be our proud privilege to continue the existence of the Lord Mayor for six months, until it comes into action on the 1st of May, 1885."--_Sir W. V. Harcourt's Speech._]

If you've read Sir Vernon's speech upon the City, daughter dear, You will see that London's downfall from its great estate is near; But one comfort you will gather--not November ends our sway, For I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!

I have said that I will fight the bill, in clause, and line, and word. I may not be the conqueror, but my protests shall be heard-- Though that clause my office to extend for six months more may stay, That I may be Mayor till May, daughter, I may be Mayor till May!

They do not stop our banqueting, so that clause I don't condemn-- Oh, the Ministers won't abrogate the feeds we give to them! And that is about the only good they do not take away-- But I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!

* * * * *

Can Harcourt think to bribe me by this one continuance clause? He'll see that I shall show the bill to be little else but flaws! This "sop" as he may fancy it, won't affect what I've to say, Tho' I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May!

Now tell me your opinion on the matter, daughter dear, For you will be Lady Mayoress as long as we are here; And if it passes, recollect _we_ pass next "Lord Mayor's Day," And I shall be Mayor till May, daughter, I shall be Mayor till May!

_Funny Folks_, May 3, 1884.

* * * * *

The Prize Editor of _The Weekly Dispatch_ offered two guineas for the best original parody of Tennyson's "May Queen," to consist of not more than five verses, having some reference to current politics. The prize was awarded to Mr. F. W. Binstead, 76, Ockendon road, Canonbury, N., for the following poem, which was published in _The Weekly Dispatch_, May 4, 1884:--

THE LAST LORD MAYOR TO HIS FAVOURITE BEADLE.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, Bumble, dear, I mean to fight with all my might each minute of this year; For a play is in rehearsal now--a tragic, terrible play-- And I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!

I'll fight from morn till night, Bumble--my soul must never quake-- For calipash and calipee and Corporation's sake; And I must don the lion's skin, although I can but bray, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!

When I was in the Commons, whom think ye I should see, But Harcourt smiling on his seat, just close to William G.? He thought not of the feed, Bumble, we gave him t'other day-- But I will be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I will be Griffin at Bay!

They want to wreck, with sinful hand, our great time-honoured powers, And take away the wealth and might which have so long been ours; But I will roar and bluster, in my old accustomed way, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!

Go, summons all my aldermen, and bid them take their fill, From terror free let them with me all gaily feast and swill; Reform need have no fears for them, so bid them all be gay, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!

* * * * *

Four other parodies, which had been sent in for competition, were also printed:--

THE EVE OF THE GENERAL ELECTION.

We must wake and get up early, get up early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the greatest day of all the modern times; Of all the modern times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.

There's many a low, low lot, they said, but none so low as we, So sunk in ignorance and vice, in want and penury; But none so stupid as poor Hodge in all the land, they said; But we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.

* * * * *

So we'll rise and poll us early, poll us early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the important day of all the glad new times; Of all the glad new times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made.

JAMES FRASER.

TORY LORD TO DITTO DITTO ON THE EVE OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE FRANCHISE BILL INTO THE UPPER HOUSE.

If you're going, look in early, look in early, brother peer, To-morrow we'll have the merriest fling we've had for many a year; We've had for many a year, brother--Aha! hip, hip, hooray! For "the measure" comes up, they say, brother, "the measure" comes up, they say.

The bishops will go with us, brother, and landlords fat and lean, And they'll vote ditto, brother--the weak-kneed Whigs, I mean; With quiddities and flow'ry quirks we'll whittle the bill away. We'll whittle the bill away, brother, we'll whittle the bill away.

And all the law-lords, brother, will use their subtle skill By verbiage and amendment sly to mutilate the bill; Our lordly mashers, too, brother, will meet in grand array, For 'twill be as good as the play, brother, 'twill be as good as the play.

We thought to kick it out, brother, but we've found it wouldn't pay; J. B. would never stand it, so we'll better tact display; And we'll hocuss him, you see brother, and mar its clauses dear: So, we'll be early, places taking, we'll be early, brother peer.

GERMANICUS.

ON THE EVE OF A DEBATE ON THE FRANCHISE BILL.

You must wake up! there'll be such a hurly-burly, Staffy, dear; To-morrow'll be the merriest night the House has had this year; Of all the nights this year, Staffy, the night to be marked with chalk, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.

There's many a clack-clack cry, they say, but none so shrill as mine; There's Peel and Gorst and Drummond, there's Balfour superfine; But none so rare as little Randy in all the House for talk, So I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.

As I came through the lobby whom think ye should I see But Gladdy poring o'er the bill to set the yokels free. He caught my eye and shook, Staffy--I eyed him like a hawk! But I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.

The hinds may reap and sow, Staffy, but ere that measure pass, The cows will get the franchise as they munch the meadow grass; There will not be a vote for Hodge, if only the bill we baulk, And I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.

All the Tories, Staffy, will obstruct it with a will, And the swift foot and the slow foot will mash and maul the bill; And the G.O.M. will fret and fume like fizz when you draw the cork, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk.

GOSSAMER.

THE PREMIER TO MRS. GLADSTONE.

You must wake me in the morning, rouse me early, wifey, dear; To-morrow'll be a ticklish time at Westminster, I hear; At Westminster, the Franchise Bill will glide upon its way, And I shall have something to say, deary, I shall have something to say.

