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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013531870 
 
V^JToTe^c 
 
 'IF I WERE A MAN! 
 
 [Frontispiece. 
 
PATTER POEMS 
 
 Ibumorotts an& Sevtous 
 
 FOR READINGS OR RECITATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER PARKE 
 
 ("The London Hermit") 
 Author of "Songs of Singularity," " Peeps at Life" "Lays of the Saintly" " Comic 
 History of London" " The Skull Hunters" " Estrella" " Booadil," &C. ; 
 Co-Author of'Les Manteaitx Noirs" 
 
 {The Wounded What 's-his-name) 
 
 LONDON 
 VIZETELLY & CO., 42 CATHERINE STREET, W.C. 
 
 L U. 
 
 Cfi 
 
Preface. 
 
 Reader, if sad and given to despond, 
 Or blest with spirits light and full of glee, 
 
 Turn to this book, and may it be a bond 
 Of sympathy uniting thee and me. 
 
 Reciter, 'tis the province of thine art 
 The mirthful or the melting mood to cause, 
 
 If to these rhymes such power thou canst impart, 
 Be"Jh'ne the listeners' laughter and applause. 
 
 Reviewer, thy forbearance I must ask, 
 Let mercy season justice, I implore ; 
 
 To show my faults would be a needless task, 
 'Tis only telling what I knew before. 
 
 Ye Public, whom I've laboured to amuse, 
 As parodist and punster many a year, 
 
 Your poet bids you now to pick and choose 
 Among the varied wares collected here. 
 
 My brother Bards, who build the lofty rhyme, 
 Scorn not my muse in motley garments drest; 
 
 Absurdity itself may grow sublime, 
 And I am mpst in earnest when in jest. 
 
 Friends — Foes (if such there be), accept my lays, 
 And tho' the tribute be but poor and small, 
 
 At least confess — (to use a current phrase) — 
 " It's better than no offering at all ! " 
 
 The Hermitage, London, W.C. 
 April ist, 1885. 
 
"I've made a speciality 
 Of rhythmic whimsicality, 
 And lavish prodigality 
 
 Of cacophonic sounds ; 
 A verbal volubility, 
 A monkey-like agility, 
 Which tends to imbecility, 
 And sober sense confounds." 
 
 Page 118. 
 
 'Sorrow and mirth are mingled in our sphere. 
 We laugh a little, then we weep awhile ; 
 
 There is a smile to match with every tear, 
 There is a tear to balance every smile.' 
 
 Page 83. 
 
Contents. 
 
 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 FAGB 
 
 THE WOUNDED WHAT'S-HIS-NAME I 
 
 A TRAGIC FRAGMENT 8 
 
 THE MANSION OF BLISS 9 
 
 THE DECLINE OF THE MASHER 1 3 
 
 ease versus elegance 17 
 
 A CULINARY COMPLAINT 19 
 
 THE PEARL OF PALENCIA 24 
 
 THE DEMON TRAGEDIAN 26 
 
 TO MRS. NOBODY 29 
 
 THE LAND OF CONTRAIRY 3 1 
 
 THE CRIMINAL CROWS 34 
 
 TO ONE OF TENDER AGE 37 
 
 TO MY HAT 39 
 
 A DREAME OF CHYVELERIE 42 
 
 KRAW 44 
 
 TOM TIMBREL 45 
 
 A NIGHT HORROR 47 
 
 ARITHMETICAL POSERS 49 
 
 THE AGE OF PULP 51 
 
 ARCADIA AND BELGRAVIA 53 
 
 BRIGHTNESS: A SKETCH 55 
 
 " BY THE GLAD SEA WAVES ! " 56 
 
 THE DESERTED INN 58 
 
 FOAM AND FANGS 60 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 POLYGLOT PATTER. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MUSCOVITE CALL TO ARMS 6l 
 
 A JOURNEY IN BULGARIA 64 
 
 WHERE IS PRJEVALSKY 65 
 
 A KURDISH INVASION 66 
 
 A SONG OF THE SEAT OF WAR 68 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE AFGHAN AMEER 7 1 
 
 PITY THE POOR PYRAMIDS ! 72 
 
 CETYWAYO'S CALL TO ARMS 73 
 
 A LAY OF MANDALAY 75 
 
 ODE TO PRINCE TAKE-HITO OF JAPAN yy 
 
 PAHTAHQUAHONG 78 
 
 ODE FOR ST. ANDREW'S DAY 80 
 
 ODE FOR ST. DAVID'S DAY 81 
 
 ODE FOR ST. PATRICK'S DAY g 2 
 
 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 FROM GAY TO GRAVE 83 
 
 IN THE SHADOWS g 4 
 
 THE LAD YE HELLENORE ge 
 
 "YORICK'S LOVE" . . 90 
 
 A LAMENT FOR ROMANCE o 3 
 
 CLAUDIAN o6 
 
 IF I WERE A MAN ng 
 
 ODE TO BATH AND ITS VISITORS IOO 
 
 ON CLIFTON SUSPENSION BRIDGE I 02 
 
 THE LATEST HAMLET I0 e 
 
 BYRON'S STATUE I0 g 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GUSTAVE DORE io7 
 
 " GENERAL TOM THUMB " IO g 
 
 THE LOVER AT THE GRAVE .HO 
 
 THE CONFESSION OF C. SCRIBENDI . . . n . 
 
PATTER POEMS. 
 
 The Wounded What's-his-name 
 
 A NIGHTMARE STORY. 
 
 WAS in a deep dyspeptic dream, 
 At dead of night it came ; 
 I found myself beside a stream, 
 With gloomy deserts all around, 
 'Mid silence awful and profound, 
 And there I saw upon the ground 
 A wounded What's-his-name ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas not an insect, fish or beast, 
 
 No furr'd or feather'd game ; 
 Not like a reptile in the least, 
 Not human — that I'm positive ; 
 But one description can I give, 
 A mixture of all things that live- 
 In short, a What's-his-name. 
 
FATTER POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 But ah ! it seem'd to suffer so, 
 
 Its strength was nearly nil, 
 As if struck down by sudden blow ; 
 I tried to heal its wounds — but no ! 
 
 The thing would not keep still. 
 It wriggled, writhed, and turn'd, and ohs 
 Gave me a piteous look of woe, 
 Straight to my heart 'twas bound to go,;. 
 
 It made me feel quite ill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Whether 'twas wounded in the head, 
 
 In body, face, or limb, 
 I knew not ; I could see it bled, 
 And that at least it was not dead, 
 
 But all the rest was dim. 
 Each moment, too, it seem'd to change- 
 By sudden transformation strange, 
 And all its parts to re-arrange, 
 
 According to its whim. 
 
 v. 
 
 I ask'd it, " Who has served you thus. 
 Poor thing ? — it is a shame ! 
 
 He must have been a cruel cuss ; 
 
 I see you're getting wuss and wuss, 
 
 You want a doctor and a nuss, 
 You wounded What's-his-name ! "' 
 
THE WOUNDED WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It tried to speak — it had a beak ; 
 
 To groan — it had a throat ; 
 It tried to cry — it had an eye ; 
 But throat and eye alike were dry, 
 
 It uttered not a note ; 
 And so my chance of finding out, 
 Whatever it was all about, 
 
 Was certainly remote. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " 0, What's-his-name, must I infer, 
 
 From your distressful state, 
 That you have managed to incur 
 
 Some rival's deadly hate ? 
 Been stabb'd by him because of her, 
 Or carried on a risky game 
 
 With some one else's mate — 
 Some other Mrs. What's-his-name ? 
 If so, you're very much to blame : 
 Go, perish in remorse and shame, 
 
 You quite deserve your fate ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But still the tears of pity fell 
 
 Adown my simple cheek, 
 To see the creature so unwell, 
 In pangs so terrible to tell, 
 
 With limbs so limp and weak ; 
 
 B 3 
 
PA TTER POEMS. 
 
 However guilty he might be, 
 His guiltiness was nought to me, 
 The vengeance Justice might decree 
 
 It was not mine to wreak ; 
 No shadow of defence made he, 
 
 Because he couldn't speak. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I could not leave the creature there 
 
 To perish in the wild, 
 Nor could I carry him elsewhere, 
 His weight, I found, was far too much, 
 And when I tried his tail to clutch, 
 His eely oiliness was such, 
 He slid like butter from my touch, 
 
 I felt a little riled. 
 
 X. 
 
 Anon a fierce and angry fit, 
 
 Convulsed his straggling form, 
 His eyes with sudden fire were lit, 
 And then he fell so still and numb, 
 I thought indeed his end was come. 
 But no ; his heart beat like a drum, 
 His body still was warm. 
 
THE WOUNDED WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I gave him long quotations whole, 
 
 From " Hamlet ' ; and " Macbeth," 
 But, bless your precious heart and soul ! 
 
 I might have spared my breath ; 
 The creature, senseless as a mole, 
 Just turn'd aside, and gave a roll, 
 Then tumbled headlong in a hole. 
 So out I fish'd him with a pole, 
 And rescued him from death. 
 
 XII. 
 " Yet death," I said, " the end must be 
 
 Of all we say and do ; 
 Then is it worse for you than me, 
 
 Or worse for me than you ? 
 If you are mortal, so am I, 
 I cannot tell you how or why, 
 But those who are not born to die 
 
 Are very, very few ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But nought the What's-his-name replied, 
 
 He gave a pensive wink, 
 Then 'gan to wriggle, leap, and glide, 
 (I follow'd closely by his side), 
 To where a chasm, opening wide, 
 Showed far below, in wrath and pride, 
 The dark, dark ocean's boiling tide, 
 
 Like agitated ink. 
 
PATTER POEMS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Oh, go not near the edge, I beg," 
 
 Shrieked I, " for goodness' sake ! " 
 And tried to seize him by the leg ; 
 " Your fall would smash you like an egg, 
 Like Humpty-Dumpty's self, and then, 
 Not all the royal horse and men 
 Can mend you if you break ! " 
 
 xv. 
 
 Alas ! alack ! it heeded not ; 
 
 Its eyes grew deadly bright, 
 It bounded up like creature shot, 
 Next gave a kick — it had a hoof- 
 Therewith a look of mild reproof, 
 So I recoil'd and stood aloof ; 
 
 My hair on end with fright ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 One plunge, and then, with fearful crash, 
 
 And rushing wind-like hiss, 
 Swift as if struck by lightning-flash, 
 The wilful What's-his-name went smash 
 
 Adown the dark abyss ; 
 " Oh, dear ! " I sobb'd, " 'twas very rash 
 
 To do a deed like this ! " 
 
THE WOUNDED WHATS-HIS-NAME. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 '1 wake ! I wake ! — with sudden start, 
 
 The fitful dream is o'er, 
 In real life it still has part ; 
 For though now freed from phantom fears, 
 The crash still tingles in my ears, 
 My china candlestick appears 
 
 In pieces on the floor ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 No doubt this. plain conclusion seems 
 
 But impotent and lame, 
 But sudden stops and sharp extremes 
 Mark that chaotic land of dreams, 
 Where Reason's lamp but seldom beams, 
 
 And Logic has no claim ; 
 I left that land without regret, 
 But may again behold it yet, 
 At least I never shall forget 
 That strange occasion when I met 
 
 The wounded What's-his-name ! 
 
A Tragic Fragment. 
 
 Wild was his eye, and bright with lurid glare, 
 
 Which was no flash of joy, no quickening beam- 
 
 From that celestial fire, whose glow at times 
 
 Lights up the human soul. His feverish lips 
 
 Gave forth volcanic streams of eloquence — 
 
 Words of strange utterance, and few could probe 
 
 The mystery of their meaning ; whilst his hand, 
 
 Convulsive clench'd, did threaten viewless space, 
 
 And vent its rage on harmless vacancy. 
 
 He strode as one not borne by mortal limbs 
 
 On. mundane journeys, but with wayward course, 
 
 Irregular and fitful, like the flight 
 
 Of zigzag lightning o'er the boundless gloom, 
 
 When Nature's awful anger shakes the skies. 
 
 Oft would he seize, with quick and desperate clutch,. 
 
 Whatever could uphold his trembling frame ; 
 
 'Twas terrible to see him — worse to know 
 
 The dreadful cause of that disorder'd mien. 
 
 To some it seem'd the anguish of remorse, 
 
 Guilt's mad despair ; but others, better versed 
 
 In worldly ways and human weaknesses, 
 
 At once unveil'd the secret of his state — 
 
 The man was drunk ! 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 The Mansion of Bliss. 
 
 [BY A POETICAL AUCTIONEER.] 
 
 Oh, come and see this eligible ready-furnished resi- 
 dence — 
 A Tudor mansion, standing in the loveliest of 
 grounds, 
 With park and farm and sylvan charm in beauty past 
 all precedents : 
 You'll say it is as cheap as dirt at twenty thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 The drawing-rooms are furnished with palatial sump- 
 tuosity, 
 In chintz, silk, velvet, rep, cretonne, and satin 
 brocatelle ; 
 The costly Turkey carpets are a perfect curiosity — 
 But see the rooms, and hear the list of things I have 
 to sell. 
 
 I've luxuries of every kind the human mind can hit 
 upon ; 
 I've decorative articles too numerous to name ; 
 Soft lounges to repose upon, and carved-work chairs to- 
 sit upon, 
 And loo tables to play upon, and " Erard's grands " 
 the same. 
 
jo PATTER POEMS. 
 
 I've terra-cotta statuettes, and busts in bronze and 
 Parian ; 
 
 I've fancy clocks in alabaster, buhl, and ormolu ; 
 I've marqueterie cabinets for treasures antiquarian — 
 
 For music, fossils, china, shells, and objects of virtu. 
 
 I've tazze on gilt tripods, and rich jars for mantel 
 ornaments ; 
 I've vases — SeVres, Dresden, Moorish, Indian, 
 Japanese ; 
 I've ancient arms and armour used in mediaeval tour- 
 naments ; 
 I've whatnots, rugs, and ottomans, screens, sofas, 
 and settees. 
 
 Epergnes, consoles, and girandoles — we deal in terms 
 Parisian, 
 
 Especially in speaking of the principal boudoir — 
 A Louis Treize jardiniere adorns that bower Elysian ; 
 
 A duchesse table, Rose du Barri clock, and escritoire. 
 
 The dining-room contains a splendid walnut-wood 
 chiffonnier, 
 A telescopic table, pulling out to twenty feet ; 
 With paintings on the walls by Rosa Bonheur and 
 Meiss6nnier, 
 And dinner-waggons, costly plate, and coolers all 
 complete. 
 
THE MANSION OF BLISS. i r 
 
 The bedrooms are distinguish'd for their elegance and 
 spaciousness, 
 With wide-wing'd wardrobes — polished ash adorn'd 
 with silver'd glass ; 
 Ouaint carved Venetian mirrors, too, enhancing their 
 splendaciousness ; 
 The toilet-tables, beds, chairs, hangings, nothing 
 could surpass. 
 
 The library, whose sombre oak and brown befits its 
 gravity, 
 Has busts of Homer, Dante, Milton, Shakespeare 
 placed around. 
 For those who smoke or find in games their favourite 
 depravity, 
 A large divan and billiard-room adjacent may be 
 found. 
 
 The gardens are a Paradise — a feast of floral fineries. 
 With box- edged beds, and terraces, and rose- walks, 
 and arcades ; 
 •Conservatories, ferneries, pits, pineries, and vineries, 
 Founts, grottoes, statues, sylvan seats in soft, 
 sequester 'd shades. 
 
 A spacious lawn for tennis, cricket, Badminton, or 
 archery ; 
 A lovely lake for boating (length three-quarters of a 
 mile) ; 
 
12 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 And then there are the washhouse, laundry, drying- 
 room or starchery. 
 All built in strict accordance with the early Tudor 
 style. 
 
 The stables and the coachhouse are especially com- 
 modious, 
 With ample stalls and boxes for accommodating 
 twelve : 
 I'd venture to remark — but that " comparisons are 
 odious "■ — ■ 
 The horses here are better lodged than men who 
 plough and delve. 
 
 The country with all sorts of game is swarming to 
 infinity — 
 The Hedge and Dytchley hounds will meet in winter 
 thrice a week ; 
 The pleasantest society is found in the vicinity ; 
 
 The mansion's owner holds in gift the living of St. 
 Shreeke. 
 
 Then come and see this eligible ready-furnish'd resi- 
 dence — 
 Take catalogue and card to view the house, estate, 
 and grounds ; 
 And you'll agree that it must be, beyond dispute or 
 precedents, 
 The biggest bargain ever bought for twenty thousand 
 pounds. 
 
( 13 ) 
 
 The Decline of the Masher. 
 
 They tell us he is on the wane, 
 That soon will close his tinsel reign, 
 And will it be our loss or gain 
 
 Supposing this the case ? 
 Modes rise and flourish, and decay, 
 For every dog will have his day, 
 The " Masher," too, must pass away 
 
 And what will take his place ? 
 
 He suddenly became the rage, 
 In real life and on the stage, 
 An institution of the age ; 
 
 A type so " chic " and " pshutt ; " 
 Yet none could tell us whence he came, 
 Nor how and why he rose to fame, 
 The derivation of his name 
 
 Is even in dispute. 
 
 The term was taken — so declare 
 
 Some learned pundits — from " ma chire; 
 
 (He tries to fascinate the fair 
 
 With " lady-killing " ways) ; 
 Some seek its origin among 
 The words of " Zend " or Gipsy tongue ; 
 Some say from mashed potatoes sprung 
 
 That most expressive phrase. 
 
