A Parody Anthology
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A Parody Anthology
DISASTER
'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour!My fondest hopes would not decay;I never loved a tree or flowerWhich was the first to fade away!The garden, where I used to delveShort-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty;The pear-tree that I climbed at twelveI see still blossoming, at twenty.I never nursed a dear gazelle;But I was given a parroquet —(How I did nurse him if unwell!)He's imbecile, but lingers yet.He's green, with an enchanting tuft;He melts me with his small black eye;He'd look inimitable stuffed,And knows it – but he will not die!I had a kitten – I was richIn pets – but all too soon my kittenBecame a full-sized cat, by whichI've more than once been scratched and bitten.And when for sleep her limbs she curl'dOne day beside her untouch'd plateful,And glided calmly from the world,I freely own that I was grateful.And then I bought a dog – a queen!Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!She lives, but she is past sixteenAnd scarce can crawl across the rug.I loved her beautiful and kind;Delighted in her pert bow-wow;But now she snaps if you don't mind;'Twere lunacy to love her now.I used to think, should e'er mishapBetide my crumple-visaged Ti,In shape of prowling thief, or trap,Or coarse bull-terrier – I should die.But ah! disasters have their use,And life might e'en be too sunshiny;Nor would I make myself a goose,If some big dog should swallow Tiny.Charles S. Calverley.SARAH'S HALLS
THE broom that once through Sarah's halls,In hole and corner sped,Now useless leans 'gainst Sarah's wallsAnd gathers dust instead.So sweeps the slavey now-a-daysSo work is shifted o'er,And maids that once gained honest praiseNow earn that praise no more!No more the cobweb from its heightThe broom of Sarah fells;The fly alone unlucky wightInvades the spider's cells.Thus energy so seldom wakes,All sign that Sarah givesIs when some dish or platter breaks,To show that still she lives.Judy.'TWAS EVER THUS
I NEVER rear'd a young gazelle,(Because, you see, I never tried);But had it known and loved me well,No doubt the creature would have died.My rich and aged Uncle JohnHas known me long and loves me wellBut still persists in living on —I would he were a young gazelle.I never loved a tree or flower;But, if I had, I beg to sayThe blight, the wind, the sun, or showerWould soon have withered it away.I've dearly loved my Uncle John,From childhood to the present hour,And yet he will go living on on —I would he were a tree or flower!Henry S. Leigh.AFTER JANE TAYLOR
THE BAT
TWINKLE, twinkle, little bat!How I wonder what you're at!Up above the world you fly,Like a tea-tray in the sky.Lewis Carroll.AFTER BARRY CORNWALL
THE TEA
THE tea! The tea! The beef, beef-tea!The brew from gravy-beef for me!Without a doubt, as I'll be bound,The best for an invalid 'tis found;It's better than gruel; with sago vies;Or with the cradled babe's supplies.I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,I'm satisfied, and aye shall be,With the brew I love, and the brew I know,And take it wheresoe'er I go.If the price should rise, or meat be cheap,No matter. I'll to beef-tea keep.I love – oh, how I love to guideThe strong beef-tea to its place inside,When round and round you stir the spoonOr whistle thereon to cool it soon.Because one knoweth – or ought to know,That things get cool whereon you blow.I never have drunk the dull souchong,But I for my loved beef-tea did long,And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,Like a bird. As a child on that I messed —And a mother it was and is to me,For I was weaned on the beef – beef-tea!Tom Hood, Jr.AFTER BYRON
THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA
THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,That host in its glory at noontide was seen;Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,That host four hours later was tattered and torn.For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed;And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste,As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist.And there lay the feather and fan side by side,But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips,And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair;And fragments of back-combs and slippers were there;And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed,Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed.And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene,That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen.Jon Duan.A GRIEVANCE
DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say —If you will not be angry at my writing it —But I've been used, since childhood's happy day,When I have thought of something, to inditing it;I seldom think of things; and, by the way,Although this metre may not be exciting, itEnables one to be extremely terse,Which is not what one always is in verse.I used to know a man, such things befallThe observant wayfarer through Fate's domainHe was a man, take him for all in all,We shall not look upon his like again;I know that statement's not original;What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since Cain,What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespere said it, orPerhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.Though why an Editor should fight, or whyA Fighter should abase himself to edit,Are problems far too difficult and highFor me to solve with any sort of credit.Some greatly more accomplished man than IMust tackle them: let's say then Shakespere said it;And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may(Or even if he did). Some other day,When I have nothing pressing to impart,I should not mind dilating on this matter.I feel its import both in head and heart,And always did, – especially the latter.I could discuss it in the busy martOr