A Parody Anthology

MY FOE

JOHN ALCOHOL, my foe, John,When we were first acquaint,I'd siller in my pockets, John,Which noo, ye ken, I want;I spent it all in treating, John,Because I loved you so;But mark ye, how you've treated me,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,We've been ower lang together,Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John,And I will take anither;Foe we maun tumble down, John,If hand in hand we go;And I shall hae the bill to pay,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,Ye've blear'd out a' my een,And lighted up my nose, John,A fiery sign atween!My hands wi' palsy shake, John,My locks are like the snow;Ye'll surely be the death of me,John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,'Twas love to you, I ween,That gart me rise sae ear', John,And sit sae late at e'en;The best o' friens maun part, John,It grieves me sair, ye know;But “we'll nae mair to yon town,"John Alcohol, my foe.John Alcohol, my foe, John,Ye've wrought me muckle skaith,And yet to part wi' you, John,I own I'm unko' laith;But I'll join the temperance ranks, John,Ye needna say me no;It's better late than ne'er do weel,John Alcohol, my foe.Anonymous.

RIGID BODY SINGS

GIN a body meet a bodyFlyin' through the air,Gin a body hit a body,Will it fly? and where?Ilka impact has its measure,Ne'er a' ane hae I,Yet a' the lads they measure me,Or, at least, they try.Gin a body meet a bodyAltogether free,How they travel afterwardsWe do not always see.Ilka problem has its methodBy analytics high;For me, I ken na ane o' them,But what the waur am I?J. C. Maxwell.

AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE

COCKNEY ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

I   DWELLS in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair;If you searches the Hocean you'll find that I'm there;The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi,Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'Igh.But tho' on this Horb I am destined to grovel,I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel;Not an 'Oss nor an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam,And yet I'm invariably habsent from 'Ome.Tho' 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art,But look and you'll see in the Heye I appear.Only 'ark and you'll 'ear me just breathe in the Hear;Tho' in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox!),Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox.Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning! and mark,Tho' I goes not with Noar, I'm the first in the Hark.I'm never in 'Elth – have with Fysic no power;I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour.Horace Mayhew.

AFTER WORDSWORTH

ON WORDSWORTH

HE lived amidst th' untrodden waysTo Rydal Lake that lead;A bard whom there was none to praiseAnd very few to read.Behind a cloud his mystic sense,Deep hidden, who can spy?Bright as the night when not a starIs shining in the sky.Unread his works – his “Milk White Doe"With dust is dark and dim;It's still in Longmans' shop, and oh!The difference to him.Anonymous.

JACOB

HE dwelt among “Apartments let,"About five stories high;A man, I thought, that none would get,And very few would try.A boulder, by a larger stoneHalf hidden in the mud,Fair as a man when only oneIs in the neighborhood.He lived unknown, and few could tellWhen Jacob was not free;But he has got a wife – and O!The difference to me!Phœbe Cary.

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

THERE is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there —It winds about like any hare;And then it holds as straight a courseAs, on the turnpike road, a horse,Or, through the air, an arrow.The trees that grow upon the shoreHave grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing:Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first those trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever must be growing.The impulses of air and skyHave reared their stately heads so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, —And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee —Wagging their heads in mockery.Fixed are their feet in solid earthWhere winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reached their roots below.For they have gained the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.There's little Will, a five years' child —He is my youngest boy;To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy.He hath conversed with sun and shower,And dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar-rose, —The blue-bells are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.And I have said, my little Will,Why should he not continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control —A living vegetable soul, —No human sorrow fearing.It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.Catherine M. Fanshawe.

JANE SMITH

I   JOURNEYED, on a winter's day,Across the lonely wold;No bird did sing upon the spray,And it was very cold.I had a coach with horses four,Three white (though one was black),And on they went the common o'er,Nor swiftness did they lack.A little girl ran by the side,And she was pinched and thin.“Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!I'm fetching mother's gin."“Enter my coach, sweet child," said I,“For you shall ride with me;And I will get you your supplyOf mother's eau-de-vie."The publican was stern and cold,And said: “Her mother's scoreIs writ, as you shall soon behold,Behind the bar-room door!"I blotted out the score with tears,And paid the money down;And took the maid of thirteen yearsBack to her mother's town.And though the past with surges wildFond memories may sever,The vision of that happy childWill leave my spirits never!Rudyard Kipling.