14 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 The annals of past fashion tell 
 
 Of buck and dandy, gent and swell, 
 
 Of beaux who bore away the belle, 
 
 Of exquisite and fop ; 
 Each formed the butt of vulgar gibe 
 Then died away like all the tribe, 
 Whose varied follies we ascribe 
 
 To softness " on the top." 
 
 And last, not least, the Masher rose, 
 To supersede the ancient beaux, 
 And be a mark for satire's blows, 
 
 By pencil, tongue and pen ; 
 No novel mode 'twas his to bring, 
 For e'en when George the Fourth was king 
 Tight coats and pants had been " the thing," 
 
 With fashionable men. 
 
 The Masher's trim, and starch and prim, 
 His clothes are tight, his form is slim, 
 His hat is broad, with curly brim, 
 
 His vest is spotless white ; 
 He's never truly happy if 
 A cigarette he doesn't whiff; 
 His collar's high, his linen stiff 
 
 As mail of ancient knight. 
 
 In Gaiety his life is spent, 
 In-stall'd therein, on pleasure bent, 
 His admiration finds full vent 
 In highly spiced burlesque ; 
 
THE DECLINE OF THE MASHER. 15. 
 
 Or bouffe, replete with song and dance, 
 Fresh brought from free (and easy) France, 
 And light-clad forms that much enhance 
 Enjoyment Masheresque. 
 
 He shines at promenades and plays, 
 He spends much money in bouquets, 
 He mostly turns his nights to days, 
 
 And seldom sees the sun ; 
 Champagne at times he freely quaffs, 
 He's fond of spicy paragraphs, 
 His manner's grave, he never laughs, 
 
 However great the fun. 
 
 His eating can't amount to much, 
 Plain food, of course, he couldn't touch, 
 He finds the handle of his crutch, 
 
 Yield some sustaining power ; 
 Stage-doors attract him, there he'll wait 
 Like outlaw'd Peri at the gate, 
 For whom ? — I'm at a loss to state — 
 
 Through many a long half-hour. 
 
 He must have cash to cut a dash, 
 Big diamonds on his shirtfront flash, 
 To dazzle one he calls his " mash ; " 
 At bars he seems to live. 
 
16 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 To greet his comrades he employs 
 Such terms as " chappies " and " dear boys," 
 Plain folks can scarcely see what joys' 
 A life like his can give. 
 
 Nor e'en at sex is drawn the line, 
 We hear of Mashers feminine, 
 Of ladies who essay to shine 
 
 In similar costume ; 
 As " Masheresses," " Masherettes," 
 (The " dandies " had their " dandizettes" ), 
 And some in fashionable sets 
 
 Such antic airs assume. 
 
 Strange fancy ! — bound to sink at last 
 
 Into the limbo of the past, 
 
 The ruthless hand of change will cast 
 
 The Masher from his stall ; 
 Well, let him go, his time is ripe, 
 I find I have no tears to wipe 
 Away for Folly's latest type, 
 
 In this " decline and fall." 
 
Ease versus Elegance. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON A BOOK OF COSTUMES. 
 
 Whenever I gaze on such beautiful dresses, 
 I sigh for the days more romantic than these, 
 
 I yield to the charm picturesqueness possesses, 
 But, granting their Elegance, what of their Ease ? 
 
 The sun-flashing mail of the gallant crusader 
 In splendour chivalric no garb could excel ; 
 
 But did it not make each resistless invader 
 
 Feel just like a tortoise packed up in its shell ? 
 
 The Tudorly garments of Shakespeare and Spenser 
 Were graceful, ornate, and majestic enough ; 
 
 But can you imagine discomfort intenser 
 
 Than swathing one's neck in those ramparts of ruff? 
 
 King Charles's costume was most elegant wearing, 
 
 But velvet and silk are so easily soil'd, 
 Lace collars and cuffs have a habit of tearing, 
 
 And feathers once drench'd in the rain will be spoil'd. 
 
 Last century's fashions would chime with my wishes ; 
 
 A " beau " look'd superb when accoutred " full fig ;" 
 But mustn't those long sleeves have dipp'd in the dishes ? 
 
 And heavens ! that stuffy, hot, horrible wig ! 
 
 C 
 
1 8 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 I'd willingly don the costume of the Spanish, 
 
 The Greeks, Swiss, or Turks, or the " garb of Old 
 Gaul," 
 
 But all such ambitious attempts we must banish, — 
 Our climate and habits don't suit them at all. 
 
 These commonplace clothes fit our varying weather, 
 They're ugly to view, but convenient in use, 
 
 And so, till some genius can join them together, 
 Come, Ease, and let Elegance go to the deuce 
 
 iS3^2> 
 
'( 19 ) 
 
 A Culinary Complaint. 
 
 ' Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
 Ye offer so profusely, what I ask?" — Manfred. 
 
 Oh ! I am weary of the old, old fare, 
 
 Mince-pie, plum-pudding, turkey, and roast beef; 
 Is there no power can bring from anywhere 
 
 Some change, some novelty, and some relief ? 
 Else is this festive season one of grief, 
 
 My palate pines and pants for " pastures new," 
 Is there no daring culinary chief 
 
 To open up bright vistas to our view, 
 
 Fresh regions to explore, new worlds we may subdue S 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis narrow-minded prejudice alone 
 
 Restricts the Briton's gastronomic range, 
 And makes him turn from aliments unknown, 
 
 Or coldly gaze on dishes new and strange, 
 But /, at any risk, would like a change, 
 
 I care not whence or how ; I know not what ; 
 Not " Mariana in the Moated Grange " 
 
 Mourn'd out more mournfully " He cometh not ! " 
 
 Than I lament my rigid dietetic lot. 
 
 c 2 
 
2o PATTER POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 The world is all before us where to chew, 
 
 Why to our beef and mutton be so staunch ? 
 
 Let's try a Patagonian ostrich-stew, 
 
 A feast of Greenland gulls, or reindeer's paunch>. 
 
 Cold whaleskin jelly, or a walrus' haunch, 
 Train-oil and blueberries — ambrosial food ! 
 
 Into what boundless realms of choice we launch, 
 When once the bonds, of custom we elude, 
 To search o'er every clime and zone and longitude t 
 
 IV. 
 
 I'd like to try a host of foreign " progs," 
 
 A mess of locusts from Sahara's waste, 
 Or Bechuana " Matlametlo " frogs, 
 
 As big as chickens and as nice in taste ; 
 Or, as in China, have before me placed 
 
 A pussy-cat ragout or puppy-pie ; 
 " Trepang " or birds'-nest soup, made thick as paste, 
 
 With rotten eggs, chalk, soda, oil, and lye, 
 
 Sharks' fins and salted rats ; Fd eat them once — and 
 die. 
 
 What say you to the Arabic cuisine 
 
 Of " pillauf," " Kousskoussoo," and rancid " ghee," 
 Leeks, dates, a skinny fowl and mutton lean ? 
 
 Would quail and " kibob " with your taste agree. ? 
 
A CULINARY COMPLAINT. 21 
 
 "" Dumpokt " and " Dhye " (whatever they may be), 
 " Kishmishes " and " Kuleah " — such names in 
 strings 
 
 Are given in the " Aykun Akhberee," 
 
 The cookery-book of India's ancient kings, 
 Who feasted on the most unutterable things. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " What ho ! a roasted hedgehog, and a slice 
 
 Of monkey broiled ! " — why wonder at my call ? 
 
 Some nasty-sounding meats are very nice, 
 An Abyssinian haggis beats them all, 
 
 "Tis made of bullock's liver mixed with gall ; 
 (Those wretches carve the living ox for steaks.) 
 
 Why should a feast of grasshoppers appal 
 
 The oyster-eater ? — why should one who makes 
 A meal off eels, refuse to eat green garter-snakes ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Our 'cute Columbian cousins must have drawn 
 Largely for " notions " on the Indians' store ; 
 
 " Pone," " hominy," " samp," " succotash/' " supawn," 
 " Nokick," " persimmon," " mush," and many more 
 
 Are things whose absence we may well deplore ; 
 Oh, for those dainty dough-nuts of maize-meal, 
 
 .Dropped into maple syrup ! — by the score 
 I could devour them — (afterwards to feel 
 As if I'd eaten solid dumplings known as " steel"). 
 
PATTER POEMS: 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Bring me blue lily-bulbs and nuts of pine;. 
 Give me for sauce Brazilian " cassareep," 
 
 " Morcellas " made in regions Argentine, 
 Of lard, pimentos, and the blood of sheep. 
 
 Balsam and cinnamon ; or let me steep 
 My senses in Dahomeyan " black soup ; " 
 
 Serve me for supper, ere I sink to sleep, 
 A lizard fat as capon from a coop, 
 Or wild-hog found in every Polynesian group. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Bring me a Sandwich Island cuttle-fish 
 Just raw and writhing from the coral pool, 
 
 Cocoa-nut custard is a luscious dish ; 
 Nor is the man a savage or a fool 
 
 Who draws from out the waters deep and cool, 
 For food, sea-urchins and green annelids ; 
 
 Were I to keep a culinary school, 
 
 I'd use a thousand things our taste forbids, 
 Cook pelicans in pots and grampuses on grids. 
 
 talk like this, when well I know 
 ;t food best suits my humble needs ?: 
 vhom dyspepsia is a foe, 
 duly is the worst of deeds ; 
 
A CULINAR Y COMPLAINT. 23 
 
 Experiment is wise when it succeeds, 
 Fatally foolish when its aim is foiPd. 
 He died a victim to outlandish feeds," 
 Sad epitaph ! — you'd sigh : " A hero spoil'd, 
 Far better had he stuck to homely roast and boil'd." 
 
( 24 
 
 The Pearl of Palencia. 
 
 A SPANISH TRAGEDY OF IRREGULAR VERBS. 
 
 No maiden in Spain was more lovely to see 
 Than sweet Donna A., only child of Don B., 
 " The Pearl of Palencia." Two lovers she had, 
 Don C. (who was good) and Don D. (who was bad). 
 'Twas C. she preferr'd, but she thought herself bound 
 To mind her papa, whom she always had mound. 
 He said, " Rich Don D. is a ' catch ' to be caught ; 
 The prize you must snatch — it is easily snaugkt." 
 Thus, though she might feel just the same as she'd felt, 
 She now must conceal what she'd never conceit ; 
 Not speak to her love, though he tenderly spoke, 
 Nor seek the affection she'd hitherto soke. 
 Don B. told Don C. he must leave, and he left. 
 The blow made him grieve, and most deeply he greft ; 
 But Love's sun will shine, and still brightly it shone. 
 When lovers combine — as these lovers combone, 
 In secret to meet — as they secretly met, 
 Stern parents they'll cheat — as her father was diet. 
 One night when the moon on " the rise " gently rose, 
 Don D. in surprise the two lovers surprose. 
 His weapon he drew ; and the moment 'twas drawn, 
 His rival he slew ; with a blow he was slawn. 
 Prepared not to smite, and so suddenly smitten, 
 He'd no time to fight, or of course he'd have fitten, 
 
THE PEARL Of PALENCIA. 25 
 
 His fate was to fall — what a cropper he fell ! 
 
 A sight to appal. Donna A. it appel. 
 
 Her hand, within reach, with an effort he reach'd, 
 
 And this was the "last dying speech" that he speech' d: 
 
 " Dear maid, fare thee well. Be my slayer forgiven ; 
 
 My hour, but too quick to arrive, hath arriven. 
 
 Away from existence I slide " — and he slid. 
 
 " I die as my fathers have died " — and he did. 
 
 Oh, fearful to hear was the scream that she scrempt I 
 
 Her eyes did not beam as they'd hitherto bempt, 
 
 But glared fit to freeze. The assassin they froze. 
 
 She shrieked, " This I seize ! " — 'twas a dagger she 
 
 soze. 
 " My loved one I lose — through thy deed he is lost ; 
 But had I to choose, thou wouldst never be chost. 
 Die, villain ! Thy gold cannot gild up thy guilt. 
 My will is to kill ! " So the villain she kilt. 
 Then said, " Though my heart, doomed to break, is 
 
 now broken, 
 The vengeance I thirsted to slake I have sloken." 
 So saying, she drank up a poisonous draught, 
 Her queenly form shrank with a terrible shraft, 
 On C/s poor remains with a wild fling 'twas flung ; 
 Her spirit, which long'd to take wing, then took wung. 
 Her pa — " such a turn " the catastrophe gave — 
 Did grieve till he grove himself into his grave. 
 So there was an end — lack-a-day ! woe is me !— 
 Of sweet Donna A. and Dons B., C, and D. 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 The Demon Tragedian. 
 
 There's some one who lives in the attic, 
 Whose tastes are intensely dramatic ; 
 'Tis little I'd mind 
 If he were not inclined, 
 So much to be over- emphatic ! 
 
 He plays all the leading creations, 
 
 Goes in for terrific sensations, 
 
 To hear his Macbeth, 
 Nearly frightens to death 
 
 Myself and my friends and relations. 
 
 He says that he means to "dissemble," 
 He calls upon tyrants to " tremble." 
 He grunts and he growls, 
 And he howls and he scowls. 
 And thinks he's Macready or Kemble. 
 
 When he struggles to imitate Irving 
 On me the effect is unnerving, 
 
 I murmur " Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Don't torture me so, 
 Of this I am quite undeserving ! " 
 
THE DEMON TRAGEDIAN. 27 
 
 In tragedy, high and romantic, 
 
 His efforts are truly gigantic ; 
 
 Of sleep he deprives me, 
 And nightly he drives me 
 
 As nearly as possible frantic. 
 
 His comedy's sad and depressing, 
 He's better at cursing than blessing ; 
 
 A ponderous " curse," 
 
 In stilted blank verse 
 From him, is intensely distressing. 
 
 No public would ever endure him, 
 They'd throw rotten apples and floor him, 
 
 They'd jump' on the stage, 
 
 And drag him in rage 
 Away, and in Hanwell immure him. 
 
 When weary of playing " Othello," 
 He tortures a violoncello ; 
 
 He sings out of tune, 
 
 Serenades to the moon, 
 In a basso or baritone bellow. 
 
 He plays on a crazy harmonium 
 And something he calls a " trombonium," 
 And then — oh my stars ! — 
 How he twangs at guitars, 
 And blows a detested euphonium. 
 
28 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 He shakes the whole house, and just under 
 His room, it sounds louder than thunder ; 
 And why the police 
 Don't force him to cease, 
 To me is a matter of wonder*. 
 
 I've made every effort to stop him, 
 In pieces I wish I could chop him ; 
 Or, milder resource — 
 I'd take him by force, 
 And out of the window I'd drop him ! 
 
 I'll send a last message imploring 
 He'll leave off his ranting and roaring, 
 Not stamp overhead 
 With elephant tread, 
 As if he would come through the flooring. 
 
 But, bless you, he never would mind me ; 
 
 Some day " suicided " you'll find me, 
 Unless I take flight 
 In the dead of the night, 
 
 And leave that tragedian behind me ! 
 
ios Comic Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 MY MADELINE. 
 
 SERENADE I-V M FLA T. 
 Sung hy Major Marjtiadttke Muttonhead to Mademoiselle Madeline Mendput. 
 
 My Madeline ! my Madeline ! 
 
 Mark my melodious midnight moans ; 
 Much may my melting music mean, 
 
 My modulated monotones. 
 
 My mandolin's mild minstrelsy, 
 
 My mental music magazine, 
 My mouth, my mind, my memory, 
 
 Must mingling murmur " Madeline ! " 
 
 Muster 'mid midnight masquerades, 
 Mark Moorish maidens, matrons' mien ; 
 
 'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids, 
 Match me my matchless Madeline. 
 
 Mankind's malevolence may make 
 
 Much melancholy musing mine ; 
 Many my motives may mistake, 
 
 My modest merits much malign. 
 
 My Madeline's most mirthful mood 
 Much mollifies my mind's machine, 
 
 My mournfulness's magnitude 
 Melts —make me merry, Madeline ! 
 
 Match-making mas may machinate, 
 Manoeuvring misses me mis-ween ; 
 
 Mere money may make many mate, 
 My magic motto's " Madeline ! " 
 
 Melt, most mellifluous melody, 
 'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine ; 
 
 Meet me 'mid moonlight ; marry me, 
 Madonna mia ! Madeline ! 
 
 Walter Parke. 
 
PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Most earthly wives (I am inform'd) require 
 Supplies of costly needments all their days — 
 
 Homes, horses, food, gems, d la mode attire, 
 Tours, picnics, parties, plays. 
 
 But thou, ethereal as the atmosphere, 
 
 Needest no money spent in vulgar " keep," 
 
 A wife so spirit-like, however dear, 
 Must still be very cheap. 
 
 Words are but weak to picture forth thy charms, 
 Thy thousand graces, and thy smiles divine ; 
 
 Oh, fling thy fancied form within these arms, 
 And be for ever mine ! 
 
 Dare I address such passion'd words to thee, 
 Nor fear an anger'd husband's vengeful fist ? 
 
 I dare. Thou art the same to him and me — 
 We tione of us exist ! 
 
( 3i ) 
 
 The Land of Contrairy. 
 
 Near Turvey-top Kingdom and Pantomime-land, 
 With realms of Queen Mab and King Cole on each hand, 
 Beyond the bright regions of Peri and Fairy, 
 There lies a strange place called the Land of Contrairy. 
 
 II. 
 
 There all that exists in inversion we find, 
 There left's always right, and before is behind, 
 The smallest is greatest, long's short and up's down, 
 Black's white, blue is red, and pink's purple or brown. 
 
