A Parody Anthology

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN

AY, 'twas here, on this spot,In that summer of yore,Atalanta did notVote my presence a bore,Nor reply to my tenderest talk, "She had heard allthat nonsense before."She'd the brooch I had boughtAnd the necklace and sash on,And her heart, as I thought,Was alive to my passion;And she'd done up her hair in the style that theEmpress had brought into fashion.I had been to the playWith my pearl of a Peri —But, for all I could say,She declared she was weary,That "the place was so crowded and hot, and shecouldn't abide that Dundreary."Then I thought, "'Tis for meThat she whines and she whimpers!"And it soothed me to seeThose sensational simpers,And I said, "This is scrumptious," – a phrase I hadlearned from the Devonshire shrimpers.And I vowed, "'Twill be saidI'm a fortunate fellow,When the breakfast is spread,When the topers are mellow,When the foam of the bird-cake is white and thefierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"Oh, that languishing yawn!Oh, those eloquent eyes!I was drunk with the dawnOf a splendid surmise surmise —I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by atempest of sighs.And I whispered, "'Tis time!Is not Love at its deepest?Shall we squander Life's prime,While thou waitest and weepest?Let us settle it, License or Banns? – thoughundoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.""Ah, my Hero!" said I,"Let me be thy Leander!"But I lost her reply —Something ending with "gander" —For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal couldquite understand her.Lewis Carroll.

THE MANLET

IN stature the Manlet was dwarfish —No burly big Blunderbore he:And he wearily gazed on the crawfishHis Wifelet had dressed for his tea."Now reach me, sweet Atom, my gunlet,And hurl the old shoelet for luck;Let me hie to the bank of the runletAnd shoot thee a Duck!"She has reached him his minnikin gunlet:She has hurled the old shoelet for luck;She is busily baking a bunlet,To welcome him home with his duck.On he speeds, never wasting a wordlet,Though thoughtlets cling closely as wax,To the spot where the beautiful birdletSo quietly quacks.Where the Lobsterlet lurks and the CrabletSo slowly and creepily crawls:Where the Dolphin's at home and the DabletPays long ceremonious calls:Where the Grublet is sought by the Froglet:Where the Frog is pursued by the Duck:Where the Ducklet is chased by the Doglet —So runs the world's luck.He has loaded with bullet and powder:His footfall is noiseless as air:But the Voices grow louder and louderAnd bellow and bluster and blare.They bristle before him and after,They flutter above and below,Shrill shriekings of lubberly laughter,Weird wailings of woe!They echo without him, within him:They thrill through his whiskers and beard:Like a teetotum seeming to spin him,With sneers never hitherto sneered."Avengement," they cry, "on our Foelet!Let the Manikin weep for our wrongs!Let us drench him from toplet to toeletWith nursery songs!"He shall muse upon Hey! Diddle! Diddle!On the Cow that surmounted the Moon!He shall rave of the Cat and the Fiddle,And the Dish that eloped with the Spoon:And his soul shall be sad for the Spider,When Miss Muffett was sipping her whey,That so tenderly sat down beside her,And scared her away!"The music of Midsummer-madnessShall sting him with many a bite,Till, in rapture of rollicking sadness,He shall groan with a gloomy delight;He shall swathe him like mists of the morning,In platitudes luscious and limp,Such as deck, with a deathless adorning,The Song of the Shrimp!"When the Ducklet's dark doom is decided,We will trundle him home in a trice:And the banquet so plainly providedShall round into rosebuds and rice:In a blaze of pragmatic inventionHe shall wrestle with Fate and shall reign:But he has not a friend fit to mention,So hit him again!"He has shot it, the delicate darling!And the Voices have ceased from their strife:Not a whisper of sneering or snarling,As he carries it home to his wife:Then, cheerily champing the bunletHis spouse was so skilful to bake,He hies him once more to the runlet,To fetch her the Drake!Lewis Carroll.

IF!

IF life were never bitter,And love were always sweet,Then who would care to borrowA moral from to-morrow —If Thames would always glitter,And joy would ne'er retreat,If life were never bitter,And love were always sweet!If care were not the waiterBehind a fellow's chair,When easy-going sinnersSit down to Richmond dinners,And life's swift stream flows straighter,By Jove, it would be rare,If care were not the waiterBehind a fellow's chair.If wit were always radiant,And wine were always iced,And bores were kicked out straightwayThrough a convenient gateway;Then down the year's long gradient'Twere sad to be enticed,If wit were always radiant,And wine were always iced.Mortimer Collins.