ONLY SEVEN

(A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth)I   MARVELLED why a simple child,That lightly draws its breath,Should utter groans so very wild,And look as pale as Death.Adopting a parental tone,I ask'd her why she cried;The damsel answered with a groan,“I've got a pain inside!“I thought it would have sent me madLast night about eleven."Said I, “What is it makes you bad?How many apples have you had?"She answered, “Only seven!"“And are you sure you took no more,My little maid?" quoth I;“Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,But they were in a pie!"“If that's the case," I stammer'd out,“Of course you've had eleven."The maiden answered with a pout,“I ain't had more nor seven!"I wonder'd hugely what she meant,And said, “I'm bad at riddles;But I know where little girls are sentFor telling taradiddles.“Now, if you won't reform," said I,“You'll never go to Heaven."But all in vain; each time I try,That little idiot makes reply,“I ain't had more nor seven!"POSTSCRIPTTo borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,Or slightly misapplied;And so I'd better call my song,“Lines after Ache-Inside."Henry S. Leigh.

LUCY LAKE

POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown,But somewhat underbrained.She did not know enough, I own,To go in when it rained.Yet Lucy was constrained to go;Green bedding, – you infer.Few people knew she died, but oh,The difference to her!Newton Mackintosh.

AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

(The true story in blank verse)OH! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal,Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,Where good nags, fresh from the country,With burrs still in their tails are sellingFor a song; and save his good broadswordHe weapon had none, except a seven shooterOr two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an ArkansawToothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,Because there was no one going his way.He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not forToll-gates; he swam the Eske River where fordThere was none, and saved fifteen centsIn ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containingSeventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansionHe stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,And this delayed him considerably, so whenHe arrived the bride had consented – the gallantCame late – for a laggard in love and a dastard in warWas to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.So boldly he entered the Netherby HallAmong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers andBrothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head):“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell youI have the inside track in the free-for-allFor her affections! My suit you denied; but letThat pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that loveSwells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,And now I am come with this lost love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by farThat would gladly be bride to yours very truly."The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,Smashing it into a million pieces, whileHe remarked that he was the son of a gunFrom Seven-up and run the Number Nine.She looked down to blush, but she looked up againFor she well understood the wink in his eye;He took her soft hand ere her mother couldInterfere, “Now tread we a measure; first fourHalf right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall-door and the chargerStood near on three legs eating post-hay;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,Then leaped to the saddle before her.“She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar,They'll have swift steeds that follow" – but in theExcitement of the moment he had forgottenTo untie the horse, and the poor brute couldOnly gallop in a little circus around theHitching-post; so the old gent collaredThe youth and gave him the awfullest lambastingThat was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;So dauntless in war and so daring in love,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,Smashing it into a million pieces, whileHe remarked that he was the son of a gunFrom Seven-up and run the Number Nine.She looked down to blush, but she looked up againFor she well understood the wink in his eye;He took her soft hand ere her mother couldInterfere, “Now tread we a measure; first fourHalf right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall-door and the chargerStood near on three legs eating post-hay;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,Then leaped to the saddle before her.“She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar,They'll have swift steeds that follow" – but in theExcitement of the moment he had forgottenTo untie the horse, and the poor brute couldOnly gallop in a little circus around theHitching-post; so the old gent collaredThe youth and gave him the awfullest lambastingThat was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;So dauntless in war and so daring in love,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?Anonymous.