 III. 
 
 There masters, not servants, fine liveries don, 
 Street rowdies and roughs make policemen " move on," 
 There peasants, not peers, live in splendour and wealth, 
 And doctors will only attend those in health. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There shillings and pence are more valued than pounds, 
 There foxes and stags chase the huntsmen and hounds, 
 The cat runs in fear from a mouse or canary, 
 And hens alone crow — in the Land of Contrairy. 
 
2i PATTER POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 
 There summer is gloomy and winter is bright, 
 The moon shines all day and the sun all the night, 
 Expresses run slow and the luggage-trains fast, 
 And horses win races by coming in last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There clocks are most prized if they never keep time, 
 There poetry's prose, and blank verse ends in rhyme, 
 There giants and dwarfs freely walk to and fro, 
 While middle-sized people are mobbed as a "show." 
 
 VII. 
 
 There every one marries the person he hates, 
 Though wedlock is thought the most blissful of states ; 
 There children command and their parents obey, 
 And juveniles work while the older folks play. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There money's the cause of domestic disputes 
 When wives see the bills for their husbands' new suits, 
 For gentlemen's fashions continually vary, 
 Which ladies' do not — in the Land of Contrairy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There plays are produced for a nominal sum, 
 
 And managers pay each spectator to come, 
 
 For nothing the gratis-t of vocalists sing, 
 
 And " stars '' will perform " for the fun of the thing." 
 
THE LAND OF CONTRAIRY. 33 
 
 There people are praised for neglecting their duties, 
 " Professional Uglies" are photo'd, not "Beauties;" 
 And soldiers who run from the enemy's fire 
 Are lauded as heroes whom all should admire. 
 
 XI. 
 
 There topers get drunk on cold water and tea, 
 While temperance-men with strong liquors make free ; 
 Nor is it the mad that asylums contain, 
 But people imprison'd for being too sane ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 I've come from that Land — I was there in my dreams 
 (Meat-suppers don't suit my digestion, it seems), 
 'Twas all so abnormal, fantastic, night-mar e-y, 
 I'm glad to get out of the Land of Contrairy ! 
 
 D 
 
( 34 ) 
 
 The Criminal Crows. 
 
 A TRUE YARN OF AN AUSTRALIAN CO-ROBBERY. 
 
 OUT in the Bush at , such a name 
 
 As quite defies all English spelling, 
 In charge of cattle far from tame 
 
 Three Stockmen made their humble dwelling ; 
 Dampers and meat and tea their fare, 
 
 Varied by tea and meat and dampers, 
 Fortnum and Mason sent not there, 
 
 Nor friends profuse with Christmas hampers. 
 
 " Early to rise " and break their fast, 
 
 Then to the " run " they urged their horses, 
 First placing, for the next repast, 
 
 Tea, dampers, meat — the usual courses ; 
 But sure as ever they return'd 
 
 To feed that " man " we call the " inner," 
 They all with indignation burn'd 
 
 To find some thief had " boned " their dinner ! 
 
 Who could it be ? the doors were lock'd, 
 
 The windows in secure condition, 
 The crows that on the tree-tops flock'd 
 
 Began to rouse our friends' suspicion. 
 
THE CRIMINAL CROWS. 35 
 
 "We'll trap them, sure as eggs !" cried they, 
 " To-morrow you shall stay behind, Jack, 
 
 And if the birds come down to prey, 
 Kill every one that you can find, Jack." 
 
 Twas tried ; one Stockman all day long 
 
 Lay hid beneath the " shanty " table, 
 No crow he saw, but heard the throng 
 
 Keep up a harsh and deafening babel. 
 'Twas clear they were in high debate 
 
 Whether 'twas safe to make an entry; 
 Some did approve, some deprecate, 
 
 With arguments quite Parliament'ry. 
 
 The trick had fail'd ; one more was tried, 
 
 Next day the men rigg'd up a dummy, 
 Which, when on horseback firmly tied, 
 
 Look'd like a man and not a mummy. 
 One, two, and three, the Stockmen leave, 
 
 At least the crows that watch'd them thought so ; 
 Each, as it were,' " laugh 'd in his sleeve," 
 
 They little dream'd of being caught so. 
 
 All joining in the glorious caws, 
 
 Adown the ■wide flue flew they trooping, 
 And sharply arm'd with bills and claws, 
 
 Upon the tempting food came swooping. 
 Up starts a Stockman all alive — 
 
 The birds without their host had reckon'd, 
 Like bees disturb'd within their hive, 
 
 The swarm was scatter'd in a second. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Chased round the room, they all got slain 
 
 Save one, who soon saw what the game was, 
 No crow was ever seen again 
 
 At , whatsoe'er the place's name was. 
 
 This true but striking story shows 
 
 'Gainst corvine instinct there are no bars, 
 For if the chimney's closed, the crows — 
 
 Who knows ? — might force the door with crow-bars ! 
 
 <S3^^3: 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 To One of Tender Age. 
 
 A PATHETIC PIECE. 
 
 YES, thou art like thy mother, sweetest child, 
 Thine are the beauties of her eyes and hair, 
 
 Her countenance so innocent and mild, 
 Her soft fair skin, are all reflected there. 
 
 To see thee playing by thy mother's side, 
 In childish glee, as thoughtfully she lies, 
 
 How touching ! — and to mark what looks of pride, 
 O'erwatch thee from affection's joy-bright eyes ! 
 
 At times thy infant sport will lure away 
 
 Awhile thy parent from her pensive mood ; 
 
 Unbends her widow'd brow, she joins thy play, 
 With all the careless zeal of babyhood. 
 
 Sad was thy father's fate — a nameless grave, 
 An early death by midnight wanderer's gun ; 
 
 Thy tender brethren perish'd 'neath the wave, 
 And sisters — thou wert left the only one ! 
 
 The only one ! — sole relic of the past, 
 
 Sad remnant of a race by death unspared : — 
 
 What wonder if thy mother on thee cast 
 
 The wealth of love which once by all was shared ! 
 
PATTER POEMS. 
 
 He who would tear thee from her fond control, 
 Or thwart such sweet and mutual love as this, 
 
 He should be banish'd to the frozen Pole, 
 And never more allow'd one moment's bliss ! 
 
 I love thee, little one — as who would not ? — 
 Joy of my heart, and idol of the mother's, 
 
 Thou art the finest kitten of the lot, 
 
 I'm glad I didn't drown thee like the others ! 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 To my Hat. 
 
 "Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?" 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost. 
 
 " What seem'd his head 
 The likeness of a chimney-pot had on ! " 
 
 Ditto's Ditto (?). 
 
 Emblem and archetype of all that's hideous, 
 Unblest be he who first invented thee ! 
 
 The wearer need not be in taste fastidious, 
 Thy ugliness to see. 
 
 "tile!" O "box!" O "stove-pipe!" O "bell-topper!" 
 Woe, woe is me that it should be my lot, 
 
 To live in times when fashion deems it proper 
 To wear a chimney-pot ! 
 
 1 care not if thy crown be high or lowly, 
 
 Or what thy breadth or narrowness of biim, 
 Thy nature is unalter'd, thou art wholly 
 Repulsive, dark, and grim , 
 
 In outline stiff, hard, angular, ungainly, 
 In hue as black as if by blacking black'd, 
 
 Thou standest forth to observation plainly, 
 A disagreeable fact. 
 
40 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Oh, for a cap of soft and yielding felt ! 
 
 A chapeau bras, a Greek or Turkish fez, 
 A turban, or "blue bonnet" like the Celt, 
 
 All have advantages. 
 
 But thou, oh most unparallel'd monstrosity ! 
 
 Unfit alike for elegance and ease, 
 Artistic eyes must view thee with ferocity, 
 
 What mortal canst thou please ? — 
 
 Unless there be some mad or bilious lover 
 Of all that's dingy, harsh, uncouth, and foul, 
 
 If aught of chimney form my head must cover, 
 I should prefer a cowl. 
 
 No doubt the burnish'd helm of Cid or Caesar 
 Was hard, uncomforting, and far from light ; 
 
 But if, in wearing, somewhat of a squeezer, 
 'Twas pleasing to the sight. 
 
 What hero could have done heroic duty 
 
 With such a thing as thou upon his head ? — 
 
 Extinguisher of all poetic beauty, 
 Falling as dull as lead ! 
 
 What painter on his canvas would depict thee ? 
 
 What sculptor copy such a form in stone ? 
 Thy want of picturesqueness must restrict thee 
 
 To travestie alone. 
 
TO MY HAT. 41 
 
 Can high-soul'd Ruskin for a moment bear thee ? 
 
 Did wondrous Dore* such a shape adopt ? 
 Do Tennyson and Swinburne ever wear thee, 
 
 O'er tresses closely cropp'd ? 
 
 Change thee in size to smaller or to bigger, 
 
 Give thee bright hues, thou art but more grotesque, 
 
 And only canst suggest a strolling " nigger," 
 Or " swell " in a burlesque. 
 
 No ornament of plumes, or gems, or ribbons, 
 
 Can soften thy deformity at all ; 
 Oh, would that I could write, with pen like Gibbon's, 
 
 Of thy " decline and fall ! " 
 
 What ! Is invention dead ? has taste departed, 
 That no more graceful head-gear can be had ? 
 
 Arise, ye hatters, faint and chicken-hearted, 
 Prove that ye are not mad. 
 
 Hence, horrid hat ! — I spurn thee altogether, 
 Though fashion may prolong thy hateful reign, 
 
 Sooner bare-headed would I face the weather 
 Than put thee on again ! 
 
( 42 ) 
 
 A Dreame of Chyvelerie. 
 
 METHOUGHT I was a gallant knight, in gilded armour 
 
 drest, 
 My falchion glitter'd by my side, my lance was laid at 
 
 rest, 
 Superb were my equipments, and of purest Arab strain 
 The steed I spurr'd so ardently o'er Jordan's burning 
 
 plain. 
 And as I sped, full well prepared for any warlike work, 
 Right in my pathway I espied a fierce and turban'd 
 
 Turk ; 
 A scymitar of fearful size and sharpness did he wield, 
 And on his other arm he bore a crescent-crested shield. 
 A dagger with bejewell'd hilt his silken sash sustain'd, 
 So bright his scaly armour shone, mine eyes were dazed 
 
 and pain'd. 
 But worst of all his lance, as long and thick as 
 
 barber's pole, 
 (No doubt from Barbary it came) might well appal my 
 
 soul. 
 Yet, nothing loth, I challenged him, and bravely on I 
 
 dash'd, 
 O Phoebus! how his swivel eye in sunlike fury 
 
 flash'd ! 
 
A DREAME OF CHYVELERIE. 43 
 
 Nimrod ! how his bounding barb did neigh and paw 
 
 the air ! 
 And how the rider at its pranks in Arabic did swear ! 
 
 1 set my teeth, and nerved my arm, to deal so shrewd 
 
 a thrust 
 As soon should cause that Saracen to bite his native 
 
 dust. 
 Now death to thee, thou Paynim Knight ! " I cried, 
 
 and couch'd my lance, 
 But firm the swarthy warrior stood, awaiting my 
 
 advance ; 
 We met : — like thunder came the shock, and with such 
 
 giant force 
 The Moslem aim'd his deadly spear, it hurl'd me from 
 
 my horse ; 
 With one foot dragg'd in stirrup, ignominiously from 
 
 selle, 
 Head foremost on the desert sand with violence I fell ; 
 My helmet crack'd and raised a bump on my devoted 
 
 head, 
 The pain awoke me, and I found — I'd tumbled out of 
 
 bed! 
 
( 44 ) 
 
 Kraw. 
 
 De Lesseps could perforate Suez, 
 A rat through a wainscot may gnaw ; 
 
 What Britain now wishes to do is 
 To cut thro' the Isthmus of Kraw. 
 
 It lies 'twixt Siam and Malacca, 
 
 In latitude io° you may draw 
 The line where they purpose to track a 
 
 New route through the Isthmus of Kraw. 
 
 The natives, of tawny complexion, 
 
 Smoke opium, and betel-nuts " chaw," 
 
 If they with the whites shun connexion, 
 They'll cut, too, the Isthmus of Kraw. 
 
 'Tis fifty miles wide, but if sunder'd 
 
 (The plans are complete, without flaw), 
 
 Thus "cutting " will cut off nine hundred 
 Long miles round the Isthmus of Kraw. 
 
 And when we've perform'd amputation 
 
 With Science's surgical saw, 
 Our commerce will crowd to each station 
 
 That stands near the Isthmus of Kraw. 
 
 Sweet theme ! — I could warble till Christmas, 
 But people would murmur " Oh ! law ! 
 
 We've heard quite enough of your Isthmus, 
 The horrible Isthmus of Kraw ! " 
 
( 45 ) 
 
 Tom Timbrel. 
 
 Tom Timbrel was a minstrel gay, 
 
 For music much reputed, 
 The harp he often used to play, 
 
 He also lyred and luted ; 
 His instruments, kept always tuned, 
 
 An endless charm provided, 
 For when he'd bugled and bassoon'd 
 
 He viol'd and ophecleided : 
 On light guitar he " tum-te-tumm'd," 
 
 He fifed and flageoletted, 
 Cornet-a-piston'd, kettle-drumm'd, 
 
 Triangled, castanetted ; 
 He bag-piped, too, but not content 
 
 With music thus afforded, 
 He violin'd where'er he went, 
 
 Tromboned and harpsichorded. 
 Pianoforting was his forte, 
 
 He Steinway'd and Collarded, 
 To Broadwooding he'd next resort, 
 
 Then Cramer'd and Erarded ; 
 He banjoed, boned, and tambourined, 
 
 Accordion'd, concertina'd, 
 He xylophoned, he mandolined, 
 
 He zither-violina'd ; 
 
PATTER POEMS. 
 
 He sweetly dulcimer'd. at times, 
 
 Or blatantly euphonium'd, 
 He bell'd the bells, he chimed the chimes, 
 
 He organ'd and harmonium'd. 
 Such varied gifts to him belong'd, 
 
 He psalteried and cymbal'd, 
 He hautboy'd, hurdy-gurdy'd, gong'd, 
 
 Theorboed, tabor'd, tymbal'd ; 
 His whistling was a treat, and sweet 
 
 His pan-pipes' tuneful twittering, 
 'Twas bliss to see him take his seat, 
 
 And set his zither zittering. 
 Twelve instruments at once he play'd, 
 
 Beneath the dome at Brighton, 
 And thus the name of fame he made — 
 
 " The Instrumental Crichton." 
 
( 47 ) 
 
 A Night Horror. 
 
 Fearful it is to sit alone at night, 
 Bent o'er some tome of mystery or fright : 
 Bulwer's " Zanoni," Ainsworth's " Old St. Paul's," 
 The horrors of Udolpho's gloomy halls ; 
 Some dark and grewsome legend of the Rhine, 
 Or Mrs. Shelley's tale of " Frankenstein ;" 
 The spectral stories and horrific scenes 
 We often find in Christmas Magazines ; 
 Or Ingoldsby, when in his tragic moods, 
 Or weirdness mix'd with wit, like Thomas Hood's ; 
 Southey's " Old Woman," grimmest tale of woe, 
 Some mystery by Edgar Allan Poe, 
 Some Oriental frightener, replete 
 With ghoul and vampire, genie and afreet ; 
 Some Newgate narrative of murderous work 
 By fiends like Greenacre, or Hare and Burke ; 
 Some morbid tale in Wilkie Collins' strain, 
 Which, while it scares you, holds you like a chain ; 
 Spellbound, you dwell within a world apart, 
 Till comes a creeping coldness at the heart ; 
 You shudder, — clammy drops your brows bedew, 
 The atmosphere is close, the light burns blue, 
 The clock gives forth a loud unnatural tick, 
 The wind howls dismally, your pulse beats quick, 
 
48 PATTER POEMS'. 
 
 You feel a dread — a horror — gracious, look ! 
 
 A moving shadow falls upon your book ! 
 
 A strange unearthly breathing fills your ear, 
 
 You're fix'd, congeal'd, and paralysed with fear ; 
 
 You dare not move, nor stir, nor look around — 
 
 Louder and louder grows the horrid sound, 
 
 And now, oh heavens, that light but thrilling touch ! 
 
 Avaunt ! it is some evil phantom's clutch. 
 
 Fear ties your tongue, your limbs have lost their strength. 
 
 Till desperation nerving you at length, 
 
 You half start up, you look behind, and there 
 
 Find — that the cat has perch'd upon your chair ! 
 
( 49 ) 
 
 Arithmetical Posers. 
 
 [BY A COLNEY HATCH CALCULATOR.] 
 
 Supposing you had 6 baboons, 
 
 And made them dance a dozen jigs, 
 
 How many pairs of pantaloons 
 Would equal 50 sucking-pigs? 
 
 If every house had 7 roofs, 
 
 And every roof 1,000 tiles, 
 How much is worn off horses' hoofs 
 
 In trotting 20,000 miles ? 
 
 If 60 stockings made a pair, 
 
 And all our hats were worn in twos, 
 How many braces should we wear, 
 
 Including slippers, boots, and shoes ? 
 
 If 20 kittens made a pie 
 
 Of half a 1 00 mouses' tails, 
 How far is Rome from Peckham Rye 
 
 Before the equinoctial gales ? 
 
 If 40 snails could crawl a mile 
 In \ the time it takes to wink, 
 
 How many pills would cure the bile ? — 
 Please work it out in pen and ink. 
 