THE MAID OF THE MEERSCHAUM

NUDE nymph, when from Neuberg's I led herIn velvet enshrined and encased,When with rarest Virginia I fed her,And pampered each maidenly tasteOn "Old Judge" and "Lone Jack" and brown "Bird's-eye,"The best that a mortal might get —Did she know how, from whiteness of curds, IShould turn her to jet?She was blonde and impassive and statelyWhen first our acquaintance began,When she smiled from the pipe-bowl sedatelyOn the "Stunt" who was scarcely a man.But labuntur anni fugaces,And changed in due season were we,For she wears the blackest of faces,And I'm a D. C.Unfailing the comfort she gave meIn the days when I owned to a heart,When the charmers that used to enslave meFor Home or the Hills would depart.She was Polly or Agnes or Kitty(Whoever pro tem. was my flame),And I found her most ready to pity,And – always the same.At dawn, when the pig broke from cover,At noon, when the pleaders were met,She clung to the lips of her loverAs never live maiden did yet;At the Bund, when I waited the far lightThat brought me my Mails o'er the main —At night, when the tents, in the starlight,Showed white on the plain.And now, though each finely cut featureIs flattened and polished away,I hold her the loveliest creatureThat ever was fashioned from clay.Let an epitaph thus, then, be wrought forHer tomb, when the smash shall arrive:"Hic jacet the life's love I bought forRupees twenty-five."Rudyard Kipling.

QUAERITUR

DAWN that disheartens the desolate dunes,Dulness of day as it bursts on the beach,Sea-wind that shrillest the thinnest of tunes,What is the wisdom thy wailings would teach?Far, far away, down the foam-frescoed reach,Where ravening rocks cleave the crest of the seas,Sigheth the sound of thy sonorous speech,As gray gull and guillemot gather their fees;Taking toll of the beasts that are bred in the seas.Foam-flakes fly farther than faint eyes can follow —Drop down the desolate dunes and are done;Fleeter than foam-flowers flitteth the Swallow,Sheer for the sweets of the South and the Sun.What is thy tale? O thou treacherous Swallow!Sing me thy secret, Beloved of the Skies,That I may gather my garments and follow —Flee on the path of thy pinions and riseWhere strong storms cease and the weary wind dies.Lo! I am bound with the chains of my sorrow;Swallow, swift Swallow, ah, wait for a while!Stay but a moment – it may be to-morrowChains shall be severed and sad souls shall smile!Only a moment – a mere minute's measure —How shall it hurt such a swift one as thou?Pitiless Swallow, full flushed for thy pleasure,Canst thou not even one instant allowTo weak-winged wanderers? Wait for me now.Rudyard Kipling.

A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE

STRANGE pie that is almost a passion,O passion immoral for pie!Unknown are the ways that they fashion,Unknown and unseen of the eye.The pie that is marbled and mottled,The pie that digests with a sigh:For all is not Bass that is bottled,And all is not pork that is pie.Richard Le Gallienne.

FOAM AND FANGS

O   NYMPH with the nicest of noses;And finest and fairest of forms;Lips ruddy and ripe as the rosesThat 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 rageOf a poet as pinion'd in powersAs 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 sniffed 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 mortalWho knows what I mean.Walter Parke.

A SONG OF RENUNCIATION

IN the days of my season of salad,When the down was as dew on my cheek,And for French I was bred on the ballad,For Greek on the writers of Greek, —Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,Of "pleasure that winces and stings,"Of white women, and wine that is bloody,And similar things.Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,And Desire that is dear as Delight;Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,Of the bruises of kisses that bite;Of embraces that clasp and that sever,Of blushes that flutter and fleeRound the limbs of Dolores, whoeverDolores may be.I sang of false faith that is fleetingAs froth of the swallowing seas,Time's curse that is fatal as KeatingIs fatal to amorous fleas;Of the wanness of woe that is whelp ofThe lust that is blind as a bat —By the help of my Muse and the help ofThe relative That.Panatheist, bruiser and breakerOf kings and the creatures of kings,I shouted on Freedom to shake herFeet loose of the fetter that clings;Far rolling my ravenous red eye,And lifting a mutinous lid,To all monarchs and matrons I said IWould shock them – and did.Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian,O "noble and nude and antique!"Unashamed in the "fearless old fashion,"Ere washing was done by the week;When the "roses and rapture" that girt youWere visions of delicate vice,And the "lilies and languors of virtue"Not nearly so nice.O delights of the time of my teething,Felise, Fragoletta, Yolande!Foam-yeast of a youth in its seethingOn blasted and blithering sand!Snake-crowned on your tresses and beltedWith blossoms that coil and decay,Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are meltedLike ices in May.Hushed now is the bibulous bubbleOf "lithe and lascivious" throats;Long stript and extinct is the stubbleOf hoary and harvested oats;From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel'sThe bees have abortively swarmed;And Algernon's earlier moralsAre fairly reformed.I have written a loyal Armada,And posed in a Jubilee pose;I have babbled of babies and played aNew tune on the turn of their toes;Washed white from the stain of Astarte,My books any virgin may buy;And I hear I am praised by a partyCalled Something Mackay!When erased are the records, and rottenThe meshes of memory's net;When the grace that forgives has forgottenThe things that are good to forget;When the trill of my juvenile trumpetIs dead and its echoes are dead;Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpetAnd crown of my head!Owen Seaman.