AFTER COLERIDGE

THE ANCIENT MARINER

(The Wedding Guest's Version of the Affair from HisPoint of View)IT is an Ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three —In fact he coolly took my arm —“There was a ship," quoth he.“Bother your ships!" said I, “is thisThe time a yarn to spin?This is a wedding, don't you see,And I am next of kin.“The wedding breakfast has begun,We're hungry as can be —Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!"With that his hand dropt he.But there was something in his eye,That made me sick and ill,Yet forced to listen to his yarn —The Mariner'd had his will.While Tom and Harry went their wayI sat upon a stone —So queer on Fanny's wedding dayMe sitting there alone!Then he began, that Mariner,To rove from pole to pole,In one long-winded, lengthened-out,Eternal rigmarole,About a ship in which he'd sailed,Though whither, goodness knows,Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,"And every day it snows.And then about a precious birdOf some sort or another,That – was such nonsense ever heard? —Used to control the weather!Now, at this bird the MarinerResolved to have a shy,And laid it low with his cross-bow —And then the larks! My eye!For loss of that uncommon fowl,They couldn't get a breeze;And there they stuck, all out of luck,And rotted on the seas.The crew all died, or seemed to die,And he was left aloneWith that queer bird. You never heardWhat games were carried on!At last one day he stood and watchedThe fishes in the sea,And said, “I'm blest!" and so the shipWas from the spell set free.And it began to rain and blow,And as it rained and blew,The dead got up and worked the ship —That was a likely crew!However, somehow he escaped,And got again to land,But mad as any hatter, say,From Cornhill to the Strand.For he believes that certain folksAre singled out by fate,To whom this cock-and-bull affairOf his he must relate.Describing all the incidents,And painting all the scenes,As sailors will do in the talesThey tell to the Marines.Confound the Ancient Mariner!I knew I should be late;And so it was; the wedding guestsHad all declined to wait.Another had my place, and gaveMy toast; and sister FanSaid “'Twas a shame. What could you wantWith that seafaring man?"I felt like one that had been stunnedThrough all this wrong and scorn;A sadder and a later manI rose the morrow morn.Anonymous

STRIKING

IT was a railway passenger,And he lept out jauntilie."Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,My two chattèls to me."Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,And portmanteau so brown;(They lie in the van, for a trusty manHe labelled them London town:)"And fetch me eke a cabman bold,That I may be his fare, his fare;And he shall have a good shilling,If by two of the clock he do me bringTo the Terminus, Euston Square.""Now, – so to thee the saints alway,Good gentleman, give luck, —As never a cab may I find this day,For the cabman wights have struck.And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,Or else at the Dog and Duck,Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,The nut-brown ale and the fine old ginRight pleasantly they do suck.""Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,What were it best that I should do:For woe is me, an' I reach not thereOr ever the clock strike two.""I have a son, a lytel son;Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's:Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,And he shall carry thy fardels downTo Euston, or half over London town,On one of the station trucks."Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,The gent and the son of the stout portèr,Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,Through all the mire and muck:"A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:For by two of the clock must I needs away.""That may hardly be," the clerk did say,"For indeed – the clocks have struck."Charles S. Calverley.

AFTER SOUTHEY

THE OLD MAN'S COLD AND HOW HE GOT IT

(By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey)"YOU are cold, Father William," the young man cried,"You shake and you shiver, I say;You've a cold, Father William, your nose it is red,Now tell me the reason, I pray.""In the days of my youth," Father William replied —(He was a dissembling old man)"I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa's boots,And snowballed my Aunt Mary Ann.""Go along, Father William," the young man cried,"You are trying it on, sir, to-day;What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanets?Come tell me the reason, I pray.""In the days of my youth," Father William replied,"I went to the North Pole with Parry;And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreauxPlays with this old man the Old Harry.""Get out! Father William," the young man cried."Come, you shouldn't go on in this way;You are funny, but still you've a frightful bad cold —Now tell me the reason, I pray.""I am cold, then, dear youth," Father William replied;"I've a cold, my impertinent son,Because for some weeks my coals have been boughtAt forty-eight shillings a ton!"

FATHER WILLIAM

"YOU are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head —Do you think, at your age, it is right?""In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.""You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door —Pray what is the reason of that?""In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment – one shilling the box —Allow me to sell you a couple.""You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak;Pray, how did you manage to do it?""In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.""You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose —What made you so awfully clever?""I have answered three questions and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"Lewis Carroll

LADY JANE

(Sapphics)DOWN the green hill-side fro' the castle windowLady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin';Day by day watched him go about his ampleNursery garden.Cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff —Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes,Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows,Early potatoes.Lady Jane cared not very much for all these:What she cared much for was a glimpse o' WillumStrippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti-Cultural effort.Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, thatUp the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle,Feminine eyes could so delight to view hisNoble proportions.Only one day while, in an innocent mood,Moppin' his brow (cos 'twas a trifle sweaty)With a blue kerchief – lo, he spies a white unCoyly responding.Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do you careFor the restrictions set on human inter-Course by cold-blooded social refiners;Nor do I, neither.Day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks,Willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin',Till his hot sighs out-growin' all repressionBusted his weskit.Lady Jane's guardian was a haughty Peer, whoClung to old creeds and had a nasty temper;Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared toRisk a refusal?Year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks,Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps.Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maidenWave fro' her window.But the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag,Came by book-post Bill's catalogue o' seedlingsMark'd wi' blue ink at "Paragraphs relatin'Mainly to Pumpkins.""W. A. can," so the Lady Jane read,"Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, theLady Jane, first-class medal, ornamental;Grows to a great height."Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows —Down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway —Came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier,Easily shouldered."Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd leavesForth ye bear with slow step?" A mourner answer'd,"'Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grewTired to abide in.""Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow.Delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks,Where I may dream she's goin' on preciselyAs she was used to."Hardly died Bill when, fro' the Lady Jane's grave,Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin:Climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi'Billowy verdure.Simple this tale! – but delicately perfumedAs the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That's why,Difficult though its metre was to tackle,I'm glad I wrote it.A. T. Quiller-Couch.

