“ All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day,
From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey,
To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but bray—
So full was this Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime!
All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove,
All that pains the sense or pleases, all the heart can loathe or love,
All instincts that drag downwards, all desires that upwards move,
Were caged a “happy family” cheek-by-jowl and hand in glove,
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,
Of the young World’s proto-prime! ”

“ While I must needs with weary step slow tramp it home again.
Yes, I must go, though barked my knees, a bump above my eye;
Although I’m lame and scarce can wheeze, I yet to trudge must try.
My big black eye will grow more black, more tired become my feet,
And vainly shall I stretch my legs thy treadles’ whirl to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold thy smart lamp gleaming bright,
Only in sleep shall hear again thy bell’s tinck-tinckling light,
And when I move my dreaming arm to brake thy gathering speed,
Then must I starting wake to wish thou wert sold, my iron steed. ”

“ When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest,
I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast;
And I think all the time how hot it must be
Over there where my master lies under the tree,
A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,
Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!
I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,
And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way,
I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee,
As a ducking I get when they top over me. ”

“ And ne’er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O’er the ever-green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come
Of the days that are pass’d, and the old house at home!
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
A Contrast.
Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Was a tumble-down place, where most dismal I felt;
For my friends kept few servants, and taught me the page
Could not wait upon me, for I was not of age.
Oh! my heart ’midst all changes, from London to Rome,
Finds each place more gay than the old house at home! ”

“ Next time I argued I thought it best,
To give the Conservative side a rest,
The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed,
When oh, what a surprise!
The chap I had met was a Tory true,
Nothing the Liberals right could do,
This was my share of that argument too,
Two lovely black eyes!
Chorus.
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh what a surprise!
Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.
The moral you’ve caught I can hardly doubt,
Never on politics rave and shout,
Leave it to others to fight it out,
If you would be wise. ”

“ A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly described,
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog ”

“ Punch. November 9, 1878.
The Chancery Court.
There’s a place that bears a well-known name,
Tho’ ’tis but a seedy spot;
’Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame,
And who dare say it is not?
Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live
On laws, on “Flats” and fees,
The choicest the Devil to earth can give
In this little spot one sees;
For a gem in its way, as we’ve always been taught,
Is that grand Institution—a Chancery Court.
There’s a thing that’s a terror to every tongue,
No matter when or where,
And to treat that thing as a mere old song
Is more than the richest dare. ”

“ Quick eye, strong arm, and foot so fleet as ne’er to lag behind;
Good lungs, and constitution such as no fatigue can feel,
With iron nerves and sinews, and a heart as true as steel,
Has this brave young English Officer, to serve us in his prime.
A Centaur in his horsemanship, an Angelo to fence,
In every manly pastime he makes way, nor makes pretence;
From battle-fight to fisticuffs good generalship he proves.
In glory’s race a winner, and a “wunner” with the gloves,
Like the plucky British Officer, of past and present time. ”

“ Could the man who rode thee gaily here remount thee to return?
Return, alas! My iron steed, what can thy master do
But leave thee here and limp along till home appears in view?
When the long distance tires me I will rest while fancies queer,
Thy bright form will restore, and thou’lt a new machine appear.
Slow and unmounted must I go with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet wheels fast whirling round thou once did’st bear me on;
And sitting down in some hotel I o’er my beer will think,
I nearly broke my blessed neck when last I rode full clink. ”

“ AND FOX.
Britons, let’s all unite
In defence of our right
And liberty:
For us we’ll distance drive
Scare-Crow Prerogative
Nor ever, whilst alive,
Cease to be free.
Time-servers, wond’ring, shall
View us determin’d all
Spite of the Court;
Spite of their wily tricks,
And Back-stair politics,
Fox is the man we fix
On to support.
We, like Sir Judas Wray,
Will not our friends betray,
But, orthodox
In aid of liberty,
Let the whole nation see
True and staunch we will be
Ever to Fox.
Void of all treachery,
To guard our liberty,
Foremost stands Fox:
Let, then, be this our cry
Conquer, or let us die. ”

“ To be a butterfly.
I tell you frankly Mr. B.
I would not if I could,
In fact so far as I can see
I could not if I would.
To many things we all aspire,
For many things we sigh,
But why should mortal man desire
To be a butterfly?
Henry S. Leigh.
I’d be a Parody.
I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny
Or some little song with a popular tune,
Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
I’d be a parody made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. ”

“ While Tories have your sympathy,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe.
(Two verses omitted.)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,
The right is on our side;
And we have gallant leaders, Joe,
All trusty, true, and tried.
And though you have deserted us
And gone to join the foe,
We mean to fight and conquer yet,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe,
With us you climbed the hill;
And hand to hand we helped you up,
With Radical good-will.
Now, hand in hand with Salisbury,
You down again will go,
And you’ll “sleep together at the foot,”
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe! ”

“ Oh! go, wake the old people up,
To send a remittance from home.
I hope that they’ll send a good lot;
The last time they wrote to me here,
A blessing was all that I got
From father and mother so dear.
They hoped I’d be honest and true,
And ne’er in extravagance roam,
But what’s a poor devil to do
Without a remittance from home?
Post Office Orders or stamps, &c.
I have not the money for stamps,
So when I write home ev’ry day,
They think me the worst of young scamps,
For twopence each time they’ve to pay. ”