 £ 
 
5» PATTER POEMS. 
 
 If 7 double-barrell'd guns 
 Kill'd 80 rabbits in an hour, 
 
 How many pounds of hot-cross-buns 
 Could Jumbo in a day devour ? 
 
 If every dog had 5 o barks, 
 And every bark 1 1 bites, 
 
 How many children's Noah's Arks 
 Would equal 2 electric lights ? 
 
 If 30 chimney-pots of ale, 
 
 And \ a looking-glass of wine, 
 
 Were all reduced to smallest scale, 
 What is it multiplied by 9 ? 
 
 If 7 senses are confused 
 By whales 600 acres long, 
 
 Why shouldn't people be amused 
 At this my idiotic song ? 
 
( Si ) 
 
 The Age of Pulp. 
 
 ["Articles of furniture made of pulp are among the likelihoods of 
 the near future." — See Papers^ 
 
 'TlS almost more than one can swallow, 
 
 However large our mental gulp, 
 Wood furniture is beaten hollow, 
 
 'Tis said, by articles of pulp. 
 Pulp caskets, pulpy chandeliers, 
 
 In Germany are largely made, 
 Pulp barrels for our wines and beers 
 
 Will pulpify the liquor trade. 
 
 Pulpaceous picture-frames will cease, 
 
 Ere long, to seem mere curiosities ; 
 And in shop-windows will increase, 
 
 The swarm of multiform pulposities. 
 Pulp baskets, boxes, chimney-pots, 
 
 Pulp mantel-pieces, fenders, jars ; 
 Pulp vases, fountains, arbours, grots, 
 
 And even pulpy Pullman cars. 
 
 Pulpous armchairs, adorn'd as much 
 
 As Lord Mayor's seat or Bishop's throne, 
 
 And pulp-its, literally such, 
 
 Instead of carven wood or stone. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Soon statues of the self-same stuff 
 
 Sculptors will mould instead of " sculp ; " 
 
 This reference would sound odd enough, 
 " ' Venus,' by Richard Belt, in pulp." 
 
 Givers of concerts will display- 
 Announcements of this novel sort — 
 
 " Signor Pulpinio will play 
 
 On Pleydell's pulp-pianoforte." 
 
 Pillars of pulp for porticoes, 
 
 Pulp pumps and pipes — why, goodness gracious ! 
 
 What it will end in no one knows, 
 If all the world becomes pulpaceous. 
 
( S3 ) 
 
 Arcadia and Belgravia : 
 
 A PASTORAL OF MODERN LIFE. 
 I. — DAMON. 
 
 " Sweet maid of the vale, now the word you have 
 spoken 
 
 Which rivets two hearts that divided would break, 
 Let deeds, more than words, my affection betoken, 
 
 Just hear what I'll do for my dearest one's sake : 
 I'll give up my club, and the glare and confusion 
 
 Of Fashion's mad whirl through Society's maze ; 
 I'll shun the gay town, and in rural seclusion 
 
 And homely delights we will pass all our days, 
 Far, far from the world, in this valley of rest, 
 For that is the life your are sure to love best. 
 
 II. 
 
 ' We'll dwell in a cottage ; our billing and cooing 
 Shall blend with the lark and the nightingale's trill, 
 
 The lamb's gentle ' baa,' and the cow's mellow 
 ' mooing,' 
 The rose-shaking zephyr, the murmuring rill. 
 
54 PATTER FOE MS. 
 
 I'll call myself Damon, and you shall be Chlorys, 
 We'll live on plain fare, and dispense with French 
 cooks, 
 
 And shine in all Dresdeny-Shepherdy glories — 
 
 Straw hats, streaming ribbons, and pastoral crooks. 
 
 What prettier notion could mortal suggest ? 
 
 For that is the life you are sure to love best." 
 
 III. — CHLORYS. 
 
 " Yes, Algie, that's all very pretty, I know it, 
 
 I've been ' truly rural ' too long in my life, 
 But though such existence may do for a poet, 
 
 'Tis not what / want in becoming your wife ; 
 I long. I confess, for refined dissipation, 
 
 Fetes, op'ras, lawn-tennis, and five o'clock tea, 
 he rapturous waltz and attendant flirtation, 
 
 And dresses from Worth, are far dearer to me ; 
 So let's live in town, take a mansion out West, 
 For that is the life I am sure to love best." 
 
( 55 ) 
 
 Brightness : a Sketch. 
 
 {COMPANION TO BYRON'S "DARKNESS.") 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream ; 
 
 The gas-lamps were extinguish'd, and the shops 
 
 Did sparkle brightening in the Electric blaze, 
 
 Jetless and flareless, and each private house 
 
 Gleam'd white and glistening in the gloomless air. 
 
 Eve came and went, and came, and brought no night, 
 
 And men forebore to slumber iri the glare 
 
 Of that eternal noonday ; peaks were worn 
 
 To ev'ry cap, and parasols were spread, 
 
 And blinds and curtains closed, but all in vain ; 
 
 Some Edisonian fiend had patented 
 
 A potent Light which nothing could pit out / — 
 
 Flickerless, quenchless, shadeless, changeless, endless. 
 
 Eclipses came, and fogs, and still no shade ; 
 
 The moon and stars wax'd dim ; the earth itself 
 
 Out-dazzled them in splendour ; men collapsed 
 
 Through doubled toil and care, and want of rest, 
 
 For business never slacken'd night nor day ; 
 
 'Twas nine till six, then six till nine again ; 
 
 And plays were acted thrice 'twixt noon and noon, 
 
 And papers came out twice ; trains never stopp'd ; 
 
 And monarchs, work'd to death, could reign no more : 
 
 For Jablochkoff and Siemens, Brush and Swan, 
 
 Were tyrants of the earth ; the very sun 
 
 At last grew useless ; Brightness had no need 
 
 Of aid from him it was the Day of Daze ! 
 
( 56 ) 
 
 a 
 
 By the Glad Sea Waves! 
 
 [The following little piece of absurdity, from the Songs of Singu- 
 larity, having become very popular, and been frequently quoted both 
 in English and American periodicals, is herein republished with 
 certain alterations intended to fit it for music] 
 
 He stood on his head on the wild sea shore, 
 
 And joy was the cause of the act, 
 For he felt as he never had felt before, 
 
 Insanely glad, in fact ; 
 And why ? — In that vessel that left the bay 
 
 His mother-in-law had sail'd, 
 To a tropical country far away 
 Where tigers and snakes prevail'd. 
 Refrain — With a ha ! ha ! ha ! and a hip-hooray! 
 His mother-in-law had sail'd away, 
 In a gallant ship, 
 On a distant trip. 
 And that is why, 
 With a smile in his eye, 
 He stood on his head on the wild sea-shore ! 
 
 II. 
 
 And more than one of his creditors, too — 
 Those objects of constant dread — 
 
 Had taken berths in that ship, he knew, 
 Whose sails to the wind were spread. 
 
"BY THE CLAD SEA WAVES!" 57 
 
 Ah ! now he might hope for a quiet life, 
 
 Which he never had known as yet, 
 Tis true that he still possess'd a wife, 
 And was not quite out of debt. 
 Refrain — With a ha ! ha ! ha ! and a hip-hooray ! 
 His troublesome duns had sail'd away, 
 In a gallant ship, 
 On a distant trip, 
 And that is why, 
 With a smile in his eye, 
 He stood on his head on the wild sea-shore. 
 
 III. 
 
 But he watch'd the vessel, this singular chap, 
 
 O'er the waves as she up'd and down'd. 
 He hoped she would meet with no mishap, 
 
 And no one on board be drown'd ! 
 Yet he jump'd with joy as she died away, 
 
 And sang to the sunset sea, 
 Till down with a " fizz " went the orb of day, 
 And then he went home to tea ! 
 Refrain — With a ha ! ha ! ha ! and a hip-hooray ! 
 The plagues of his life had sail'd away, 
 In a gallant ship, 
 On a distant trip, 
 And that is why, 
 With a smile in his eye, 
 He stood on his head on the wild sea-shore. 
 
( 58 
 
 The Deserted Inn. 
 
 Baron. Dost thirst, sirrah ? 
 
 Varlet. Aye, marry, my lord, that do I ! 
 
 Baron. Get thee to a quenchery. {Guerdons him.) 
 
 Old Play. 
 
 Sad ruin ! — woful scene of pleasures past ! 
 
 Tenantless, licenseless, with sign outworn, 
 Who but a stern teetotaller would cast 
 
 Unpitying eyes upon thy state forlorn ? 
 
 No more shall barman brisk and barmaid smart 
 Smile on thy patrons growing drunk around, 
 
 The while mine host, in cellar far apart, 
 Doctors his liquor with a skill profound. — 
 
 Mixing the verdant vitriol with gin, 
 
 And eke with beer the thirst-provoking salt ; 
 
 Quassia, molasses, cocculus, stirr'd in 
 
 With water, much improve the taste of malt. 
 
 No stalwart workmen to thy bar will flock, 
 
 To spend their weekly " screw " in getting " screw'd," 
 
 Thence taking home a sadly-dwindled stock, 
 Causing thereby domestic want and feud ; 
 
 No more shall billiard-ball or bagatelle 
 
 With " fluke " and " cannon " strike upon the ear, 
 
 Nor through the street the taproom chorus swell, 
 From mingled voices indistinct with beer ; 
 
THE DESERTED INN. 59 
 
 Never again will friends long parted meet 
 
 Within thy walls to drink each other's health ; 
 
 Nor sharpers bring some noodle from the street 
 By " confidence " to trick him of his wealth. 
 
 The blacken 'd banjo-man shall never more 
 Charm thee with nigger melody and wit, 
 
 Nor imps and rowdies cluster round thy door, 
 To chaff a woman in a drunken fit. 
 
 Yes, all these sweet and varied joys have fled 
 From thee — sad type of ruin and despair ; 
 
 So, with a sigh, I turn away mine head, 
 
 The " George " is open — 'spose we go in there ? 
 
( 6o ) 
 
 Foam and Fangs. 
 
 A SWINBURNIAN OUTBURST. 
 
 O, NYMPH with the nicest of noses, 
 
 And finest and fairest of forms, 
 Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses 
 
 That sway and that surge in the storms ; 
 O, buoyant and blooming Bacchante, 
 
 Of fairer than feminine face, 
 Rush, raging as demon of Dante — 
 
 To this, my embrace ! 
 
 The foam, and the fangs, and the flowers, 
 
 The raving and ravenous rage, 
 Of a poet as pinion'd in powers, 
 
 As condor confined in a cage ! 
 My heart in a haystack I've hidden, 
 
 As loving and longing I lie, 
 Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden — 
 
 I gaze and I die ! 
 
 I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, 
 
 I've sniff d up the sepulchre's scent, 
 I've doated on Devilry's daughter, 
 
 And murmur'd much more than I meant ; 
 I've paused at Penelope's portal, 
 
 So strange are the sights that I've seen, 
 And mighty's the mind of the mortal 
 
 Who knows what I mean ! 
 
( 6i ) 
 
 pol^olot patter. 
 
 "Aery tongues that syllable men's names." — Milton. 
 
 [The following pieces, selected from the Author's contributions to 
 Funny Folks, were mostly published during the Russo-Turkish, 
 Afghan, and Zulu wars. The object was not only to celebrate the 
 prowess of the combatants, but to enrich the English language with 
 some of those expressive and euphonious foreign names which, 
 from their sweet melody of sound, are so strikingly suitable for 
 poetic treatment. — N.B. Mind the accents.] 
 
 The Muscovite Call to Arms. 
 
 COME, ye friends of Holy Russia, whence or whatsoe'er 
 
 you are, 
 Rise and join the sacred banner of your Sovran Lord the 
 
 Czar. 
 From Pul Khoda in the South, to Cape Bolbansky in 
 
 the North, 
 Chechians, Letts, and Lithuanians, Schmudes, Syrgani, 
 
 come ye forth. 
 Come, ye Tummits, Khoits, and Bratski, Voguls, Vot- 
 
 yaks, Volga Finns, 
 Hasten to the call of glory ere the deadly strife 
 
 begins. 
 
62 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Tartars of all tribes and nations, list the roll of Russia's 
 
 drum, 
 Nogais, Kirghiz, Methcheryaks, Kalmucks, Karakalpaks, 
 
 come. 
 Flinch not, Teptiars, onward, Bashkirs, Lapps, Jouka- 
 
 ghirs, Permians, Poles, 
 Oural, Volga, Don, Grebenski, send your Cossacks out 
 
 in shoals. 
 Sons of Greece, now strike for Empire — look to 
 
 Moscow and be wise*; 
 Deligeorgis, Coumoundourous, can't you make the 
 
 people rise ? 
 Strike, Bulgarians, Montenegrins, brave Wallachians, 
 
 Serbs, and Croats ; 
 Rest not while the Moslem banner o'er Constantinople 
 
 floats. 
 Loyal Disraelite Caucasians, leave not Russia in the 
 
 lurch ; 
 Rouse each village, town, and district, right from 
 
 Stcherbirovsk to Kertsch. 
 Arm, Abkasians and Mingrelians, mountaineers of 
 
 Daghestan, 
 From the passes of Tchetchentzi pounce on Turkey — 
 
 if you can ; 
 Tchitchianof's road will lead you o'er the hills of 
 
 Kabar-dah. 
 Join them at the fort of Poti, gallant subjects of the 
 
 Shah. 
 How the war in Europe rages ! — goodness gracious 
 
 what was that ? 
 
THE MUSCOVITE CALL TO ARMS. 63 
 
 'Twas the roar of Turkey's cannon pitching into 
 
 Kalafat. 
 See Nischegorods and Cossacks start from Willenkeff 
 
 and Kulp, 
 Generals Melikoff and Grabbe mean to beat the Turks 
 
 to pulp. 
 See, by Topadjik and Tschachmur, Scheremetjeff leads 
 
 the way, 
 Driving the Osmanli horsemen to the heights of 
 
 Bezdiktschai. 
 We must conquer Asia Minor, from Batoum to Scan- 
 
 deroon ; 
 O ye gods and little fishes ! — wont there be some 
 
 fighting soon ! 
 
64 ) 
 
 A Journey in Bulgaria. 
 
 [not to be read without a map.] 
 
 From Hadji Ogli Bazardjik 
 
 We travelled on to Armanlik, 
 
 And down the river Dedraltchik ; 
 
 Until we got to Tzaratovo, 
 
 'Twixt Radulovo and Slchukovo, 
 
 And stay'd awhile at Dogonovo. 
 
 Oh ! how I liked Tchanaktcheieivo ! 
 
 J Twas sweeter far than Akandjeivo ; 
 
 From thence we could perceive Ilslitsa, 
 
 And, farther off, Bezsrabrinitsa, 
 
 And ever-beauteous Koprishtitsa. 
 
 We pass'd the village Zdrebrtchka, 
 
 By far more picturesque than Leshka, 
 
 But not to be compared with Metchka. 
 
 To Streltcha next and Kalaglari — 
 
 The nearest route to Shiaklari ; 
 
 We cross'd the mountains at Pepintsa, 
 
 And found ourselves at Yuleshintsa. 
 
 Next made our way to Karadjan, 
 
 Gitanbian, and Ieni Khan. 
 
 At length, when we had seen EreUi, 
 
 And all the beauties of Keneli, 
 
 We reach 'd Batak ; then, turning back, 
 
 Took ship again at Adjidjak, 
 
 Cross'd the Black Sea to seek Tartaria, 
 
 And that is how we saw Bulgaria. 
 
( 6 S ) 
 
 Where is Prjevalsky ? 
 
 THE RUSSIAN EXPLORER. 
 
 Sad news from Chung-Ching do the telegrams bring, 
 
 He's lost — Prjevalsky, the travelling Russian ; 
 He left Turkestan, pass'd Shachan and Nan-Shan, 
 
 But where he is now is a theme for discussion. 
 His course had been set towards Lhassa, Thibet, 
 
 Through deserts in peril of heat, drought, and 
 hunger, 
 O'er Soulousoun Mounts, by the latest accounts 
 
 He reached Ngan-si-chan, on the river Bulunghir ; 
 Koko Nor and Lob Nor he'd explored years before, 
 
 And Hoang-ho's source ('tis as large as the Obi) ; 
 Tongurik he'd seen, and to Geder-Kon been, 
 
 In giving the desert of Gobi the go-by ; 
 O'er Tsardom Steppe's waste though his steps have 
 been traced, 
 
 And Altyn Dagh's Range — all beyond is confusion. 
 Has he met with his fate through the murderous hate 
 
 Of wandering Usbeg, Mandchou, or Tungusian ? 
 Or stopp'd, when in view of the Murus Ussu, 
 
 By Lhassa's " Grand Lhama/' whose fury barbaric 
 Has made him " go hang ! " drown in Yang-tze-kiang, 
 
 Or perish by punishments Mongol-Tartaric ? 
 
( 66 ) 
 
 A Kurdish Invasion. 
 