AFTER CAMPBELL

THE NEW ARRIVAL

THERE came to port last Sunday nightThe queerest little craft,Without an inch of rigging on;I looked and looked – and laughed!It seemed so curious that sheShould cross the Unknown water,And moor herself within my room —My daughter! Oh, my daughter!Yet by these presents witness allShe's welcome fifty times,And comes consigned in hope and love —And common-metre rhymes.She has no manifest but this,No flag floats o'er the water;She's too new for the British Lloyds —My daughter! Oh, my daughter!Ring out, wild bells – and tame ones too,Ring out the lover's moon;Ring in the little worsted socks,Ring in the bib and spoon.Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,Ring in the milk and water;Away with paper, pen, and ink —My daughter! Oh, my daughter!George Washington Cable.

JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER

A FELLOW near Kentucky's climeCries, "Boatman, do not tarry,And I'll give thee a silver dimeTo row us o'er the ferry.""Now, who would cross the Ohio,This dark and stormy water?""O, I am this young lady's beau,And she, John Thompson's daughter."We've fled before her father's spiteWith great precipitation;And should he find us here to-night,I'd lose my reputation."They've missed the girl and purse beside,His horsemen hard have pressed me;And who will cheer my bonny bride,If yet they shall arrest me?"Out spoke the boatman then in time,"You shall not fail, don't fear it;I'll go, not for your silver dime,But for your manly spirit."And by my word, the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;For though a storm is coming on,I'll row you o'er the ferry."By this the wind more fiercely rose,The boat was at the landing;And with the drenching rain their clothesGrew wet where they were standing.But still, as wilder rose the wind,And as the night grew drearer;Just back a piece came the police,Their tramping sounded nearer."Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"It's anything but funny;I'll leave the light of loving eyes,But not my father's money!"And still they hurried in the faceOf wind and rain unsparing;John Thompson reached the landing place —His wrath was turned to swearing.For by the lightning's angry flash,His child he did discover;One lovely hand held all the cash,And one was round her lover!"Come back, come back!" he cried in woe,Across the stormy water;"But leave the purse, and you may go,My daughter, oh, my daughter!"'Twas vain; they reached the other shore(Such doom the Fates assign us);The gold he piled went with his child,And he was left there minus.Phœbe Cary.

AFTER THOMAS MOORE

THE LAST CIGAR

'TIS a last choice HavanaI hold here alone;All its fragrant companionsIn perfume have flown.No more of its kindredTo gladden the eye,So my empty cigar caseI close with a sigh.I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine; but the stemI'll bite off and light theeTo waft thee to them.And gently I'll scatterThe ashes you shed,As your soul joins its mates inA cloud overhead.All pleasure is fleeting,It blooms to decay;From the weeds' glowing circleThe ash drops away.A last whiff is taken,The butt-end is thrown,And with empty cigar-case,I sit all alone.Anonymous.

'TWAS EVER THUS

I NEVER bought a young gazelle,To glad me with its soft black eye,But, when it came to know me well,'Twas sure to butt me on the sly.I never drilled a cockatoo,To speak with almost human lip,But, when a pretty phrase it knew,'Twas sure to give some friend a nip.I never trained a collie houndTo be affectionate and mild,But, when I thought a prize I'd found,'Twas sure to bite my youngest child.I never kept a tabby kitTo cheer my leisure with its tricks,But, when we all grew fond of it,'Twas sure to catch the neighbor's chicks.I never reared a turtle-dove,To coo all day with gentle breath,But, when its life seemed one of love,'Twas sure to peck its mate to death.I never – well I never yet —And I have spent no end of pelf —Invested money in a petThat didn't misconduct itself.Anonymous.

"THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES"

There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hardTo bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.That bower and its products I never forget,But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;As thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes,Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.Phœbe Cary.