NEPHELIDIA

FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine,Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death;Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our sensesSweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses, —"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die."Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.Algernon Charles Swinburne.

THE LAY OF MACARONI

AS a wave that steals when the winds are stormyFrom creek to cove of the curving shore,Buffeted, blown, and broken before me,Scattered and spread to its sunlit core:As a dove that dips in the dark of maplesTo sip the sweetness of shelter and shade,I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples,I bathe in thy beauty, by thee embayed.What is it ails me that I should sing of her?The queen of the flashes and flames that were!Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her,The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her!I have swayed and sung to the sound of her psalters,I have danced her dances of dizzy delight,I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars,Between the nightingale's song and the night!What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee?What is it now I should ask at thine hands?Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee?Break from thine feet and thine bosom the bands?Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni,And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold,She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni,The choice of her children when cheeses are old!And over me hover, as if by the wings of it,Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet,The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it,Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat;Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it,Lifts me the links of the limitless chain,Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things of it,Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain!Behold! I have done it: my stomach is smittenWith sweets of the surfeit her hands have unrolled.Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten,I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, and sold!No man of thy millions is more macaronied,Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me;The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied,And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee!Bayard Taylor.

AFTER BRET HARTE

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE

By Bred HardWHICH I wish to remark,And my language is plain,That for plots that are darkAnd not always in vainThe heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,And the same I would rise to explain.I would also premiseThat the term of Pass-eeMost fitly applies,As you probably see,To one whose vocation is passingThe ordinary B. A. degree.Tom Crib was his name,And I shall not denyIn regard to the sameWhat that name might imply;But his face it was trustful and childlike,And he had a most innocent eye.Upon April the FirstThe Little-Go fell,And that was the worstOf the gentleman's sell,For he fooled the Examining BodyIn a way I'm reluctant to tell.The candidates came,And Tom Crib soon appeared;It was Euclid. The sameWas "the subject he feared;"But he smiled as he sat by the table,With a smile that was wary and weird.Yet he did what he could,And the papers he showedWere remarkably good,And his countenance glowedWith pride when I met him soon afterAs he walked down the Trumpington Road.We did not find him out,Which I bitterly grieve,For I've not the least doubtThat he'd placed up his sleeveMr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid,The same with intent to deceive.But I shall not forgetHow the next day at twoA stiff paper was setBy Examiner U.,On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae,A subject Tom partially knew.But the knowledge displayedBy that heathen Pass-ee,And the answers he made,Were quite frightful to see,For he rapidly floored the whole paperBy about twenty minutes to three.Then I looked up at U.,And he gazed upon me;I observed "This won't do;"He replied, "Goodness me;We are fooled by this artless young person,"And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.The scene that ensuedWas disgraceful to view,For the floor it was strewedWith a tolerable fewOf the "tips" that Tom Crib had been hidingFor the subject he "partially knew."On the cuff of his shirtHe had managed to getWhat we hoped had been dirt,But which proved, I regret,To be notes on the rise of the Drama,A question invariably set.In his various coatsWe proceeded to seek,Where we found sundry notesAnd – with sorrow I speak speak —One of Bohn's publications, so usefulTo the student in Latin or Greek.In the crown of his capWere the Furies and Fates,And a delicate mapOf the Dorian States;And we found in his palms, which were hollow,What are frequent in palms, – that is dates.Which I wish to remark,And my language is plain,That for plots that are darkAnd not always in vainThe heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,Which the same I am free to maintain.A. C. Hilton.

DE TEA FABULA

Plain Language from Truthful JamesDO I sleep? Do I dream?Am I hoaxed by a scout?Are things what they seem,Or is Sophists about?Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning playedout?Which expressions like theseMay be fairly appliedBy a party who seesA Society skiedUpon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimatepride.'Twas November the third,And I says to Bill Nye,"Which it's true what I've heard:If you're, so to speak, fly,There's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High."Which I mentioned its name,And he ups and remarks:"If dress-coats is the gameAnd pow-wow in the Parks,Then I'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau andsimilar Snarks."Now the pride of Bill NyeCannot well be express'd;For he wore a white tieAnd a cut-away vest:Says I, "Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed welldress'd."But not far did we wend,When we saw Pippa passOn the arm of a friend– Dr. Furnivall 'twas,And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return,second-class."Well," I thought, "this is odd."But we came pretty quickTo a sort of a quadThat was all of red brick,And I says to the porter, – "R. Browning: free passes; andkindly look slick."But says he, dripping tearsIn his check handkerchief,"That symposium's career'sBeen regrettably brief,For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted ongunpowder leaf!"Then we tucked up the sleevesOf our shirts (that were biled),Which the reader perceivesThat our feelings were riled,And we went for that man till his mother had doubted thetraits of her child.Which emotions like theseMust be freely indulgedBy a party who seesA Society bulgedOn a reef the existence of which its prospectus had neverdivulged.But I ask, – Do I dream?Has it gone up the spout?Are things what they seem,Or is Sophists about?Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning playedout?A. T. Quiller-Couch.

AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON

THE PRODIGALS

(Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed him)MINISTERS! you, most serious,Critics and statesmen of all degrees,Hearken awhile to the motion of us —Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!Nothing we ask of poets or fees;Worry us not with objections, pray!Lo, for the speaker's wig we seize —Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.Scots most prudent, penurious!Irishmen busy as bumblebees!Hearken awhile to the motion of us —Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!(Solomon raced like fun, they say.)Lo, for we beg on our bended knees —Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.Campbell – Asheton be generous!(But they voted such things were not the cheese.)Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous!(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.)And shortly they got both of help and ease,For a mad majority crowded to say,"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees:Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day."ENVOI:Prince, most just was the motion of these,And many were seen by the dusty way,Shouting glad to the Epsom breezeGive us, ah! give us the Derby Day.Anonymous.

AFTER ANDREW LANG

BO-PEEP

UNHAPPY is Bo-Peep,Her tears profusely flow,Because her precious sheepHave wandered to and fro,Have chosen far to go,For "pastures new" inclined,(See Lycidas) – and lo!Their tails are still behind!How catch them while asleep?(I think GaboriauFor machinations deepBeats Conan Doyle and Co.)But none a hint bestowSave this, on how to findThe flocks she misses so —"Their tails are still behind!"This simple faith to keepWill mitigate her woe,She is not Joan, to leapTo arms against the foeOr conjugate τὑρτω;Nay, peacefully resignedShe waits, till time shall showTheir tails are still behind!Bo-Peep, rejoice! AlthoughYour sheep appear unkind,Rejoice at last to knowTheir tails are still behind!Anthony C. Deane.

AFTER W. E. HENLEY

IMITATION

CALM and implacable,Eying disdainfully the world beneath,Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminenceIn solemn state:And I relate his storyIn verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme ormetre,In verse (or "rhythm," as I prefer to call it)Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.He sat. And at his feetThe world passed on – the surging crowdOf men and women, passionate, turgid, dense,Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese.(Those two lines scan!)Among the restHe noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose,His eyebrows – the left one streaked with a dash of gray —And yellow boots.Not that JonesHas anything in particular to do with the story;But a descriptive phraseLike the above shows that the writer isA Master of Realism.Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seatDid Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutchedThe impalpable air. Down and down,Right to the foot of the wall,Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it,Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty,Fell.And him, alas! no equine agency,Him no power of regal battalions —Resourceful, eager, strenuous —Could ever restore to the lofty eminenceWhich once was his.Still he lies on the very identicalSpot where he fell – lies, as I said on the ground,Shamefully and conspicuously abased!Anthony C. Deane.

AFTER R. L. STEVENSON

BED DURING EXAMS

I USED to go to bed at night,And only worked when day was light.But now 'tis quite the other way,I never get to bed till day.I look up from my work and seeThe morning light shine in on me,And listen to the warning knell —The tinkle of the rising bell.And does there not seem cause to weep,When I should like so much to sleep,I have to sing this mournful lay,I cannot get to bed till day?Clara Warren Vail.

AFTER OSCAR WILDE

MORE IMPRESSIONS

(La Fuite des Oies)TO outer senses they are geese,Dull drowsing by a weedy pool;But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool!Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!Deep silence on the shadowy flood,Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack"),Low amber light in Ariel trackAthwart the dun (that means the mud).And suddenly subsides the sun,Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom(That means the white geese waddling home),And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?)Oscuro Wildgoose.

NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE

(Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model)

OH, but she was dark and shrill,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)The cat that (on the first April)Played the fiddle on the lea.Oh, and the moon was wan and bright,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)The Cow she looked nor left nor right,But took it straight at a jump, pardie!The hound did laugh to see this thing,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)As it was parlous wantoning,(Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,)And underneath a dreesome moonTwo lovers fled right piteouslie;A spooney plate with a plated spoon,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)POSTSCRIPTThen blame me not, altho' my verseSounds like an echo of C. S. C.Since still they make ballads that worse and worseSavor of diddle and hey-de-dee.Anonymous.