“ Original and third Verses to “Home Sweet Home.”
Though bidden to roam, the world’s face to its end,
The power of home will attractiveness lend;
Then dearest and fairest of memories all,
Bid me come, and with rapture I’ll answer the call.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home! there’s no place like home!
Cuyuni.
Fond hearts bear it? sweetness o’er land, and o’er sea,
It’s mem’ry is with us where’er we may be;
Though time’s changes ringing nought else should remain,
Sweet home and its loved ones our hearts shall retain.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home! ”

“ I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,
Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,
But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.
Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,
Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.
His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows,
Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows,
And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose;
For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time. ”

“ Those ancient men of science, ne’er saw the power of steam,
Or knew of bridges tubular across the ocean stream;
But ours are far more knowing:—their triumphs skill uprears,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Civil Engineers!
Oh! Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Old Neptune with his trident, Apollo with his car—
These heathen swells celestial in their respective spheres,
Can’t come in competition with the Civil Engineers!
Whene’er their skill’s demanded, great works are to be made,
Their navvies march with pickaxe, with crowbar, and with spade ”

“ This was the Freemen’s fav’rite song:
Hail great Statesman! the Statesman of our choice!
We bid thee welcome and rejoice!
The Candidates opposing thee,
Must daily find their ardour cool;
Whilst thou our pride shall surely be,
Declar’d triumphant at the poll.
Hail &c.
Still as their friends assemble round,
With energy our cause to gain;
Thy foes shall sicken at the sound,
To hear the Freeman’s fav’rite strain.
Hail &c.
Our commerce round the world shall flow,
Surpassing any former time;
To thee our native town shall owe,
The right to trade to every clime. ”

“ A Bit of a Parody.
A Song of the Dukes, of the dense old Dukes,
That have rul’d in the land so long;
With small renown to the Ducal crown,
By dint of legal wrong.
There’s rage in their frown when Peel goes down,
And for Free Trade’s cause speaks out;
And they show him their spite in the Lords each night
That the subject is talk’d about.
Then here’s to the Dukes, to the dense old Dukes,
Who live for themselves alone;
And still live they, though no more to prey
On the country’s blood and bone.
They talk of the times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear ”

“ Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne’er the more despair.
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
From “The Mistress of Philarete,”
published in 1622.
Song. Mr. Gladstone.
Shall my heart be filled with care
’Cause the Whigs are so unfair? ”

“ A Parody.
Upon my childhood’s pallid morn,
No tropic summer smiled,
In foreign lands I was not born,
A happy heathen child.
Alas! but in a colder clime,
A cultured clime I dwell,
All in the foremost ranks of Time,
They say: I know it well.
You never learn geography,
No grammar makes you wild.
A book, a slate you never see,
You happy heathen child.
I know in forest and in glade,
Your games are odd, but gay.
Think of the little British maid,
Who has no place for play.
When ended is the day’s long joy,
And you to rest have gone,
Think of the little British boy,
Who still is toiling on. ”

“ And to us the merry gurgle of each bottle was a knell,
Who could hope against such talent the convention to secure—
Hope to make our sham Democracy o’ercome their Simon pure!
No—the contest was a hopeless one—defeat has made me weak!
And I ne’er shall see St. Louis— St. Louis by the creek.
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse—he motioned for a drink,
His eyes assumed a home-like look, he even ceased to blink;
His comrade mixed a cocktail, but the spark of life had fled—
The Bourbon from St. Louis in a foreign land was dead. ”

“ Punch. February 17, 1883.
Song of the Election.
Vote not, vote not for me, I pray,
There’s fatal weakness in your vaunted powers,
My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away
Soon as they hear that you are one of ours.
Vote not! Vote not!
Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild,
’Twill serve me better than if faith you broke,
I knew the value of your hate, and smiled,
But, oh! to have you for me is no joke!
Vote not! Vote not!
Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given;
Oh, why be generous at another’s cost? ”

“ Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere,
’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves:
Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves.
Chorus.
A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men;
They fear us already,
Steady, boys, steady,
For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!
Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed,
And boast how the game of the Tory they played;
Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store,
Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more.
Chorus.
We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men ”

“ Bright magenta was my hair.
To the hairdresser I flew,
“Sir,” said he, “that’s nothing new,
Try our ostrich marrow grease,
Try it, and your fretting cease;”
So I did, and next was seen
With my hair a light pea green.
Don’t dye your hair, &c.
Next day, alas! ’twas dirty pink,
Then the colour of red ink;
Next ’twas purple, then ’twas blue,
Every colour it’s gone through.
Now content with homely grey,
Often to dear Grace I say,
“Locks may lose their black or gold,
But true love will ne’er grow old.” ”

“ Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright.
All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep;
Strange “duns” come up to look at us, their masters though so deep;
In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go,
And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro.
Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say,
Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey,
Who’ve ta’en his horse to covert, who’ve cleaned, with labour sore,
The snowy “tops” which he shall have when chapel-time is o’er. ”

“ Always sure to come through—a staunch and fleet horse;
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.
Grown aged, used up, and turn’d out of the stud,
Lame, spavin’d, and wind-gall’d, but yet with some blood;
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;
And what matches he’d won too the ostlers count o’er,
As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door;
Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer’s a hack on the road. ”