 In the land of the Kurd, 
 
 We have recently heard, 
 
 (For Reuter sent word) 
 
 An event has occurr'd, 
 Whereby to resistance the Persians are stirr'd ; 
 
 Those rascals the Kurds 
 
 Seize their flocks and their herds, 
 Devour and destroy like raptorial birds ; 
 
 Whate'er they can " bone " 
 
 They regard as their own, 
 And never will let their poor neighbours alone, 
 
 'Twas only last week, 
 
 That Abdullah their Sheikh, 
 
 With infinite " cheek," 
 
 For a murderous freak, 
 
 Join'd Hamzeh, a Persian, 
 
 And made an incursion 
 Within the Shah's borders to play "Meg's 
 Diversion ;" 
 
 They took Soutch Boolak, 
 
 Gave the gov'nor the sack, 
 
 (He fled the attack, 
 
 With his men at his back,) 
 
 Fort Souldouz with ease 
 
 They have managed to seize, 
 
A KURDISH INVASION. 67 
 
 And pass'd Lake Urumia, en route for Tabreez ; 
 
 That town they'll destroy 
 
 Or most sadly annoy, 
 Then beat a retreat through Maragha or Khoi ; 
 
 They've robb'd Lahidjan, 
 
 Kermanshah, Hamadan, 
 
 Teheran, Ispahan, 
 
 They will take if they can ; 
 
 The Persians, of course, 
 
 Will pursue them in force, 
 Just think ! fifteen thousand wild Kurds, mostly 
 horse, 
 
 'Tis surely no trifle 
 
 Such outbreaks to stifle, 
 Of robbers most fittingly armed with the rifle; 
 
 While Russia won't aid, 
 
 And the Turks are afraid, 
 
 Each day by some raid 
 
 Are the Persians dismayed ; 
 
 Their persons and purses 
 
 Are quite at the mercies 
 Of bandits and cut-throats, " Society's curses," 
 In darkness who lurk ; — it is terrible work, 
 I'm glad / am neither a Persian nor Turk ! 
 
 F 2 
 
( 68 ) 
 
 A Song of the Seat of War. 
 i. 
 
 GUESS what Turkey is made of ? 
 
 Pashas of tails, 
 
 Beauties in veils, 
 Padishahs, Viziers, Beys, Aghas and Emirs, 
 Crescent flags flying from ironclad steamers, 
 Symars and yashmaks, and harems for ladies, 
 Softas and muftis and Imaums and Cadis, 
 Minarets, mollahs, muezzins and mosques, 
 Rhamazans, caravans, khans and kiosks, 
 Kalpaks and caftans, tarboiiches, chibouques, 
 Spahis, Bostandjis, and Bashi-Bazouks, 
 Tchokodars, hamals, cavasses, and caiques, 
 Yataghans, sabres, djerreeds and tophaiks, 
 Houris and bul-buls and " latakh rakoum," 
 Zephyrs and " gardens of Gul in her bloom," 
 " Kismets " and sherbets and sweet lemon-kalis, 
 Abduls and Hassans, and Moukhtars and Aalis, 
 
 Sereskiers, effendis, 
 
 The list without end is,' — 
 And that's what Turkey is made of ! 
 
 II. 
 
 What are its provinces made of? 
 Dacians and Thracians, 
 Slavs and Wallachians, 
 
A SONG OF THE SEAT OF WAR. 69 
 
 Bosniaks, Serbs, Montenegrins and Croats, 
 Greeks and Albanians in kilts and capotes, 
 Arnauts and Klephts — fierce and truculent villains ; 
 Princely Nikitas, and Charleses and Milans, 
 Rayahs and Boyards and potent glavars, 
 Vladikas, voyvodes, and high hospodars, 
 
 Fierce Pansclavistics, 
 
 Leaders like Ristics, 
 
 Pro tic, Horvatovitch, 
 
 Leschjanin-Vucovitch, 
 
 Kogonicieano, 
 
 And brave Bratiano. 
 In Miridite factions it also rejoices, 
 In Malisore tribes and Kuci-Drekaloices ; 
 
 Such verbal monstrosities 
 
 Are truly "atrocities," 
 And t/tafs what the Danube is made of ! 
 
 ITT. 
 
 What is Muscovy made of? 
 
 Czars and Czarinas, 
 
 " Drovnas " and " Drinas." 
 "Keffs," "koffs," and " oushkins," and "owskis," 
 
 and "vitches," 
 Knouts, exiles, bear-skins and mineral riches ; 
 Vapour-baths, forests, and rivers and seas, 
 Droshkis and britschkas and stout Yemschtchikees, 
 Nevskoi Perspectives, and glittering domes, 
 Of kremlins and churches as splendid as Rome's, 
 
70 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Where service is ever conducted with grand rites, 
 By Papas, Caloyers, and grave Archimandrites, 
 
 While Cossacks and Tartars 
 
 Are drawn from all quarters, 
 And armies are led by Massalsky and Tchernaieff, 
 Kanatich, Stoltzenwald, Stephan, and Skobeleff, 
 
 Gortschakoffs, Menschikoffs, 
 
 Novikoffs, Schouvaloffs, 
 
 Kossinskis, Lavitskis, 
 
 And Nepokoitschitskis — 
 And that's what Russia is made of ! 
 
( n ) 
 Address to the Afghan Ameer. 
 
 Lord of Duranee, Shah of Suddozai, 
 
 Of Barukzai, of Populzai ; dread Khan 
 Of Abdallees, who doth the sceptre sway 
 
 Of Ghuzni, Candahar, and Segistan ; 
 Monarch of many mountains, Prince of Passes, 
 
 Chief of the Zukakheyl and Afreedees, 
 Of Shinwarrees, and other tribal classes, 
 
 Kohats, Jowakis, and Moolagorees ; 
 Who talk in Turkish, Persian, and Pushtoo, 
 
 In Hindi, Arabic, and Purramiki, 
 Hebrew and other tongues well known to you — 
 
 As Goberi, Lunghani, and Burniki. 
 Grandson of Sirdar Sarfraz Payandah, 
 
 Direct descendant of the Kuzzilbashes, 
 Child of that Chief who follow'd Shujah Shah, 
 
 Great Dost Mahomet (peaceful be his ashes), 
 Never may rivals, Azim or Afzoul, 
 
 (Sons of the Bungush Mulla Sadik's daughter), 
 Oust thee from sovereignty of fair Caboul, 
 
 But if there must be skirmish, siege and slaughter, 
 Rather may Persian satraps seize thy realm, 
 
 Or ratherer still, may British arms annex thee, 
 And Anglo-India all thy states o'erwhelm, 
 
 Than ruthless rampant Russia plague and vex thee; 
 If Jumrood, Khyber, Quettah, Peshawur, 
 
 And Rawul Pindee pour our legions forth, 
 Better from tfum thy chastisement occur, 
 
 Than from the fierce " Colossus of the North ! " 
 
( 72 ) 
 
 Pity the Poor Pyramids ! 
 
 [The Khedive's new mosque is built of stones from the Pyramids.] 
 
 Why can't they leave the Pyramids alone ? 
 
 Such conduct all the world regards as scandalous, 
 Filching those great time-honoured blocks of stone — 
 
 "Tis more than Gothic, it is truly Vandalous ! 
 " Brown, Jones, and Robinson " have oft been blamed 
 
 For carving names upon the Sphynxes' noses, 
 Then should not Egypt's ruler be ashamed, 
 
 Spoiling the land of Pharaoh, Ham, and Moses ? 
 Gheezeh, Maydoon, Saccarah, and Dushoor, 
 
 In turn have borne these barbarous depredations, 
 Are Thebes, Ed-foo, or El-kab secure 
 
 From Turks who'd even steal the excavations f 
 They leave no stone unturned to build their mosques 
 
 Or palaces, to please some Pasha's whimsy, 
 Waste ancient wealth on trumpery kiosks, 
 
 And modern minarets, stucco-like and flimsy ; 
 O Cheops ! ('tis with reverence I invoke him), 
 
 O Saurid, Mycerinus, and Cephr^nes ! — 
 (See " Egypt's Kings," by Ebn-Abd-Al-Hokim), 
 
 Of whose " last rest" this sandy plain the scene is — 
 Rise from your tombs, and punish with strong hand 
 
 The doers of these most profane excesses, 
 Who, while they're bringing ruin on the land, 
 
 Still take away the ruins it possesses. 
 If this goes on we " Franks " will have to post 
 
 Soldiers to stop, prevent or overcome it, 
 And greet the thieves with " Boney's " famous boast — 
 
 " See ! forty sentries watch you from the summit ! ' 
 
( 73 
 
 Cetywayo's Call to Arms. 
 
 Rise to arms, my forty thousand, 
 
 Cetywayo's warriors true, 
 Rise, ye aged Usixepi, 
 
 Rise, ye gruff Udhlambedhlu, 
 Come, ye monkey-skinn'd Mbebeld, 
 
 Come, Umhlanga, ostrich-plumed, 
 Come, ye Inkulutyan^, 
 
 Let the pale-faced foe be doom'd ; 
 Regiments Tyaka founded, 
 
 Corps Umpande oft has drilled, 
 Bands establish'd by Dingane, 
 
 Show yourselves in tactics skill'd ; 
 Veterans of Umlambongw<3mya, 
 
 Youths of Ndhl6ndhlo, grasp the spear ; 
 Middle-aged Nkobamokosi, 
 
 Mhl^nivu and Ngw^kwe, hear ! 
 At my call Nkonyanebomva 
 
 And Umkusis coming soon, 
 With the red Ukandapdmva, 
 
 And the strong Usindandhloon ; 
 Royal soldiers of Tulwana, 
 
 Indluyengw^, Akonk6ne, 
 Undi, Undabaka6mbi, 
 
 Nemgamg&n, guard my throne ; 
 I have Uve and Umzinyati, 
 
 Umcityu and Udhloko, 
 
74 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 Though when brother Umbulawswi 
 
 Raised revolt, they joined the foe ; 
 Cousin Umkwelanitaba, 
 
 In an England far away, 
 Put my brother Dabulmanzar, 
 
 And Sikota join the fray. 
 Staunchly fight my Ngakamatye, 
 
 By the great Induna led, 
 Transvaal's chief, Secoco^ni, 
 
 British blood would gladly shed ; 
 Brave Basutos, too, will join us, 
 
 Swelling still our armies' sum, 
 Till it numbers far beyond Iz- 
 
 inkalungwaneeziskum ! * 
 
 # 
 
 This is an abbreviation of a native word signifying " tens of 
 thousands." It is only pronounced in full once in a lifetime. 
 
( 75 ) 
 
 A Lay of Mandalay. 
 
 Oh, must we tackle the bold Burmese, whose .capital's 
 
 Mandalay ? 
 For Prome and Pagun, and Panya too, and Ava have 
 
 had their day ; 
 And Ummerapoora's glory's gone, though its splendours 
 
 still abound, 
 While Pagun has pagan temples grand that cover eight 
 
 miles of ground ; 
 Oh ! must the Lord of the Elephant White, whom 
 
 myriads still adore, 
 Be quell'd like Nizam and Guicowar or the Rajah of 
 
 Travancore ? 
 Must British vessels invest his forts, and barbarous 
 
 cannons bang, 
 On Irrawaddy and Lung-Tchudn, Moo, Thanlweng and 
 
 Sitang ? 
 Shall strangers subvert the Golden Throne of the 
 
 great Mindargee-Praw ? 
 And Christians profane the Shwe-tsan-dah and the 
 
 shrine of Khoong-noo-dau ? 
 And must the king all the wild tribes bring, to pepper 
 
 his foreign foes, 
 The Mranmas and Shans, Khy^ns and Sgans, and 
 
 Zabaings and Pgwoes ? 
 Already the British sword has carved till the empire's 
 
 small and slim, 
 
76 PATTER POEMS. 
 
 By taking Assam and Arracan, Pegu and Tenasserim; 
 Of further conquests the news may soon be pass'd from 
 
 mouth to mouth, 
 From Golong-Leeyong Mountains down to Zingyet- 
 
 Thowng in the south ; 
 With what a shock the gallant deeds of our regiments 
 
 from Rangoon, 
 Will startle each Menghi, Woongee, Myo, Woonddck, 
 
 and Attawoon ! 
 The Kingwoon-Menghi will groan, the Yenang-Menghi 
 
 frown, 
 And the Sandegans and the Sandozams will stand with 
 
 their eyes cast down, 
 The monarch will munch his betel hard, or puff at his 
 
 strong cheroots, 
 Oh ! who would stand in his splendid shoes, or his 
 
 much-bedizen'd boots ? 
 " Go, saddle my Elephant, Chaingeewoon ! " so King 
 
 Thebaw rides forth 
 To slaughter the infidels pale who hail from the far 
 
 benighted North ; 
 But what are his troops, with their double swords, 
 
 spears, jingals, and old guns, 
 Against the might and the discipline of Britannia's 
 
 sturdy sons ? 
 We'll hurl the king from his despot sway, his power 
 
 we'll make our own, 
 And place the fugitive Nyoong-Yan Prince on the 
 
 Mandalayan throne ! 
 
( 77 ) 
 
 Ode to Prince Take-Hito of Japan. 
 
 O THOU, who o'er the " Empire of the Sun " 
 
 " Xipangu " or Japan, one day will lord it — 
 Mikado and Tykoon roll'd into one, 
 
 We hail thy name, and due respect accord it ; 
 No more a mere " King Log," in palace mew'd, 
 
 Sits the Sun-god Tew-Zo-Dai-Zin's descendant, 
 No Dai Zingoon or Daimios can exclude 
 
 Their sovereign Lord from powers independent ; 
 Xikoki, Oki, Iki, and Kiusiu, 
 
 Are his, from northern Jesso to Kangosima, 
 To Niphon's realms the Isles of far Loo-Choo 
 
 Pertain, with Typon-san and Majicosima : 
 Japan had Kharamankiton, Ouroup, 
 
 Sim6nsir — all the isles to Cape Lopatka, 
 But now Saghalien and the Kurile group 
 
 Are Russian, like the Amoor and Kamtschatka. 
 O, Island Heir — O, Asian Prince of Wales, 
 
 We pray thee dress in Oriental fashion, 
 A Mongol in tall hat and swallow-tails, 
 
 Can only be an object of compassion ; 
 Keep thine ^Esthetic robes and Eastern scenes, 
 
 Stick to thy picturesqueness and thy paper, 
 Thy brightly painted sunshades, fans, and screens 
 
 With views of Fusi-yama wreathed in vapour. 
 Were Nagasaki built on Glasgow's plan, 
 
 And Jeddo Londonized, 'twould spoil those cities ; 
 To put new varnish over old Japan 
 
 O, gracious Prince, would be a thousand pities ! 
 
( 78 ) 
 
 Pahtahquahong. 
 
 THIS OJ IB WAY CHIEF VISITED ENGLAND, 1881. 
 
 SHOULD you ask me whence this chieftain ? 
 Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong ? 
 I should answer, I should tell you — 
 From the realms of lake and forest, 
 Where the mighty Saskaschawan, 
 And the Kaministaquoiah, 
 Drain the happy hunting valleys ; 
 Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux, 
 Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet, 
 Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Creeks, and Beavers, 
 Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash ; 
 From the lakes of Manitoba, 
 Winnepeg and Winnepago, 
 Pickocogasi and Paquash, 
 Doobaunt, Weenisk, Wheldyahad ; 
 From the shores of Athabasca, 
 From the land of the Ojibways ! 
 
 Should you ask me what he looks like ? 
 Wears he feathers and moccasins ? 
 Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint ? 
 Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife, 
 Musket quaint or modern rifle, 
 Like to " Sitting Bull " or " Big Snake," 
 Chingachgook or Outalassi, 
 
PAHTAHQUAHONG. 79 
 
 Leather-stocking'd Natty Bumppo, 
 
 Hiawatha, Pau-puk-keewis, 
 
 Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival, 
 
 Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle) 
 
 Died through wooing sweet Awh-mid-way, 
 
 Beautiful as Minnehaha ? 
 
 I should answer, I should tell you — 
 
 Pahtahquahong Chase, the Chieftain, 
 
 Wears no feathers nor moccasins, 
 
 Wields no tomahawk nor scalper, 
 
 But a black suit and white choker, 
 
 On his head a silk broad-brimmer, 
 
 In his hand a stick for walking ; 
 
 He has turned him from the war-path, 
 
 He has buried deep the hatchet, 
 
 Gives us sermons 'stead of war-whoops, 
 
 And the pale-face is his brother ; 
 
 Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong 
 
 From the realms of lake and forest, 
 
 From the land of the Ojibways ! 
 
( 8o ) 
 
 Ode for St. Andrew's Day. 
 
 Oh, bring a " richt good willie-wacht " to me ! 
 
 (Though what a " willie " is, I'm not so clear), 
 Let's taste (what is it like ?) " the barley-bree ; " 
 
 " Blow gentle Gaels " the bagpipes in my ear, 
 Your " pibrochs," " coronachs," and " slogans " play, 
 For 'tis your patron saint St. Andrew's Day. 
 
 Let John Bull " toss the caber," dance the " fling," 
 And " put the stone " in tartan, kilt, and hose, 
 
 While "Auld lang Syne" and "Scots wha hae," we sing, 
 And drink a " muckle sup " of " Athol brose," 
 
 For I've a notion thats the proper way 
 
 Of doing honour to St. Andrew's Day. 
 
 Give Caledonian's lochs sweet minor keys, 
 Ye minstrels ; let Ben Nevis have his due, 
 
 How this strong " sneeshin " " gars " " a body " sneeze, 
 "Wee draps" of "whuskey" soon will "mak" me "fou," 
 
 It Btirns my throat, ye Scot(t)s, "nae mair," I pray, 
 
 I've done, although it is St. Andrew's Day. 
 
 Were I a Scottish child — I mean a " chiel," 
 
 A Northern " Mac," and not a Southron " Smithers," 
 
 I'd greet you well — beg pardon, " greet ye weel," 
 
 My Highland Brothers — that is, " Hieland Brithers," 
 
 Forgive the faulty diction of my lay, 
 
 I'm only Scotch upon St. Andrew's Day ! 
 
