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,

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Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.