on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatterDiverts me from my purpose. To the point:The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,And perhaps I was born to set it right, —A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.I do not put it down to "cursed spite,"I don't see any cause for cursing in it. IHave always taken very great delightIn such pursuits since first I read divinity.Whoever will may write a nation's songsAs long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,A mighty mother of effective men;A training ground for amateur reciters,A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;A factory of orators and fighters,A forcing-house of genius? Now and thenThe world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,Unable to endure the glare of Eton.I think I said I knew a man: what then?I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid.We nearly all do, more or less, know men, —Or think we do; nor will a man get ridOf that delusion, while he wields a pen.But who this man was, what, if aught, he did,Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know;Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.J. K. Stephen.AFTER CHARLES WOLFE
THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR
NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,As the groom to the wedding we carried;Not a jester discharged his farewell shotAs the bachelor went to be married.We married him quickly that morning bright,The leaves of our prayer-books turning,In the chancel's dimly religious light,And tears in our eyelids burning.No useless nosegay adorned his chest,Not in chains but in laws we bound him;And he looked like a bridegroom trying his bestTo look used to the scene around him.Few and small were the fees it cost,And we spoke not a word of sorrow,But we silently gazed on the face of the lostAnd we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,And tried our low spirits to rally,That the weather looked very like squalls overheadFor the passage from Dover to Calais.Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;But little he'll reck if they let him alone,With his wife that the parson hath made him.But half of our heavy task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we judged by the knocks which had now begunThat their cabby was rapidly tiring.Slowly and sadly we led them down,From the scene of his lame oratory;We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,And we left them alone in their glory.Anonymous.NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT
NOT a sou had he got – not a guinea or note,And he looked confoundedly flurriedAs he bolted away without paying his shot,And the Landlady after him hurried.We saw him again at dead of night,When home from the club returning;We twigged the Doctor beneath the lightOf the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,Reclined in the gutter we found him;And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,With his Marshal cloak around him."The Doctor's as drunk as the d – ," we said,And we managed a shutter to borrow;We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his headWould "consumedly ache" on the morrow.We bore him home, and we put him to bed,And we told his wife and his daughterTo give him, next morning, a couple of redHerrings, with soda-water.Loudly they talked of his money that's goneAnd his lady began to upbraid him;But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.We tucked him in, and had hardly doneWhen, beneath the window calling,We heard the rough voice of a son of a gunOf a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.Slowly and sadly we all walk'd downFrom his room in the uppermost story;A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,And we left him alone in his glory!R. Harris Barham.THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH
NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,As the man to his bridal we hurried;Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,On the spot where the fellow was married.We married him just about eight at night,Our faces paler turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the gas-lamp's steady burning.No useless watch-chain covered his vest,Nor over-dressed we found him;But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,With a few of his friends around him.Few and short were the things we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow,But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we silently stood about,With spite and anger dying,How the merest stranger had cut us out,With only half our trying.Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,And oft for the past upbraid him;But little he'll reck if we let him live on,In the house where his wife conveyed him.But our heavy task at length was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the spiteful squib and punThe girls were sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we turned to go, —We had struggled, and we were human;We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,But we left him alone with his woman.Phœbe Cary.AFTER MRS. HEMANS
THE THYROID GLAND
"WE hear thee speak of the thyroid gland,But what thou say'st we don't understand;Professor, where does the acinus dwell?We hashed our dissection and can't quite tell.Is it where the mascula lutea flows,And the suprachordial tissue grows?""Not there, not there, my class!""Is it far away where the bronchi partAnd the pneumogastric controls the heart?Where endothelium encardium lines,And a subpericardial nerve intertwines?Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand?Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland?""Not there, not there, my class!""I have not seen it, my gentle youths,My myxoedemia, I'm told, it soothes.Landois says stolidly 'functions unknown;'Foster adopts an enquiring tone.Duct does not lead to its strange recess,Far below the vertex, above the pes,It is there, I am told, my class!"R. M.AFTER KEATS