There's many a black-legged Tory who would frustrate our design-- There's Northcote and there's Goschen, who was once a friend of mine; But none, I think, will stand their ground if I can get fair play, For they know it is true what I say, deary, they know it is true what I say.

I sleep so light of late, wifey, that bedtime comes in vain, They've bored me so with Gordon that I've Egypt on the brain: Yet I'll regain these wasted hours--this loss of time won't pay-- And show that I mean what I say, deary, show that I mean what I say.

* * * * *

JESSIE H. WHEELER.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, May 4, 1884.

* * * * *

THE PROMISE OF MAY!

(_An Old Song re-set, and specially dedicated, for purposes of recitation, to Mrs. Bernard-Beere, Manageress of the Globe Theatre_).

YOU must call rehearsals early, call them early, KELLY dear! November'll be the merriest month of our dramatic year; November I have fixed it for the Laureate's new play, And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!

There's many a chosen priestess in the wild æsthetic line. There's ELLEN! and there's MARION! whose fingers intertwine! But all the Grosvenor Gallery think none like me, they say; So I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!

I'm thinking of _the_ night, you know, both sleeping and awake, And I hear them calling loudly till their voices seem to break; But I must fashion lots of gowns in Liberty silks so gay, For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May!

I went down into Surrey--don't laugh, it is no joke-- And found the great Bard dramatist wrapt in a cloak--of smoke! He handed me his manuscript, and read it yesterday; So I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May!

He said I was ideal, because I kept it up, This mixture of his _Dora_, and his _Camma_ in the _Cup_. They call me a _replica_, but I care not what they say. Now I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May!

They say he's pining still for fame; but that can never be. He likes to roar his lyrics, but what is that to me? I'll fill the Globe with worshippers, in the old Lyceum way-- For I'm to be Promise of May, my Friend, I'm to be Promise of May!

My sisters of the _cultus_ shall attend me clad in green; All the poets and the painters must hail me as their Queen! The great dramatic critics of course will have their say, Now I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May!

The Pit with wild excitement will tremble, never fear, And the merry gods above them will greet me with a cheer! There will not be a ribald line in all the Laureate's play, For I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May!

All the Stalls will sit in silence, or with cynicism chill Will pick the Bard to pieces, and work their own sweet will; And HAMILTON CLARKE in the orchestra he'll merrily pose and play-- For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May!

So call rehearsals early, call them early, there's a dear! Bid gipsy-tinted ORMSBY and VEZIN to appear. November'll see what "gushers" call the "sweetest, daintiest play," And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May!

_Punch_, November 4, 1882.

As this parody refers to a nearly-forgotten play, the allusions in it may best be explained by the reproduction of the Play-bill, which has now become a literary curiosity.

* * * * *

The drama was a complete and melancholy failure; even George Augustus Sala, most lenient and genial of critics, could not but condemn it, as being as unactable a play as Shelley's "Cenci," or Swinburne's "Bothwell," or Southey's "Wat Tyler," whilst it possessed none of the literary merits of either of those compositions. He added, "It is finally and most wretchedly unfortunate that an illustrious English poet has not by his side some really candid and judicious friend, with influence enough, and courage enough, to persuade him to desist from subjecting this disastrous production to the ordeal of representation before a miscellaneous audience."

Bad as _The Promise of May_ was, it contained one leading idea, which, from the very opposition it gave rise to, enabled the management to keep the play on the boards much longer than could have been anticipated. The plot had been foreshadowed in one of Tennyson's earliest poems, _The Sisters:_--

"We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell: Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see!"

THE GLOBE THEATRE.

Licensed by the Lord Chamberlain to Mr. F. MAITLAND, 26½, Newcastle Street.

_Under the Management of_ MRS. BERNARD-BEERE.

_On SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11th, 1882_, WILL BE PRODUCED A NEW AND ORIGINAL RUSTIC DRAMA, IN PROSE, BY ALFRED TENNYSON (POET LAUREATE), ENTITLED, THE PROMISE OF MAY, IN THREE ACTS.

THE WHOLE PRODUCED UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. CHARLES KELLY.

_At_ 8.45 BY _THE PROMISE OF MAY_. _ALFRED TENNYSON_. The town lay still in Farmer Dobson Mr. CHARLES KELLY. But a red fire woke in the the low sun-light, Edgar Mr. HERMANN VEZIN. heart of the town, Farmer Steer, _Dora's Father_ .. Mr. H. CAMERON. Mr. Wilson, _a Schoolmaster_ .. Mr. E. T. MARCH. The hen cluct late James } {Mr. H. HALLEY. And a fox from the glen ran by the white farm gate, Dan Smith} {Mr. C. MEDWIN. away with the hen, Higgins } _Farm_ {Mr. A. PHILLIPS. The maid to her dairy Jackson } _Labourers_ {Mr. G. STEPHENS. And a cat to the cream, and a came in from the cow, Allen} {Mr. H. E. RUSSELL. rat to the cheese,

The stock-dove coo'd Dora Steer Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE. And the stock-dove coo'd till at the fall of night, Eva, _her Sister_ MISS EMMELINE ORMSBY. a kite dropped down, _By permission of Mr. Wilson Barrett._

The blossom had open'd Sally} _Farm Servants_. {Miss ALEXES LEIGHTON. And a salt wind burnt the on every bough. Milly} {Miss MAGGIE HUNT. blossoming trees.

The whole produced under the direction of O joy for the promise of May, Mr. CHARLES KELLY. of May. O grief for the promise of May, of May,