Ode for St. David's Day. 
 
 Saint of the land of " Llans " and " Llyns " and leeks, 
 This day thine annual benefit bespeaks, 
 Accept the praise — tho' couch'd in Cockney tones — 
 Of one whose Welsh name " Ap ''-pens to be Jones. 
 Hail to thee, whilom Bishop of Mendevi, 
 Who did such wonders at Llandevi-Brevi, 
 And elsewhere, too — so runs the sacred yarn. 
 Rejoice, Llangrangwg and Llanllwchalarn. 
 Let banners hang from Conway's ruin'd arch, 
 Ye " Men of Harlech " mind your (first of) March ! 
 Ring out glad peals, sweet Aberdovey's bells, 
 While Dyfi's month of David's triumph tells, 
 Rejoice, ye mountains, Wyddfa, Penmaenmawr, 
 Idris, Plinlimmon, Pen-y-Cader-Fawr. 
 Let leeks abound — (except in ships and boats) 
 Skip ye for joy, Kidwelly's little goats ; 
 What time Sir Watkin Williams Wynn prepares 
 A feast of fine Welsh rabbits and March hares. 
 Let London's Cambrian bards in thousands plod 
 To the " Welsh Harp," to hold an Eisteddfod : 
 Minstrels of Wales, your melodies begin, 
 Sing Eos Morlais, warble Edith Wynne, 
 And Brinley Richards, wake thy Welshest strings 
 With " Toriad y Dydd " and those sweet things, 
 " Llwyn On," " Ar hyd y hos " (which Saxons call 
 "Poor Mary Ann"), and " Codiad yr Haul," 
 See what a piece — (my jaw it nearly breaks), 
 " Defyrrwch Arglwyddes Owain " makes ! 
 Oh, Cymri, tho' a " Saissenaig," I aim 
 In true Welsh terms, to sound St. David's fame ! 
 
 G 
 
( 82 ) 
 
 Ode for Sir Patrick's Day. 
 
 All hail to Erin's heroes famed in story — 
 
 Brave Brian, Cormac, Malachy, and Conn ; 
 Hail, Tara and Kincoragh's pomp and glory, 
 
 Where the " Ard-Ri " his " kingly crown " had on. 
 Hail, Patrick's " Hy Neill " tribe — a very high 'un — 
 
 Which did the Munster " Eoghan-achts " subvert ; 
 Hail, " Clanna lr," and "Dal Cas" led by Brian, 
 
 With others mentioned in the "Lowr-na-Kert;" 
 Oh ! give me wings, to waft me in a jiffy, 
 
 Without fatigue, delay, or cost in coin, 
 To the " green banks of Shannon," Bann, or Liffey, 
 
 To Londonderry, Limerick, or Boyne ; 
 Show me Loughs Neagh, Erne, Corrib, and Killarney, 
 
 The Slievh Booms, and Macgillicuddy's Reeks, 
 Fair Donnybrook, Avoca, " Groves of Blarney," 
 
 Or mount me on Knockmeledown's high peaks ; 
 Play up " St. Patrick's Day," my Pat-riot brothers, 
 
 Lef s quaff " L.L." and sing the " Cruishkeen Lawn, 
 " Cuishla-ma-cree," the " Shan-van-voght," and others, 
 
 "Kate Kearney," "Colleen Dhas," and "Molly Bawn." 
 Oh ! Erin ! I could laud thee like a LOVER, 
 
 Quite con «-MOORE-/ would I chant thy praise, 
 Could I the harp of Carolan discover, 
 
 Or sing Ferkertney's old Gsedhilic lays ; 
 Faugh-a-ballagh ! ochone ! bedad ! begorra ! 
 
 Cead mille failthe ! och ! avick ! asthore ! 
 Arrah ! agra ! aroon ! mavourneen ! — " Sorra 
 
 A bit " I know one word of Irish more ! 
 
( 8 3 ) 
 
 Serious poems. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 From Gay to Grave. 
 
 We cannot always shake the cap 
 and bells, 
 And crack the nut whose 
 
 kernel is a jest, 
 v Beneath the bright and 
 
 'bubbling surface dwells 
 'A dark slow stream, of 
 deeper interest ; 
 Sorrow and mirth are mingled 
 in our sphere, 
 We laugh a little, then we 
 weep awhile, 
 There is a smile to match 
 with every tear, 
 There is a tear to balance 
 every smile ; 
 So let us leave the sunshine 
 for the shade, 
 And sprightly measures for 
 a minor key, 
 Too long the jingling lute my Muse has play'd ; 
 Now hear how grave and sad her harp can be ! 
 
 G 2 
 
( 8 4 ) 
 
 In the Shadows. 
 
 It was in youth my fond and foolish dream, 
 That I in after years might rise to be 
 
 Something beyond a wavelet in the stream 
 Of some small river lost within the sea, — 
 
 Something beyond a shrunk and blighted tree, 
 Wither'd before its prime, that bears no fruit 
 
 Sweet to the taste, no blossom fair to see, 
 
 For no bright sun hath caused its boughs to shoot, 
 No genial waters fed and fertilized its root. 
 
 My life has been a day of gloom and shower, 
 No glimpse of azure sky or golden shine, 
 
 For neither love nor friendship, fame nor power, 
 Pleasure nor profit, ever has been mine ; 
 
 Yet is my soul forbidden to repine, 
 
 Save with unspoken words and inward tears, 
 
 Such grief must live, and die, alad make no sign ; 
 The world has heedless eyes and callous ears, 
 So must I wend unpitied down the vale of years ! 
 
( 8 S ) 
 
 The Ladye Hellenore. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE FIR TREE GROVE. 
 
 Beyond the gardens of the Hall, 
 There stands a Fir Tree Grove, 
 Now overgrown with bushes tall, 
 Therewith tradition may recall 
 A tragic tale of love. 
 
 'Tis haunted by a ghost in grey, 
 
 This leafy wilderness — 
 At least so local legends say — 
 The tale is of an ancient day, 
 
 The reign of good Queen Bess. 
 
 So fair, so bright, the heart's delight 
 
 Of parent, kinsman, friend, 
 What wonder Ladye Hellenore 
 Had warm admirers by the score, 
 And lovers without end ? 
 
 She smiled on these, she petted those, 
 
 A sad coquette, indeed ! 
 But for her favour'd lover chose 
 A Spaniard — one of England's foes, 
 
 Of alien race and creed. 
 
 Castilian he, of high degree, 
 A dark and haughty Don, 
 
86 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Who, with the passion of his race, 
 Loved, for her beauty, wit, and grace, 
 The daughter of Sir John. 
 
 In vain her father to defeat 
 
 Don Julian's wooing strove, 
 The twain would still in secret meet, 
 For converse sweet, in safe retreat, 
 Within the Fir Tree Grove. 
 
 Whatever dark-eyed maid of Spain 
 
 Had won his love before, 
 Such maiden now might sigh in vain, 
 His heart was bound in rosy chain 
 To Ladye Hellenore. 
 
 A spell was in the golden hue 
 
 That on her tresses shone, 
 A glamour in those eyes of blue, 
 A magic, potent to subdue, 
 In every smile and tone. 
 
 She loved him, and would never cease 
 
 To love him — so she vowed ; 
 But full of wilful, wild caprice, 
 She oft disturbed her wooer's peace 
 With many a jealous cloud. 
 
 To her he turn'd with love that burn'd 
 In fierce consuming flame ; 
 
THE LADYE HELLENORE. 87 
 
 Yet would have deem'd her fit for death 
 Had foul suspicion's faintest breath 
 Been breathed upon her name. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Eve, at close of day, 
 
 The maid, with stealthy tread, 
 Stole out, in cloak and hood of gray, 
 •To meet her love, and then, away ! 
 
 In secret to be wed. 
 
 They meet, O bliss ! — but how is this ? 
 
 No loving smile she sees, 
 No Southern warmth his greeting shows — 
 'Tis chilling as the winter snows 
 
 That crown the Pyrenees. 
 
 For he had heard that she preferr'd 
 
 Another, in her heart ; 
 Had slander'd, to that other's ear, 
 The man she feign'd to hold most dear ; — 
 
 Had play'd a double part. 
 
 But she denied, with wrath and pride, 
 
 Such base deceitful guile : 
 She gave retort to his reproof, 
 She rose erect, she stood aloof, 
 
 She smiled a scornful smile. 
 
 Ill could his haughty nature brook 
 
 This — even from a queen; 
 His frame with inward fury shook, 
 There was a danger in his look 
 
 'Twere well that she had seen. 
 
88 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 So bitter words, like two-edged swords, 
 
 Flash'd wildly each to each ; 
 He said some hard and cruel things, 
 And there were darts and serpent-stings 
 In her responding speech. 
 
 When thus the proud confronts the proud, 
 
 And neither will submit, 
 A quarrel is no passing cloud, 
 But darkness, veiling in its shroud 
 
 The lamp which love hath lit. 
 
 No marriage vow should bind them now, 
 
 They'd part for evermore ; 
 O Spaniard, why so stern of will, 
 And why wert thou defiant still, 
 O, Ladye Hellenore ? 
 
 'Twas tempting fire to rouse his ire : 
 
 Don Julian gnashed his teeth, 
 
 Till, mad with jealous rage at last, 
 
 His fingers clutch'd his dagger fast. 
 
 He pluck'd it from its sheath. 
 
 A steely flash — a fatal gash — 
 A shriek of fright and pain ! 
 
 She falls — her life-blood soaks the sod ; 
 
 Have mercy on their souls, O God, 
 The slayer and the slain ! 
 
 A sudden silence, deep and dread ; 
 The man of guilt and doom 
 
THE LA DYE HELLENORE. 
 
 Bent for a moment o'er the dead, 
 Then, horror-stricken, turn'd and fled, 
 In night's advancing gloom. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 They found her at the midnight hour, 
 
 In moonlight cold and pale, 
 They bore her to her distant bower, 
 Cut off in youth and beauty's flower, 
 Sad tears were shed in many a shower 
 At her distressful tale. 
 
 Don Julian ne'er was seen again, 
 
 A cloud conceals his fate, 
 Whether he died in battle slain, 
 Or perish'd 'neath the boundless main, 
 Or lingered in monastic pain, 
 
 No records now relate. 
 
 But some believe, each Christmas Eve, 
 
 All clad in cloak of gray, 
 Her spirit haunts the Fir Tree Grove, 
 She goes to meet her phantom love, 
 Whom jealous desperation drove 
 
 His heart's delight to slay. 
 
 O, maidens fair, I pray, beware, 
 
 O, lovers, I implore, 
 Be constant, true, forbearing, wise, 
 No bitter taunts, no sharp replies, 
 You have the fate before your eyes 
 
 Of Ladye Hellenore. 
 
( 90 ) 
 
 "Yorick's Love." 
 
 (IMPRESSIONS OF LA WRENCE BARRETTS 
 " YORICK.") 
 
 " Alas, poor Yorick ! " whither now has fled 
 Thy mirth that " set the table in a roar " ? 
 
 The cap and bells no longer deck thy head, 
 
 Thy jester's truncheon dost thou hold no more, 
 
 But feel and show, both on and off the stage, 
 
 The pangs of slighted love and jealous rage. 
 
 This is the ancient playhouse called the Globe, 
 Where heretofore thy friend, all-glorious " Will," 
 
 Like wizard with his wand and magic robe, 
 Wielded a potent charm that's active still ; 
 
 For still he lives, and calls from dusty death 
 
 The golden age of great Elizabeth. 
 
 Yes, Yorick lays aside his laughing mask, 
 
 A part in sombre tragedy to play ; 
 Yet deem it not an uncongenial task : — 
 
 We and our lives are like an April day, 
 Who knows where sunshine ends and rain begins ? 
 And are not Mirth and Melancholy twins ? 
 
"YORICK'S LOVE." 91 
 
 Yorick is happy, but it is, in sooth, 
 
 A parlous boon to one in middle life 
 To win a lovely bride, whose bloom of youth 
 
 With sadder years must ever be at strife, 
 Youth's sunny locks will never match with gray, 
 Nor chill October blend with blithesome May. 
 
 Yet Yorick loves her well, in spite of this, 
 And loves, too, Edmund, his adopted son ; 
 
 'Tis a fool's paradise, a blind man's bliss, 
 A fond delusive rapture, worse than none ; 
 
 Betwixt the twain a guilty secret lies, 
 
 Ere long to torture Yorick's waking eyes. 
 
 Around the mimic passions of the boards 
 Real passions rage, nor is it love alone 
 
 That food and scope for jealousy affords ; 
 Hate among actors is not quite unknown. 
 
 An envious rival plotted Yorick's fall, 
 
 Death to his fame, love, happiness, and all. 
 
 " The play's the thing " which Hamlet put in force 
 To make suspicion certain. Yorick found 
 
 While simulated sorrow ran its course, 
 The shade of real trouble hover'd round ; 
 
 Malicious Master Walton made too clear 
 
 The guilt of those whom Yorick held most dear. 
 
92 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then was mock tragedy to earnest turn'd, 
 
 No more pretended wrath and blunted blades, 
 
 But deadly swords through hearts that thrill'd and 
 burn'd, 
 And souls dispatch'd " unhousel'd " to the shades, 
 
 Edmund is slain, and Yorick, too, lies low 
 
 In death, undoubted death, " that passeth show." 
 
 The curtain falls, the plaudits rend the air, 
 And wake dead Yorick back to life and fame, 
 
 Few players have deserved a fuller share, 
 Than he who late from fair Columbia came, 
 
 To one so tender, passion'd, strong, and true 
 
 To Nature and to Art, all praise is due. 
 
 " Alas, poor Yorick ! " once again we sigh, 
 The motto and the moral of his fate, 
 
 How mix'd the jesting laugh and tear-dimm'd eye, 
 The kiss of passion and the frown of hate, 
 
 The subtle serpent and the harmless dove, 
 
 Learn from the tragic tale of " Yorick's Love ! " 
 
( 93 ) 
 
 A Lament for Romance. 
 
 0, FOR the days, the golden days, 
 
 Before the world was worldly-wise ! 
 When minstrels sang chivalric lays 
 
 Of doughty deeds of high emprise ; 
 When knight with knight in tourney fought, 
 
 Each battling for his ladye's sake, 
 Or scour'd the burning East, and sought 
 
 The power of " fierce Mahound " to break ; 
 And have such days for ever fled ? 
 Alas ! alas ! Romance is dead ! 
 
 Now War's a scientific game, 
 
 Fought by machines instead of men, 
 With guns of telescopic aim, 
 
 At enemies beyond our ken ; 
 Trains, and not knights, are "armour'd" now, 
 
 Past is the stately turban'd Turk, 
 With flowing robe and haughty brow, 
 
 And jewell'd scimitar and dirk ; 
 The pall of commonplace is spread 
 O'er every land : Romance is dead ! 
 
 The East is Occidentalized 
 
 By railroads, tramways,, and hotels, 
 
 The picturesque is little prized 
 
 Wherever modern Progress dwells ; 
 
94 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 The conquering Mussulman of yore 
 Has fallen from his pride of place, 
 
 No war or treaty can restore 
 The glory of his waning race ; 
 
 No more the Crescent blazes red, 
 
 'Tis pale and faint : Romance is dead ! 
 
 We've " knights," — grown rich by City trade, 
 
 " Esquires," — plebeian Jones and Smith, 
 We've " crests " — on envelopes display' d, 
 
 We've " helmets " — made of felt or pith ; 
 We've " tournaments " of slaughtered doves ; 
 
 " Champions " — in sporting circles known, 
 We've " gauntlets," — ladies' fancy gloves ; 
 
 All's changed, except the names alone, 
 A very slight connecting thread 
 With loftier things : Romance is dead ! 
 
 Now travelling is an easy task, 
 
 No hair-breadth 'scapes or deadly strife, 
 No Claude Duval, in cloak and mask, 
 
 Demands " your money or your life ! " 
 You loll within your Pullman car, 
 
 As safe as in your own abode, 
 The train whirls on, outstripping far 
 
 The wild adventure of "the Road;" 
 'Tis but in " penny dreadfuls " read, 
 ('Twere well if that romance were dead !) 
 
 The land of Wallace, Scott, and Burns, 
 
 The scenes that charm'd Childe Harold's eyes, 
 
A LAMENT FOR ROMANCE. 95 
 
 Are " shows " which every tourist learns 
 
 In flippant terms to criticise ; 
 Monastic pile and palace proud, 
 
 And castled home of pomp and power, 
 Are now but playgrounds, where the crowd 
 
 May while away an idle hour ; 
 The dwindling gipsies are, 'tis said, 
 Degenerate rogues ; — Romance is dead ! 
 
 The " noble Red man " to the hearts 
 
 Of Longfellow and Cooper dear, 
 Unless he turn to peaceful arts, 
 
 Is doom'd ere long to disappear ; 
 No daring Rover sweeps the seas, 
 
 Defies the law, and laughs at storms, 
 Few smugglers now are left, and these 
 
 Disguised in most prosaic forms ; 
 No modern youth can be misled 
 By gilded crime : Romance is dead ! 
 
 It lingers in the storied page, 
 
 The pictured scene, the lyric strain, 
 And in the mirror of the stage 
 
 A few brief hours it breathes again ; 
 With this we fain must be content, 
 
 As, when a friend has pass'd away, 
 His portrait serves to represent 
 
 The life that once inform'd the clay. 
 So weep not ; memory lives to shed 
 Her solace, though Romance is dead ! 
 