IODE ON A JAR OF PICKLESA SWEET, acidulous, down-reaching thrillPervades my sense. I seem to see or hearThe lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich HillIn autumn, where the crispy leaves are sere;And odors haunt me of remotest spiceFrom the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,Where everything is nice.The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,And what else mortal palate craves, forego.IIOdors unsmelled are keen, but those I smellAre keener; wherefore let me sniff again!Enticing walnuts, I have known ye wellIn youth, when pickles were a passing pain;Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,And sugar plums to olives doth prefer,And even licks the pots of marmaladeWhen sweetness clings to them.But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.IIILo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,As to the Dryad's parching lips a boon,And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;And, last of all, the pepper's pungent globe,The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,I cast my trailing robeO'er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.IVHere shall my tongue in otherwise be souredThan fretful men's in parched and palsied days;And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered,Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,The lemon-tinted mornEnjoy, and find acetic twilight fine.Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.Bayard Taylor.AFTER HEINE
IMITATION
MY love she leans from the windowAfar in a rosy land;And red as a rose are her blushes,And white as a rose her hand.And the roses cluster around her,And mimic her tender grace;And nothing but roses can blossomWherever she shows her face.I dwell in a land of winter,From my love a world apart, —But the snow blooms over with rosesAt the thought of her in my heart.This German style of poemIs uncommonly popular now;For the worst of us poets can do it —Since Heine showed us how.H. C. Bunner.COMMONPLACES
RAIN on the face of the sea,Rain on the sodden land,And the window-pane is blurred with rainAs I watch it, pen in hand.Mist on the face of the sea,Mist on the sodden land,Filling the vales as daylight fails,And blotting the desolate sand.Voices from out of the mist,Calling to one another:"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,Thou dearer than ever brother?"Voices from out of the mist,Calling and passing away;But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,And.. this is the end of my lay.Rudyard Kipling.AFTER HOOD
SONG OF THE SHEET THE DRIPPING SHEET
This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks.
WITH nerves all shattered and worn,With shouts terrific and loud,A patient stood in a cold wet sheet —A Grindrod's patent shroud.Wet, wet, wet,In douche and spray and sleet,And still, with a voice I shall never forget,He sang the song of the sheet."Drip, drip, drip,Dashing, and splashing, and dipping;And drip, drip, drip,Till your fat all melts to dripping.It's oh, for dry deserts afar,Or let me rather endureCuring with salt in a family jar,If this is the water cure."Rub, rub, rub,He'll rub away life and limb;Rub, rub, rubIt seems to be fun for him.Sheeted from head to foot,I'd rather be covered with dirt;I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,If you'll only give me my shirt."Oh, men, with arms and hands,Oh, men, with legs and shins,It is not the sheet you're wearing out,But human creatures' skins.Rub, rub, rub,Body, and legs, and feet;Rubbing at once with a double rub,A skin as well as a sheet."My wife will see me no more —She'll see the bone of her bone,But never will see the flesh of her flesh,For I'll have no flesh of my own.The little that was my own,They won't allow me to keep;It's a pity that flesh should be so dear,And water so very cheap."Pack, pack, pack,Whenever your spirit flags,You're doomed by hydropathic lawsTo be packed in cold water rags;Rolled up on bed or on floor,Or sweated to death in a chair;But my chairman's rank – my shadow I'd thankFor taking my place in there."Slop, slop, slop,Never a moment of time;Slop, slop, slop,Slackened like mason's lime.Stand and freeze and steam —Steam or freeze and stand;I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,That told me to leave dry land."Up, up, up,In the morn before daylight,The bathman cries 'Get up,'(I wish he were up for a fight).While underneath the eaves,The dry snug swallows cling;But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,And see if they'll come next spring."Oh! oh! it stops my breath,(He calls it short and sweet),Could they hear me underneathI'll shout them from the street!He says that in half an hourA different man I'll feel;That I'll jump half over the moon and wantTo walk into a meal!"I feel more nerve and power,And less of terror and grief;I'm thinking now of love and hope —And now of mutton and beef.This glorious scene will rouse my heart,Oh, who would lie in bed?I cannot stop, but jump and hop,Going like needle and thread."With buoyant spirit upborne,With cheeks both healthy and red,The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,Pitying those in bed.Trip, trip, trip,Oh, life with health is sweet;And still in a voice both strong and quick,Would that its tones could reach the sick,He sang the Song of the Sheet.Anonymous.I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
I REMEMBER, I remember,The house where I was wed,And the little room from which that nightMy smiling bride was led.She didn't come a wink too soon,Nor make too long a stay;But now I often wish her folksHad kept the girl away!I remember, I remember,Her dresses, red and white,Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks, —They cost an awful sight!The "corner lot" on which I built,And where my brother metAt first my wife, one washing-day, —That man is single yet!I remember, I remember,Where I was used to court,And thought that all of married lifeWas just such pleasant sport: —My spirit flew in feathers then,No care was on my brow;I scarce could wait to shut the gate, —I'm not so anxious now!I remember, I remember,My dear one's smile and sigh;I used to think her tender heartWas close against the sky.It was a childish ignorance,But now it soothes me notTo know I'm farther off from HeavenThan when she wasn't got!Phœbe Cary.AFTER ALFRED BUNN
A YULE-TIDE PARODY
WHEN other wits and other bards,Their tales at Christmas tell,Or praise on cheap and colored cardsThe time they love so well,Secure from scorn and ridiculeI hope my verse may be,If I can still remember Yule,And Yule remember me.The days are dark, the days are drear,When dull December dies;But, while we mourn an ended year,Another's star will rise.I hail the season formed by ruleFor merriment and glee;So let me still remember Yule,And Yule remember me.The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,I greet the pie of mince;And loving both while yet a boy,Have loved them ever since.More dull were I than any muleThat eyes did ever see,If I should not remember Yule,And Yule remember me.Anonymous.SELF-EVIDENT
WHEN other lips and other eyesTheir tales of love shall tell,Which means the usual sort of liesYou've heard from many a swell;When, bored with what you feel is bosh,You'd give the world to seeA friend, whose love you know will wash,Oh, then remember me!When Signor Solo goes his tours,And Captain Craft's at Ryde,And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,And Lord knows who besides;When to exist you feel a taskWithout a friend at tea,At such a moment I but askThat you'll remember me.J. R. Planché.AFTER LORD MACAULAY
THE LAUREATE'S TOURNEY
By the Hon. T – B – MFYTTE THE FIRST"WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the southern land?How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?How does the little Prince of Wales – how looks our lady Queen?And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?""I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen's hall;I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call;And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er had seen,Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green."'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began,And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din."Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.'Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here! —"'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves – what make you there beneath?''The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song;Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight – we may not tarry long!'"Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn 'Rare jest it were, I think,But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen,That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene."'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves;Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustainThe ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?"'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'"Down went the window with a crash, – in silence and in fearEach ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near;Then up and spake young Tennyson – 'Who's here that fears for death?'Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!"Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;For armor bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!'"'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;'Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!''I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers. – 'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!''And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby."'Now out upon ye, craven loons,' cried Moxon, good at need;'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.I second Alfred's motion, boys, – let's try the chance of lot;And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'"Eight hundred minstrels slunk away – two hundred stayed to draw;Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all, —The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!"FYTTE THE SECONDOh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, —How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere."What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claimThe butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name!"That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;Then said our Queen – "Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?His name – his race?" – "An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball."Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.But see, the other champion comes!" – Then rang the startled airWith shouts of "Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there."And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.Then shook their ears the sapient peers, – "That joust will soon be done:My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!""Done," quoth the Brougham, – "And done with you!" "Now minstrels, are you ready?"Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, – "You'd better both sit steady.Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!""Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;His lance he bore his breast before, – Saint George protect the just!Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son."Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!""It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"Above him stood the Rydal bard – his face was full of woe."Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!"They led our Wordsworth to the Queen – she crowned him with the baysAnd wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!William Aytoun.Авторизация