Claudian. 
 
 {LINES SUGGESTED BY WILSON BARRETT'S 
 PERFORMANCE.) 
 
 We see him first, in flush of youth and pride, 
 
 With wealth and rank, and power, and despot will 
 
 Which bears him on like some impetuous tide 
 To gulfs of guilt, and rocks of wrong and ill ; 
 
 Then comes the wrath of Heaven, with dreadful might, 
 A curse more terrible than that of Cain, 
 
 Dooms him to suffer and to spread a blight, 
 To be the harbinger of grief and pain, 
 Do evil deeds unmeant, and strive for good in vain. 
 
 II. 
 
 We see him next, still young, and proud, and great, 
 
 Unwilling source of sorrows manifold, 
 A century cannot break the spell of fate, 
 
 He and his bitter curse can ne'er grow old ; 
 He is beloved, and blindness strikes his love, 
 
 He loves, and lo ! as at some wizard's call 
 The massy columns of his palace move, 
 
 The rocks are rent, the forests crashing fall, 
 
 Earth is convulsed, and deathly chaos covers all. 
 
CLAUDIAN. 97 
 
 III. 
 
 We see him still, but now a wretched waif, 
 
 Stranded amid the wreck of homes and lives ; 
 
 The blest may perish ; he, the curst, is safe ; 
 
 Then Heaven relents, and welcome death arrives. 
 
 And is all this but feign'd ? has art such power ? 
 Can scenes so fill'd with life and passion's glow 
 
 Be but the simulation of the hour, 
 
 Mere part and parcel of the " passing show ?" 
 Or can the past return, when Genius wills it so ? 
 
 H 
 
If I were a Man ! 
 
 (A "MAIDEN MEDITATION."*) 
 
 I. 
 If I were a man, what a hero I'd be ! 
 
 A pattern and model to all on the earth ; 
 Some champion of old, re-appearing in me 
 
 To live an example of valour and worth. 
 I'd right every wrong, and remove every ill, 
 
 And cheer every spirit cast down and oppress'd, 
 I'd conquer temptations with resolute will, 
 
 I'd cherish the friendless and aid the distress'd ; 
 And all that is base, and unworthy, and mean, 
 
 Should fall, crush'd to nothingness, under my ban, 
 Injustice and sorrow no more should be seen ; 
 
 The world should be perfect — if I were a man ! 
 
 II. 
 
 My locks should be golden, mine eyes should be blue, 
 
 My 'scutcheon untarnish'd, my sword keen and bright, 
 My banner upheld for the just and the true, 
 
 My soul ever ready to fight the good fight ; 
 My thoughts should be high, and my life should be pure, 
 
 As those of the chosen when Arthur was king, 
 A spirit to dare, and to strive and endure, 
 
 A faith without fail, to the struggle I'd bring ; 
 
 * See Frontispiece. 
 
IF I WERE A MAN! 99 
 
 Undaunted in danger, the calmest of all, 
 On victory's march I'd appear at the van, 
 
 Or, if it pleased Heaven, with glory I'd fall, 
 And die still unconquer'd — if I were a man ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And love should be lord of a world full of joy, 
 
 All, scorning deceit, should appear as they are, 
 Truth, faith, hope, and charity, freed from alloy, 
 
 And evil be banish'd to regions afar ; 
 The good should be great, spite of rank or degree, 
 
 Old age should be honour'd by youth without guile, 
 From sickness and poverty all should be free, 
 
 A tear should be rarer than now is a smile ; — 
 Ah, yes ! — if the will could but compass the deed, 
 
 Our life would be shaped on a happier plan, 
 But still my heart doubts ; would my efforts succeed 
 
 To make the world perfect — if I were a man ? 
 
 H 2 
 
( ioo ) 
 
 Ode to Bath and its Visitors, 
 i. 
 
 Ye pilgrims, stunn'd by London's ceaseless mill 
 Of toil and traffic, turn ye West, and sally 
 To this calm city in the Avon valley, 
 
 'Mid all the charms of water, wood and hill, 
 
 Pause on the Beacon Hill, and gaze your fill. 
 How soft the air ! 'tis luxury to imbibe it, 
 How grand the scene ! with justice to describe it 
 
 Would need the "Swan of Avon's'' magic quill. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here winter's mild, and every spring is warm, 
 
 And fraught with health, as up from earth it bubbles, 
 Come, quaff a glass, and in it drown your troubles, 
 
 Or your ablutions in yon pool perform ; 
 
 See what gay parties in the Pump Room swarm, 
 Where, as in life, with kingship own'd and real, 
 Nash still presides, a marble Beau ideal, 
 
 Proudly unmoved, alike through calm and storm. 
 
 III. 
 Bright city ! where, with cleanliness quite Dutch, 
 
 All's neat and trim, and nought seems mean or shabby ; 
 
 I love the solemn stillness of thine Abbey, 
 Whose chimes, however, oft untimely touch 
 The " sleeper's " ears, or one who would be such ; 
 
 I love each bridge, road, circus, square, and crescent, 
 
 Thy ways are all so lively, yet quiescent, 
 Colossal London, canst thou say as much ? 
 
ODE TO BATH AND ITS VISITORS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Blessed be Bladud's bones, who builded Bath ! 
 (Or rather laid, perchance, its first foundation,) 
 All honour to the mighty Roman nation, 
 
 Whose ever-conquering legions forced a path 
 
 Through silver-waved Avona's verdant strath, 
 And raised a thermal station in that hollow, 
 Protected by Minerva and Apollo, 
 
 And seldom since exposed to battle's wrath. 
 
 Pilgrim, art pensive ? wend to Prior Park ; 
 
 And wander in its leafy cemetery 
 
 (Sweet sleeping place ! ) or, if thou wouldst be merry, 
 Go to Victoria Park, there sit, and hark 
 The Hanoverian Band, or smiling mark 
 
 The careless children with their nurses frisk 
 
 Around the tall majestic obelisk ; 
 Or on the river launch thy little bark. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Come up Combe Down, and view a master-stroke 
 Of landscape thence — the loveliest of vales, 
 Next thou wilt reach that miniature of Wales, 
 
 Where nestle Freshford, Combe, and Limpley Stoke ; 
 
 Here were a place the Muses to invoke, 
 
 And dwell with Nature, worldly cares forgetting, 
 Ah ! who could quit such scenes without regretting 
 
 To plunge once more in London's din and smoke ? 
 
( 102 ) 
 
 On Clifton Suspension Bridge. 
 
 {THE MODERN "BRIDGE OF SIGHS.") 
 
 Sweet Clifton ! where bewitching woodlands hang 
 O'er rocky steeps and deep delicious dells, 
 
 I could not tear myself without a pang 
 
 From such an Eden ; — happy he who dwells 
 In yon romantic chalet christen'd " Alpenfels." 
 
 Prone ever to the melancholic mood 
 
 (If youth be thoughtless joy, then I am old), 
 
 I love to roam in sylvan solitude, 
 
 Where leafy splendours at each step unfold, 
 
 In Summer's luscious green, or Autumn's red and gold. 
 
 'Twas in such sort of pensive happiness 
 
 I reached the Bridge, wherefrom the eye may range 
 
 Far o'er a scene of beauties numberless, 
 
 Sunlight and shadow adding change to change, 
 We seem perch'd up like birds, 'tis startling, grand,, 
 and strange. 
 
 To view hill, wood, and stream beneath us spread, 
 To see the boats below as small as toys, 
 
 The men like ants, the cawing rooks o'erhead, 
 To list the rocky echoes' varying noise, 
 Is to partake of not the least of mundane joys. 
 
ON CLIFTON SUSPENSION BRIDGE. 103 
 
 But dizzy grows my brain, a leaden fear 
 
 Weighs down each limb — which yet the brink draws 
 nigh; 
 
 'Tis not the danger, there is little here, 
 The mighty structure is as firm as high, 
 'Tis that mad inward impulse urging me to die ! 
 
 There is a dreadful charm upon the place, 
 A fatal fascination ; Death seems there 
 
 To peer into the scared intruder's face, 
 
 Beckon, and whisper, " Mortal, dost thou dare 
 Plunge in these grisly arms to end thine earthly care ? " 
 
 I 'scaped the peril. Yet it haunts me still, 
 I meet it in my dreams, and shuddering wake 
 
 From falling down, down with a deadly thrill 
 Of horror, as my thirst for death I slake, 
 While laughs the Fiend who urged me such a plunge 
 to take. 
 
 Oh, think of it ! — if we, who hate not life, 
 Sad but not suicidal, feel like this, 
 
 If we, who know this mortal sphere is rife 
 
 With much of sorrow mix'd with more of bliss, 
 Yet madly long to leap in that profound abyss, — 
 
 What must it be to that desponding man 
 
 Whose heart and hope are whelm'd in gloom and 
 woe, 
 
 When on that "Bridge of Sighs'" gigantic span 
 He gazes on the dizzy depth below, 
 Where o'er their stony bed the sluggish waters flow ? 
 
104 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Here fifteen lives already have been lost, 
 Fifteen sad groups left vainly to lament, 
 
 Fifteen crush'd bodies by the billows toss'd, 
 Fifteen immortal souls to judgment sent — 
 For 'tis Eternity that yawns within that gulPs extent ! 
 
 Oh, think of it ! — and ye who have the might, 
 Exchange your gold for iron true and tried, 
 
 Add to the fragile barrier's strength and height, 
 Building a cage to shut in suicide, 
 That sudden death may be to rash despair denied : 
 
 So shall a blessing rest upon a work 
 
 Whose grandeur should amaze but not appal, 
 
 So shall the shade of Death no longer lurk 
 'Mid scenes so framed the senses to enthral, 
 And waken life and gladness in the hearts of all ! 
 
( io5 ) 
 
 The Latest Hamlet. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 I. 
 
 H 0W various, in the Stage's restless reign, 
 
 A re these successive portraits of the Dane ! 
 
 M ajestic or familiar, bold or mild, 
 
 L oving or harsh, loud, quiet, tame or wild, 
 
 E ach type in turn the drama has supplied, 
 
 T ill only Shakespeare could their claims decide. 
 
 II. 
 
 W hat is this last ? A fresh impetuous youth 
 I ntense in scorn of guile and love of truth, 
 L ost in a moral maze, without a clue, 
 S uspecting all, or trusting very few ; 
 O ft wavering in revenge's deadly plan ; 
 N o demigod or hero, but a man. 
 
 III. 
 B ut is this Shakespeare's Hamlet ? who can tell ? 
 A 11 that we know is this — it pleases well, 
 R ightly or wrongly, such a Prince as he 
 R effects our nature, wins our sympathy, 
 E merges safe from criticism's storm, 
 T o face the crowds who greet, with welcome warm, 
 "T he glass of fashion and the mould of form." 
 
( io6 ) 
 
 Byron's Statue. 
 
 At last ! the bearer of a deathless name, 
 
 Long dead in flesh, shall live again in stone, 
 And admiration crystallize his fame 
 
 Into an outward presence like his own ; 
 At last ! the kings of British song shall stand 
 
 Enthroned and sceptred, each in his degree, 
 With Shakespeare, Milton, Byron shall command, 
 
 And share our golden realms of Poesie. 
 
 Brief was his life, and sad, and on its page, 
 
 Alas ! fell many a blot, but less from guilt 
 Than foul-mouthed slander, whose persistent rage 
 
 O'er the white record oft its venom spilt ; 
 Man woo'd his hate, and yet that hate decried, 
 
 Rousing the lion but to mock his ire ; — 
 Was he a misanthrope who nobly died 
 
 Lifting a fallen nation from the mire ? 
 
 And he hath spoken words of God-like power, 
 
 And sung with seraph sweetness ; — to his spell 
 Whole nations bow'd in his triumphal hour, 
 
 And still his spirit in his works shall dwell ; 
 Yes, raise to honour's height the marble mass, 
 
 Let Art, whose hand such lifelike aspect gives, 
 So mould his form, that pilgrims, as they pass, 
 
 Gazing thereon, may dream that still he lives. 
 
( 107 ) 
 
 On the Death of Gustave Dore. 
 
 Once more the hand of Death hath snatch'd a prize, 
 One more rich gem is lost to humankind, 
 
 The world is poorer by those death-closed eyes, 
 That clay-cold hand, that vanish'd master-mind. 
 
 'Mid earth's most gifted children, here was one 
 Who, living less than our allotted span, 
 
 Such numerous and stupendous works has done, 
 As would befit a Titan, not a man. 
 
 Can such a brain be thus for ever still'd 
 
 By this one transient touch of chilly Death ? 
 
 Can genius by a single stroke be kill'd ? 
 
 Can a whole world be quench'd in one last breath ? 
 
 And what a world was his ! what fancies teem'd 
 In every line his wizard pencil wrought ! 
 
 He could depict what others only dream'd, 
 
 Give form and substance to the wildest thought. 
 
 He held supreme command o'er Fancy's realm, 
 
 Its airy legions bow'd to his decrees, 
 His magic bark he steer'd with steady helm 
 
 Across Imagination's misty seas. 
 
 The Dante of design, not Heaven, nor Hell 
 
 Nor fiend nor phantom could his spirit daunt ; 
 
 Now would it soar where radiant angels dwell, 
 Anon descend to Satan's murky haunt. 
 
108 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Nor less when finite Man, his works and ways, 
 And Nature in her stern and calmer moods, 
 
 With power he drew ; what mountains could he raise ! 
 What gorgeous palaces and frowning woods ! 
 
 The grand and solemn scenes of Scripture-lands, 
 The wanderings of La Mancha's wayward knight, 
 
 King Arthur's mythic deeds, beneath the hands 
 Of this magician glow'd with life and light. 
 
 What though he'd known no academic drill, 
 And from convention widely would depart ? 
 
 Genius with inspiration, force, and will, 
 May scorn the lesser unities of art. 
 
 Withal, say those who knew and loved him best, 
 Unstain'd by worldly envy, greed, and strife, 
 
 A good and generous nature he possess'd, 
 A golden heart, and led a blameless life. 
 
 Yes, you may deck his tomb with wreaths and flowers, 
 Raise high a monument ornate and rich, 
 
 Pour forth your elegies in tearful showers, 
 And place his statue in its honoured niche. 
 
 All this is little, but his works are much, 
 
 And they remain, although his life be past — 
 
 They have vitality beyond the touch 
 
 Of Time, and shall endure while Art shall last. 
 
( 109 ) 
 
 " General Tom Thumb." 
 
 AN ELEGY. 
 
 Oxe more great man is taken from our midst — 
 
 Great in his smallness. Fare thee well, Tom Thumb ! 
 Though History may record no deed thou didst 
 
 Worthy remembrance in the days to come, 
 Thou wert a mortal of no common mould, 
 And 'mid heroic names of high degree 
 Fame shall preserve one little niche to hold 
 
 A statue — nay, a statuette — of thee. 
 A small Napoleon, though no conqueror, 
 
 A " General" though not " made of sterner stuff," 
 Thy glory was not won through tears and gore, 
 Thy size — or want of it — was quite enough. 
 The welcome guest in every royal court, 
 
 The cynosure of each admiring throng, 
 Plaything of princes — well, man's span is short ; 
 
 And none can say that thou hast lived too long. 
 Honour and wealth and well-deserved repose 
 
 Lit thy last years ; the only drop of gall 
 Was when some younger rival dwarfs arose, 
 
 Greater than thee in being still more small. 
 Farewell, Tom Thumb, and o'er thy tiny tomb 
 
 May tears as big and numerous be shed, 
 And votive flowers as plenteously bloom, 
 As if a giant, not a dwarf, were dead ! 
 
( no ) 
 
 The Lover at the Grave. 
 
 Years have pass'd, O, love departed, 
 O'er this head now grey and bow'd, 
 
 Since, as true as tender-hearted, 
 We our mutual love avow'd. 
 
 Years have passed, and many a flower, 
 
 Frail as are the lives of men, 
 On thy tomb, through sun and shower, 
 
 Must have bloom'd and died since then. 
 
 Oh ! what depths of silent sorrow 
 
 Waken as, in awe and dread, 
 I recall that fatal morrow, 
 
 When I first bewail'd thee dead ! 
 
 Ah ! how mournfully contrasted, 
 Was the bliss our passion gave 
 
 With the grief that I have tasted 
 
 Since thy sweetness sought the grave ! 
 
 Once our life had nought to shade it, 
 Hope had flooded it with light, 
 
 Love a paradise had made it, 
 
 And the future seem'd as bright ; — 
 
THE LOVER AT THE GRAVE. 
 
 Till the sudden tempest shatter'd 
 All that made life fair and dear, 
 
 All our hopes and blisses scatter' d, 
 Struck thee down, and left me here. 
 
 Near to earthly tyrants, often, 
 
 Those who urge to Mercy stand ; 
 
 But what tears or prayers can soften 
 Death to stay his ruthless hand ? 
 
 It was thine to pass to regions 
 Whither sorrow cannot stray ; 
 
 Mine to linger 'mid life's legions 
 Through a long and sunless day. 
 
 Time may break the force of anguish, 
 And its cruel course disturb ; 
 
 Time may cause its strength to languish, 
 And its despot power may curb. 
 
 Common objects and distractions, 
 Smaller woes and slighter joys, 
 
 Daily cares and bounden actions 
 Serve the shaken heart to poise. 
 
 But that deeper griefs enduring, 
 And that keener pang defies 
 
 All such meaner means of curing, 
 Changeless still at heart it lies. 
 
SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet I can, though strong as tender 
 Is the source from whence they flow, 
 
 With a soften'd sorrow render 
 To thy grave the tears I owe. 
 
 I can worship while I love thee 
 As a spirit pure and bright, 
 
 In some star that beams above me, 
 Through the holy calm of night. 
 
 And my soul goes up to greet thee, 
 Lifted on the wings of prayer ; 
 
 Oh, where'er at length I meet thee 
 Must be heaven, for thou art there ! 
 
( "3 ) 
 
 The Confession of C. Scribendi. 
 
 (TO A FRIEND.) 
 
 YOU ask me, friend and neighbour, 
 For a record of my labour — 
 ('Tis the pen and not the sabre 
 
 Is the weapon that I wield) — 
 You want to get the gist of 
 The stuff my works consist of, 
 Which I'll try to give a list of, 
 
 From the time I took the field. 
 
 II. 
 
 In years of youth and leisure 
 My ink-pot seem'd a treasure, 
 I knew an author's pleasure, 
 
 And experienced his pain ; 
 When fluently he scribbles. 
 Or his quill in anguish nibbles, 
 As the stream of fancy dribbles 
 
 Slow and sluggish through his brain. 
 
 l 
 
1 14 SER10 US POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 I early took to writing 
 About mediaeval fighting, 
 By paladins delighting 
 
 In the most chivalric names ; 
 I know not of the gain's worth, 
 One tithe of what the pain's worth, 
 But I've imitated Ai?isworth. 
 
 And I've copied Scott and James. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I've written lengthly novels, 
 For my fancy soars or grovels 
 Into palaces or hovels, 
 
 To Whitechapel or May fair ; 
 But I've never had a "mash" on 
 Those tales of wealth and fashion, 
 And of titled ladies' passion 
 
 For a Duke or Baron's heir. 
 
 I've made some bold advances 
 In the realm of wild romances, 
 Full of " most disastrous chances," 
 
 And of less than " hair- breadth 'scapes 
 I've written Christmas stories 
 Which a pencil such as Dora's 
 Could invest with all the glories 
 
 Of ancestral ghostly shapes. 
 
THE CONFESSION OF C. SCRIBENDI. 1 15 
 
 VI. 
 
 But I've shunned the dark adventures 
 Such as orthodoxy censures, 
 Read by boys in their indentures, 
 
 " Penny Awfuls" they are named, 
 Extolling some highzera^man, 
 A dashing, gallant gay man. 
 Who was hang'd as high as Hainan, 
 
 When the Law its vengeance claimed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I've written of the Ocean 
 With a semblance of devotion, 
 (Though I'm sickly with the motion 
 
 If I venture on a ship) — 
 Of pirate fights and struggles, 
 And how the man who smuggles 
 Manoeuvres, plans, and juggles 
 
 To give his foes the slip. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For boys are fond of hearing 
 Of boarding, privateering, 
 And warlike buccaneering 
 
 In the golden Spanish main. 
 They love the bold sea-rover, 
 Who has roam'd the wide world over, 
 Then retires and lives in clover 
 
 On his vast illegal gain. 
 
u6 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My hero's superhuman, 
 
 A boy as good as two men. 
 
 Who rescues lovely woman 
 
 (In the end to be his wife);. 
 'Mid prairie fights and dangers. 
 With Red Indians and Rangers, 
 Wild beasts and " skeary " strangers. 
 
 He bears a charmed life. 
 
 x. 
 
 Large vessels he's commanded, 
 And on pirate-islands landed, 
 Fought a dozen single-handed, 
 
 And been wrecked on Crusoe's Isle ; 
 His valour's so unerring, 
 And perils wild and stirring 
 Are perpetually occurring 
 
 That would make Munchausen smile. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oft, as a mental tonic, 
 I turn to themes Byronic, 
 To misanthropes sardonic, 
 
 Of reserved and lofty ways ; 
 But I've never, never written, 
 In the style of Bulwer Lytton, 
 Of morbid creatures smitten 
 
 With a metaphysic craze. 
 
THE CONFESSION OF C. SCRIBENDI. 117 
 
 XII. 
 
 In journals still a-running 
 
 I have work"d for years at punning, 
 
 And at miscellaneous funning, 
 
 On the topics of the time ; 
 In language most elastic, 
 Twisted into forms fantastic, 
 With a touch of the sarcastic, 
 
 Or a tinge of the sublime. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I've crack'd some nigger " wheezes," 
 Which Sambo, when he pleases, 
 Or a "lion comique" seizes, 
 
 For the pier or music-hall ; 
 But I cannot see what wit is 
 In those vulgar comic ditties 
 Which it seems a thousand pities 
 
 Should be ever sung at all. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 My critic-works are fewer, 
 But I've been a small reviewer, 
 And a diligent pursuer 
 
 Of the parodistic art. 
 I've aim'd at the dramatic, 
 And I've touch'd the operatic, 
 And I've known the bliss ecstatic 
 
 Of " writing up a part." 
 
n8 SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I'm very fond of timing 
 
 My Pegasus to rhyming, 
 
 For I love the tuneful chiming 
 
 Of the vowels at the close ; 
 So wild is oft my patter 
 That friends, who never flatter, 
 Say " you're madder than a hatter 
 
 To write such rhymes as those ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For I've made a speciality 
 Of rhythmic whimsicality, 
 And lavish prodigality 
 
 Of cacophonic sounds ; 
 A verbal volubility, 
 A monkey-like agility, 
 Which tends to imbecility, 
 
 And sober sense confounds. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The foreign names I mingle 
 With this quaint and jerky jingle 
 Would make your two ears tingle, 
 
 And your cheeks grow pale with awe 
 Dutch, Javanese, or Russian, 
 Polish, Tartar, or Dobruschian, 
 It's enough to cause concussion 
 
 To the very strongest jaw. 
 
THE CONFESSION OF C. SCRIBENDI. 119 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But when it gets too fearful, 
 To ballads bright and cheerful, 
 Or tender, touching, tearful, 
 
 I tune my wayward lyre ; 
 And sing of sweet affection, 
 Or of mournful recollection, 
 Called up by the reflection 
 
 Of faces in the fire. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Ah ! friend, if you're a poet, 
 Though your intimates may know it, 
 It is very hard to show it 
 
 To the public and the press, 
 For readers shy at verses, 
 And the critic inly curses, 
 And you won't fill many purses 
 
 With the proceeds of success. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Yet, if a person chooses 
 To labour for the Muses, 
 Although the world refuses 
 
 Encouragement to give, 
 I'll never blame him — never, 
 If he's earnest in endeavour, 
 Though he must be very clever 
 
 If he manages to live ! 
 
SERIOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The bee, in weather sunny, 
 
 Is sure of finding honey, 
 
 And the humble hare and bunny 
 
 Get subsistence from the soil ; 
 But a writer, grave or funny, 
 Whatsoever work he's done, he 
 May be void of fame and money 
 
 After twenty years of toil. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Ah ! neighbour, if you knew it 
 (I've but hastily run through it) 
 There's much to make us rue it 
 
 In an author's chequered lot ; 
 But if, when you review it, 
 You're tempted to pursue it, 
 Pray do it— or eschew it, 
 
 But I think you'd better not! 
 
 BALLANTYNE PRESS, CHANDOS STREET, W.C. 
 
Square %vo, doth gilt, y. 6d., boards, is. 
 
 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Humorous Poems. Fifty Illustrations. 
 By WALTER PARKE. 
 
 "Reminds us at time; of 'Bon Gautier."'— Athenaum. "Strikingly 
 amusing." — Standard. " A fund of drollery and amusement." — Morning 
 Post. " Exceedingly clever and entertaining." — Literary World. "Runs 
 through the whole gamut of eccentricities . . . The volume will not fail 
 to hit its mark . . . The illustrations are very clever." — Hour. " Shows 
 great versatility and an unusually quaint and grotesque imagination. " — City 
 Press. " Whether grave or gay it is always amusing."— Bookseller. 
 "Irresistibly comic." — Lloyds. "Displays remarkable ingenuity in the 
 art of rhyming." — Wigan Examiner. "Bears the evidence of genuine 
 humour and originality." — Weekly Dispatch. " Some of the illustrations 
 possess considerable humour."— -Judy. " Merrier conceits more neatly 
 turned out we have not seen for a long time." — South London Press. ' ' A 
 humorist of singular talent and ingenuity." — Dublin University Mag. 
 " The book is deliciously comic, with touches of pathos in the graver por- 
 tions, which remind us of Hood." — Graphic. 
 
 London : VIZETELLY & CO., 42 Catherine St., Strand. 
 
 Square Svo, cloth gilt, y. 6d., boards, is. 
 
 PEEPS AT LIFE. 
 
 Essays, Serious and Humorous. 
 By WALTER PARKE. Illustrated by Geo. CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 " Shows as much originality as the former work." — Morning Post. 
 " Cleverly written, and pleasant reading." — Standard. " VVill be read 
 and appreciated for its bright and lively pages." — Glasgow News. " The 
 essays are hit off in a happy vein." — Bath and Cheltenham Gazette. " This 
 book contains the latest examples of Cruikshank's genius . . . Pleasantly, 
 wittily, and airily penned." — Bookseller. " Remarkable for correct thoughts, 
 a fair style, and a certain subdued humour." — Morning Advertiser. " Most 
 of the papers are very amusing." — Saturday Review. " Humorous, but 
 not frivolous ; the ' London Hermit ' is a close observer and a shrewd 
 thinker." — Figaro. " His peeps at life are photographed upon his pages 
 in sentences as keen and trenchant as those of La Bruycre." — Dublin Uni- 
 versity Mag. " I congratulate the author upon having secured the services 
 of the Patriarch of the pencil to illustrate his amusing essays." — Geo. Aug. 
 Sola, in the Illustrated London News. 
 
 London : VIZETELLY & CO., 42 Catherine St., Strand. 
 
( * ) 
 
 Square 8vo, cloth gilt, y. 6d., boards, is. 
 
 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 
 
 Burlesque Poems and Parodies. 
 
 By WALTER PARKE. Illustrated by JOHN LEITCH. 
 
 " The lays recount the mythical adventures of the early Saints and Fathers 
 of the Church, somewhat after the manner of the immortal ' Ingoldsby 
 Legends,' but containing nothing to wound any reader's religious feelings. 
 Some of the poems are admirably adapted for public recitation." — West 
 Middlesex Observer. " The stories are told in bright and luminous verses, 
 into which are dextrously wrought parodies of past and present poets." — 
 Scotsman. '• Shows much facility in turning a verse." — Graphic. " Lovers 
 of laughter, raillery and things ludicrous, would do well to become possessed 
 of this volume of humorous poems levelled against the absurd though 
 amusing superstitions of the Middle Ages." — Newcastle Chronicle. " Mr 
 Waller Parke's versatility is marvellous. Tennyson, Poe, Whitman, Long- 
 fellow, Byron, Moore, he imitates with the utmost facility. His verses 
 run easily. One may speak them trippingly from the tongue. Mr. John 
 Leitch has furnished some humorous illustrations." — Life. " The verse is 
 exceedingly clever, ovei flows with humour and abounds with surprising 
 turns of thought." — Standard. " We have had no such imitations of the 
 idiosyncrasies of modern poets since the days of the gifted brothers James 
 and Horace Smith." — Lady's Pictorial. 
 
 London : VIZETELLY & CO., 42 Catherine St., Strand. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 Comic Opera in Three Acts. 
 By WALTER PARKE. Music by LUSCOMBE SEARELLE. 
 
 First produced in London, May, 1883. 
 
 "Bright and entertaining, both as to its story and its music." — Times. 
 "A lively libretto, and music which falls agreeably on the ear." — Daily 
 Telegraph. " Amusing, and the interest well sustained throughout." — 
 Morning Advertiser. " Received with hearty and unanimous applause." — 
 Globe. " In every way a very worthy work." — Whitehall Review. " The 
 author and composer may be congratulated upon its very favourable recep- 
 tion." — City Press. "The music is pleasing, and the story and dialogue 
 are genuinely comic." — Lloyd's. "Much brisk fun and sparkling wit." — 
 Sunday Times. " Mr. Parke's libretto is of a very much higher order than 
 is usually found in comic opera. " — Stage. " ' Estrella ' is a success in every 
 way." — Life. "The dialogue bristles with quaint sayings." — Bird 0' 
 Freedom. " The comic element is fresh, and there is a genuine dash of 
 
( 3 ) 
 ESTRE LLA— continued. 
 
 wit and humour throughout." — Modern Society. "Mr. W. Parke's lyrics 
 are written with neatness, finish, and many touches of originality." — Fun. 
 "The management of the Princess's Theatre have scored a success in the 
 production of ' Estrella, ' a comic opera by Walter Parke and Luscombe 
 Bearelle." — Melbourne Leader. " The opera received a decided and 
 deserved success." — Sydney Town and Country Journal. 
 
 BOBADIL. 
 
 Oriental Spectacular Comic Opera in Three Acts. 
 By WALTER PARKE and LUSCOMBE SEARELLE. 
 
 First produced in Sydney, N.S. W., Nov. 1884. 
 
 "The interest taken in Messrs. Parke and Searelle's new opera on 
 Saturday night was shown by a crowd at the Opera House, which the 
 building could hardly contain, and the admirers of opera bouffe found plenty 
 to justify their curiosity and gratify their taste." — Sydney Herald. " The 
 new season of comic opera was brilliantly inaugurated by the production of 
 'Bobadil,' which has every chance of achieving success." — Sydney Town 
 and Country Journal. " It is in plot and execution entirely unlike 
 
 Estrella,' and musically lighter, but, though different, quite as attractive . . . 
 
 Bobadil ' is apparently destined to long life, the theatre was crammed in 
 every part ; the reception of the piece was hearty and the applause 
 frequent." — Sydney Mail. " The entertainment afforded a good deal of 
 amusement to those present, who were not unstinting in their tokens ot 
 approval . . . ' Bobadil ' must be pronounced an attractive opera bouffe, 
 and should maintain here the popularity which it gained in Sydney, and 
 furnish amusement to theatre-goers for some time to come." — Adelaide 
 Express. " Certainly a ' success of enthusiasm.' " — Melbourne Argus. 
 
 LES MANTEAUX NOIRS. 
 
 Comic Opera in Three Acts. 
 
 By WALTER PARKE and HARRY PAULTON. 
 
 Music by P. BUCALOSSI. 
 
 ■ First produced in London, June, 1882. 
 
 " ' Manteaux Noirs,' a comic opera by Messrs. W. Parke and H. Paulton, 
 was produced on Saturday night at the Avenue Theatre with unqualified 
 success. The music by M. Bucalossi, is light and pleasing, appropriate to 
 the story it illustrates. The feature of this production is 'the book,' which is 
 
( 4 ) 
 LES MANTEAUX NOIRS— continued. 
 
 usually good." — Morning Advertiser. "Fluent and popular throughout, 
 the music displays at times genuine dramatic quality." — The People. " The 
 grace, animation, and gaiety of the themes cannot fail to be appreciated . . . 
 Messrs. Parke and Paulton have concocted a capital libretto." — Era. 
 " The librettists must be complimented upon their dialogue." — Referee. 
 "No such ingenious and quick-moving plot has been employed for some 
 time in comic opera." — Daily Chronicle. " The intrigue, which is carried 
 out with much ingenuity, is full of interest and humour." — Times. " The 
 fun never flags, and yet is never devoid of dramatic motive." — Observer. 
 " The music is tuneful and effective, and to the Parke- Paulton combination 
 high praise is due for a book of words full of dry humour and merry con- 
 ceit. — Judy. " ' Manteaux Noirs,' the new comic opera, written by 
 Messrs. Parke and Paulton, and composed by M. Bucalossi, attracts crowded 
 audiences every night, and seems likely to enjoy a long career of pros- 
 perity. " — Globe. 
 
 This opera has had a run of 200 nights in London, and three years' 
 success in the provinces and the colonies. 
 
 Vocal Score, 5s. Pianoforte Score, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Waltzes, Quadrilles, and Lancers, by Bucalossi. 
 
 Polka, by W. Williams. 
 
 Galop, by E. Audibert. Fantasia, by W. Kuhe. — 2s. each. 
 
 Songs published separately. — "The Court Magnate," "Six 
 Months Ago," "I never Could," "Aid me, Cupid," "The Heart sighs 
 ever to be Free," "Anita is sad." — 2s. each. 
 
 London: J. B. CRAMER & CO., 201 Regent Street, W. 
 
 DRAWING-ROOM SONGS. 
 
 Written by W. PARKE. 
 
 " Which of the Two ? " Odoardo Barri (Marshall). 
 
 " Sketching the View." W. A. Slaughter (Boosey). 
 
 "A Golden Heart." A. L. Mora (Marriott & Williams). 
 
 "When and Where." A. L. Mora (A. Hays). 
 
 " My Wedding Day." L. Searelle (Keppel). 
 
 " I Read the Silent Stars." A. L. Mora (Ashdown). 
 
 "The Armourer's Prentice." W. A. Slaughter (Marshall). 
 
 " Queen of Love and Beauty." A. Rawlings (Jeffreys). 
 
 " It is in Vain." A. L. Mora (Ashdown). 
 
 "The Sleeping Camp." E. St. Quentin (Marshall). 
 
 " Laugh till you Love." H. Pontet (Jeffreys). 
 
 "The Toiling Tourist." G. Jacobi (J. Williams). 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR5119.P3P3 
 
 Patter poems, humorous and serious, for 
 
 3 1924 013 531 870